#girl how about you protect everyone else from HER

[ayyy-pee]

Discord 18+ - Bluesky

Pairing: Ex-Outlaw Toji Fushiguro x Outlaw Reader

WC: 8.7k

Summary: Shit luck. That's the unfortunate reputation branded to ex-outlaw Toji Fushiguro. That is, until tonight, when a reunion with an "old friend" turns his luck on its head.

Story Warning: Bar Fight, Gambling, Cheating (at gambling lmao), Violence and Blood and Broken Bones, Implied Rough Sex, Rough Oral Sex (M. Receiving), Implied Ass play, Misogyny, Protective Toji, Marking, Profanity, Smut obviously, Outlaw pt.1 references, No Y/N usage here

Art by: shesdeny on X

A/N: I had Backroads by Tanner Adell on repeat the entire time I wrote this ON REPEAT. I didn't proofread i'm so tired yall

Word on the prairie is there’s been one hell of a train heist.

It’s the talk of the town right now, and Toji’s soaking up every word of it as he sits at the parlor poker table. 

One man places a card down on the table, taking a drag of his cigar. “I heard they cleaned the locomode right out. Not even a silver spoon left at the scene.”

‘Thorough,’ Toji thinks. 

Another slides his chips into the center, where the dealer takes them. “Yup, heard that, too. An’ I heard it was a broad that did it.”

This piques Toji’s interest. He slides more chips forward, taps the table to check, letting them know he’s not adding any more money to this pot. Not that he has anymore to offer. He’s really hoping the shit luck he’s been having lately turns tonight.

“A broad?” The cigar smoker asks, thick smoke falling from his lips. “Can’t imagine a woman bein’ able to pull that off.”

At this, Toji snorts under his breath. These men don’t know what a determined and smart woman is capable of. But he does.

Another man laughs hard, tapping his fists on the table. “Thought so, too, but they caught a outlaw at the scene, too.” He tries to catch his breath, chuckling when he describes the scene. Apparently, the poor sucker was picked up from the train car with his hair knotted around the seat bar and his dick out for everyone to see. This makes Toji shake his head, amused, because he has a strong feeling he knows exactly who could have pulled something like that off.

A clean sweep? Leaving the other party humiliated just because they can? Toji’s fairly certain about who the culprit is for this one.

“But they say the outlaw escaped on the way to hoosegow,” notes the man. “Ain’t been able to find him. Probably gonna kill the broad when he finds her.”

Toji shakes his head, the slightest smirk sitting on his lips. That tracks. Leaving the scene with enemies left behind in embarrassing situations? Yeah, he knows exactly who pulled this heist off.

The men go on and on about the heist and the rumors circulating around the town. To everyone else, it all seems impractical. How could some woman possibly have the wits and the courage to be able to face off with one notorious outlaw and come out on top both literally and figuratively? 

Toji only knows one woman capable of achieving such a feat — you.

You’re the one who got—

“You in or you out, Fushiguro?” The dealer calls impatiently. “Hurry up.”

Toji checks the spread across the table, what’s laid out to determine if he’s going to stay in the game or not. And as his eyes flit across the cards, he kisses his teeth.

He lost, as usual.

”I’m out,” he grunts, standing from his seat. “Gonna take a piss.”

-

The streets are alive with activity. Brothel girls stand on the porches of their building, batting their lashes and waving their handkerchiefs in an attempt to lure each and every man inside. They call out to Toji, blow him kisses and offer him the “night of his life” while waving their fingers flirtily in his direction. Toji ignores their advances, not in the mood after taking yet another hit to his already dwindling funds.

This streak of bad luck has been following him all his life. Small inconveniences, minor problems that have built up and taken a toll on him over time. It seemed as if being an outlaw was the only thing he was good at, though he wouldn’t call himself one now. He’s not sure why he ever thought hanging up his hat as an outlaw and taking up gambling would change his luck. He’s never won, not once. But he can’t seem to stop himself from putting it all on the line in hopes that he’ll hit big, just one time. So far, no luck.

Toji strolls into the back alley of the parlor, nose wrinkling at the rancid smell of sweat and piss that fills the area. He finds what he thinks might be a cleaner spot than the rest of the alley and pulls his pants to his knees, grabbing hold of himself just before he begins to relieve himself.

The sharp sounds emanating from the piano keys throughout the many saloons can be heard and Toji finds himself tilting his head back and staring up at the night sky, letting a little tune fall from his lips in a whistle. It’s when he’s shaking the remnants of his bathroom break off that he feels the cold press of metal against the back of his head, effectively cutting his whistling short.

Shit.

Just his luck. Of course he’d go out to relieve himself and end up with a damn gun to his skull.

“Ya know what they say ‘bout whistlin’ at night, don’t ya?” A familiar sweet voice sings behind him. “Brings bad luck.”

Toji chuckles, shaking his head - and the extra piss - off. “That’s a cowboy’s belief,” he remarks. He pulls his pants back up, securing them around his waist. “And I ain’t one.”

The stranger hums, the pressure of the gun easing just slightly, but it’s enough for Toji and he takes this moment to spin around swiftly. His large hand catches the weapon in his palm and he yanks forward, pulling its wielder with it. He holds the barrel of the gun against the center of his forehead, a sick grin sitting on his lips.

“Just kill me if you’re gonna do it. But just know…I ain’t got shit for ya to take.” In the dim lighting of the alleyway, Toji can just make out the way this person stares up at him through hooded eyes, teeth digging into their bottom lip as they have this short standoff with him. Then they sigh, unceremoniously lifting their skirt and holstering their weapon between their thighs. 

“I see shit ain’t changed since the last time I saw ya, Toji.”

Toji only shrugs, a lopsided grin on his face. “Creature of habit, I guess.”

And there’s that laugh he hasn’t heard in some time. One that he won’t admit he’s missed because it reminds him of a different time in his life. One that he also won’t admit that he’s missed.

Standing before him is the earlier topic of discussion amongst the men inside. You’ve got your hands on your hips, dressed in the pretty little get up you usually wear when you’re up to no good, and Toji knows you’re about to have one hell of a night. And he has a feeling that you’re going to be dragging him into whatever plot you’ve cooked up. 

He takes in your appearance, the fancy new gun you tucked away and a very nice hat that probably sells for a hefty price.

Toji motions to your new possessions. “Keepsakes from your last job? Heard it was a damn good ride.”

You lift a hand, running your fingers along the brim of your hat, giggling as you play dumb. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

He knows better than to pry, at least not in the open where just anybody can hear. So instead he tells you, “You look pretty tonight,” and basks in the smile you give him. Soft and genuine, but only for a second before you’ve shifted into the little facade you put on.

“D’ya wanna show me ‘round here?” You ask sweetly, looping your arm through Toji’s and tugging him along. 

Toji slips his hands into his pockets. Truth be told, he hasn’t been in this town long, just arrived a couple days ago when he heard there was easy money to make at the parlors. But he hasn’t found that to be true. He was actually planning on heading out soon anyway. “Not much goin’ on in this town ‘round this time of night. Same ol’ gamblin’, drinkin’, fuckin’ and fightin’ that happens in all the others.”

“Hmm,” you nod, peering up at Toji with the false innocence he’s familiar with. “And what about you?” You’ve switched on your proper speech as well, Toji notes, but he doesn’t miss the suggestive tone behind your words when you ask, “Which one are you gettin’ into tonight?” 

He wants to tell you that he’ll be in whatever shitshow you start, just how he always is when you two run into each other in whatever middle of nowhere town you end up in. But instead he just smirks as he leans down to your ear where he whispers, “Let's see how the night goes.”

-

You’re careful to make sure there are no watchful eyes when you both emerge from the alley arm in arm. Toji leads you back towards the parlor, not missing the salacious looks you’re getting from the other men and cowboys while he holds onto you. And you, ever the actress, offer a demure smile and nod to each and every one of them that has them melting beneath your gaze.

And it’s a ridiculous thing, really, how Toji also finds himself melting for you. Although it’s for different reasons. You can offer all the innocent and pretty smiles you want. It may fool the average man, but it’s never fooled Toji. You two are cut from the same cloth, and that’s what brought you two together in the first place all those years ago.

You’re a beautiful woman, of course. A perfect face with a perfect body to match, filling that outfit of yours just the way Toji has always liked. But it’s your mind that draws Toji to you. Your ability to easily cook up a scheme that you rarely fail to pull off. The way you can slip on a manipulative mask like the one you’re wearing now and wrap anyone around your finger. How you can lure people into your traps and get anything you want. Any time he’s in your presence, Toji’s convinced that he’s sick in the head, because he can’t fucking get enough of watching you conspire against whatever poor person you’ve deemed your target.

It brings him back to his outlaw days, when he’d met you mid-scheme and almost threw a wrench in your plans. But somehow, it ended with you two teaming up to pull off one hell of a heist. And the aftermath? Well, let's just say you left Toji more than satisfied with the outcome.

When you two enter the parlor, it seems the gambling table has changed as well as the dealer, Toji notices. You both observe the dealer, placing three cards face down on the table. He shows one card - the 4 of diamonds - to the players around the table before setting it down and wildly shuffling them. When he’s finished and all three cards lie in a line on the table, one of the men selects a card, and they all erupt in a string of curses when it’s wrong.

Beside Toji, you scoff. “This’ll be a easy night, looks like.” You glance up at him, a teasing smirk on your lips. “Please don’t tell me ya lost all your money gamblin’ on goddamn Three-Card Monte,” you murmur just loud enough for Toji to hear. “All ya gotta do is find the damn card.”

“Can’t lose what I ain’t got,” Toji chuckles. “Come on.”

Of course you’d enjoy this game, he thinks. Three-Card Monte, or Find the Lady. It’s a card game in which the marks, or the players, are tricked into thinking they can find the “money card” among three face-down cards. It seems so simple, but if the dealer is anyone worth his salt, it’s easy to fuck the players over. Make them think they have a chance, so they just keep betting until they’ve got nothing left to lose. 

But of course, you’re a step ahead. This dealer thinks he’ll be playing you, when it’s really the other way around.

“Ya ready?” You question. “Let's make it quick.”

Sounds like Toji doesn’t have a choice. Looks like he’s pulling off a heist tonight. His ex-outlaw heart sings.

He approaches the table with you on his arm just as two men free up seats for you when they opt out of playing any further. You take a seat beside Toji, carefully adjusting your skirt, removing your hat and setting it in your lap. The dealer eyes you, he eyes your bosom unabashedly, grinning when you tilt your head and fix him with a curious look.

“Good evening, sir,” you speak softly and Toji watches you work your magic. “What are we playing tonight?”

The dealer chuckles, shuffling his cards in his hands. “We are playin’ Three-Card Monte, pretty darlin’.” He leans forward, the thick and nasty stench of his cigar breath making Toji’s nostrils burn. “I’d explain how to play it to ya, but I don’t know if you’ll be able to keep up with the rules. This fine gentleman here, however,” he turns his attention to Toji. “Would you like to buy in, sir?”

Toji’s gaze cuts to you. If the dealer’s statements bother you, it doesn’t show. Your smile doesn’t falter in the least. “You’re so considerate.” Your voice is soft and sweet, but Toji hears the bitterness behind your words. “I’m so fortunate my darlin’ husband here…” you reach over and caress Toji’s arm, nails dragging along his skin in a way you know will leave goosebumps in their wake. “...He took pity on poor lil’ me and taught me to play. Right, dear?”

You beam up at Toji, all soft and loving, and he wants to laugh to cover up the way his heart races – one, because you’ve referred to him as your husband which he’s embarrassed to admit doesn’t sound too bad. Two, because you involving him in your little game tonight excites him in more ways than one. He hasn’t felt the thrill of pulling off a heist in some time, his luck almost never panning out the way he wants. But now that he’s run into you, he’s sure it’s going to take a turn for him.

“Yep,” he affirms. “And I’ll teach ya whatever else your lil’ heart wants, angel.” Toji grins, enjoying the way your brows rise just barely at the pet name, some emotion he can’t place behind your eyes. He can’t dwell too long because he’s eyeing the dealer, whose gaze is glued to your breasts again. Toji roughly clears his throat, grabbing the man’s attention. “She’ll buy in.”

“If ya say so.” Of course the dealer isn’t going to argue. You’re what he thinks is the easiest mark of his night.

The first game goes exactly how Toji imagined you’d have it play out. The dealer tells you he’ll be generous and do a practice round for you so that you can “wrap your pretty head around the rules”, and you agree. You of course don’t find the card, or so the dealer is made to believe. But you enthusiastically agree to an actual game.

The first real game, you bet low, telling the dealer that you’re just too nervous to bet too much money, and you’re not sure if your dear husband would approve.

“Put down as much as ya like, angel,” Toji pushes eagerly, earning him a quick scowl from you, covered by a sweet giggle.

“Do you want me to lose all of our money, dear?” You ask, the real question hardly concealed beneath your words.

It’s not your money to bet, so shut the fuck up.

Your foot connects with Toji’s leg beneath the table, just to drive the message home. Toji grunts, covering the pain with a clearing of his throat.

The dealer places the cards face down on the table, then picks the one on your left up. He shows it to you – the Queen of Hearts. 

Fitting, Toji thinks, what with the way the dealer winks at you before he shuffles the cards around quickly then settles them into position. A cocky smile spreads across the dealer's face. He knows where the card is. And knowing you, you probably do, too.

So Toji sits back and lets you play cards while playing dumb in the dealer's face. 

You lose this round, and he can tell it’s on purpose this time, pouting cutely and making the dealer blush a deep red as he shakes his head. “Chin up, darlin’. Why don’t ya place another bet. See if your luck changes.”

“I think I will,” you declare, nodding. 

You place the same small bet and let the dealer do his job. When the cards are settled, you tap your index finger on your chin, pretending to think really hard about it. Then, in feigned hesitation, you select a card. Toji watches proudly, relishing the way the dealer’s eyes widen when he lifts the card and turns it in your direction.

“Oh! I won!” You grab hold of Toji’s arm, your mouth slightly agape as you motion for him to look.

“Look at you,” he purrs, taking hold of your hand. He lifts it to his lips, turning it slightly to press a kiss to your wrist, right where your pulse lies, grinning when you inhale sharply. “Knew ya could do it, angel.”

Your teeth press into your lip, a shy look on your face now. Only for a moment, then you’re shaking it off as you turn back to the dealer. “I’d like to bet more, please.”

He deals you in again, a slight look of displeasure on his face when you somehow end up winning once more. And then you win again, and again. The dealer’s fingers drum rhythmically against the table in annoyance, eyeing you suspiciously.

Now, Toji gambles, but he doesn’t gamble the way you do. His days as an outlaw involved doing anything that involved brute force. He was good at that. Need someone manhandled? You pay the right price and he’ll take the job. Got a bounty out on someone’s head? Dangle a bag of money in Toji’s face and he’ll do it. But when he left his outlaw days behind, and fell into a habit of placing bets he couldn’t make good on, he quickly figured out that all the sneaky counting cards and sleight of hand shit was beyond him. He did, however, pick up on a few things.

Like now, when he notices two random men have joined either side of you and Toji to play the game. They’re obviously shills, there to try and assist the dealer in trying to cheat you out of your winnings. The shill beside Toji places his bet, the dealer shuffling the cards quickly to confuse him. He loses, pretending to be upset when the dealer moves onto you.

You place your bet - a large sum, larger than any you’ve put in tonight and Toji’s brows rise.

“You sure about that, sweetheart?”

It’s your money, sure, but you must feel pretty confident in your ability to win if you’re willing to put so much on the line. 

You nod, lips curling in a smile while you watch the dealer shuffle. “Yes, dear. I think this will be my best round yet. I just know I’ll have fun with this one!”

There’s something about that sentence that puts Toji on edge. Especially when the other man on your side leans over, engaging you in conversation while the dealer shows you the target card – the King of Diamonds. It’s a ploy to distract you, even Toji knows that. They want you to take your gaze off of the cards so that you can’t keep track of where the target is. But you stay focused even as you entertain the man, nodding along to the conversation as you pay attention to the way the cards are moved around.

It feels like forever before the dealer stops and sets the cards down. He waves his hand over them, waiting for you to pick.

You think hard, seriously this time. Toji watches the way the dealer eyes you, sweat beading along his forehead. Likely from nerves, because you’ve been sweeping the floor with him for the last few rounds and he’s sure he doesn’t want to lose more money. If you lost this large bet, you could walk away clean and go on with your night. Toji doubts it’d put a dent in your pocket. With all the heists you’ve pulled off, especially your most recent, he’s pretty sure you’re set for quite a while.

But your eyes meet the dealers, your hand floating back and forth above the cards before coming down to point to a card and the dealer makes a noise that sounds something like a mixture of a scoff and chuckle. There’s certainty in his expression as his fingers flip the card over, shaking his head.

“Sorry, Miss. Looks like you’ll have to –” he swallows his words when he sees the King of Diamonds sitting beneath his fingertips. “H-how?!”

You bat your lashes innocently. “How what, sir?”

The dealer's hand slams down hard on the table, shaking the winning bets and silencing the parlor. The pianist freezes on the keys, the bartenders stop making their drinks, the guests stop speaking, all heads turning to the table where you and Toji sit. The shills now stand, and Toji’s eyes track their movements. One directly behind you, the other to the side of him.

The dealer grits his teeth, face red with rage as he now screams. “You’re cheatin’!”

You gasp, hand coming to your chest to clutch your imaginary pearls. “I beg your pardon, sir!”

“Oh, shut your fuckin’ mouth! I know you’re cheatin’!” 

“I-I’m just playin’ the game, sir.” You turn to Toji, mock concern on your face. “Right, dear? Did I do somethin’ wrong?”

And Toji nods, keeping the ruse going. “Of course, angel.” He sees the anger continue to rise for the dealer the more this drags on, his hands flexing into fists repeatedly. Does he plan to try and hit you? He hopes not, for his own sake. “That’s a serious accusation,” Toji tells the dealer. “You’d better have good proof of my wife cheatin’. You know cheatin’ at cards means hangin’ in the town square.”

“Ya want proof? Look!” The dealer flips all three cards laid out on the table, and there lies the evidence with only one Three of Clovers lying there, and two Kings of Diamonds in the spread. “See?! I knew somethin’ wasn’t right with this broad! Ain’t nobody ever won Three-Card Monte this many times when I’m dealin’ the cards! You’re slippin’ cards onto the table!”

So he’s a cheat, too. Toji should’ve called that. There’s hardly a noble and honest person working in these establishments. Even still, it boils his blood for some reason. 

It may be the fact that Toji has lost most of his savings in this very building tonight, or it may be the way this slimeball has been eyeing you up and down all night trying to see how many times, how many ways and probably in how many positions he could take advantage of you, or the fact that he’s now speaking to you like tar stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Regardless, he’s getting pissed.

Toji’s gaze catches yours briefly, and you purse your lips together. He can see the wheels turning, trying to think of an excuse as to how this could happen. Everyone in the building is holding their breath, and more staff have gathered around to see what the commotion is. Toji counts about three more men around you that he believes may be with the dealer. Jaw tight, he waits for your next move.

You giggle, shaking your head as you sit your hat back atop your head, and Toji watches your mask slip off in real time. “Can’t believe this shit,” you sigh. “This damn shill,” you gesture to the man standing behind you. “He’s good.” The dealer sees your change, too, finger jutting out to point straight at you.

“I-I know you! You’re that outlaw bitch! The one that’s wanted all over for cheatin’ at cards, murder, breakin’ out of jail, and–”

“Aww, the train robbery ain’t at the top of the list yet?” You interrupt, leaning back in your seat with a pout. “Feel like that’s my best work.” You grab hold of the dealer’s finger - swift and easy, bending it back roughly, the man screaming out in pain and doubling over onto the table. “Ya got me,” you whisper teasingly in his ear. “Gimme my earnin’s and I’ll just be on my merry way. No need to cause a ruckus.”

“You fuckin’ whore, I’ll-” The man winces, crying out when you bend his finger further. 

“I’d think real careful ‘bout your next words if you don’t wanna lose a finger.”

“Okay! O-okay!” The dealer concedes. “Just take it ‘nd get the fuck out of here!”

Toji can’t help but watch in awe…and arousal…witnessing you in your natural element again. You’re wild, impulsive, insane. So much so, you’ve got everyone else in this parlor frozen in shock as you pocket your winnings. They can’t seem to wrap their heads around a woman being so outwardly bold to commit a crime out in the open, and proudly, the way you are. It’s admirable; it reminds Toji of when he was at his best as an outlaw, maybe better. 

You glance at Toji, tilting your head towards the money and he snaps out of his reverie and begins to move, pocketing what he can, too.

“Keep whatever ya grab,” you offer, and Toji grins. His adrenaline is pumping, heart pounding behind his ribcage as he grabs all he’s able to. This is a feeling he hasn’t experienced in so long. The feeling of winning. He doesn’t ever want to come down from this high.

When your pockets are full, tied tightly and secured, you finally release the dealer who whimpers as he holds his finger to his chest. He looks about ready to rip your head off, but his eyes dart to Toji who looms over him, daring him to say something and the dealer thinks better of it.

Now all that’s left to do is leave this place quickly and quietly. Maybe grab something to eat and find some place to sleep.

You tip your hat, and just as you turn to leave, the dealer reaches over the table and grabs hold of your dress sleeve. He yanks you forward harshly, dragging you across the table.

“I’ll kill ya, bitch!” He raises his fist and you laugh, covering your face with your arms, anticipating the hit.

You wait for him to make contact, but the hit never comes. You only hear the sickening crack of bone meeting bone, and then you’re falling hard onto the floorboards a second later. Women gasp and race out of the establishment along with some men, but the remaining people step back to take in the scene. Peeking through your arms, you see Toji’s large body standing over the unconscious and bleeding dealer. 

You scramble to your feet and dart over to Toji. His eyes are hard, jaw clenched as he stares down at the man. “Toji,” you whisper, shocked yourself at what he’s done.

“He should watch his fuckin’ mouth when he speaks to ya,” he grunts, and you can’t help but erupt into laughter. And you laugh hard, until you’re doubled over and holding your stomach.

You lean against Toji’s arm, grinning as you nudge him. “You soft for me or somethin’?”

The question doesn’t even register to Toji, because in that moment, one of the shills finally finds his courage again, rushing towards you and Toji with a beer bottle in hand. “You son of a bitch!” He shouts, charging at Toji, but you’re quick to grab hold of a chair, using all your strength and swinging the piece of furniture at the man. You miss, but it buys Toji enough time to grab a chair of his own and launch it across the parlor, slamming into the back of another man at the bar.

He spins around, face contorted in rage, barking out, “who the fuck threw that?!”

You point to the shill, who points to Toji, who points to himself.

The stranger looks confused, but still furious. And he rushes towards you all, elbowing his way through the crowd as he barrels forward. He shoves several men around, all of whom are too drunk off their asses to realize what’s going on. They only know it’s getting rough here and they need to defend themselves. It only takes one drunk bastard to throw the first punch, and then it’s all out chaos. Arms are being thrown, furniture is flying, the floors are slippery with the mixture of alcohol and blood. 

Toji ducks, avoiding a stray punch aimed at him, only to receive a shove in the back. He spins around, catching a man by his collar and easily tossing him aside and knocking the lights out of another man who lunges at him. It’s complete insanity here, so loud and chaotic and in the midst of it all…he finds himself having a good fucking time. This is fun for him. His fist meets the stomach of one man and his heart soars. A knee to the face of another man and his lips spread in a wide grin. His palm comes down to slam someone’s head against the table, rendering them unconscious and Toji chuckles.

Even with the cacophony of punching and screaming and cursing, Toji can hear your wild laughter floating throughout the space.

You’re going toe to toe with grown men, using whatever weapon you can get your hands on and it’s not even about defending yourself anymore. You’re simply enjoying the frenzy. You don’t care if the sheriffs show up, if they put cuffs on you and throw you in the slammer. You’re used to that. You don’t care if your involvement here means a death sentence. Why would you when you’ve been sentenced to death in multiple towns across the prairie and have managed to escape every attempt to put you down?

Toji admires that about you, admires that you don’t give two shits. You’re only interested in doing what you love and if lying and cheating and violence is what you love, then hell, he loves it, too. So Toji lets himself have fun with you.

He throws another punch, relishing the disgusting sound of a nose bone being crushed beneath his fist.

He erupts with laughter when he wraps one of his large arms around a man’s neck and he squeezes until Toji feels him fall limp to the floor.

He lifts a leg, smirking when his foot connects dead center in the chest of a man wielding a blade and sends him flying across the room.

Then in the chaos, his back connects with yours and you both swing around, ready to take out the next person. But it’s just you. You, and your jagged whiskey bottle that you’ve busted over someone’s head and hold out defensively in front of you. The poor victim of the impact lays unconscious at your feet. 

Toji takes these few seconds to drink you in, the way the shy and innocent mask you had on upon entry to the parlor is long gone, leaving behind the wild outlaw he’s come to know over the years. He takes in the way your chest heaves, breasts barely contained within the confines of your corset. How you’re covered in blood and grime that he’s certain isn’t yours.

The violence and commotion behind you makes for quite the backdrop to this image he’s committing to his memory. He’s never seen a woman so beautiful.

Your lips part just slightly and Toji’s eyes dart down to the movement. You drop the liquor bottle, not caring that it knocks against the unconscious man on the floor’s head and shatters next to him. Your feet move, carrying you over to Toji until he’s just within arms reach. You’re giving him that same look you had in the alley just earlier, chewing your lip and looking like you want to eat him alive.

And he’ll let you.

Because the feeling is definitely mutual, evidence of his desire only growing in his pants. He shouldn’t be surprised that this is where the night is heading, as it’s led to this many times. But something about tonight has Toji particularly excited. So, he reaches a hand forward, hooking his fingers in the front of your corset and yanks you forward. You throw your arms around his neck, and your lips meet in a sloppy kiss, full of tongue and teeth and groans. His hands palm your ass, lifting you easily and you wrap your legs around his waist. Toji presses your core against him, at the same time he feels your holstered gun press into his side and it only makes him harder. He moves your body, dragging your center along his hardening length.

“Where’re ya stayin’?” You gasp into the kiss, and Toji steps to the side just in time for a bottle to whizz past your heads.

“Brothel up the street,” Toji groans when you dip your head low to drag your lips along his neck. You break away to stare down at him, only smirking in response.

Yes, this night is headed exactly where he thought it would.

-

Your back hits the wall hard, knocking the wind out of you and sending a painting that hangs on the wall to its demise as it falls to the floor and shatters to pieces. You barely have time to catch your breath after Toji has broken away from your nipples, courtesy of him freeing them from your corset halfway up the stairs to his room.

“Fuck, ya always feel so good,” Toji lets out of a garbled moan, his lips finding your neck as you grip his hair.

“Thinkin’ about me a lot, huh? So, ya are soft for me?” You ask, a giggle falling from your lips, only to be cut off when Toji presses his thick length to your core. “Ah– fuck, Toji,” you cry out. You moan when he sucks hard. 

He’ll surely leave a mark, and some part of Toji finds that he likes the idea of you strolling around with the brand he’d left on you on display for all to see. He wants men to see you, see you’ve been marked up by someone else and wonder who you go home to at night. Even if it’s not Toji, at least it was him who made it crystal clear that you laid with someone who wasn’t them the night before.

He loves the idea that he gets to have you, because you choose to let him have you. It’s not a part of some scheme you’ve come up with, you don’t have some ulterior motive. You don’t want anything but to get your fill for the night, and you want to get your fill from him. You want him to have you, and the thought has him grinding his clothed erection against you in a desperate attempt to gain some friction between the two of you.

You tug at Toji’s strands, moaning at the way he ruts against you, how his tongue slides smoothly across your pulse. “Shitttt, don’t hold back,” you gasp, and Toji can’t help but chuckle.

“When have I ever, angel?”

The pet name has you looking at Toji the way you had earlier. A flash of something unfamiliar behind your gaze, gone as quickly as it appeared and your hands crash down on Toji’s chest, shoving him back. He sets you down and you shake your head, wasting no time in falling to your knees without him having to say so. He watches you lift your skirt, unholstering your gun and carelessly tossing it aside. Then you undo his pants, pull the fabric down until his clothing sits in a pool at his ankles.

Your hands wrap around his cock, thick and veiny and pump him slowly. Toji grunts, placing his palms against the wall as he enjoys the view of you kissing the underside of his dick.

“Like that, angel,” he sighs when you run your tongue over the fat vein that runs all the way from his balls to his tip. “Fuuuck…”

Your tongue reaches his head, where a bead of precum sits and you lap it up greedily, grinning when Toji’s legs tremble just slightly. “Like this?” You ask, swirling your tongue around him slowly just before you take his entire length to the base.

Toji hisses, hips bucking forward on instinct. He grits his teeth, eyes rolling to the back of his head when you swallow around him. Your throat squeezes him deliciously and he can’t stop the pathetic groans falling from his lips. You bob around him, hollowing your cheeks as you suck and take all of him with every bob of your head.

When Toji’s cock nudges your throat and you gag around him, Toji hisses. “Yes, yes, stay there,” he grits out. You hum around him, eyes alight with mischief and Toji’s back stiffens. The vibration shoots straight through to his cock and Toji leans his forehead against the wall to keep from losing his balance at the sensation. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.” 

Toji’s mouth parts slightly, a rough groan leaving his lips. You’re toying with him, the way you toy with everyone. You love this shit, love having whoever you set your sights on going crazy over you. You’ve got those cute lips of yours wrapped perfectly around his cock, working him closer to his release and you’re enjoying every second of bringing him to the edge. It doesn’t help when you hold eye contact with Toji while you take him in your mouth, all the way down until your nose is buried in his soft pubic hair while you lift your skirt and slip your hands into your undergarments.

Your brows knit together, moans muffled by Toji’s dick in your throat while you touch yourself. The image is so arousing, your lips stretched around him while your mouth is full. He can’t help but buck forward – once, twice, and then he’s fucking your mouth all on his own.

“Yessss, play with that pretty pussy for me,” Toji groans. He’s fucking your face at a frantic pace, and you’re taking every stroke he gives. “Ah, fuuuuck –” Toji pants, a hand coming down to hold the back of your head. He pushes your head down, forcing your throat open to take his entire swollen length down your throat, occasionally holding you there for a moment, loving the sound of you choking on his dick and your saliva more than any sound he’s ever heard you make. The mixture of your fluids drips messily down your chin, and still, Toji keeps fucking your face until you’re gagging and squeezing around him.

He pulls out, holding the base of his cock tightly. Because he’s watching you - mouth agape as you gasp for you, chin glistening and lips swollen with her hand in your pants. The sight is so sexy, so arousing, he thinks he could paint your face right this second.

You inhale sharply, swallowing as much air as you can. Your fingers tease at your clit, dipping inside your walls just briefly before your breath hitches and you whimper a pathetic challenge. “Don’t tell me you’re done already.”

And Toji grins, easily shoving himself back into your mouth. He’s even rougher with you if possible, and you seem to love it that way, keening around him as your fingers rub tight circles on your clit. He pulls away from you once, brows pulled together as he tries to catch his breath while he makes you take him down to the hilt over and over again. “Fuckin’ hell, angel. Takin’ my dick so good for me. Your throat feels so fuckin’ good. Don’t move–”

Toji scrambles forward, grunting and pressing his length all the way down your throat, so far, so desperate to feel you squeeze around him again that he’s got your head up against the wall. There’s nowhere for you to go as his hips buck forward. 

“Fuckin’ take it, swallow my cock, fuck–” 

Your hand finds his thigh, squeezing tight while the other works you closer and closer to your release. It feels way too good, better than any woman, any mouth Toji’s ever been in. His balls are tight, slapping loud and wet against your chin as he slams into your face.

He hears you, hears your moans as the rise in pitch, getting higher and higher with every thrust of his hips, every press of your fingers against yourself.

“Gonna cum, angel?”

You whimper in response, unable to nod or speak, while Toji’s got his dick stuffed into your throat.

“Cum for me, then. Make a mess on your fingers while I fuck your mouth,” he grunts, hips snapping forward.

Your eyes roll back, nostrils flaring as you dip your fingers into your core and feel your walls fluttering around them. Your release washes over you with such intensity, your legs begin to shake, tears begin forming at the corners of your eyes, drool falls in thick strings from your lips. And all the while, Toji is still fucking into your mouth. 

The sight is one he wants to burn into his memory. You - the woman who just a few hours ago knocked men on their asses, cheated and won and still somehow escaped without punishment - now getting off on getting him off. 

He’ll be sure to remember you on your knees for him, bringing yourself to ecstasy while your mouth is stuffed with his cock, tits bouncing with every thrust and –

Oh, he’s gonna cum.

Toji tells you as much, then moves to pull out, but you press your hands to the backs of his thighs and pull him back into your mouth, staring up at him as if begging for his cum.

And when you look at him like that, how could he ever say no?

He presses forward, mouth falling open with a loud and guttural moan as he finally reaches his peak. Toji’s body tenses, cock stiffening and thighs trembling as he twitches in your mouth. You hollow your cheeks, sucking him deeper if that’s even possible, and Toji’s moans only grow in volume. His cum shoots from his swollen tip, straight into your throat and you gag on the sheer amount of it.

“Fuckin’ swallow,” Toji growls, watching the way you struggle to handle all he’s giving you. “Don’t waste a fuckin’ drop. Swallow it for me, angel.”

And you do as you’re told, gulping down every thick rope of cum that paints your esophagus. When you finally release your hold on Toji, his cock softening between your lips, you gasp for air, coughing and sputtering while you wipe away the remnants of you and Toji’s deed.

“Almost killed me,” you jokingly complain, voice rough from the abuse your throat just took.

Toji chuckles, stepping back and taking your hands to help you stand. “Guess we’re even, then. I mean, ya almost got me killed tonight.”

You giggle and shake your head, pressing your palm to his chest, pushing Toji backwards until his knees hit the end of the bed and he falls back with a loud oof. You lift your skirt, climbing atop Toji and straddling his hips, and Toji would be lying if he said he wasn’t hard all over again.

“Hope ya ain’t got all that gettin’ even feelin’ out just yet, because I can think of plenty of times ya almost got me killed.” You lean forward, a hand on each side of Toji’s head and his hands find your breasts, still free from your corset. He cups both soft mounds, idly running his thumbs over your nipples and drinking in the expression you make when you moan without your mouth being stuffed full.

Toji grins, eyes honed in on the way your breasts feel in his hands. “Like the horse stealin’. That rancher almost blew your top off.”

Your lips spread with a smirk. “Well, if ya hadn’t been so fuckin’ loud when we were in the barn, he would’ve never woke up!”

Toji scoffs, “Well, ya snuck a finger in my ass! I ain’t ever had that happen! How the hell was I supposed to know it’d feel like that?!”

You both burst into a fit of laughter, reminiscing on all the crazy shit you two have gotten into over the years. You make Toji miss his outlaw days, almost make him want to go back to it. But that life’s not for him anymore. Though, it is fun to dabble in it from time to time, only with you.

Your lips find Toji’s, tender and sweet. Until - like all things you do - it’s not. It quickly turns heated, your hands dipping into Toji’s dark tresses while your lips lock in a searing kiss. You both make quick work of ridding each other of any clothing, hands roaming each other’s bodies once you’re bare.

It’s a fight for dominance in this bed. Who can kiss harder, who can leave more marks, who can pull the most moans from the other? The bed rocks with every movement, the headboard banging against the wall as Toji flips you over, pinning you to the bed with his body weight.

You hum, your hand ghosting across Toji’s muscular ass. “This looks familiar.” You take a finger along the seam of his behind and Toji inhales sharply. “Ah…by that ya meant…it felt good. Should I do it again?”

Toji’s head dips down, the tip of his nose touching yours as he breathes, “let's see where the night goes.” He slips inside of you, both of you moaning into each other’s mouths.

You move together, losing yourself in the passion of the night, disregarding the way the bed shakes.

And the way the photos and paintings fall from the walls.

And the way the headboard beats dents into the paint.

And the way the head mistress bangs on the door.

And - 

-

The morning sun blazes high in the sky, shining through the thin curtains of Toji’s room. He stretches his noticeably sore body, yawning as he lets himself slowly wake up. 

What a night - and morning. He knows he needs to hightail it out of town soon to keep from being identified as your accomplice at the parlor last night. He can’t sit around dawdling all day.

Toji sits up in his bed, already knowing it’s pointless to glance at the other side and wonder where you went. Of course, true to form, you’d made a smooth and quick exit. You’re probably long gone by now, wreaking havoc in another town. He tries not to take it personally that you likely didn’t even bother to say goodbye.

He slides off the bed, wincing when he feels a sharp sting of pain in his foot. He lifts his leg, pieces of wood falling to the floor where remnants of what appears to be a broken side table lie. His eyes scan the room, and the absolute mess all over. It looks like a damn tornado ripped through here.

Chairs thrown aside, a shattered mirror and pieces of glass all across the floor, broken art all over. He doesn’t remember you two being that rough with each other last night. 

His stomach grumbles angrily, not allowing him to dwell on the mess he’s already planning on leaving behind. He searches his room for his discarded clothes, slipping on the items before he finds his bag. He’ll make a quick exit and slip out, hop on his horse and get the hell out of this town.

Toji’s not sure what he was expecting when he went to find his belongings. Maybe that you’d have taken them with you, just because it would have made you laugh to know you had your way with him then took all he owns. He certainly wasn’t expecting to find the fancy cowboy hat you wore last night sitting beside his bag, or to find a pouch of silver in his bag with a note inside. Toji unrolls the piece of paper, green eyes skimming the words.

“for the luck you keep sayin’ you ain’t got. hope that changes”

He shakes his head, a goofy smile on his face as he counts the money left for him. And it’s enough for him to get by for a while, enough for him to enjoy a bit of gambling, too.

Toji will have to thank you the next time he sees you. If you survive that long. But he doesn’t doubt that you will.

He slings his bag over his shoulder, exiting his room. He’s sure to close the door, hiding the horrendous disorder he’s leaving behind. Toji’s feet carry him down the stairs to the main floor of the brothel where it’s already bustling inside, people sitting down to enjoy breakfast. He’d have a seat, too, but he can’t risk sticking around in case someone recognizes him from the parlor. Or sees that damn room. As hungry as he is, he needs to go.

Toji maneuvers around those who stand around the room, idly chatting with each other. He’s about halfway across the room when someone calls out to him - a man’s voice. He could keep walking, ignore the man, but that would only make him look suspicious. It’s important for him to not draw attention. So Toji stops, spinning on his heel and coming face to face with the man calling out to him.

“Pardon me, sir. I’ve asked everybody in here, but no one knows a thing,” he explains as he approaches. He stops in his tracks, gaze locked on the top of Toji’s head. “Nice hat…” The man points towards the new item Toji wears.

“Thanks.”

The man stares for a few more seconds before he inhales sharply and continues. “I got word of a bar fight here last night…started by a woman.” The man reaches into his pocket, pulling out a sheet of paper and unfolding it. He holds the paper out to Toji, who just glares at it. 

It’s you. Your face on a WANTED poster, beaming happily in your mugshot with the largest bounty he’s ever seen on your head.

Toji eyes the younger man - long, black hair, violet eyes and strangely stretched ears. He wonders why he’s asking about you. To collect the bounty? No, he doesn’t look the type.

“What about her?” Toji asks.

The man runs his fingers through his hair, sighing. “I’m lookin’ for her. Ran into her once and…” He sighs again, like it pains him to think about his run in with you. And Toji is sure it does. That’s typically how you leave men (and women) in your wake. Spiraling and chasing any trail you may leave behind. “I just need to find her.”

Toji adjusts the weight of his bag on his shoulder. “Ain’t seen her in my life,” he answers simply. He doesn’t wait for a response from the man. He turns, making his way out of the brothel before the stranger has a chance to follow.

The man stands there, unblinking as he watches Toji’s form retreat from the brothel. His violet eyes narrow, the rage he feels bubbling in his chest. He could act now, because he’s fairly certain that what he feels is correct. 

Whatever happened last night, it involved you.

Whoever that scar lipped man is, he knows you.

He has his hat, the one you stole from him the last time he’d seen you.

But acting on his hunch would only bring unwanted attention. So he takes a deep breath, exhaling any anger he feels. After all, he’s positive that he’s one step closer to finding you again.

[wonderjanga]

Pettiness

Everyone who dons the lightning bolt is petty. I don’t make the rules, they just are.

An easy example of this was when Marvel was forced to go to a party full of diplomats in Paris as protection for said diplomats. Adam only showed up because he knew Marvel would be there.

Marvel: “Wait, so you only came to this because I would be here? Dude that’s… really petty.

Black Adam: “It is not.”

Marvel: “Yes, it is.”

The entire party was basically the two deathglaring each other. Their behavior was that of two teenage girls trying to sabotage each other over a boy at prom. Only, there wasn’t a boy and they just flat out hate each other.

Marvel: *pours wine on Adam* “Oops, my bad. Butterfingers, am I right?” *fake smiling*

Black Adam: *grabs a champagne glass off a nearby try and splashes it in Marvel’s face* “Of course, butterfingers.” *also fake smiling though it’s coming off as more of a grimace*

Other Diplomats: *sweating because they can practically feel the hatred oozing off of the two*

Yeah, they did stupid stuff like this for the rest of the night. Also this behavior was solely reserved for Adam too, because Marvel was chatting it up with foreign diplomats in their own languages and all around being just a friendly guy. When the party was over they duked it out in the venue’s gardens. They made headlines in Paris and the rest of the world after they nearly toppled the Eiffel Tower. Marvel isn’t allowed in France anymore. Neither is Adam.

But hey, don’t worry, this isn’t exclusive to Billy and Adam.

Billy and Mary: *chilling on the curb, eating ice cream*

Old Lady: *nearly trips on them* “Little gremlins. Don’t you have anywhere else to be?”

Billy: *drops his ice cream from her nearly tripping on them* “No miss-”

Old Lady : “Be quiet when your elders are talking to you. I can’t believe your parents raised you like this.” *storms off*

Mary: *squints at the Old Lady* “Billy, hold my ice cream. *gives him her ice cream and stands up and sticks her foot in some mud. Then walks up behind the Old Lady and plants a nice muddy footprint on the back of her dress*

Old Lady: *gasp* “How dare you!”

Mary: “I’m sorry, miss. It was an accident.” *fake smile (just like the one Marvel gave Adam) and skips back over to Billy*

Old Lady: “You cretin! get back here!”

Billy and Mary: *run off*

Mary let her younger (by only a couple seconds) brother have the rest of the ice cream. Sibling power for the win. Oh, and we can’t forget about Freddy. Freddy has tripped multiple people with his crutch and also given people little shocks whenever they try to take said crutch. He is just as petty as the others.

Billy and Freddy: *got thrown out of a store into the cold due to the fact they looked too homeless*

Billy: “Do you think we could try some heating spells when we get home?”

Freddy: “Yeah, uh huh.” *nods along, not really paying attention and points a finger to the neon sign of the store. He shorts out a few letters so the sign says something less than appropriate*

Billy: *little laugh*

Freddy: “So what about those heating spells you mentioned?” *is smug*

[auclairedetoru]

More of this.

"y/n ?”

Sukuna calls out for his roommate. They're currently lounging in the living room, each one doing their own thing. This is typical for them, especially after dinner since they both eat earlier than most people. One would be watching something on TV and the other would be reading or on their phone, occasionally talking but for the most part they sit in comfortable silence.

“Yes, Kuna?”

He holds back from grinning at the new nickname she gave him. Surprisingly, no one in Sukuna's life has ever called him that, but he quite likes it, especially since it came from her.

“Gojo's hosting a party at his and Suguru's place and they're inviting you. Do you wanna go together?”

She didn't hesitate to agree but warned him that it's her first time going to a college party and she might cling to him the whole time they're there because she's probably not going to know a lot of people. He promises her that he will not separate from her and that she'll have a great time, and he offers her solutions for when she gets overwhelmed, which she appreciates greatly.

Sukuna's excited for her to be at the party. He'll get to show her off, have fun with her and his friends, and most importantly, protect her from any unwanted attention. He wants to show that he's strong and capable of protecting her when needed. For what reason? Well, he hasn't figured that part out yet, but he knows for sure that he wants to do that.

Yeah... He definitely doesn't know the reason.

Things are not going as planned for Sukuna... For the most part anyways.

His roommate is having a blast. Satoru and Suguru are amazing hosts because they provided everything for her to be comfortable. Satoru offered her his room in case it all got too much for her and she needs a break, Suguru went out and got her non-alcoholic drinks in the middle of the party because she told him she doesn't drink. All three of them are trying their best to include her in conversations and games so she wouldn't feel pushed aside.

Thankfully, all their efforts are working. She has told them she's having a lot of fun multiple times. No one has bothered her yet, something Sukuna didn't expect because she gets hit on every time they're out together, and don't get him started on the amount of men that approach her at the gym asking for her number.

What he also didn't expect was for him to be hit on. It never usually happens, people are way too intimidated by him. The only time he gets flirted with is at a bar when they're both drunk. But this time, it's different.

If he's honest, he's getting quite annoyed. This girl wouldn't leave him alone. He's been trying to reject her gently all night long, but she seems to not understand what he's trying to say.

At first, she sent her friend who asked him if he was single, he gave them a simple "yes and not looking." answer before going back to playing beer pong.

Then, she approached him herself, talking about "sorry about my friend haha, they're crazy!". He knows that it's all bullshit, he saw them talking to each other in the corner of the room before each one talked to him. He sent her a forced smile and didn't say a word to her but she still wouldn't leave him alone.

And even now, as he sits in a circle with some of the people at the party playing an intense game of Uno, in which she is not participating, she's still trying to squeeze between him and the person to his right, telling him what cards to play and acting like they're a team against everyone else.

He doesn't want to be mean or rude and snap at her, people are just figuring out that he's not an asshole like his looks might give off, but god is it hard to hold back. He wants to tell her to fuck off and that he's not - and will not be - interested in her, but he can't and it's making him even more annoyed.

Y/n on his left has started noticing his annoyed huffs and how he's scooting closer and closer to her every time she hears that girl talk. One quick glance at his face and body language told her everything she needs to know.

Oh how the turn tables... Or whatever the saying is, because Sukuna's plans are about to flip around.

“hey, girl in the sequin top,” y/n calls out just as her turn started, making everyone look at her and the girl breathing down his neck, “can't you get a hint? You're clearly making him uncomfortable.”

The girl huffs and looks y/n up and down, as if she's trying to intimidate her but clearly it didn't work, “who are you to say whether he's uncomfortable or not? He can speak for himself, right Suki?” her voice becomes sickly sweet at the end, almost squeaking in his ear. He wants to vomit at that ugly nickname coming out of her mouth. He doesn't like it, in fact, it's the worst thing he has ever been called, and people have called him way worse offensive things.

He's about to speak up, but y/n quickly (and without realising) interprets him, “Are you dumb on purpose? He's about to sit on my lap trying to get away from you,” she mentions to the nonexisting empty space between them, “you're annoying everyone, leave before you embarrass yourself further.”

The girl scoffs and rises to her feet, her gaze sharpens with a glare as she places a hand on her hip, “if you're looking for a fight then bring it on now!” she declares, her voice laced with almost too much confidence.

Without any hesitation, y/n shrugs off her jacket and rises to her full height. It's clear as day who would win if things got physical. Sequin top girl is shorter than her, even in heels, and it’s obvious that y/n has spent far more time with a punching bag than she ever has.

Y/n raises an eyebrow as the girl swallows hard, her eyes flickering up to meet hers. The shift in her demeanor is unmistakable, her confidence replaced with intimidation. “you're gonna leave now or what?” y/n asks, her tone steady and unbothered.

With a huff, sequin top girl grabs her friend and disappears between the crowd of people, hopefully leaving the house entirely. Y/n sits back down and puts on her jacket, ignoring how everyone is staring at her so her cheeks wouldn't burn any further. Her heart is hammering against her chest, not being used to confrontation, but she is proud to stand up for her roommate.

She quickly plays her turn and thankfully everyone in the circle understood that she doesn't want to keep the attention on what happened and continued the game. She can feel Sukuna staring at her, so she turns to him, hoping he won't notice how flustered she feels, “what are you staring at?”

Sukuna knows that she's not the type to do what she did, she doesn't even like correcting the servers when they get her order wrong, but she stepped out of her comfort zone to defend him when he couldn't do it for himself. He's feeling something in his heart, something he can't describe, but he doesn't hate the feeling, it's nice actually, like a warm blanket wrapped around him on a cold night.

He planned on protecting her, on turning away anyone who would ruin her night, but instead she protected him and stood up for him. If he was lying down his feet would be kicking.

“that was kinda hot.”

“shut up,” she mumbles and looks away from him and towards the ongoing game, clearly too shy to accept his teasing compliment. He chuckles and does the same, not wanting to fluster her more than she's clearly feeling.

One day, he'll return the favour.

Something quick for roomie!sukuna 🤭

[lilia-calderus-pet-goat]

Found-Family headcanons for a³'s coven of chaos, part 4: (because they all deserved more time with each other)

(warning: drinking)

(part 3, here) - (part 2, here) - (part 1, here)

Everyone loves to give Señor Scratchy treats, even when Agatha insists they shouldn't.

Señor Scratchy especially loves Billy, Lilia and Sharon. He does likes to cuddle everyone, though. Except Jen, who he's always trying to bite, (???) because he wouldn't be Agatha's familiar if he didn't.

One day Jen jokes that she will turn him into a purse if he rages against her again—and everyone defensively yells at her at the same time. “Okay! Okay! Jeez! I was joking!”

Sharon cuts fruit for everyone every time they hang out together and forces them to eat it before doing anything else.

Jen usually pays for everything. It's the price of her constantly bragging about her, “real job.”

Agatha always teases her about it. One time, Lilia felt bad—and so she “went to the bathroom” and payed for everyone herself.

Billy himself got his first bad alcohol experience at age seventeen at his first big teen party, which Eddie took him to.

He got very fucking wasted very quickly because turns out he's not great at holding his alcohol. So—he begged Eddie not to call his parents, because, “they've bEeN through enOUGH I'M A HORRIBLE SON AND NOT EVEN reALLY THeirS--”

So, Eddie sighed and called Agatha to get him instead. And yes, your girl did drive ALL the way to Eastview—and spent the whole night sleepless, sobering him up to save him from the hungover. She was just glaring at Rio all night long, telling her to go make coffee and no funny business, while holding his head over the toilet. She was surprisingly gentle and comforting during the experience—because she does have her moments—like when Lilia had her traumatic hallucination in Jen's trial and Agatha gently went, “okay” instead of mocking her. That's the vibe.

BUT he still got the scolding of his life the next day. The whole neighbourhood heard Agatha yelling.

During the argument Agatha yelled that, “I'm not your mother!” and he shot back, “I know that, do YOU know that??” Which caused her to avoid him for a few days.

Later, Rio told him how much it actually affected her and why—and Billy felt really bad about it. On mother's day, he gave Agatha a gift basket of stuff he made himself, (with his bio-mom's help.) Agatha said it was tacky and unnecessary—but she actually teared up a bit. She opened the window and yelled at Wanda's abandoned lot to make an insensitive joke about how, “suck it, Wanda, you rank last in the mom list—” as to not show too much vulnerability. But Billy is used to her by now—and he knows that she appreciated it.

Alice always feels sad on mother's day. She visits her mother's grave site and tells her how bad her life is. This year, Billy went with her. And for thr first time, Alice only had goof things to tell her. About how she broke the curse—and she can finally do something with her life now. About how she got a new job, and a coven.

And, to cope, Alice got a gift for Lilia and one for Sharon. They may not be her actual mothers—but she appreciates them both endlessly and their support means the world to her. She got them both protective crystals.

You know who ELSE got Sharon a gift??

Well, Sharon doesn't either. She just received an anonymous bouquet of Azaleas and she had no idea who sent it to her.

It was Agatha, but she'd die before admitting it. She's the last person you'd suspect, since she still calls her Mrs. Hart despite how triggering it is, or pretends she doesn't remember her existence at all. In reality, she's grown fond of the Westview residents despite her best efforts not to. She doesn't particularly respect them and she does view them as “lesser,” but she doesn't wish them harm. They did take care of her for three years—and the Agnes role does have bits and pieces of Agatha in it.

Billy finds out through Rio and accidentally tells Alice. Alice tells Jen, Jen tells Lilia, (because she's not about to hide Agatha's embarrassing secret.) and Lilia tells Sharon.

Sharon is surprised but also extremely moved, considering she doesn't have any living family. She wants to thank Agatha, so she gets the idea to throw her a surprise party. (Since she herself hasn't been to a party since Mr. Davis passed away and she really wants to attend one!!)

She gets help from the coven but also invites all the main Westview residents that we know and love. Rio proposes the idea of writing, 'Agnes of Westview' on the cake, to get back at Agatha for always calling them by their Wanda-branded names. Sharon doesn't want to, but everyone else finds it hilarious, so they do it.

Agatha pretends to be extremely annoyed.

She isn't. She just never expected this to happen to her. For people to want to be there—and to see her as someone at least capable of good—someone who deserves a second chance.

They eat and drink together, having a blast. Billy isn't allowed to drink, but Agatha sneaks him a glass. Just ONE glass. You know, to teach him responsibility, as if she's the queen of it. “It's about knowing when to stop, teen.” “oh is it? tell us more”

Sharon is the opposite of a light-weight. She chugs down those shots like they're nothing—and if you ask her, she'll dismissively wave and say she's “lived a life.” Still, she doesn't seem to know her limits, and she gets carried away. At least she prepared some bomb ass charcuterie for everyone!!

Jen is a classy drinker, picky with her alcohol. She knows her limits and always drinks just enough to “make the company tolerable,” since, “no sane person could ever find you idiots amusing without a few shots.”

Lilia becomes incredibly talkative when she drinks and she loses whatever filter she may have otherwise had. Not to say that usually she has too much of a filter, but drunk, she literally becomes Patti Lupone. Jen finds it endearing and listens intently, Alice finds it sort of amusing but also a bit shocking, Rio matches her freak and Agatha just finds it fucking terrifying.

You'd expect Rio to be wilding, but she already does that sober. No, instead, she becomes very clingy and very affectionate—just whipped over Agatha. And she's kind of a light-weight too, which surprises everyone at first. It's because her real form is literally skeletal and her human form is probably maintained magically—so there's less actual real body mass to dilute the alcohol. So, death can tear through the fabric of reality, but metabolising alcohol is just too difficult.

Alice can hold her alcohol very well. She was once the definition of a teenage dirtbag, so she has experience in the field. Now she's pretty sensible. She's also the most clear-headed, even when she's drunk enough to stumble around.

Agatha herself is a slow drinker because she wants to make fun of everyone else for being less sober than her. She's developed a fair bit of tolerance over the years, but when it finally hits it really hits.

During a particularly rough case of drunkenness her and Jen sung karaoke together. Not during Agatha's party, though. Neither of them can quite recall the incident, or so they claim. Unfortunately for them, Alice recorded the whole thing. Rio made it her ringtone, as did Lilia.

Jen forces Lilia to get a skin-care routine. “Doll, I actively choose to look like this because I don't have the time or energy to maintain a youthful appearance. What makes you think I'll spend money on these products that capitaliSe in womeN's InsEcuriTiEs—I'm a divination fraud, you're a beauty guru fraud, we're both senior citizens, I don't care for this—”

And Jen is like, “okay ouch but nO this is nOt what I've been selling. This is new. We're not talking about just a luxury—the skin is the largest organ of the body and is exposed to various environmental stressors like pollution, UV rays, and temperature changes, as well as internal factors like stress and diet. I'm giFting these products to you I mAde them in a cAuLdron.”

Lilia is so flabbergasted by the clarity of Jen's explanation that she agrees. However, she constantly forgets to actually apply it.

Fortunately, Jen never forgets. And Lilia is probably the only person that Jen tolerates to constantly give reminders to.

[arcgayne]

my reasoning:

(these rankings are based on multiple criteria, such as relatability, hotness, relevance, how interesting they are as a character, and so on and so forth).

1) Jinx: she’s literally me. so silly and mentally unstable. needs therapy so bad and it shows. i fucking love her. please get help queen

2) Ekko: literally has never done anything wrong ever. moral compass strong as fuck. bonus points for looking cool. he’s also literally me but jinx wins over him bc she’s more unhinged.

3) Viktor: my fucking beloved. Do I want to be him? Do I want to be with him? Realistically I want neither of these things but unrealistically I need this man in ways even the hexcore couldn’t comprehend.

4) Mel: God I fucking love a powerful smart beautiful woman. AND she has mommy issues? she’s literally perfect. i’m rotating her in my head as we speak

5) Vi: hot tragic lesbian. almost lost points for becoming a cop but then she quit so it’s all good. for now. I have knowledge about what she ends up doing bc of the video game and I am currently choosing to ignore it in favor of the show timeline. Let me dream.

6) Sevika: hot. muscles. vodka aunt. hot. emotionally unavailable. hot. did i mention hot

7) grayson: i think it’s hilarious that she ranks higher than everyone else below her on this list. she literally only gets points for being attractive. especially her voice like ugghhh. what else can i say.

8) sky: perfect angel. so fucking smart and cool. deserves better. i need to know more about her or i will actually explode. hearing her voice made me so happy y’all have no idea

9) powder: baby. deserves the world. only ranks lower bc she doesn’t exactly “exist” anymore or whatever. justice for powder AND jinx 2025

10) caitlyn: hot. but ew cop moment. the fact that her sympathy for zaunites was crushed so easily really annoys me. like girl do you even have principles. ur revenge era would be cool if it wasn’t police brutality like noooo caitlyn pls don’t let a dictator use you to further destabilize your country for her own gain you’re so sexyyy ahaha… idk man it’s complicated. she should quit her job and get a new one. and then get therapy.

11) Jayce: he’s interesting in that he is a good example of a privileged person attempting to make things better by utilizing the system, only to get sucked into said system, becoming part of it and therefore part of the problem. the road to hell is paved with good intentions. his intentions are so good and yet. he is idiot. I hope Ekko and heimydingy are able to lessen his idiocy.

12) ambessa: hooottttttttttt. so fucking hot. goddamn. have y’all SEEN the music video for blood sweat and tears. i’m fucking FERAL. unfortunately for her, looks aren’t everything and she’s the fucking worst so here we are.

13) elora: beautiful powerful wonderful woman. need more of her. what is her life like. have she and mel ever kissed. much to think about here.

14) heimerdinger: he’s annoying and he doesn’t take the much needed time to explain why he makes the decisions he’s making... but he’s also right. which i hate because he’s annoying. but i also like that he’s annoying because it shows the very true fact that ppl who are annoying can in fact be right about things. also his heist with ekko was funny and endearing so he has that going for him. ekko carried tho ngl

15) vander: he’s cool cuz he’s a swag dad. a kind man and a protective guy. all around a great dude tbh. ranks lower because he doesn’t have any particularly interesting character traits to me.

16) finn: he looks cool as fuck but isn’t relevant and is also kind of an annoying brat. which is funny but like also bro. stop.

17) ximena: literally lost some of her fingers to frostbite to protect her baby child kid son. based. i love her.

18) cassandra: milf. the scene with the her and the gun? cool as fuck. ranks lower bc, again, not very relevant. and also dead lol

19) tobias: imma be honest idrc abt tobias at all i just didn’t want to separate him from his wife. he has enough of that in the show LOL

20) claggor: sweet boy. deserved better. i wonder what he would be like now if he’d been able to grow up.

21) silco: morally i hate this guy but he’s also a fascinating character. he’s cool as fuck and a bitch. plus he does eyeball drugs. there are so many fucked up things about this dude i can’t list them all. overall he’s a very well done character and an absolutely fantastic villain. what a piece of work.

22) benzo: just an all around good dude. ranks low bc he’s extremely irrelevant. sorry dude. if this was a morals contest he’d obv be ranked higher, but it’s not, so here we are.

23) jericho: had to look him up LOLLLL thanks for making food for vi i guess. people who make food for other people are the best. that being said he ranks low because, again, irrelevant.

24) mylo: cringe fail asshole. not ranked last bc he was a kid, so i can give him the benefit of the doubt, cuz maybe he would’ve been a better person as an adult… but also he never got to be one so oops lol get ranked low loser

25) singed: brother euughhh. i like drugs too but not THAT much. maybe give this man some backstory and i’ll care about him. as it stands rn idgaf about this guy. i rebuke thee, get AWAY

26) marcus: fucking piece of shit rat. fuck this guy. selfish coward and i hate him forever. die

Here's a fun little sorter I put together for Arcane characters! Reblog with your list!

Let the sorting commence!

[arget-star]

By Any Other Name

Sakura Haruka x F!Reader

A/N: Alright SO. I know I am primarily a Fire Emblem blog. however, Wind Breaker took over my life in the span of like a week and I could not get this thought out of my head and well. here we are. Not beta read, this is my first xreader fic i've ever posted. i hope you enjoy!

tags: fluff, a tiny bit of blood, feelings

wc: 2k

about: You met Sakura about six months ago, and have essentially wormed your way into his little walled off heart. He comes home to your now (mostly) shared little apartment, battered and bloody after saving a girl who looked like you

You’re not living together.

That’s what Sakura says, despite the fact you stay over four nights out of the week, and somewhere in the six months you’ve been dating, half your stuff has ended up in his ramshackle little apartment. “You deserve better than a leaky faucet”, he’d said, cheeks red and nose scrunched in a scowl. You’d merely laughed, kissing his forehead before replying, “It adds to the charm.” And that was that.

You’re not living together. So why does he hope you’ll be there, curled up on that cheap little couch you’d insisted on bringing over, that lovely smile on your face as you greet him?

Those assholes must’ve hit his head harder than he realized. Sakura grits his teeth, an arm banded around his throbbing torso as he wobbles along the sidewalk. Weaklings, all of them. Acting tough solely because they have nothing better to do with their time. Seriously, it’s just plain pathetic.

He spits out a glob of blood into the nearby bushes. He doesn’t remember biting his cheek; maybe he’d ground his teeth against it after taking a particularly nasty kick while dodging someone else’s punch. Wasn’t he past his body locking up, his muscles moving with all the speed of a turtle?

The girl had been clutching the long strap of her purse with all her meager might while surrounded by leering thugs. The type of guys who coast by on looks rather than action. Intimidation instead of respect. At least now he’s able to articulate—better yet, understand—what pisses him off so badly about guys like that. Sakura would’ve leapt in regardless, but then he caught sight of her underneath the lamplight, and her shade of hair matched yours. The purse even had a keychain dangling from it, the charms jingling in faint alarm.

She wasn’t you, obviously. You were already home, had probably cooked something simple yet delicious and were keeping it warm until he arrived.

So he froze, mismatched eyes wide as a new type of fear unfurled within his chest, and then all hell broke loose. He knew how to protect someone in a fight, finally, and while the poor girl flattened herself against the side of a nearby building as he sent the idiots flying, his attention still kept flicking to her. He kept thinking what he’d do if it was you, and on one such slip of his concentration, that bastard’s boot came out of nowhere.

He’ll have to report this to Umemiya in the morning, and tell you all about it tonight, and—

Sakura looks up. He’s nearly there; the derelict building doesn’t seem so foreboding, especially once he catches sight of the warm yellow light on in his apartment. Maybe, just maybe, things won’t be so bad after all.

The doorknob wiggles. You carefully place your bookmark inside your book,  sitting up properly in your seat. Sakura’s home a bit later than usual—he probably got stuck eating at Café Pothos with everyone else. Good. You’re grateful he has so many friends, even if he acts like a cat who fell into a puddle of water about it.

“Welco—Sakura!” Your book tumbles from your hands in your haste to stand up. He stands in the doorway while you catalogue his injuries as if in slow motion. Blood drips down the left side of his face from a cut above his eyebrow. His nose is bleeding, too, running down his chin and staining his white shirt red. His knuckles are raw. It’s subtle; yet he sways, quickly placing his right hand against the wall to brace himself. The motion is enough to jolt you from your surprise.

You’re at his side in a blink. His reaction is sluggish; lips parting in belated surprise when you loop his right arm around your shoulders. Normally, he reads your movements almost before you make them, bracing himself for whatever contact you’re about to subject him to so he’s never caught off guard. But slowly, like water eroding rock, he’d learned that he can let his guard down around you, even at his most vulnerable.

Especially then.

“‘M fine,” he mutters out of reflex. You only scoff, walking him over to the couch with a small huff of effort. “Just a small fight.”

Carefully, you help ease him down onto the cushions, releasing your hold only once he’s settled. “A small fight?” You echo, disbelief in your tone. There’s no reprimand or ridicule, just a healthy doubt. He doesn’t know exactly when he stopped looking for the irritation he’s so used to hearing. Leaning his head back, he sighs. “Some guys were causin’ trouble. A new gang, I think. Trying to rob a girl—” he cuts off abruptly, and you watch his cheeks turn a brilliant shade of red, nearly blending in with the dried blood caking his skin. Sakura immediately looks away; he misses the knowing glint entering your expression.

Spinning on your heel, you head for the kitchen. The faucet doesn’t leak as badly now, after you’d finagled a temporary fix with determination and a healthy amount of internet research. He deserves more than a crappy sink, even if he won’t admit it. “You were by yourself?” You ask, opening the drawer and removing a towel. (Yet another item that had miraculously wound up in his space one day. When Sakura confronted you, you’d shrugged, then asked what he wanted for dinner.)

Sakura watches you for a moment, ignoring how something deep within his chest settles as you run the towel under cool water. It’s a familiar scene, enough that he no longer feels the urge to yell and raise his fists in defense. “Yeah. Nothin’ I couldn’t handle on my own.”

Strange. Suo-chan and Nirei-chan always shadow Sakura. Unless Sakura is going home—they haven’t invaded his space since the day they’d discovered him sick on the floor. Now, especially, Sakura would rip their heads off if they came snooping around while you were home. The faucet shuts off. You wring out the towel once, twice, then pad back over to the couch.

“I never doubted that, Grade Captain,” you tease, arranging yourself so you’re sitting on your knees. Drops of water drip down your wrist and onto the cushions below. His blush deepens, and you don’t bother hiding your smile. “Now hold still.”

“Shaddup,” he mumbles without heat. Instinct makes him shift back an inch; he’s always taken care of himself, alone. Sick, bruised, bloodied—he proved time and again he didn’t need anyone else. Then you breezed into his life, upending his entire world with your musical laughter and patient touch.

This is far from the first time you’ve patched him up. He no longer hisses and rages and scowls, a teenage version of a toddler’s temper tantrum, yet neither can he completely disregard a lifetime of gut reactions to others extending a hand in his direction.

You never minded when his hackles rose. You understood him, remaining endlessly understanding while he let his fear run its course. The damp rag hovers in the space between you and him. Sakura zeros in on the blue material instead of your face.

“Ready?”

That’s another thing. You ask him about things. Wait for his brain to catch up with non-dangerous situations. It’s weird, and scary, and wonderful.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be gentle.”

“You always are.”

The smile you give him is radiant. Your free hand cups his less bloody cheek, keeping him steady, while you tenderly press the rag to his chin. He hisses out a breath through clenched teeth.

It’s quiet, as you slowly clean him up, beyond the soft scrap of material against skin. There’s a rhythm to your movements. Sakura finds it soothing, despite the circumstances. You both study each other; Sakura, like you’re a puzzle he’s still trying to solve, and you, like he’s something precious.

His golden eye truly is beautiful. He told you others have compared it to twilight, but you think it’s more akin to burnished gold. Rare, and infinitely treasured. He closes it, keeping it safe from harm as you run the now pink-tinged cloth over his browbone. A shame, you think, he keeps himself so locked away.

The slight pressure leaves his face. You move back, giving him room to breathe, holding the rag loosely in your hand. His eye opens again, a coin glinting in a riverbank.

“There,” you say, unfolding yourself from the couch, brushing your thumb across his cheek before you release him completely. “I’ll be back with the first aid supplies.”

Sakura just nods. He never says the words thank you; but you hear it in the way he lets you take care of him, how he takes your hands so reverently in his once your all finished, cradling you like he’s afraid you’ll snap in half if he squeezes too hard.

You’re opening the cabinet underneath the sink when he speaks again. “She looked like you.”

He says it so quietly, you nearly miss it. You freeze, half-bent down to reach for the ridiculous amounts of bandages and antiseptic bottles stashed neatly in their respective baskets. (Another thing you’d changed one day, much to Sakura’s initial chagrin, until he’d stumbled home covered in half a dozen cuts on the rare day you weren’t waiting for him, and found everything he needed without cursing his lack of organization.)

Mechanically, you grab the necessary materials. You’d assumed as much, based on his reaction when you told you the cause of his current state. A shudder runs down your spine as you imagine what the other guys must look like, lying defeated in the street. Sakura doesn’t fight just on behalf of someone else—at least, that what helps him sleep at night, though you know his tune has changed after all his experiences with Bofurin. For him to fight on your behalf, however tangentially related, makes your heart flutter.

Kotoha will practically jump for joy when you tell her.

For now, you let this newfound knowledge settle into your skin, your fluttering heart, smiling to yourself as you exit the bathroom, arms loaded with supplies. “Did she, now?”

Sakura’s sitting upright, head down, once again avoiding your gaze. His fingernails dig into the fabric of his school pants. Beneath the curtain of two-toned hair, you can see the blush sitting high on his cheeks. It’s a miracle they’re not permanently stained pink.

“Y-yeah. I knew she wasn’t you, but for a moment…I need to teach you how to defend yourself. I can’t patrol everywhere, and I’m not the strongest yet. Anyone from Furin will keep you safe, but if we’re not around—”

This is new. You swallow, setting the first aid supplies down on the tatami, sitting down with your legs crisscrossed. (One day, you’ll convince him to buy a table, but there’s only so much furniture you can squeeze in such a tiny place.)

“Sakura,” you say, but he doesn’t hear you.

“���I need to know you can take care of yourself until I get there—”

“Sakura.”

“—and send them all flyin’—”

“Haruka.”

That shocks him into silence. He inhales, then looks up sharply, lips curling into the angry snarl you know so well. It’s his only defense mechanism, beyond his fists, and he’d never raise those at you. (That thing lodged within his chest stirs again. No one’s called him by his given name in years. It feels right, that here, in this space you two have created together, you should use it.)

He’s quite the sight, half patched-up and spluttering mad. One eye darkens like a storm at sea; the other kindles into molten gold, ready to burn any who get in his way.

You’re surprised, too. But you didn’t know what else to do. He’s never spiraled like this before, and it hits you that for perhaps the first time, he was genuinely scared for someone else. You shake your head, breaking eye contact, and reach for the gauze. “I’m sorry, Sakura. I should have asked before using your first name.”

Your fingers shake only a little when you grab the nearest antiseptic, flipping open the cap with your thumb. He watches it all, struck dumb. He doesn’t want an apology. He wants you to say it again, but he doesn’t know how to ask.

All of the fight leaks out of him. His shoulders slump forward. Haruka. Haruka. You hadn’t said it in disgust, or fear, or hatred. If he had to guess, you sounded concerned. Haruka. “I liked hearin’ you say it,” he replies.

A laugh bubbles out of you, born from nervous relief. You nearly spill antiseptic all over you instead of the gauze. “Really? May I call you Haruka, then? Not all the time…just here.” Rising to your knees, you crawl over to him, taking one battered hand in your soft one.

His throat tightens. An odd pressure builds behind his eyes. “Fine.”

“This’ll sting,” you murmur in warning, almost like an afterthought. “You can use mine, too. If you want.”

Sakura’s about to respond, tell you he’ll do it if it’ll make you happy (and make his own heart beat a little faster), but then the gauze descends onto his split knuckles. It’s not like eating a kick to the face; it barely registers in comparison.

Maybe it’s the emotions he’s kept bottled up since the fight. Maybe it’s the fact you called him Haruka and the world didn’t explode. Both things, he assumes, and that’s why your healing touch hurts worse than a dozen roundhouse kicks.

It fades, after that first bright burst.

Neither of you say anything again while you continue your ministrations. Once his knuckles are taken care of, you move on to his face, tenderly smoothing his bi-colored bangs off his forehead to ensure no strands get caught underneath the small bandage you apply to the cut above his eyebrow.

The entire time, he replays this strange evening over and over again in his head. It all leads back to you, caring for him, using his first name like it’s nothing when it in fact means everything. He hates himself, a little bit, for not being better at this.

For your part, your focus on him turns clinical. You can deal with the emotional part of it later. When you’ve finished with the last bandage, you stare at him a moment. Take in this boy who pushed away the entire world when it wrote him off, the very same boy who harbors no malice in his heart, just kindness hidden by anger.

You press a soft kiss to his lips, then slide away before he can reciprocate. He splutters again, blush back in place, and it’s such a Sak—Haruka thing to do, you bite back a laugh.

“Are you ready to eat, Haruka? You get hungry after a good fight.”

He offers you a rare smile in return.

[writealongnowdear]

Love me Like a Sailor

Arthur Morgan x Captain!Reader

Summary: John is a little brother. The Konstantina prepares to set sail. Arthur is nervous with a side of pathetic.

A/N: Classes got me FUCKED UP and I'm sick. I hope you enjoy tho ❤️❤️

Part 1

☆☆☆☆☆

When Arthur rode back into camp, he could feel eyes on him. It made his skin prickle, the way that it always did when someone was watching.

He hitched up his horse, boots hitting the ground as he brushed up her sides and let his head rest against her neck for just a moment. He had to gather himself - wouldn't be able to look anyone in the eye if he didn't.

Morgana whinnied, brushing against him almost compassionately. Arthur snorted, patting her a few times and feeding her a sugar cube.

“Quit your worryin’, girl,” he muttered. “Don't need my damn horse on my case, too.”

Everyone else was gathered around the campfire tonight. It was cool out, fall on the air and rain on the horizon. He'd have to make sure that they were ready for the storm.

A heady laugh reached his ears, unmistakable. Arthur grimaced, looking up from under the brim of his hat.

“How was it?” John asked teasingly, immediately after laying eyes on him. Arthur glared, walking past him.

“I ain't in the mood, Marston,” he gruffed. With a huff, he grabbed a bottle of beer from Pearson's wagon and uncapped it. He raised the bottle to his lips and took a long sip that elicited a whistle from John.

“Cmon now, it can't have been that bad,” he said, shit-eating grin twisting his scarred features. Arthur grimaced.

“It wasn't, asshole,” he said, blush rising to his cheeks. “I got us a deal.”

John wiggled his eyebrows, making him look even more like the child that he was.

“Oh really? What kind of deal are we talkin-”

“Shut up, Marston.”

John laughed again, grabbing a beer for himself and clapping Arthur on the shoulder. He stood next to Arthur, watching the camp go by in silence for a moment.

“What is the deal then?” He asked eventually. Arthur shrugged, rolling his shoulders and taking another swig of his beer.

“They need extra protection. In return they'll pay us or peddle for us.”

John nodded, digging in the dirt with the tip of his boot. He always did that when he was thinking.

“What's the catch?”

Arthur sighed, rubbing his eyes. That's what he'd been trying to figure out.

“Don't know yet. But with how things are going, we ain't got time to wonder about it.”

“Amen, brother,” John snorted.

The two sat in comfortable silence. The sun had just started to set, purple and orange splashing across the lake and its shores. Arthur itched for his pencil.

And he thought of you.

☆☆☆☆☆

The ride went quickly. Charles and Javier were fast riders, always ready to run.

Van Horn was just as it always was - quiet and unassuming but for the drunks retching outside the saloon. It was an early morning; the sun was barely rising on the horizon.

The Konstantina was moored where it was last time he'd visited, almost a week ago. There was a man on watch at what Arthur thought was the bow. As they rode their horses in and tied them up, his eyes flashed over the main deck. He caught a glimpse of your silk shined hair, his heart skipping a beat.

“S'that it?” Javier asked, coming to stand next to Arthur. His bag was slung over one shoulder, his other hand coming to rest on his belt. Arthur nodded.

“The one and only.”

Javier snorted. He clapped Arthur's shoulder and shuffled his boots in the sand. Charles fell onto his other side, sighing out a breath and squinting at the boat.

“Not what I expected,” he murmured. Arthur shrugged.

“Gets the job done, doesn't it?”

Soon enough, all three men were stepping aboard the boat. The watchman on the bow greeted them, asking them to wait while he got the captain.

Javier lit up a cigarette, sitting on top of a crate. He passed it to Charles who took it with a hum of thanks.

“I'm excited to meet this captain of yours,” Javier said, leaning forward with a glint in his dark eyes. “John said she was something else.”

“John says a lot of things,” Arthur said as easily as he could manage. Charles huffed, passing the cigarette back. “Ain't none of them smart.”

“He said she had you whipped six ways to Sunday,” Charles said, crossing his arms but gesturing one of his hands at Arthur with a raised eyebrow. Arthur felt himself blush, and thanked the darkness of the early morning for hiding it.

“I don't even know what that means,” Arthur grumbled, pouting. Charles laughed, Javier slapping the man's broad shoulder with a mischievous grin.

“I bet you wish you did, though.”

Arthur glared at both men as they laughed. He was about to open his mouth and defend himself, but he cut himself off when he saw you approaching.

Your outfit was a far cry from when he last saw you; baggy cotton pants and a button up shirt that somehow hid the swell of your chest. Your hair, which was usually left long, was braided tightly and pinned methodically around your head save for a few strands in the front. When you fastened your captain's hat on your head, he couldn't tell that you were a woman at all.

Despite that, his heart still felt like it was going to beat out of his chest if he looked at you for any longer. He could've chuckled at the humor in it. Even dressed as a man, the sweep of your long eyelashes along your cheeks still made his breath hitch. The curve of your mouth still made him want to tear his hair out.

Catching the stunned glances of Charles and Javier, Arthur shrugged and cleared his throat. Their shock quickly passed, but their obvious amusement did not.

“Arthur,” Javier said in the same tone of voice that Abigail used to scold Jack.

“What?!”

“Gentlemen!” You exclaimed, greeting them with the same upbeat attitude you always seemed to have. “Welcome aboard! We're pleased to have you.”

Charles nodded, a slight smile on his face as he introduced himself and Javier, who moved forward to shake your hand. His eye flicked back to Arthur with a lazy grin that betrayed his mischievous curiosity.

“Pleasure's ours,” Javier said. “Cigarette?”

You hummed in assent, taking the cigarette between two fingers and inhaling a drag of it. Arthur stared as you let the smoke pool out of your mouth in waves.

“So you're the infamous Caspian that Arthur's been talking about?” Javier said, his charm turned up all the way. Arthur sighed heavily.

“That's Captain Caspian, to you,” you said with a wink, dissolving into laughter soon after. “For better or worse that is.”

“S'that why you're dressed like that?” Charles said bluntly, gesturing to your outfit. Javier slapped his shoulder with a venomous “Cabrón!” hissed under his breath. You smooth out the wrinkles of your shirt with a raised eyebrow.

“Sailing ain't a woman's work,” you say.

“Neither is smuggling.”

“Can't have one without the other, Mr. Smith.”

“...I suppose that's true.”

“It's better like this anyway,” you say. “Navy would be onto us in seconds if I dressed normally.”

The small talk continued as your cigarette burned down between your fingers. Arthur couldn't comprehend your words, but he figured that was okay - if it was important he'd ask you to repeat yourself and that wouldn't be so bad. He could listen to your voice like one of Dutch's terrible records.

“So, what's the route?” Charles asked, kicking Arthur's boot and forcing his attention back on the conversation.

“It'll be short - we should be in port by supper tomorrow night,” you said. “We sail from here to Saint Denis, which is where we'll drop you boys off.”

“Thought it would be longer,” Javier muttered, itching around his mustache in thought.

“Think of this as a trial run,” you said. With a shrug and a sigh you stamp out your cigarette and lay your hands on your belt. “If it goes well, we can go longer.”

Arthur nodded along, trying not to let his eyes catch on the way your hands looked clutched on your belt and failing miserably. The way he always stood, the way every man stood… it looked damn near erotic on you.

“Mr. Morgan?” You asked, jolting him once again from his pathetic thoughts. His eyes snapped to yours, meeting your amused face. “You've been awfully quiet.”

“Was just thinking,” he said, scowling. Charles snorted.

“That's new.”

“Don't hurt yourself.”

You laughed at Charles and Javier's responses, only laughing harder when you caught a look at Arthur's glare. He crossed his arms and sat back against the railing of the deck, hat falling over his brow.

“Har har,” he said. “My brand of thinking is always the least likely to get us killed.”

“Oh, really? Care to enlighten us?” You ask, clearly teasing him now because what else could he possibly be thinking about.

There wasn't any time to think about robbing and stealing and killing when he could be thinking about your hips, the swell of them and how they would give under his hands. Your eyes, how pretty they would look filled with tears of pleasure. He could be thinking about the way that your lips would form his name, and if your voice would crack with love around the vowels. Or how soft your hands would be if he got to hold them, and how the skin of your back would feel pressed against his chest after-

“Tomorrow,” Arthur said, hands fisted tight in his lap. “I was just thinking about tomorrow.”

He looked up to see your eyes soften, fondness clouding the color of your eyes. He's sure that the smile spilling across his lips is one that John would describe as dopey, but he finds that he doesn't give a damn.

Because now? All he's thinking about is how he can make you his the way that he's already yours.

☆☆☆☆☆

Bbg, this is for you @johnnysilverhandeeznuts

[neuvigroove]

𝒊 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝒍𝒆𝒇𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚.

pairings. scaramouche x fem reader synopsis. scaramouche swore to himself to protect you from dottore, but in order to do so, he must abandon you. before he leaves though, he makes sure to put a smile on your face. genre/warnings. pure angst, written in scara's pov, reader is energetic and childish, she/her pronouns used for reader, mentions of blood, stabbing, and death wc. 1.1k a/n. i actually shed a tear while writing this and listening to summertime sadness. playlist. die first - nessa barrett, summertime sadness - lana del rey, train wreck - james arthur

[2:39pm]

today is y/n's birthday.

i can see her in the near distance, skipping around like an excited little kid. she's always had too much energy for me to bear, but perhaps i've grown used to it, seeing that she's always glued to my side for some reason unknown to me.

that bliss however, will change today. dottore knows about where she's from. a planet far from the depths of teyvat. a globe dominated solely by the human race with no room for elemental power. a planet currently known as earth.

very little is known about this planet, which only causes dottore's interest to peak. her origin makes her the perfect test subject for the doctor, but i will not let him lay a dirty fingernail on her.

we cannot continue to travel as one; dottore will find her if she's with me. i don't have any cards left to play.

i do worry that leaving her alone would put her in another danger. she carries no vision, nor any strength that could compare to the creatures of teyvat. however, nothing is more dangerous than becoming an experiment of the second fatui harbinger. on the inside i know she'll be okay. she can find-

she can find my replacement. a new companion.

my only option is to watch over her from the shadows. that is the only way i can protect her.

sometimes i can tell that i hurt her feelings when we converse. but my personality is something i can't change, and she's never seemed to want change from me. perhaps that's why i've enjoyed her company more than i could ever enjoy another human being's. she understands me more than i think she does.

since i made her cry on her last birthday, i've decided that i could attempt to make her smile this time around. in my defense though, the cookies she made for us to share together were truly detrimental. but... maybe my words were too harsh. i forget what i said exactly... "you wanna poison me? are you so dumb as to have forgotten that i'm not human?"

my eyes trail back to ms. craziness and my eyes widen when she trips over a tree branch. i actually have no idea how i've been traveling together with a girl who has two left legs without dying. i don't notice the tears streaming from my eyes until she looks my way and spots me.

she runs over to me, and i quickly wipe the useless, hot tears. when i see her happy expression, i need to make an effort not to let the guilt eat me alive. i think i've admitted it to myself a while ago, but i love y/n. i'd presumed just as everyone else that i'm a puppet incapable of anything close to love, but if what i feel for y/n isn't love then i'm not sure what it is. i am positive that it is love. when you experience pain, you don't doubt it and assume it's something else. you just feel. and when i'm with her i feel.

"SCARA!" y/n exclaims as she topples me over in a hug. i nearly fall to the ground, but i'm able to catch us before it's too late. gosh, can she even contain her energy for two rational seconds?

i shove her off of me, but before i can say anything, she excitedly holds up a compass-like trinket in my face. "look! a sweet young boy gave me this lovely compass! it's supposed to lead you to wherever you'll be the happiest! and~ it led me right to you! we are just the perfect little duo, aren't we scara?"

i scoff, "and you believe that? it led you towards me because i'm standing north from where you were earlier."

y/n's excited expression drops.

"oh..." she pouts. "well... we can still pretend, right?"

pretend. maybe i can pretend she'll always be with me.

"pretending won't get you anywhere in life," i respond flatly.

"oh, but you pretend all the time," she responds. "i know you sometimes pretend that you can't hear me when i ramble about random things. although it hurts my feelings, you're still my best friend, scara."

what she said is actually not true. i in fact remember everything she rambles about in great detail. like that one time she was complaining about how she hates her hair because the wind blows it in an unattractive way. it was just so annoying because she needs to set her priorities straight. her appearance should be the last of her worries.

"give me your hand," i say. my voice is softer than i intended it to be. when she extends her hand, i slip a diamond bracelet around her wrist. on it is a charm with her nickname for me engraved in the center: scara.

please don't forget about me.

"oh, scara... it's beautiful! I'll never take it off. i promise."

"i have a matching one," i respond as i hold up my wrist for her the see.

she smiles when she sees the nickname engraved on my bracelet: princess.

there it is. her smile.

i sigh. "human, i know that you have your other shenanigans to deal with today, as do i. but meet me up that hill in the forest at sunset."

"oh, okay? scara, why are you being extra nice today?"

"um," i attempt a half smile. "it's your birthday, isn't it?"

[6:03pm]

i pick up the sword from the wet grass of the forest mountain beneath me. it's raining hard tonight. y/n is going to catch a cold, and i won't be there to care.

i walk over to the puppet standing across from me. my puppet. the puppet i've created to fake my own death. isn't it funny? the puppet of a puppet. both abandoned by their creators.

i take my bracelet off and slip it on its wrist. she has to believe it's me.

"i'm sorry," i whisper before stabbing my clone in the chest. i close my eyes when i hear my own voice cry out in a short-lived pain. it falls to the ground, lifeless as i walk away into the forest.

the bloodshed spreads with the heavy rain, and moments later, i see y/n approach the dead body. there she is.

and i feel as if my nonexistent heart has cracked in half when she screams. my eyes close in a sort of pain i've never experienced before. i'm sorry. i'm so sorry, princess. it's the only way you wouldn't look for me.

i wish that a day will come where we can be partners again. but on the inside i know that her human lifespan is not long enough to fulfill that silly wish.

scaramouche fanart credit: X (Twitter) : llxx88103769

[winterwandersland]

Echoes of Mercy

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Black!Fem!Reader Call of Duty x The 100 x Resident Evil tw/cw: none? word count: 3.5k Task Force 141 encounters an unexpected guest on their search to find the anti-virus.

Chapter Two

On Board

TWO YEARS EARLIER

You didn’t mean to yell at Price how you did. He was just trying to help, just like you were. But none of it had to be this way. No one had to get shot. No one had to get hurt. Mr. Diyoza was just trying to protect his only daughter. If anyone on your team had kids, they would do the same. It didn’t matter what Diyoza did wrong because, in his eyes, she was still his little girl.

And now you're holding kitchen cloths to her throat, praying that it was enough. You weren’t religious, but praying seemed like the only thing you could resort to. It didn’t matter if your prayer was going to a god or some other universal being. It just needed to be heard by someone and you needed that someone to give you at least a grain of hope to keep going.

“Please, to whoever or whatever is out there, keep her alive. I know she has done wrong, but this isn’t how she deserves to die. Let her learn from her mistakes, but please don’t take her away,” you murmured as you prayed, down on both knees and clasping your hands together on top of the cloth, keeping Diyoza from losing too much blood.

She was unconscious, but still breathing, which meant she didn’t cut too deep, which also meant there was a chance she could make it. After this long, she should have bled out and died. Maybe it was the cold air, but whatever it was, you were grateful.

As you kept the pressure over Diyoza’s throat, you gazed over at the rest of your teammates who were staring back at you, watching you like you were doing something wrong.

“The fuck are you all staring at?” you blurted out.

“She’s a terrorist. Why are you still trying to save her? Let her die a coward,” Bravo 3-8 answered.

You took a deep breath before you lost your mind. It was a rational thought. All terrorists were supposed to die. But Charmaine Diyoza wasn’t only a terrorist. She was your friend. She trained all of you. All of your team had some sort of connection with her. How could this be so easy for them?

“She’s your colonel,” you replied.

“She was our colonel. Now, she is a prisoner deserving of punishment,” Bravo 3-8 said.

He was the only one that would speak. It seemed like everyone else had some kind of remorse, but not him. Bravo 3-8 had always been the one teammate you bumped heads with the most. With the 141, he was an angel, but back on your own base, he caused you and Diyoza hell, but especially you. You figured it was because you were a woman, but Diyoza was, too. However, you had heard many times that Diyoza was more respectable because she was taller. Stronger. More capable of being a SEAL than you were.

But that didn’t matter to the government. You were both still women, so neither of you were supposed to be here. Neither of you should or could ever do what a man could, and at some point, you believed it. You almost dropped out of the SEALS camp because of an incident that happened, but a protective lieutenant and encouraging colonel kept your head in the game. If it wasn’t for them, you wouldn’t be here.

And now you're sitting with one of the few people who kept your hopes up, trying to keep her alive because she lost the hope she gave you. How ironic.

“We are not letting her die. Sure, she deserves to be punished, but she can’t be punished if she’s dead. If-When she lives, she will be sent to the penal colony on Eligius IV. But her worst punishment of all is having to live with her actions and what she has become. That is punishment enough,” you responded.

It was true. Diyoza would have to live with the guilt of massacring innocent people to get the attention of the government that she wanted. Even if she didn’t regret it now, she would one day.

Everyone was quiet. The aircraft was cold and there was no more bickering about whether to let Diyoza live. She was going to live and have to face the team that had so much faith in her.

The metal of the aircraft did nothing to decrease the freezing air that seeped through the terribly insulated plane. Just before you went to capture Diyoza, Simon had given you his poncho because you hated even the slight breeze of air. You used it to cover yourself up and find warmth and comfort in his scent that lingered on the oversized hooded piece of clothing. You prepared yourself to lie against Diyoza while keeping pressure on her neck, but you had to do a headcount first.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. You counted.

“What the hell?” you said.

“What is it?” one soldier asked.

“There’s eight of you here,” you answered.

“Yea. So what?” the same soldier replied.

You felt yourself start to breathe heavier and you could practically hear your heart thudding out of your chest. “So who’s flying the plane?”

PRESENT DAY

The team skulked about the piles of bodies, many of them still decomposing, their flesh still intact with their bones.

“What if it’s them? Squadron Eight,” Gaz stated.

As much as Ghost wanted to believe that, he knew it wasn’t true.

“There are too many bodies and it’s been two years. All their flesh would be long gone by now. These are recent deaths,” Ghost said.

He couldn’t afford to be thinking about you right now. He needed to be thinking about getting the anti-virus to deliver to the city. Then, once the mission is over, he can go back to reminiscing about the days you were here with him.

Ghost’s direct answer sent chills up the team’s spines. If this wasn’t your squadron, then who was it and what could have placed their bones in piles like this? From what they could see, there were no animals around big enough to kill the people, let alone drag their bodies into a pile. These bodies were at least a month old, but some of them were no more than a week. What could have done this? Who could have done this?

Soap slowly approached the CDC facility door, its cracked glass and moss that decorated the door and its surroundings. Whoever worked here did not keep up the building maintenance, but why would you when it blended in so well with its surrounding area?

He knocked on the door. “Hello?” Soap called out, “Special Forces!”

No one answered.

He knocked again, but there was still no answer, so he did the only other thing he could do in a facility like this. He opened the door, letting himself and the rest of the team through. They each held their guns up as they skulked about the empty lobby.

“Hello? Special Forces! Come out! We’re here to retrieve a package,” Price called out, but yet there was still no answer.

The building was completely trashed. Shattered glass, mold on the walls, and the most interesting of all, blood. Everywhere. There was still a stench, but it didn’t smell like death. It was a mix of must and ammonia once they entered further into the building.

“Someone’s been here recently,” Soap announces. He follows the scent of ammonia to a back door that seemed to be ajar, leading to the back of the building.

“How do you know?” asked Gaz.

“That ammonia smell…that’s piss. Human piss,” Soap informed him.

They continued scouring through the surrounding land, trying their best to ignore the foul smells that engulfed them, practically burning through their nose hairs.

Price raised his fist, bringing everyone to a halt. “Wait, you lads hear that?”

There was a faint rustling through the trees and the murder of crows flocking away that drew their attention. They pointed their guns towards the trees, their flashlights creating small orbs as they lit paths.

“I don’t see anything,” Gaz whispers, doing his best to keep his voice low, keeping anyone outside of the team from hearing him.

They each gathered in a circle, their backs turned to each other, keeping every angle under their surveillance.

Ghost put his weapon down after realizing there was nothing but the rustling of the trees. “It’s just the-,” he began, but a figure suddenly attacked him from above before he could finish.

In these situations, the team would be eager to shoot, but that would be a waste of a bullet when the attacker was so close. Ghost fought off the attacker, Price coming behind the person and grabbing them off of him.

“Don’t kill him! Could be the only way to find the CDC members!” Ghost yelled.

The hood of the perpetrator’s coat covered their face, making it nearly impossible to see who it was. The coat was large, made with fur gathered from the animals during the warmer seasons. It was getting cold out, the teams’ armor barely being enough to keep them warm.

Gaz and Soap kept their guns pointed towards the attacker while Ghost rose to his feet and Price kept the person restrained, finally knocking them onto their back and knocking the air from their lungs.

Price immediately got on top of the person, removing their hood and revealing a woman with blonde tipped hair and grown out brunette roots. The team’s face immediately lit up, Gaz and Soap lowering their weapons and letting out breaths of relief.

Price’s hand gently brushed the hair out of the woman’s face. “Charmaine?”

TWO YEARS AGO

You slowly moved to a squat position, keeping one hand on Diyoza’s neck and the other reaching for your sidearm. You silently wave down one of your members, motioning for him to keep pressure on Diyoza’s wound. Everyone had made it clear that they wanted Diyoza dead, but you couldn’t let that happen. You won’t let it happen. You take a look at everyone as the soldier places the pressure on Diyoza’s throat and you whisper to the team, “If I come back and she’s dead, I will kill every single one of you.”

You weren’t sure if the look they all gave you meant they were scared and believed you or that they were waiting to call your bluff. Either way, you were prepared for both options.

You creeped towards the front of the plane, your gun leading the way, your body tense and preparing for who you may find. The door to the cockpit was ajar, so you gently kicked it open with your foot and immediately pointed your gun to where a pilot should be.

“What the fuck?” you murmured. There was no one in the seat.

But there was someone behind the door.

You ducked as you saw a dark shadow go over your head. You heard the cockpit door slam shut, leaving you and the infiltrator in the small space to fight to the death. He was bigger than you and his face was unrecognizable. You had never seen this man before in your life, but what you did know is that he had to be here on Diyoza’s behalf. But how he got there you could not figure out.

Your team couldn’t hear you struggling over the turbulence and you refused to give up. He had the strength, but you had the intelligence, and you used it to your advantage.

You kneed the man in the balls as hard as you could once he was on top of you. He fell to the side, and you used it as an opportunity to hit him on the head with the barrel of your gun, knocking him unconscious.

You checked the coordinates on the dashboard, but you couldn’t recognize them either. The plane was on autopilot and low on fuel. If you turned off autopilot, you’d burn too much gas and the plane would spin out before you got to the coordinates’ destination.

“Damnit, Simon. Where are you when I need you?” you mumbled under your breath as you banged your hand on the dashboard. You placed your hands over your face and let out a scream loud enough for the team to hear over the ruckus of the plane.

One of your teammates barged into the cockpit, struggling to get through the door because of the unconscious man lying in front of it.

You sat in the pilot’s chair, staring outside of the window, watching as you flew over the open bodies of water that felt like they lasted forever.

“Are you alright?” the soldier, Bravo 4-8, asked. Of all the men in your squadron, you were the closest to him. He understood you. You understood each other. He knew the impact you wanted to make on the world. Like you, he grew up in a house full of women. It was noticeable from the first day you met with him. The respect he gave you like you were an equal and not just a woman trying to prove a point.

When you made a mistake, he didn’t ridicule you, but guided you. There were rumors that you two had slept together, but you both knew it wasn’t true. The rumors made you laugh, considering he wasn’t even attracted to women. You both gossiped about who in each squadron you considered attractive. Whenever there was a new commanding officer or someone substituting to train you, you’d both get in trouble for failing to contain your laughter when you snuck glances at each other after getting a good look at who was training you.

Most of the time, neither of you ever made a move. You were the first when you caught the Lieutenant’s eyes. Bravo 4-8 swore you were done when you were being reprimanded by the jarring lieutenant and instead of staring at him with the serious face that all soldiers and recruits give, you smiled instead. “Yes, sir,” you said, looking up at him with your big, soft brown eyes and full, soft lips.

No one had ever seen the Lieutenant so stuck before, hesitating to send you on your merry way. “Go-get back to work-,” he started before looking across your chest for your name tag. “Abara,” he finished. You weren’t actually being reprimanded for doing anything seriously wrong. The Lieutenant wanted not only an excuse to speak to you, but also to get your head back in the game. You were two laps ahead of the rest of the cohort and you had stopped to chat with your friend, and the Lieutenant wanted to make sure you stayed ahead of everyone else.

“Yes, s-,” you started.

“Just go,” he interrupted. “Don’t call me that.”

“Then, what am I supposed to call you?” you asked him. He couldn’t help to notice the cute tilt in your head, swaying of your arms that was actually a fidget that he came to notice later on.

“Anything but that. And keep still,” he responded.

“Yes, s-,” you began before catching yourself. He could practically see the wheels turning in your head as you thought of another name to call him. “Yes, Lieutenant…” you started, now glazing over his chest as you were now searching for his name tag. “Yes, Lieutenant Riley.” Everybody called the Lieutenant “sir”, but what he didn’t want you to know is that when it came out of your mouth, it did something to him.

You ran back to Bravo 4-8 for a few seconds before passing him, trying your best to contain your giggling, but he knew you couldn’t keep it up for long.

And now he was here with you, trying to figure out what the hell happened and why there was a random man in the cockpit. And oddly enough, he was the only one that could fly the plane.

“I’m fine,” you tell him, quickly rising up and moving past him. You reached for the unconscious man’s foot and‌ pulled him out of the way, making room for you to open the cockpit door and pull him through with Bravo 4-8 holding the door open for you.

“What the hell?” you hear some soldiers mumble.

You drag the man to the middle of the plane, all eyes now facing you both, mainly focused on the random man that was starting to wake up.

“Anyone know who this is?” you ask your members.

They each shook their head and you could tell they were all sincere. They were just as confused as you were. Until Diyoza woke up, you couldn’t ask her questions and even if you could, the chances of her being able to speak so soon were slim.

“Who’s flying the plane?” you hear someone ask.

“No one. It’s on autopilot. We’re low on fuel. Coordinates are set to an unknown destination,” you replied.

“Have Bravo 4-8 fly it and change the coordinates,” another soldier said.

“Like I said, we’re low on fuel. Autopilot can conserve some of it. If we put the plane on manual, we’ll run out of fuel before we reach either destination and we’ll drown in the ocean. The most we can do is change the coordinates,” you explained.

Bravo 4-8 was behind you and hung his head down, his face filled with guilt.

“How do you know so much about planes?” someone asked you.

“Had a few lessons while in the military,” you said.

“Ahhh. Flying lessons with the 141 Lieutenant. Is that foreplay or aftercare?’ Bravo 3-8 joked.

Everyone laughed like it was the funniest joke ever told. Everyone but you and Bravo 4-8. He quickly ended their silence when he announced, “We can’t change the coordinates.”

“What? Why?” you quizzed as you snapped your head back.

“It’s code activated. I tried. It’s not the usual code I use. It’s been changed. I tried every code I know. None of them worked,” Bravo 4-8 replied. His voice didn’t quiver. He wasn’t afraid of you. He spoke to you like a worried friend. A worried friend that wasn’t sure how you all were going to make it out.

“So, what? We just wait until the plane lands itself?” a soldier inquired.

“This plane on autopilot doesn’t land itself,” you explained.

“Not only that, but there isn’t enough fuel for the plane to be landed,” Bravo 4-8 added.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you murmur.

You can see the panic on each of the soldiers’ faces, their laughter quickly coming to a halt. Your only hope now was the random man on the ground. You took a look at everyone and peered down at one soldier putting pressure on Diyoza’s wound. The bleeding seemed to have slowed down, but you didn’t want to risk anything in case you were wrong.

You took a pair of handcuffs and placed them on the man’s wrist, strapping him to the pole of the metal seat. You sat in front of him, your knees bent and spread as you rested your forearms on them with your gun in your hand, waiting for him to wake up. You didn’t know what you would do. Torture wasn’t your thing. You hated it. Knowing that you were in a relationship with someone who could inflict such pain like it was nothing, you weren’t sure.

It didn’t make you uneasy. It didn’t make you attracted to him any less. The only thing it did was make you wonder why it wasn't a deal breaker. Why were you okay with that side of him? And why didn’t it scare you?

Maybe it was because you knew it was part of the job. There would be times that such crimes would be committed, even if no one spoke about them. Only those in higher authorities could get away with it.

Ghost was part of that higher authority.

You called yourself a hypocrite because how could you go calling Diyoza a terrorist when your own boyfriend had committed some of the same crimes?

They were different. Right? He didn’t kill innocent people like Diyoza did. He didn’t go planting bombs. But he tortured people. He imprisoned people. Those were crimes against humanity.

That would make him a war criminal.

But what did he have to go through for him to get to that point? And it was then you realized that Diyoza and Ghost may not be so different after all. What did Diyoza endure to conclude that what she did was okay? What did she know that you didn’t? What did she see?

You felt safe with Diyoza. Even after all she had done. You felt safe with Ghost even after all he had done. It was obvious there were parts of you that enjoyed that savagery, and you wondered if there were parts of you that could do what they did.

[spop-romanticizes-abuse]

fans: omg our innocent little meow meow! she's such a baby 🥺🥺 poor traumatized kitten protect her at all costs!! 😭😭

the character in question:

[kavehater]

AAAH I have a mutual who’s 18 and he sorta kinda is flirting with this one guy who is a minor as a joke of course ( to which a concerned anon said that it’s weird ) but I can’t help but flashback to er*s

[radiant-reid]

24 Hours

request: a blurb where he actually gets mad at JJ when she confesses to love him but doesn't really say anything at the moment. But then when he introduces reader to the team as his girlfriend, JJ is being kinda rude to her. She tries to tell him she doesn't like her, that she's not good for him. And spencer gets mad and protective👀 maybe he even throws a "i'm going to marry her, whether you like it or not".

a/n: my return piece !!

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader (Fluff)

Word Count: 2.2k

Spencer sees red when he walks out of the jewelry store after shooting the unsub.

JJ is the first girl he has ever asked out, someone he pined over for years after her subtle rejection at the Redskins game. He understood her reasoning. It would have been impractical for them to add relationship highs and lows to everything the BAU has been through over fourteen years, and that's if they stayed together. If they hadn't, things would have been even more complicated.

Also she just generally didn't like him that way. Or so he thought.

It didn't mean she wasn't his ideal for many years. His first love, who had so many traits he didn't have that he desperately wanted.

His confirmation he would be unlucky in love came after that with Maeve, who he once again thought could be the one for him. And then he realized that maybe the person for him had been taken away from him.

Then he met Y/n, and it all seemed worth it. All those terrible nights of crying and feeling like he would forever be alone, all the times he was the only single one on the team, knowing everyone was going home to someone they loved unconditionally and relied on for support.

She's the sun and the moon, and he fell in love so fast he couldn't stop it. Luckily, she did too.

Until JJ fucked it up.

The truth she had to tell to get them out alive dropped an atomic bomb on his newly formed life plans.

Spencer doesn't speak to her that night as they finish their recounts and reports. She leaves it out, though, he discovers, opting to write the secret about her miscarriage instead of confessing her love for her best friend and the godfather of her kids.

It messes with his head the whole way home. He can't sleep on the jet, even if he wanted to as he tried to work out what he was feeling.

All JJ does is send him pleading looks, and all he does is get angry because how dare she do this now? After she had fifteen years of them working together, all those chances to tell him how she felt.

He would have married and had a family with her, the family he always wanted. It's always stayed in the back of his head for so long, and just as he sees someone else in that role in his dreams, she drudges all of it back up.

It's such a long flight, and he taps his foot the whole way while staring out the window, not even able to read.

He goes to Y/n's. He's not sure what he's going to say, how much of it he's going to tell her, but he needs to see her to cool off the fury boiling out of him.

"Hey, handsome." She calls out when he walks in the door as cheerful as ever.

He feels a pit of guilt sink into his stomach because he can't tell her without ruining everything they delicately have put together. Maybe it's wrong to lie by omission, but his brain keeps coming back to fault. And it's JJ's fault. She's the one who's jeopardizing everything.

"Hi, gorgeous." He replies, walking into the living room to find her laying on the couch, book in her hands and her head on the armrest. He's reminded how accurate the petname he calls her by is when he's taken off guard by her breathless beauty. "How are you liking it?" He asks.

"It's good." She answers, putting the book down. "But that's because it's very you."

She gets up, meeting him behind the couch to cup his jaw, stroking over his skin and staring into his eyes for a moment before kissing him properly.

He relaxes into it, the tension in his shoulders easing and his brain slowing down for a moment. It's heavenly, as always, and it's what being loved is meant to feel like.

"How was your case?" She asks when she pulls back, still not daring to move too far away from him.

He tenses instantly at that, totally readable behavior, but he's got to perfect excuse to play it off. "It was rough." He holds out his bandaged hand that he's been avoiding showing her. "I got hurt."

"Shit." She straightens up, noticing how big it looked. "What happened?"

"Cut it on glass." He answers, not going as far as to say where he was when it occurred. "I'm fine, though. Promise."

She nods, reassured. "We've got to be up in, like, six hours, you know?" She reminds him of the time.

With the amount of coffee and adrenaline in his system, he barely registered it was already past 2 in the morning. Usually, they would have stayed in LA for the night, but being home in time for Rossi's wedding trumped a good night of sleep for everyone.

"Can I sleep here?" He wonders, awkwardly looking down at his feet.

"Duh. I'm not going to kick you out and make you come pick me up so we can go tomorrow morning." She jokes. "Picked up your suit, too. You're going to look very handsome."

Spencer grins because she seriously can't get more perfect. She still feels so unattainable, but he'd do anything to make sure he doesn't lose her.

He really should tell her, but he can't. Not right now.

Y/n snaps him out of it. "Bedtime now?"

"Please." He agrees gratefully, keeping his arms wrapped around her while they walk to her bedroom.

He keeps her close while they go through the motions of getting ready for bed. Spencer quickly sheds his suit and both of them brush their teeth.

His head is on the pillow for only a few seconds before he's asleep, and she follows soon after.

The alarm going off isn't as much of a problem when Spencer is lying in bed next to her, arm wrapped around her waist. It's one of the things she misses a lot when he's away.

"Hi, beautiful," Spencer whispers, a husky voice as always. He's glad he fell asleep quickly, not having wanted to sit up thinking about the stupid things JJ has said. He just couldn't understand why it was coming up now. Sleep provided absolutely no clarity.

She grins at him. "Hi."

"Are you ready for today?" He asks softly.

"A little nervous," Y/n admits. The BAU is his family after all. His mom is there but the BAU has been where he's spent most of his life for the last 15 years.

"They'll love you." Because I love you. Spencer assures her.

She smiles softly, feeling a little better. "Let's get up then."

Spencer agrees, not before planting a few kisses on her lips and hugging her tightly.

They get ready side by side, feeling a great sense of domesticity. She's never gotten close to someone as quickly as she has with Spencer. Somehow, it's not scary that it's happened this way.

"Wow, you're very gorgeous," Spencer tells her as she touches up the final strand of her hair, adding enough hairspray that it won't fall out. He stands in the doorway of the bathroom, admiring her. "Wow."

"Thank you." Y/n spins around to look at him in his deep maroon suit. It matches her dress color which she agrees looks very nice on her. "And you're very handsome."

"Ready? The car is coming soon." He says.

She nods, fixing her bracelet. "Let's do it."

There are still some nerves as the car takes them to the venue. Spencer does a good job of assuring her it'll be okay, his hand like a magnet to her thigh. He seems slightly off like there's something out of place, but she shrugs it off. She hopes he's being cute and afraid his friends still say something embarrassing.

The venue and interior are exquisite as they make their way in. She takes a deep breath before they come across the man of the day, welcoming everyone at the entrance. She has no doubt that the value of the artwork in this room totals her apartment and everything in it.

"Spencer." Rossi, supposably, greets him in a tight hug.

"This is my girlfriend, Y/n." Spencer introduces them.

As she expects, and as she was warned about by Spencer, Rossi pulls her in for a hug, immediately calming her nerves with his warm greeting. "It's so nice to meet you. This one won't stop talking about you." Rossi jokes, nodding at an increasingly reddening Spencer.

"It's nice to meet you too." She smiles. "Thank you for inviting me."

Rossi nods. "Of course, it's a pleasure."

And then the rest of the introductions begin. Everyone's so kind, like she expected. She's seen photos and heard stories but everyone seems to have more personality than he conveyed. She's quickly fast friends with Penelope and Tara who do their absolute best to make sure Y/n's feeling comfortable.

It's how she ends up being dragged onto the dance floor after the ceremony. Once the alcohol starts flowing, there's no more anxiousness left and some extroverted spirit has been brought out.

Spencer's not one to dance, but he's one to admire. Only Y/n, though. She looks angelic, despite the old-style dance moves.

He's so wrapped up in watching her that he doesn't register JJ's heels on the ground as she approaches him. It's only when she sits next to him that his head turns around to face her.

He waits for her to speak first. Hopefully, provide some explanation.

"Spencer." She says his name softly, almost like how he used to imagine she'd say it if they were together. Much to his surprise, she doesn't go into any detail about the bomb she'd dropped less than 24 hours ago. "I'm worried about you."

He doesn't hide his scoff. "Worried about me?" He repeats.

She goes for another tactic, trying not to get him mad. "You don't think you're rushing into this?"

"Rushing into what, Jennifer?" He spits back, snapping to anger. Using her first name drives the point home, almost unnecessarily when he sounds so angered.

"You know what I mean." She continues. "You've only been talking about her for a few weeks and now she's here."

He can't fathom that she'd suggest he's rushing into a relationship. He's been careful and deliberate, but Y/n's safe, and she's proved it time and time again.

"She's been part of my life for 6 months." Spencer fact-checks her. "And you said I seemed happier since I met her."

JJ stalls, regrouping before trying another angle. "She's just not what I expected. Is she really the type you should be with?"

"What does that mean?" Spencer states, more furious than ever. There's a chance he will fully snap at her and he wouldn't be sorry.

"I feel like you should be with someone extroverted." She suggests. "You know, someone to get you out of your shell."

Spencer needs a deep breath. "You're not being a good friend right now." He tells her much more calmly. There's not one thing he doesn't love about Y/n, whether she's more on the extroverted or introverted side."I'm going to marry her, whether you like it or not." It's not even what he expected to come out of his mouth.

"Spence-" JJ tries again to reason with him.

"No, don't you dare," Spencer says firmly. "You flew back and forth from New Orleans so many times to see Will, without telling us once and we were all accepting of your relationship. If you don't like my relationship, I don't care. But it's not too soon for me to know. We can talk about what you told me later, but for now, I'm going to dance with my girlfriend." Without another word, he gets up and walks off, leaving her a little gobsmacked.

Y/n frowns at him as he approaches the dance floor. "Are you okay?" She checks.

"More than okay," Spencer tells her with a soft smile.

"Dance with me then." She says, mirroring her smile and holding out her hand.

"I'd love to." He takes her hand just as a slow song comes on for them to sway together.

JJ gets ignored by him for the rest of the night, something unnoticed by Y/n but purposeful by Spencer. But it's fun. So much fun. And he's sure he wouldn't be having as much fun had Y/n not been there. She truly makes his day.

They're in the car later that night, parked near her apartment, ice cream eaten on the trip home. "I'm in love with you," Spencer admits when her laughter falls off after he tells a joke.

It's not a word they've said before.

Her expression is of pure shock, but joy quickly creeps in. "I'm in love with you too." She tells him, grinning.

And it's an entirely better confession than the one he heard 24 hours ago.

[buckyalpine]

Sharon calls you fat (pregnant reader)

I live for the angst where Sharon/people call reader fat and make fun of her not knowing she's pregnant and Bucky protects the ever living fuck out of her because that's his gorgeous babymama. Bonus when Sharon is a jealous hoe. Throw in some protective avengers in there too. Breeding kink? Pregnancy kink? Also yes. He's a feral, horny little shit here, I apologize.

You huffed as you buttoned your jeans, the waistband sitting snugly around your waist, pressing into your skin a little bit more than usual. You dug through the closet to find one of Bucky's hoodies to slip on, loving the way the soft material engulphed you in his scent.

You weren't showing much yet but your body was certainly changing. Your sense of smell was heightened, constantly craving to be surrounded by your boyfriends smell. Your breasts were growing heavier and your clothes were more fitting than before. Cravings had already started. Your cheeks were a tad fuller and you were certainly glowing.

Bucky's super soldier serum was no joke.

You made your way down to make something for breakfast, grabbing a bag of peppermint tea to help with some of the nausea you had been experiencing. Sharon sauntered into the kitchen, still clad in her tiny workout clothes as she went to the fridge to grab a water bottle.

"Hey Sharon" You smiled as you poured water into your mug while munching on a cookie, grabbing another when your tummy rumbled. Baby Barnes clearly took after daddy, craving anything and everything sweet. And salty. And sweet and salty.

"Hey y/n" Sharon's eyes looked at you up and down, cocking her head slightly while you snacked, rummaging around for something else to eat. "Might wanna cut down a little there, huh" She teased, nodding to the potato chip you popped into your mouth.

"What?" You weren't sure you heard correctly, setting down the bag while she pursed her lips.

"Oh, nothing. I don't know how you eat that stuff, it's so greasy"

"Hm, yeah I guess" You gave her a weak smile, her words causing the insecurities you were already feeling about your body to creep back up again. You had a heavy feeling in your chest, seeing her flit about the kitchen, still perfectly toned. You shook those thoughts away, remembering the reason beautiful your body was different but it didn't do much.

The words still stung.

You decided to make your way back to your room to wait for Bucky to return from his morning jog with Steve, passing by one of the new trainees as you left the kitchen. Their hushed whispers caused you to stop in your tracks, your stomach dropping when you heard what they were saying.

"She's getting fat" Sharon snorted, hardly noticing you weren't out of ear shot while the trainee giggled along with her, nodding in agreement.

"Oh my God, you should've seen her at the gym yesterday. She was breathing so hard while running on the treadmill, I thought she was going to pass out. I don't even think she lasted 5 minutes before calling it quits" The trainee replied while Sharon rolled her eyes.

"She's gonna looked like a beached whale if she keeps eating like that, I swear she finished the entire row single handedly"

"I don't get what Bucky is doing with her. Honestly, I'm not even complaining. If she gets any fatter he's gonna leave her so maybe that'll make it easier for me" Sharon cackled along with the girl, the both of them snickering while swooning over the soldier. "He's so hot. I don't get what the hell he's doing with her, he can do so much better. Just wait till I show him, he'll see what he's missed out on"

You hardly realized you'd broken down into tears, slapping a hand over your mouth to keep from sobbing. You ran to your shared bedroom as fast as you could before anyone else saw you, closing the door and instructing FRIDAY to keep everyone out. You threw your jeans off, hating the way they were tighter on you, curling up under the covers, muffling your cries into the pillow.

-

Bucky ran his fingers through his short locks, making his way to the kitchen to grab some water after his run, smiling to himself knowing how much you loved to slink around him whenever he worked out. He loved how needy and cuddly you were, always burying your face into his neck of chest, trying to crawl up him like a tree.

"Where are you babygirl" Bucky called for you, expecting to see you in the perched in the kitchen with your pepper mint tea you'd recently been relying on, only to find a full mug without you in sight. Sharon and the new agent were still there, both of them eyeing him up and down, hoping to get his attention.

"Hey Sarge-

"Have you seen y/n" Bucky cut Sharon off, still looking around for you. Sharon rolled her eyes again, stating she hadn't seen you at all, since she'd spend her own morning working out. Bucky frowned, picking up the still hot tea, taking it up as he made his way to the bedroom.

"Sweeheart?" Bucky called for you softly, his heart racing when he hard soft sniffles from the other side of the door, his anxiety spiking when the door was locked. "Baby, are you okay? Can you open the door please?"

You hiccupped, trying to calm yourself down hearing Bucky's worried voice, quickly wiping your face before getting out of bed to open the door for him. His heart broke seeing his sweet girl with red rimmed eyes and puffy cheeks from crying, pulling you into him while shutting the door behind him.

"What's wrong mama" Bucky cooed, hugging you tightly while you whimpered in his hold, your insecurities at an all time high as he slipped his hand under your hoodie to stroke the bare skin of your back.

"Am I fat?" You whispered, worried the question would make realize you were less attractive, a fresh wave of tears streaming down your face.

"What?" Bucky pulled away, shock evident on his face while you stared at your feet, swallowing nervously.

"Please don't make me say it"

"Sweetheart, look at me" He held your face firmly in his hands making you look a him, "Why would you ask such a thing"

"I-I heard some people talking in the kitchen. Said I'm fat" If it wasn't for Bucky's enhanced hearing, he would've missed your fallen voice as you hide your face in his chest again.

"Absolutely not baby, who said that to you" Bucky held back on the red hot anger that surged through him, needing to comfort you first before raining hell on whoever hurt you.

"But I am Bucky!" You cried in frustration, pulling away from his hold. "It looks awful and I'm just going to keep getting bigger, I- I get if you don't find me as attractive-

"Hey, hey, stop, baby look at me" Bucky stopped your rambling, pulling you back into him, his hands holding your face firmly, "Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are to me? Hm? Do you have any idea how insanely attracted I've been to you ever since you told me you're pregnant?"

You shook your head, your heart jolting when he pushed himself against you, letting you feel the hardness between his legs, poorly contained in his joggers.

"Bucky-

"C'mere" Bucky threw your hoodie off before stripping his own clothes aside, his hard cock angry and leaking, desperate to fill you. "M'gonna show you baby"

He didn't give you a second to protest, carrying you over to bed and laying you down, spreading your legs apart, flicking his cock against your clit before tracing it down to your entrance and shoving himself home.

"Bucky!" you moaned, your legs moving on their own to wrap around his waist as he started to move, throbbing the entire time.

"You're so fuckin' beautiful mama, if you weren't pregnant already, we'd be in here all day till you were" Bucky groaned, grabbing and caressing your soft skin, already leaking into you. "You're gonna look so sexy when your belly gets all round, when these breasts get all big, they're gonna leak so much carrying my baby"

He moved to tug your swollen nipples between his pink lips, groaning at the thought of how sweet your milk would taste. Your back arched off the bed from how sensitive they were, your cunt fluttering around his cock, sucking him in deeper.

"I already know you're gonna get so swollen mama, its my baby in your belly. Did you forget its my cum that got you pregnant? Did you forget there's all that serum in my cock baby? I got you fuckin' pregnant, I'm you're babydaddy, I can't wait to see you get all tired, pouty and big with my super soldier baby"

"Oh fuck Bucky" you wailed, his words making your heart swell while your pussy nearly squirted as he hit that spongy spot deep in you, "P-please don't-don't stop"

"I won't stop baby, couldn't even if I wanted to, y'feel too good. Fuck, just knowing you're pregnant makes me so hard, can't believe I knocked suck a pretty little thing up, so lucky I got to stuff you nice and full"

Bucky started to fuck you harder till he headboard added new dents to the wall since the extra strength walls Tony added had nothing on Bucky's stamina and strength.

"Can't wait till everyone sees how pretty you're gonna look, m'gonna show you off, make sure everyone knows you're my girl, the love of my life, that you're carrying a piece of me in you"

"But- but what if they think-I won't look-" You're insecurities tried to sneak back in but Bucky wasn't having any of it, shutting ha down immediately.

"I'll fuck you in front of them. You think I give a fuck? I'll bend this pretty ass over, hold that perfectly round belly and stuff my cock in you till it leaks and makes a mess on the floor. I'll show them exactly what I did to get you that big in the first place, let them see how swollen my cock gets for you, goddamn, I'm gonna cum!"

Bucky fucked you hard and fast, letting you feel him in your stomach, not holding back one bit, his hand flying to grip onto the headboard.

"Bucky-Bucky gonna-I'm gonna-!OH GOD" You let out a silent scream, cumming around him without warning, your pregnancy making you extra sensitive, being able to orgasm without him even touching you.

"This sweet, soft fuckin' body" Bucky's pace faltered, sinking his teeth into your shoulder, "So good to me, so fuckin' good!, gonna cum mama, gonna give you more of my cream, gonna full that pussy up n'keep you pregnant forever, take it gorgeous, fuckin' beautiful, no one makes me hard like this, m'gonna cum so hard-fuck-fuck-FUCCCKKK M'CUMMING" Bucky roared against your neck, his cock bursting with ropes of cum, emptying his balls dry with sloppy thrusts until the sheets were soaked. You both panted, sweat covering your bodies, the sweet, primal smell of sex filling the room making your practically purr.

"You're the most beautiful thing to ever happen to me. I love you no matter what. You're stunning to me at any size, pregnant or not, don't you ever forget it" Bucky held you firmly, brushing his hands over your belly, pressing a kiss to your temple. You nodded, already feeling better, nervousness replacing your previous anxiety because you knew Bucky wouldn't let the incident slide.

"Who made you feel this way baby" His voice was gentle but he wasn't leaving any room for negotiation.

"Just leave it Bucky" You shrugged, not wanting to make it a big deal but he shook his head.

"Can't do that sugar. No one makes my doll upset. You get some rest alright? let me make you lunch and we'll take a nap after"

You nodded, letting him slip his henley over your head, grabbing some comfy sweats for you to wear and throwing on his own clothes before heading down. You froze as you neared the kitchen seeing everyone else downstairs gathered for lunch which was a rare sight but there had been less mission recently meaning everyone was home. Bucky gave your hand a comforting squeeze, a stark contrast the to protective anger he felt again.

"Who the fuck spoke about y/n" Bucky stormed down, silence filling the room immediatly, everyone staring at each other in confusion while Sharon's face filled with guilt. "Well?!"

"What happened Buck, Steve and I were training this morning" Sam said honestly, while the others nodded in agreement, still looking at each other wondering what was going on. "You okay, sweetheart?"

"Well someone said something because she was upset in our bedroom and it happened today" Bucky had a good feeling about who caused your distress, knowing no one else would ever do such a thing but he wasn't about to call out Sharon ha easily, seeing her already squirming in discomfort.

"There's an easy solution to all this, give me a second" Tony typed something into his phone before calling for Friday, "FRIDAY can you play back the audio from this morning from when y/n was in here"

"Certainly, Mr. Stark"

The audio started with you greeting Sharon, followed by her comment and then the conversation she had with the new trainee. Shock and gasps filled the room, everyone glaring at the blonde with disgust while she shook her head, her stomach churning.

"I-I didn't say anything! That wasn't even me!"

"Really? Then who the fuck was it" Bucky spat, ready to jump her across the table, his fists balled at his side. Sharon huffed, biting her lip while Bucky continued to glare at her, still holding your hand softly in his. His anger only flared more, thinking about how she thought she could replace you.

"Fine! I said it! But was I wrong? She is bigger than before" Sharon weakly defended herself, trembling when Bucky flinched, his self restraint growing thinner. Your eyes grew steamy, squeaking when Bucky moved to wrap his arm around your tummy, slipping it under your shirt.

"Cause she's pregnant. With my baby. I'm her babydaddy. I got her pregnant. You wanna know how? I fucked her. So hard. I didn't just fuck her, I made love to her cause she's my girl. Do you have any idea how attracted I am to her? How much cum there was? I didn't pull out once. She's so tight around my cock, its hard not to fill her up. Just kept going until my dick started to hurt and even then, I didn't wanna pull out"

Sam smirked at Bucky's utterly unhinged, x-rated rambling while Steve buried his red face in his hands. Tony cackled from the side while Nat patiently waited to get a chance to lay her hands on Sharon on Bucky's behalf.

"I-I get it, enough-

"You're delusional if you think I'd ever leave her for you. This is the love of my life. She's giving me a baby. She's beautiful. I chose this woman because she's special, she's this one I want to have a family with. You know what, you better get used to it cause I'm gonna get her pregnant again and again and it won't be hard considering how badly I constantly want her. In fact, we fucked just now, tell your little friend that"

"Oh my god" Sharon huffed, harshly wiping her tear streaked face, ready to throw up from embarrassment. She choked a sob, running out without looking back, Bucky's words tearing her apart. Everyone ignored her presence, immediately piling onto you with hugs, kisses and congratulations instead.

"Congratulations, babydaddy" Sam grinned, playfully nudging Bucky's shoulder making him blush, his arms still wrapped around your tummy. "And to you, little mama"

"I call god father" Steve announced, kissing your cheek before pulling Bucky into a tight hug, happy for his best friend and you.

Nat cracked a few knuckles, giving you a quick peck on the head, promising to celebrate later before following Sharon out, ready to hand her ass to her. The little trainee would be next.

"So what you're both saying is there's gonna be another super soldier running around here?" Tony's eyes lit up with excitement and a dash of fear when he remembered the baby would also be surrounded by idiots like Sam and Steve. He'd have to reinforce everything.

Immediately.

[wttcsms]

i'll pretend you'll stay forever ; kento nanami.

pairing kento nanami x f!reader  word count 2.4k  synopsis no one knows that the bodyguard for the prime minister's daughter fucks her on a daily basis. content contains bodyguard!nanami x prime minister's daughter!reader, big, beefy, strong nanami hehe, creampie, slight brat taming, pet names (baby, good girl, bad girl), cockwarming, dom!nanami, hair pulling, car sex, nanami makes you call him sir author's notes s2 was animated for the nanami girlies

Kento Nanami is good at his job.

Granted, he’s been practically bred for the position. Born and raised by a mother and father who also dealt in espionage, sent to boarding schools that would feed him directly to The Academy, constantly being reminded of his purpose. Agent Nanami serves as one of the Prime Minister’s most trusted secret operatives. A select few who are given the most sensitive assignments. 

“K-Kento — too much,” your shaky whines sound even louder than they actually are, emphasized by the silence in his car. 

Sensitive — yes, that’s what you are. 

“You can take it.” He tells you, gently stroking your cheek. His calloused thumb wipes away a stray tear, and he takes you in. You’re still tearing up, your lashes slick, and you’re pouting at him. You’re always pouting, probably because growing up, you’ve never been told no. It’s not required according to his assignment file (most of what Nanami has been doing with you has decidedly been not required), but Nanami’s been trying hard to give you lessons that will have you behaving politely and like a good girl rather than the spoiled brat you actually are.

Kento Nanami is good at his job.

When he’s told that he is to be the primary bodyguard for the Prime Minister’s daughter, he accepts it without hesitation. Everyone else has had no luck with you, and you certainly don’t seem to be bothered by that fact. You’re in college now, and you want nothing more than to skip lectures and go to parties, both of which is rather difficult when you have a bodyguard watching your every move and reporting directly to your father.

Nanami goes about his assignment in a different way. There’s another bodyguard, one who is also watching you, but young Itadori cannot possibly go about protecting the Prime Minister’s most beloved daughter safe all by himself. He’s barely graduated from the Academy.

Besides, you automatically dislike any of the guards assigned to you. Itadori is a nice, young man, and in different circumstances, everyone is certain that you would have enjoyed his company. The fact that his job is to protect you seems to be his only fatal flaw in your eyes.

Nanami is no stranger to undercover work, and so posing as a final year doctoral candidate at the university you’re attending is an easy cover. Setting up the perfect chain of events that leads to you specifically choosing him to be your economics tutor was also an easy enough task. 

And somewhere along the lines, you got this idea inside of your pretty, little head that you’re just the smartest, sneakiest girl around. You think you’re evading Itadori’s watchful eyes, taking advantage of his rookie status even though he’s always aware you’re “sneaking off” to meet with Nanami. You think you’re finally rebelling against your father’s strict instructions to stay out of trouble. 

And while Nanami does ensure that you keep out of trouble, he’s not sure if your father will approve with how he’s keeping you so obedient.

Kento Nanami is good at his job.

You’re not the first brat that he’s had to train, but you’re proving to be quite the star student. You hold back any more whining complaints, and instead, you’re straddling his lap like the good girl he knows you can be, his thick cock fitting snugly inside your pussy.

Both of your hands are clutching onto his broad shoulders, your pretty, manicured nails digging into the stiff cotton of his blue button-up. His mind doesn’t register the sting of your nails practically sinking into his skin. All he can focus on is what a pretty, dazed little mess you are. 

“See?” He coos, sounding not the least bit condescending. The warmth of his baritone, the reassuring strokes on your cheek — Nanami is a gentleman. You practically beam with pride as he tells you, “I told you you could take it. Such a good girl.”

You still haven’t moved yet, and Nanami whispers more words of praise for you. It only took two weeks of training to get you to understand that you can beg for his touch, his attention, his cock, all you want, but he gives it all to you under his terms and conditions. He knows you want some friction, knows that you need it so badly because why else are your walls clenching down so heavily on his length? You’re being so patient with him that he feels himself getting impossibly harder at the thought of your perfect behavior. 

“You want to ride me, baby?” The question comes out as a throaty whisper, the clear desire he has for you evident in his rough tone. 

You nod eagerly, damn near salivating at the thought of finally being able to take what you want. 

“Use your words.” He demands, moving his hand to caress your face once more before letting his thumb toy with your bottom lip. 

“Yes,” you whimper out, trying your hardest to resist the temptation to start moving, to have the feeling of his cock brushing against your walls, in and out, in and out.

His eyes narrow, and his cold demeanor is enough to keep you frozen in place. Oh, you’ve upset him. 

“You were being such a good girl, too.” He shakes his head in disappointment. “When you answer me, what are you supposed to say?”

“Y-yes, sir.” 

“And if you knew this, why didn’t you say it the first time?” The way he snaps at you shouldn’t give your tummy butterflies, but it does. Nanami is far kinder and gentler than he lets on, and it’s why you enjoy it when he takes on such a demanding role when it’s just the two of you. No one can handle your attitude as well as Nanami, and that’s precisely why you’re warming his cock right now, walls tightening around him with every stern scolding that leaves his mouth. 

“You can’t answer me?” The sharpness of his tone turns you demure, making you turn your head down and away from him, refusing to answer or look at him, and he frowns at that. You feel him wrapping your hair around his hand, and the movements are soft, slow, gentle at first—

—and with speed and dexterity that shouldn’t belong to a mere student, he’s yanking you by your hair, forcing you to snap your head up and look him in his cold eyes. 

“You were behaving so well earlier.” He feigns disappointment, but the hungry glint in his eyes tells you that he’s been looking forward to whatever punishment he has in store for you. “What a shame. I was going to let you have me however you wanted, let you take control for once.” He leans down, whispering in your ear. “Instead, it looks like I get to fuck you like the bad girl you really are, hm?” 

Before you can protest, apologize, beg for mercy, he takes his free hand to grip your waist, strong enough to lift you slightly off of him, only to slam you back down on his dick. 

You let out a strangled cry at the sudden intrusion. It’s one thing to have him sink into you inch by inch; it’s another thing entirely to have him practically impale you with his dick.

His thrusts are rough, hard, unforgiving. Never sloppy, though — Nanami’s much too meticulous to reduce himself to a wild animal, even though he’s fucking you so hard, you can’t tell if he hates your guts or just wants to rearrange them. 

His hand is still tangled in your hair, and he pulls some more, forces your neck to arch up. He leans in, licking at the soft skin of your neck before nipping at the skin, hard enough to leave a mark you’ll need to cover up with a turtleneck because no amount of concealer can save you now.

You mewl in pain at the sensation, but it’s obvious you love it. You’re dripping all over his dick, forcing wet, squelching sounds to fill the car every time he moves inside of you. You should be ashamed — would be ashamed — if only the overwhelming pleasure didn’t leave your mind shrouded in a hazy mist of lust and rapture. The pinpricks of pain from how he’s pulling your hair and from the fresh lovebites marking your flesh should hurt more, but you’re too lost in the way his cock is filling you up. 

“Look at that.” Nanami growls, untangling his hand from your hair in favor of putting his fingers to better use: stroking your clit. “You’re fucking soaked.” You look down as he commands, and your eyes widen in surprise, even though it shouldn’t come as such a shock to you. The front of his trousers is absolutely drenched with your juices, and your clit practically glistens in the faint moonlight that sneaks past the tint of his car. “Is this why you like to be a bad girl? Because you like getting fucked like a fleshlight, is that it?”

You want to shake your head no. You want to tell him that you are good, that you’re not a bad girl. But the stimulation on your clit, his harsh words, the way his cock is repeatedly hitting that special spot of yours — it’s all too much for you to handle.

“I want to treat you so well, baby. I want to spoil you, give you everything, but you make it so — fucking — difficult.” He speaks through clenched teeth, the warmth and ecstasy of being buried in your sweet pussy slowly chipping away at his resolve. The last three words of his sentence have all been punctuated by a particularly brutal thrust, and you’re certain that by the end of this, your cunt will keep the shape of his cock forever.

“I’m sorry!” You scream out, tears flowing freely down your cheeks now. The pleasure is mind-numbing, earth-shattering, reality-altering. Neither of you know what you’re apologizing for. Is it for being a bad girl when all Nanami wants is for you to behave so he can bring you the world at your feet? Is it for the wet mess you’re making all over his nice clothes and cock? Or is it for the fact that you’re breaking a cardinal rule, one that he will be most displeased by?

Maybe it’s all of the above, but if you had to pick, the apology would be for the fact that you’re cumming without permission. Your conscious mind is aware that Nanami is not going to be very happy with you, but this climax has you seeing stars. You can’t find it in yourself to worry about future consequences when you’re losing yourself in the throes of passion and pleasure. You’re drenching his cock in your cum, seeing stars, and reduced to feeling like a boneless mess. You slump against his strong chest, eyes struggling to remain open as you rest your head on one of his big, broad shoulders.

The punishment doesn’t come immediately — it rarely ever does. Nanami bides his time and doles out his punishments when you least expect it. He does it to keep you on edge, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t excite you. 

Instead, he lets you rest against him, reduced to nothing more than a little, fucked-out mess. You feel a rumble from his chest, a series of grunts and curses leaving his mouth as the bucking of his hips is done so harshly, you’re certain that you’re going to be bruised everywhere, from the soft flesh of your thighs to your poor cervix. A few more thrusts and Nanami is certain that he is planted as deep as he could go, the tip of his cock hitting you at your most sensitive spot. 

You feel him bury his face into your hair, taking in the scent of your shampoo and the lingering aroma of sex and sweat. His cock throbs in sporadic bursts, and you hear him grunt out your name like a broken prayer.

He cums, unloading a hot, heavy load directly inside of you, flooding you. You think you forget how to breathe, and all you can do is just take it, take all of him.

The warm sensation has you moaning softly; the feeling of him completely dominating your senses, your body, you, has you wanting him to never let you go, to never leave. You tighten your core, trying to squeeze more of his cum into you as he lets out little groans of pleasure from above you. You love reducing him to a moaning mess, reducing him to this sex-dazed state whenever he lets go because of you.

You don’t think you’re capable of speech, throat raw from your previous screams of pleasure, but you find that you don’t have to speak to let Nanami know what you want. As you lift your head from his shoulder, relishing in the sight of Nanami with his head leaned back, cheeks flushed from the exertion of giving you the best dick of your life, he opens his eyes to meet yours. Leaning down, he captures your lips and gives you a messy, sloppy kiss that is so unbecoming and out of character for him. 

The makeout session lasts until your eyes feel droopy and you’re not responding anymore. Nanami just looks down at you with a fondness that he hasn’t felt for anyone else in a while. You’re all tuckered out, and you’re breathing softly and slowly, lost to the world of dreaming. He’s a bit exhausted, too. He should pull you off his cock and buckle you back safely in the passenger seat, but he sees a small trail of his cum dribbling out of your overstuffed pussy and he figures it’s less of a mess if he just keeps you nice and plugged up for the time being.

Before he can close his eyes and join you, the crackle of his telecom planted in his watch comes to life. The static doesn’t do much to alter Itadori’s voice.

“Y1 to K1, this is Y1 requesting status of the Princess. Over.”

The “Princess” is currently dozing peacefully with his cum settling in her cunt. Nanami thinks that’s too crude to relay over the comms, though.

“K1 to Y1, Princess is secured. Over.”

[zaczenemiji]

Hi I hope you are having a lovely day my dear ♥. I was wondering if you could do a Kenji Sato x reader where the reader is an assistant manager to him and one day he like acts arrogantly towards her during one of his interviews when he sees a pretty journalist amongst the crowed of ppl interviewing him and he says some hurtful things to reader and collectively ignoring her and instead choosing to focus on the journalists girl. Ever since that day reader has been silent around Sato and he thought he didn't care but it bothered him because even though she is usually quite, these days she is *too* quite and then there is like a mini celebration for like a baseball game win and reader goes with a guy who is like an athlete but is not as famous as Sato. So the kicker is reader is absolutely DROP DEAD GORGEOUS and ppl at the party even think she is a model. So Sato get jealous and he acts all possessive and protective of her , while she is still angry at him but eventually he makes it up to her over time. If you have anything else to add please do.

Shattered Pride

Kenji Sato x AssistantManager!Reader

Word Count: 1,873

Genre/Warnings: Character Development, Eventual Romance, Forgiveness, Jealousy, Regret, Redemption

Author’s Note: The idea behind this was just fantastic! Thank you so much for the request, writing this was my honor.

MASTERLIST

Being Kenji Sato’s assistant manager is not an easy task. I repeat: Not. An. Easy. Task. Throughout his baseball career, he has had several assistants who quit as soon as they were hired because, for one thing, Kenji is stubborn.

Ghosted interviews, off-topic answers, and insults to other players were just some of the many things about him that gave you a headache.

You remember being referred to him by his last assistant saying that it was a high-paying job. However, you were skeptical at how quickly and willing they were to give off their job to another person.

You understood why the first time you met him. After the meeting, you asked him, “Is there anything else you need from me today?”

In response, he gave an irritated sigh. “If I needed something, I would have asked.”

Thankfully, you were more on the nonchalant scale, and how people respond to you didn’t bother you much. You were here to do your job—and excellently at that, not exactly to be friends with an arrogant baseball star.

Kenji’s behavior was… challenging, that’s the best word for it. He barked orders, rarely said thank you, and seemed to take your presence for granted. But in conditions like these, you thrive the most; you succeed where others have failed.

Today was a usual day with the usual crowd of journalists and fans gathering in the conference room. You stood by his side, ensuring everything was in order for yet another post-game interview.

It was going all smooth and well when Kenji suddenly paused mid-sentence. It was a very short pause that wouldn’t be noticeable to others but you, with all the time you spent as his assistant, noticed it.

Your eyes looked in the direction he kept glancing at. A girl, of course, strikingly beautiful with long sleek back hair that cascaded down in soft waves.

When it was her turn to ask, Kenji leaned forward to give her a dazzling smile. “Why don’t you ask me a question?” he said, ignoring the list of pre-approved questions you handed him before the interview started.

Kenji was holding court with this journalist longer than he should. You noticed that the others in line were starting to murmur in annoyance.

You stepped forward, maintaining your professional demeanor. “Excuse me, Mr. Sato, but we need to move on,” you said. “Other journalists are waiting for their turn.”

“I’m not done here,” he said arrogantly, not bothering to look your way.

You took a deep breath, wanting to handle this situation diplomatically. “I understand,” you said. “But we’ve exceeded the time limit, and it’s only fair to give everyone a chance.”

Whichever agency’s plan was it to send her here to get ahead of other journalists, it’s working. She gave you a polite smile, clearly enjoying the extra attention.

Kenji frowned and turned to you. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something important?” He asked. “If you can’t manage your job properly, maybe you should reconsider.”

Your eyes widened. You could feel others’ on you, their stares almost cutting through your professional facade.

Swallowing your pride, you nodded and stepped back, keeping your expression neutral. But as neutral as you looked, deep down you felt a mix of anger and humiliation.

From that day on, you remained silent around Kenji, only speaking when necessary. You remained professional though, and you made sure that your job was not compromised.

During meetings, you no longer offered insights unless directly asked. When you did speak, your tone was strictly professional. Well, it has always been, but the warmth that characterized your interactions was now gone.

Like that one time during a team strategy meeting. Kenji asked for input on a new play. The room fell silent as everyone waited for your usual insightful suggestions, but you simply looked down at your notes, saying nothing.

The coach glanced at you, surprised. "Any thoughts, (y/n)?" You shook your head. "No, Coach. Nothing to add."

At first, Kenji was oblivious to all of this. He was absorbed in his own world and the adulation of his fans, as always. But as the days turned into weeks, your silence grew too loud to ignore that even he finally noticed it.

A month later, the team planned on celebrating a recent major win. This time, they have decided to invite other athletes as guests of honor. The organizers wanted to have a mix of established stars and up-and-coming talents from the sports world.

You decided to take this as an opportunity to have yourself pampered. You have been working hard, after all. Despite the obvious tension between you and Kenji, you were still able to do your job well.

That’s why at the party, you were stunning. Drop dead gorgeous, as the team said. Though the lights were dim, it seemed as if a spotlight was following you as everyone you passed by turned their heads to look.

You decided to settle by the bar for drinks. “Hey there,” came a familiar voice. You turned to see Jake approaching. He was one of the promising young athletes and a rising star in the sports world who was invited to this party.

He plays as a forward for a popular soccer team and has recently garnered attention for his impressive performance in the league. This wasn’t the first time you met as Jake and Kenji ran into each other a couple times before at different events.

He leaned against the bar, signaling the bartender for a drink. “It’s nice to see you again and this time, enjoying yourself,” he said. “You looked like you needed a break at the last event we were at.”

You chuckled softly, appreciating his observation. "Yeah, it's been a bit hectic lately."

Jake's drink arrived, and he took a sip, his eyes studying you with genuine interest. “Well, you look incredible tonight,” he said. “Have you been hearing what the others are saying?”

Jake turned to glance at the crowd, then back at you. “They were all asking if you were a model or something,” he said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think the same.”

“Thanks, Jake,” you replied, smiling. “You clean up pretty well yourself."

He laughed, a warm, infectious sound that put you at ease. "So, how's work been treating you? Still managing the chaos that is Kenji Sato?"

You hesitated, the memory of Kenji's recent behavior still fresh. "It's been… challenging," you admitted. "But I manage."

Jake's expression softened with understanding. "I can imagine. He's got a reputation for being difficult."

Unbeknownst to both of you, the baseball star you were talking about has finally arrived. His presence commanded attention as he navigated through the crowd, exchanging greetings and handshakes.

As he made his way deeper into the club, his eyes caught sight of you. At that moment he froze. Or was it time that froze? He didn’t know. All he was sure of was that for a little while, he couldn’t breathe.

You were stunning. Your outfit, a sleek, form-fitting dress that accentuated your every curve, made you look like you had just stepped off a runway. Your hair was styled to perfection, your makeup highlighting your natural beauty.

Suddenly, he noticed the man you were talking to, Jake. “That rookie soccer player,” he thought. Gosh, you deserved so much better. At that moment, with firm resolve, he declared upon himself that he would work to be the better that you deserved.

Kenjl's jaw clenched as his own possessive instincts flared up, a mix of jealousy and protectiveness surging through him. He made his way over to you, his eyes never leaving your form.

On your end, you noticed the crowd parted slightly, and you saw Kenji making his way towards you.

Turning slightly, you met Kenji’s gaze with a cool, indifferent look. "Kenji," you acknowledged, your tone polite but distant.

"Can I talk to you for a moment?" he asked, his voice tight with barely restrained emotion.

Jake looked at you, his gaze asking if you were fine with it. You smiled at him, a genuine and warm expression, something you haven’t given Kenji in a while. “I’ll go on ahead,” you told Jake. “See you around.”

Kenji led you away from the crowd, finding a quieter corner of the club. As soon as you were out of earshot, he turned to you, his eyes dark with jealousy.

"Why didn't you come with me?" Kenji asked, his frustration evident.

You scoffed. “First of all, you didn’t ask me to.” You crossed your arms, fixing him with a hard stare. "And you made it very clear where I stand with you. Or rather, where I don't."

He winced, the memory of his hurtful words coming back to haunt him. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice softer now. "I was wrong. I was an idiot."

You remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

“I've been a jerk, and I know it,” he continued. “I was arrogant, dismissive, and I took you for granted.”

You watch him, seeing the sincerity in his eyes. Yet you looked away, the hurt still fresh. "You hurt me, Kenji,” you said. “You made me feel worthless and unimportant."

Kenji steps closer, his voice filled with regret. “I know, I'm so sorry. I was so focused on myself, on my career, that I didn't see how much I was hurting you. Your silence has been killing me. I miss your insights, your presence.”

He paused for a while before continuing. “I miss you.” He reaches out, gently taking your hand.

“You're more than just my assistant,” he said. “You're the reason I can do what I do. You make everything better, and I've been too blind to see it. Please, give me a chance to make it right. I want to earn back your trust.”

You met his gaze, searching for any sign of insincerity. All you saw was genuine regret and a longing to make things right. "This isn't something that can be fixed overnight, Kenji."

"I know," he said quickly. "I'll do whatever it takes, for as long as it takes. I just... I can't lose you."

You took a deep breath, the weight of his words sinking in. "We'll see," you said. "But it won't be easy."

He nodded, relief flooding his features. "I understand,” he said. “Thank you, (y/n)—for giving me a chance.”

As you walked back to the party, Kenji stayed close by your side, protective and possessive. arm subtly wrapped around your waist, a clear signal to everyone around that you were with him.

As the night came to an end, Kenji offered to drive you home. To which, you agreed. The drive home was quiet, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything else, it was rather hopeful.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day, Kenji found you alone in the office. “Hey," he said softly, "I was thinking we could grab dinner. Just the two of us."

You looked up, surprised. "Dinner?"

He nodded, a hopeful smile on his face. "Yeah. To thank you for everything. And to make up for being such an idiot."

You smiled at him for a moment before nodding. "Okay. Dinner sounds nice."

Taglist is open! Comment if u wanna be tagged on future Kenji oneshots

@eternallyvenus @puppyminnnie

[tropes-and-tales]

Fall from Grace

(Captain John Price x F!Reader)

CW:  Slight angst. Inexperienced (but not virgin) reader. Smut (oral, f!receiving; PiV, unprotected). 18+ only.

Word Count:  7324

AN:  This was requested by an anonymous person!

It’s part of Captain Price’s job to know his soldiers.  He has their dossiers memorized, of course, but he also learns them intimately through their work together.  How could he not?  War reveals the true core of a person, their real character, but the mundane moments add color.  The long helicopter rides, the long plane rides.  The long stretches of time sitting, waiting for intel, waiting for orders.

It's boring.  His soldiers talk to fill the quiet and pass the time.  They joke and tease each other, discuss football matches and rugby scores.  Sometimes, when it’s dark outside, in the quiet hours before dawn, they talk in low voices and share secrets, fears, worries. 

Captain Price overhears much of it.

He overhears Gaz talk about his girl back in London, how terrified he is to lose her.  How he worries that he’ll never be good enough for her.

He overhears Ghost’s low rumble as he talks about his family and the loss of them.  How losing his brother Tommy and his nephew Joseph broke some part of him that will never heal.

He overhears Soap—convivial Soap—talk about his passel of siblings and how they’ve all married and found careers and started to have children.  How he feels left behind, out of sync with his own family.  How he doesn’t want to go home on leave, sometimes, because he feels so out of step with where he came from.

What Captain Price overhears from you is less deep for a long while.  You’re a cipher.  He has the bare facts of your dossier, but when it’s the small hours of the night and everyone is restless, you don’t open up the way the men do.  You rarely let your guard down.

It shouldn’t affect Price, but it does.  Is it a benign sort of misogyny that makes him want to protect you more than he does Gaz or Ghost or Soap?  Or is it the fact that he sees how hard you try, how you keep your walls up even when everyone else is sharing their darkest secrets?  Is it because he worries that you think he’s judging you, that when you catch him watching you, you see judgement there?

So for a long while, Price overhears little from you.  He hears inconsequential things.  Music you like, your favorite brand of beer.  A memory from your childhood that makes the guys laugh.

But there is a night where it changes.

The 141 is on a plane back to base.  The latest mission was a success, a new terrorist group quashed before it could get off the ground.  Price sits in the back of the plane and gets a head start on his paperwork while you and the guys sit around a four-seat table and play a no-stakes game of poker for little chits of torn notebook paper.

Everyone has leave coming up, so the evening’s talk is brighter.  There’s more laughter, more gentle shoving and ribbing as Gaz throws down winning cards and sweeps the pile of chits in front of him.

And when the chatter turns to sex, Captain Price bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.  He’s reminded that these soldiers, his men, are little more than boys sometimes.

It starts with Gaz waxing poetic about his girl, and Soap makes it bawdy by saying Gaz will spend his leave horizontal and return to base dehydrated and exhausted.  Gaz chucks him on the shoulder but Price can see the pleased grin on the man’s face:  of course he’s going to spend a lot of his leave in bed with his girl.

Then it shifts to Soap and his handful of reliable hook-ups.  He says he has a bevy of women, all Scottish and feisty, and that earns him a chuck from you, a hard little punch to his bicep and you tell him to behave himself.

“Ach, don’t be jealous, hen,” Soap whines, rubbing his arm.  “I could clear some room in the schedule for ye if ye want to join me in Inverness.”

“That’s a lot of travel for, what?  Two minutes of disappointment?”

Soap lays his palm over his heart, mimes being wounded, and he says something in reply but Price misses it because Gaz and Ghost are laughing too loudly.

And that’s how Price learns about you.  The flight turns into rapid-fire questions, talk, and rejoinders about sex.  You mostly stay silent, but you take little zings—mostly at Soap—but each time Price glances over at you, your face has a taut quality that he’s only seen on the battlefield.

Interesting.

If he thought it’d be something for him to mull over later, he’s wrong.  Halfway through the flight, Gaz brings up the topic of favorite positions, and when Soap asks you what your favorite position is, you snort and say, “on my right side, curled up with my pillow, alone.  Asleep.  White noise machine set on ‘rainstorm.’”

That makes Price laugh, but he covers it smoothly with a cough, keeps his head bent over his paperwork.

But the guys are like sharks, and your sarcastic non-answer is like chum in the water.  And you’re good—smart, resilient—but you’re also their captive audience, and they wear you down.

An hour into their three-on-one interrogation, the truth comes out:  you are fairly inexperienced at sex.

“Virgin?” asks Gaz.

“No.”

“How many times—” starts Soap, but you cut him with a glare that even he won’t challenge.

“Were you assaulted?” Ghost asks in his soft rumble, and that makes you go soft too, your glare shifting from Soap to gazing at the hulking man in his skull mask.

“No, Si.”  Your voice is low, and Price watches as  you lay a gentle hand on Ghost’s forearm.  “I’m lucky.  Never that.”

Ghost pats your hand with his own.  “Just saying, love.  If you were, and you knew the guy’s name, I’d make him a grease stain before the week is out.”

(And this is part of why being a captain is such a burden:  the quiet little exchange between you and Ghost makes a hot flare of love burn in his chest, how the two of you are like a brother and sister to each other.  The purest form of found family.)

But then Soap breaks the moment.  “Just not into it then?”

You shrug.  “Guess not.”

“Why?”  Gaz asks it, and he sounds genuinely curious.

Another shrug.  “It’s hard to have a relationship in our line of work.”

“Ah,” Soap says.  He leans back in his seat, crosses his arms over his chest.  “Makes sense now.  You need to be in love with someone before you’ll sleep with ‘em.”

“Not necessarily.”  You reach out and gather the playing cards, the poker game long abandoned.  Price watches from under the brim of his hat as you fiddle with the cards, stacking them up, squaring the edges, shuffling them idly.

“Then what?” Soap prods, and you sigh.

“I dunno.  It’s just…a lot of work, you know?  You gotta vet a guy even if he’s a one-night stand, and you have to play it cool but not too cool, and you have to be friendly but not too friendly. You have to shower and shave and smell nice but not put on too much perfume, and you have to dress just right and wear uncomfortable lingerie and pinching shoes.  I did all that shit when I was in my twenties, and the handful of times I finally got a guy on the line and reeled him in?  It wasn’t worth the effort.  All that work and stress for what?  A few minutes of nothing.  A few minutes of bad kissing where the guy slobbers on me worse than a Saint Bernard, awful beer breath too.  And while he’s jamming his tongue down my throat, he’s groping me like someone drowning and grabbing at a life preserver.  Then what?  Then the main event, and all that effort is a waste because he doesn’t notice the nice lingerie at all, he doesn’t notice that I smell nice and shaved and moisturized because he’s lying on top of me like some paradoxical corpse slash jackhammer because he’s weirdly positioned and barely touching me, not looking at me, just dead eyes fixed off into space, but he’s also, what, thrusting for half a minute before he’s done?  And then it’s ‘thanks, love, great shag,’ and he’s rolling off of me, getting dressed again and out the door, and the entire affair took less time than it takes to bake a frozen pizza.  I mean, what’s the point?”

A deadly silence falls over the group.  The only sound is the thrum of the plane’s engines, and you look up from where you’re fiddling with the cards to find everyone staring at you.  Your eyes dart over to where Price is staring at you too, and you make a face and duck your head.

“Jesus, hen,” Soap breathes out.

“I’m sorry,” Gaz adds. 

You chuckle weakly.  “For what?”

“On behalf of men, I guess?”

Ghost, at least…sweet Ghost and his brotherly love for you…he pats your hand and says quietly, “well, you always smell nice, love, and I always notice.”

-----

Price doesn’t do anything. 

Leave starts and you disappear, off to someplace on your list of places to visit.  Who knows with you?  You love the world, all parts of it, so it’s just as likely that you’re in a jungle in Costa Rica as you would be in Tokyo.

Leave ends and the team reassembles.  There’s a mission in the mountains of a country teetering into civil war.  There’s a mission for intel.  There’s an extraction mission.  There’s a mission to take down a warlord in a lithium-rich country, and there’s a close call there.  A bullet grazes you, cuts a burning line along your hip, and seeing you bloodstained and limping pulls Price up short.

He shouldn’t care the way he does.  He cares about all of his soldiers, loves everyone, but he’d be lying if you weren’t different.  The love he holds for the men is paternal:  Soap and Ghost and Gaz are the sons he never had.

You?  His love for you is more complicated.  There’s a whiff of paternalism, a protectiveness that he knows you’d chafe at if you knew.  There’s admiration, of course.  But there’s also a deep vein of romantic love that threads between you and Price, and if you don’t know it, it’s only because Price has a good poker face and hides his feelings so well.

By the time you’re shot, everyone has earned another leave.  Ghost, Gaz, and Soap all disappear for a month.  Price could go to his empty house in the countryside, but he usually just stays on base anyway.

You?

The night before leave starts, there’s a knock on his office door, and when he calls out, you poke your head in.

“Have a moment, sir?”

He nods, gestures at the chair in front of his desk, and he winces internally at how you limp a bit, your stitches obviously pulling.  You settle in your seat and he nods at you to start.

“I thought I might stay here for leave,” you say.  “I’m not really in any shape to travel, and I’d be close to medical if anything goes bad with my wound.”

He says nothing, so you add, with less certainty, “would that be alright, sir?”

Price clears his throat.  “Of course.”

Of course it’s okay that you stay on base for leave.  With him.  With few other people around.

-----

But he does nothing during your month together.  How could he?  He’s your superior.  It would be wildly inappropriate to knock on your door some evening and confess his feelings for you.

One small concession:  he orders you to call him ‘John’ while you’re on leave.  No Captain, no ‘sir.’  He wants you at ease, relaxed, healing.  You still wake up early, he notices.  You train on a modified program as you heal.  You keep your room painfully neat, hospital corners on your bed, boots polished and tucked in your foot locker.

But you do relax.  You go off base and have a pint alone in a pub, come back slightly looser with your smiles.  His name rolls easier off your tongue when you have some alcohol in you.

You lie on the couch in the rec room and read giant novels.  You doze off to tennis on the television, and Price aches as he watches you sleep.  You look so young this way; the years and stress slough off of you in slumber.

There is one night he cajoles you into joining him out for dinner off base.  There’s a steakhouse nearby, and Price is craving a steak and a whiskey and a good cigar, and he’s craving your company.  You agree, and the weeks on leave have softened you towards him.  Maybe you see him as John now and not just Captain Price, and the conversation over steak flows so evenly that any casual observer might think it a date between an established couple.

But he does nothing more.  Not this time.

-----

Leave ends.  Another mission.  Another.  Intel-gathering, coup-ending.  They intercept a dirty bomb for sale in a Morocco marketplace.  They break up a human trafficking ring.  They support Kor-tac in a mission.

Another leave.  You’re healed now, but when Gaz asks where you’re going, you shrug and say nowhere.

“I didn’t plan anything,” you admit, and Price watches you on the sly.  You explain that New York City was next on your list of places, but you are tired of cities, tired of the crush of people and always wondering where the next threat was.  You tell Gaz, as Price eavesdrops, that you really just wanted a quiet month in the country but hadn’t the time to research anywhere or book anything—

He has to wait for Gaz to leave, which gives him a moment to despair that it’s a bad idea.  It’s a terrible idea, the worst idea, but even with a moment to stop himself, Price can’t stop himself.  He pulls you aside once you’re alone and the words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“I have a place in the Lake District,” he says.  “Quiet, in Rosgill.  I’m going myself, but it’s a big place for just me.  Too big, really.  You could join, if you want.”

It’s a terrible idea, the worst idea, but it must mean something that you only think on it for a beat before you smile at him and accept his offer with your genuine thanks.

-----

On the trip to his home, he explains it to you, and he hates how he sounds like an estate agent selling you on the charms of the place.

“It’s an old seventeenth century blacksmith forge that’s been converted into a home.  Quiet.  One side overlooks the eastern fells.” 

He explains how he bought it when he was young with the windfall of his father’s modest estate when the old man died from a heart attack. 

He doesn’t explain that it had been his dream as a young man to share it with someone, and as that dream had steadily died off, so too has the planned renovations.  The place is half-restored—mostly the house proper—but his plans for the outbuildings and grounds have been abandoned.  He had planned a copse of trees, a raised garden bed for vegetables and herbs, a small greenhouse.  What was the point of sinking money into a place that never saw any use?

You laugh quietly, then say that you don’t even have a home, that you have a small storage unit in Reading for the handful of things you can’t bear to give up.

“I appreciate your hospitality, Captain,” you say.

He tuts, reminds you to call him by his first name.  “There’s no Captain Price in Rosgill.  Just John.”

-----

It takes less than a week to fall into a comfortable domestic rhythm with you.  John wonders at it:  he had a girlfriend in his late twenties who had moved in for a year, and the two of them never reached even a fraction of the ease you and he reach within days.

It doesn’t mean it’s not torture.  The house has two bathrooms and a WC, but you end up sharing a bathroom because it’s the only one on the second floor, situated between both of your bedrooms.  It’s torture to shower after you, when everything is damp and faintly scented with your soap.  It’s torture to see your toiletry bag sitting on the edge of the sink, and of course he snoops.  Takes in the tube of lip balm, your brand of toothpaste, a bottle of paracetamol.  He sees a little ornate glass bottle of perfume, and he uncaps it, smells it.  It makes him remember the conversation on the plane, your rant about your disappointing experiences with sex, all the effort you put in to look nice and smell nice.

Which makes the rest torture too.  You calling him John.  You stretched out on a chaise in the conservatory that overlooks the fells.  You making him a simple, hearty dinner—who knew you could cook?—then calling him to table, your name in his mouth, your hands passing him a plate with chicken and roasted vegetables, your smile as he pours you another glass of wine.  You passing him in the hallway at night in your sleepwear, the soft-looking pajama pants and oversized t-shirt that strains around your breasts.  You meeting his eye, smiling at him, saying “g’night, John.”

Then the torture of your bedroom door clicking shut behind you, with John on the other side of it.

-----

It’s the meteor shower that changes it.  The Perseids, and John’s home has a big conservatory with a wall of windows that overlooks the night sky.  He mentions them to you that morning, suggests it might be nice to stay up and watch them together, maybe open a bottle of Lagavulin to mark the occasion.

It’s also Soap that changes it.  You and John make dinner together—just a spag bol—and your phone chimes as you’re sitting to eat.  You swipe at the lock screen, read the message, and snort.

“Soap,” you say, and you hold up the screen to John even though he can’t read the tiny print.  “Says he had a cancellation with one of his standby ladies and can work me into his rotation if I can get to Inverness in an hour.”

John chuckles, shakes his head.  “Want me to put him on KP duty when we get back?”

“A few extra laps on his runs wouldn’t hurt.  Wearing full kit, for the weight.”

The thread of conversation could die off, but it’s an opening, and John takes it.  He clears his throat, spins a forkful of spaghetti on his plate, then offers, “I’m sorry you’ve had such a rough go of it.  Romantically, I mean.”

You shrug.  “It’s fine.”

“For what it’s worth, I’ve not had the easiest time of it lately.”

It earns him another snort, and you cock an eyebrow at him, pull an incredulous face.  “I don’t buy it.”

He’s not lying.  His twenties, he was a wolf on the prowl.  Broke plenty of hearts, had his own broken in turn.  He had a few girlfriends, one who moved in for a bit, then moved out after a terrific row, never to return.  He always had the fixed idea that he’d meet someone by his mid-thirties, take an early retirement by his mid-forties, and have a family waiting for him by then. 

But as his mid-thirties receded, he found the prospect of dating a bleak affair.  Some women were too young, too immature.  The generational differences in sex and love were too steep to overcome.  Some wanted a sugar daddy.  Some wanted to be taken care of with no care extending back in his direction.  Other women were older, closer to his age, but saddled with ex-husbands, children bitter from divorce, a cynicism that John couldn’t overcome.

He doesn’t tell you any of that.  Instead, he volleys it back at you, retorts with a gentle smile that he doesn’t buy that you hadn’t had a single satisfying experience in your life. 

You sigh, shrug again.  “Ah, well.  I guess I can’t blame the men entirely.  Who’s to say I wasn’t the problem?  Maybe I’m a terrible kisser.”

“Doubtful.”

“Just outrageous amounts of tongue.”

John laughs, and you grin at him, add, “garlic breath, too.  Got too bitey halfway through a make-out session.  Made the guy bleed.  Now he has a scar on his lip and he tells all the blokes down at the pub about the crazy girl he took out once who bit him.”

John puts down his fork and takes a drink of wine.  He smiles around the rim of his glass.  “None of that can be true.”

“Didn’t know how to move during sex, so I elbowed him hard and broke his nose.  Touched him in a weird spot in an attempt to be sexy and creeped him out.”

He laughs again.  “What’s considered a weird spot?”

“Maybe I, I dunno…rubbed his elbows in a seductive way.  Touched him between his toes in the hopes of turning him on.  Maybe no one ever told me that that there’s no erogenous zone in the space between toes.”

His laughter grows at the mental image you’re painting; tears creep out of the corners of his eyes.  “That’s how I know you’re lying,” he manages to reply.  “Because most men would find any type of touch from a woman sexy.”

You cock an eyebrow at that and take a sip of your own wine.  “Duly noted, John.  If I ever make a move on you, I’m coming for your toes.”

“Prepare to be awestruck then, sweetness:  I have feet like a fucking hobbit.”

Your first response is to laugh at him, but he notes the way you take in the pet name, the little shine you get in your eyes.  The conversation dies off, shifts to other topics, but the rest of dinner holds a charge in the air, and both of you can feel it.

-----

After you share clean-up duties in the kitchen, you make your way to the conservatory.  It’s just a fancy word for ‘living room,’ but it holds no television:  just a bookcase, a fireplace, and a few chaise lounges and couches for taking in the view.  John used to envision lazy weekends in here with a family:  a wife and kids, maybe, settled around a board game.  A dog curled up by the fire. 

He also used to envision something like this:  sharing an intimate moment with a woman here.  His ex hated the house, hated how remote it was.  She liked London and the bustle of cities, but you are a better fit.  You settle on the chaise, curl up on your side like a cat, and you sip at the cut-glass tumbler of whiskey when he hands it to you.  John settles on the floor right near you, and the two of you chat while you wait for the meteor shower to start.

You don’t talk about much of consequence.  It’s a rambling conversation, tinged by the alcohol but not impaired by it.  The evening holds a dreamy quality, like it’s not quite real, like if John raises his voice above a low rumble he might pop the ambiance like a soap bubble.

When the first streak of white shoots across the sky, you both fall silent.  John turns away from you and faces the windows, and you both watch quietly.  Once in a while you sigh, a pleased little exhale, and the spell deepens.  Weaves of magic seem to tighten around the two of you with each brilliant falling star.

John leans his head back and rests it against the chaise, but he bumps into some part of you.  He mutters a sorry, and you whisper back no worries, but a beat later he feels your hand on the top of his head.  Tentative.  Shy.  A question in the touch, and he answers it by leaning into you more.  You push your fingers into his hair, and he honest-to-god has to bite his fucking tongue at the moan that threatens to tear out of his throat at the feeling of you touching him.

He turns his head and finds you watching him, not the meteor shower.  He knows he cannot go a single step further without putting it all out in the open, addressing it immediately.

“You know I’m your commanding officer,” he says softly.  “Not here, but when we get back. And I’m not stupid.  I know some part of you still thinks of me as your captain even here, just like some part of me still thinks of you as my charge.”

You nod.  Say nothing.  Look at him expectantly.

“What I mean is, this leave will end and we’ll have to go back.  We have to be able to compartmentalize it.  And I need to know that you want this completely free and clear.  That there’s no part of you that feels you have to do this, because I know there’s a power imbalance, but…”  He trails off, doesn’t want to admit it out loud.

“But what, John?” you prod, and he takes a breath, finally says it.

“I know there’s a power imbalance here, and I know I should be strong enough—should be your captain, I mean—and stop this before it starts.  But I can’t.  I don’t want to.”

You don’t laugh at him, and you don’t pout at his words.  You nod seriously.  You say you understand, that it’s complicated.  You promise that you will try to compartmentalize it.

“It’s just me and you right now,” you say, softly.  “Just two people.  Not boss and employee or captain and soldier.  I don’t feel pressured or feel any power imbalance.  And John?  I don’t want you to stop it before it starts.  Truly.”

This must be what falling from grace feels like.  Some small part of John despairs at this breach of trust, even if you assure him it isn’t so:  he’s your captain, he’s worked so hard to always keep clear lines between him and his soldiers.  He needs to be able to send people he cares about, people he loves, into situations where death is more likely than staying alive.  He needs to be able to leaf through your dossier and not blink at the section where you’ve listed out your final wishes in the event of death.  He needs to be able to leave you behind if it threatens the mission or the 141, and he’s always been able to do that before but the moment you lean forward and kiss him—your hand cupping the curve of his face, drawing him to you eagerly—he knows he’ll never be able to do any of that again.

He's failed as a commander, and a small part of him despairs, but the larger part rejoices at the feeling of your lips on his, your hands on him.  His eyes shut, and you both completely forget the meteor shower as you fall from grace together.

-----

You make out in stages:  the eagerness cedes to a near-shyness, then melts into a level of comfort as you get used to each other.  John knows now that you oversold your inability to kiss—you’re eager, then you’re shy, but you’re pretty damned good at it after all, and if those other assholes you’ve slept with didn’t think so, then that’s on them. 

He eventually makes his way up to the chaise to sit beside you, and then he guides you into his lap.  He has you straddle him, and when his palm gently grasps your cheek to lead you back to kiss him, he feels how flushed you are under his hand. 

“You okay?”

You nod against his hold.  “Yes,” you reply, but you perch yourself back in his lap, closer to his knees, and he can feel how you’re holding your weight off of him.

“We can take this slow.  There’s no rush.  We can stop here.”

“I know.”  A beat, and you add, “I’m good, John, really.”

“Then c’mere, love.  Settle in.”

When you don’t move, he puts his hands on your hips and draws you down and in, pulls the delicious weight of you right where he wants you most.  Right on top of him.  His growing erection presses against your clothed core, and your breasts brush against his chest.  He slides one hand around to your ass and grips the swell of you, kneads at your flesh, but the other hand slides up to cup the nape of your neck.  To hold you steady as he kisses you more forcefully.

John tries to strike the perfect balance between gentle and still leading you.  He presses his tongue against the seam of your mouth, urges you to open yourself to him, and you obey.  He licks against your mouth, tastes the smoky peat of the whiskey on you, and the sensation of his tongue against yours makes you rock in his lap.  He feels the pressure of you brushing against his cock, and it draws dual moans from each of you.

He breaks the kiss, catches his breath.  “Sweetness, what do you want?  What do you like?”  He wants to make you moan like that again and again, wants you to breathe out his name  or scream it or both.  He wants your eyes to shine up at him like they did at dinner when he used that sweet nickname on you the first time. 

You shake your head.  “I don’t know.”

He knows what it must take for you to admit that.  He remembers your rant on the plane, the disappointment in your past dealings with lovers.  It makes his chest ache at how lonely you must have been, how separate you must have felt from others.

He loosens his hold on your neck.  He slides his palm around to cup your face, and he brushes his thumb over the curve of your cheek. 

“Then how about we find out together?”

You answer him by turning your head into his palm and kissing him there, a sweet gesture, and that ache in his chest blooms stronger.

-----

It’s awkward at first, and John can’t figure out why.

He manages to get you out of your shirt and shorts, manages to unhook your bra and strip himself until you’re both nearly naked and stretched out together over the chaise.  You let him lead, but you aren’t exactly eager.  You are passive to an almost uncomfortable degree, and there’s something off—

“Is this okay?” he murmurs against your skin.  You’re so warm under his lips, soft, and he is going so slowly, but you’re hardly moving and you’re saying even less.  Your earlier touches—your hand in his hair, cupping his face—have disappeared entirely. 

Yet when he asks his question, you whisper back that it’s wonderful.

It takes another moment before he realizes part of what’s wrong:  you’re holding your breath.  You’re barely breathing, and once he locks in on that, everything else falls into place.  You’re not precisely rigid underneath him, but you’re tense, your muscles taut to the point of trembling.  And your hands lie by your side.  Not touching him at all.

He pauses, then makes his way back up to where your face is.  In the faint light from the windows, he can make out a tension in your expression too.  Something else too.  Not dread, maybe, but maybe a lighter version of that.  Trepidation. 

John kisses you lightly on your mouth.  “How are you doing, sweetness?” 

“Good.”  You smile at him, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.  “Great, really.”

“You sure?”

You nod.

He brushes his lips over your cheekbone, to the edge of your jaw near your ear.  “Not nervous at all?”

“Maybe a little.”

You’re hedging.  Lightly lying to him.  Your nervousness fills the room like the incoming tide, and John susses it out gently, teases it from you bit by bit.  It’s not difficult to guess the source of your nerves.

“Thinking about past encounters, maybe?”

You huff softly near his ear.  “Hard not to.”  You hesitate, then add, “it was always so bad.”

“And you think you were the reason it was so bad?”

Another huff, and your voice is tinged with embarrassment.  “I’m the constant factor each time, John.”

It occurs to him that you’ve likely missed all of the experimenting that many people get when they are younger.  All the goofy, awkward moments in sex, when a person figures out what they like or don’t like, what they love and what they hate.  You’ve probably been left with a handful of one night stands where you got no feedback, never had a chance to understand what felt good to you, and now are paralyzed to the point of doing nothing. 

John resets the moment.  He strokes the side of your face, then leans down and kisses you.  Slow, gentle.  No rushing.  The barest brush of his tongue against yours, just enough until he feels you relax a bit underneath him.

As much as he wants to compartmentalize it, John knows from working with you that you’re eager for feedback.  You’re eager to learn, and you never take constructive criticism badly. 

“Let me help you,” he says now.  “Okay?”

You gaze up at him, and if your body is tense as a strung wire, your eyes are full of trust.  “Okay.”

“First thing, sweetness.  You have to breathe for me.  You’re holding your breath, and it’s making you tense.”

Sure enough, your tight, shallow breathing evens out and deepens.  And sure enough, he feels your body relax a bit more.  He kisses you as a reward, then gives you more advice that you take readily.

“You can move your body.  Make yourself comfortable.”

“I want to feel your hands on me.  I want you to touch me too.  I’m yours.”

“You need to talk to me.  Tell me what feels good.  Tell me if anything doesn’t feel good.”

As he instructs you, he eases back into it.  Kisses your mouth, kisses his way over your face and neck, spends long moments at your bared breasts.  It’s the first test, but you breathe as he mouths at your tender skin, as he suckles against your hardened peaks.  And you move underneath him, arching your chest to give him better access.

A beat later, he feels your hands—still tentative, but warm, soft—touching him.  Stroking his shoulders, his arms.  Running your fingertips through his hair.

He’ll find out later, days later, that you had only been working off of previous feedback from those terrible one night stands.  The guy who told you that you were breathing too loudly, the guy who told you to lie still.  One baffling guy who told you not to touch him, to keep your hands to yourself as he fucked you.

But now?  This is a good start to finally getting to what you like.  To finding out together.

What you don’t like:  anything remotely like tickling.  He skates his fingertips too lightly over your sides, down the curve of your waist, and you jerk away from him like you’ve been burned.  You apologize a second later, but John laughs, which makes you laugh too.  It dispels some more of your nervousness, and when he tries the move against with more pressure—down your sides, over your waist—you like that far better.

You also don’t like it when he pauses at the scar on your hip.  It’s still a lurid red, and it pulls him up short for a moment.  Dampens his own mood.  It reminds him at how close you were to really being hurt, even killed.  You don’t like it when he bends his head to kiss the ridge of scar tissue, and he doesn’t push it.  Instead, he shifts his head and kisses your stomach where the edge of your panties is, and you like that a whole lot more.

What you like:  everything else.  Every other thing he gives you, everything he does to you.  You like it when he eases your panties off you.  You groan when he buries his face between your thighs, and you gasp when he kisses you there, when he drags his tongue over the slick seam of your cunt.  You like it very much when he laps at your arousal, when he lays plush kisses to your swollen clit, when he slides a finger inside you and a second finger and when he slides them along your inner wall until he finds the spot that makes you jerk underneath him, whine out his name, reach down and tug at his hair.

You like it when he makes you come with his mouth, and you like it when he makes his way back up your trembling body, when he spreads your legs wider to fit him.  When he pushes into you in a slow, steady thrust, so soon after your orgasm that he feels the tiny aftershocks as he seats himself inside you for the first time.  You gasp at the sensation, you breathe out a “god, John,” but when he opens his mouth to ask if you’re okay, you grab his head and kiss him so hard you steal his breath from him.

And you especially like it when he coaxes another orgasm from you, his thrusts strong and steady, deep.  When you bend one leg alongside him, he reaches down and hikes it higher over his hip.  It allows him to push deeper inside you, that extra fraction making you cock-dumb, because you’re so far gone you forget to be nervous.  You forget to lie still, to keep your hands to yourself, to hold your breath. 

You arch up and meet him thrust for thrust.  You wrap one arm around his broad shoulders but the other hand reaches down and grips the meat of his ass, urges him on.  You breathe; you pant in his ear, and sometimes it’s just your hot breath, but just as often it’s you talking, babbling, begging him to fuck you, to please don’t stop, to keep going, to never stop fucking you.

And you like it when he does as you say.  He doesn’t stop, and you come again, but then you whine out that it’s too much.  It probably is:  you’ve gone from disappointing interludes with absolute bell-ends, and now you’re an overstimulated mess underneath him.  You’re not openly crying but tears leak out of the corners of your eyes and streak down your face.  Your lips are slightly chapped and swollen, and you look stunned. 

“Want me to stop?” he asks.  He kisses one damp cheek, then the other, and he can taste the salt from your tears.  “Too much?”

“Uh-huh.”  It comes out slurred.

“Need you to use your words, sweetness.”

“I don’t think…”  You blink, and you lose a bit of your stunned quality.  “I don’t think I can again.”

“Oh, I think you could.”  Another kiss, this one open-mouthed on your pulse point.  He presses his teeth there, sucks lightly against your skin.  “I think you have one more.”

“John—”

“Gotta make up for lost time.”

“I can’t.”  You whine, but it ends in a moan as he bites you harder at where your shoulder meets your neck.  “Too much.  It’s too much.”

“You’re doing so well, though.  You don’t have one more?  Not even for me?”  He laves the flat of his tongue over where his teeth have left dimpled marks, then he blows over the wet line, makes you shudder underneath him. 

“John,” you reply, but it holds less of a warning than before.  There’s surrender in your tone.

“Love feeling this sweet pussy coming around me,” he growls in your ear.  “Fucking soaking my cock, sweetness.”

The dirty talk makes you clench down on him, and he smiles to himself.  He draws back, sinks back into you.  He goes slow, and you whine that it’s too much, but you like this too because you hold him tighter.  You press back against him each time he seats himself in you, his hips settled against yours.  He goes slow, so slow, sinks into you as deep as he can, barely pulls out before he’s pushing back inside.  You’re swollen, fevered where he’s joined to you.  You’re so fucking wet that he feels your arousal soaking the coarse hair at the base of him, dripping down your thighs, likely soaking the chaise. 

He's proud that he’s been able to forestall his own pleasure, but his restraint has frayed.  How could it not?  The whole moment had been sold as for you, to make you feel good, to make sex not the scary specter it has been for most of your adult life, but John can’t remember the last time he had sex where he felt so connected to his partner. 

Maybe he never has.  He can’t conjure up a moment from his past when he felt so flayed alive, his heart visible and beating as he joined with another person.  He can’t remember ever reveling so deeply in his partner’s pleasure.  He can’t remember anyone else’s touch or voice in his ear or breath panting underneath him making him feel so whole.

But you like it when he finally comes too.  He pulls another orgasm from you, less intense but longer—you tremble for longer, and your cunt twitches against him—and it sets him over the edge.  He groans in your ear that he’s close too, asks where he should…but your hand on his ass pulls him deeper into you, and if the gesture wasn’t clear, you whisper that you want him to come inside you, you want to feel him, and he does.  His pleasure breaks around him, shatters him, and he growls your name as he fills you, and you answer by whispering his name back, over and over.

-----

If you never had a satisfying sexual experience before, John can guess that you never had the post-sex moments either.  The come-down, the cuddling, the falling asleep together.

He gives that to you now too, but it’s not altruistic at all:  he wants it too.  He selfishly wants it.  He leaves you on the chaise to get a washcloth, a glass of water, and he helps you clean up.  He helps you recover, but then he leads you to the deep couch on the other side of the room and has you lie down.  He lies down beside you—it’s a tight fit, but he holds you safe between the broad planes of his body and the back of the couch, and he covers you both with a light blanket.

“Thank you,” you tell him, and it’s plaintive.  It makes that ache in his chest flare back, so he kisses you gently, replies, “don’t ever thank for me this.”

It doesn’t take long for you both to fall asleep:  you go first, the slack weight of you pleasant against his body, the deep and even breathing, the little grumble as you shift.  He’s not far behind you, but he has a moment or two where the earlier thread of despair pushes to the forefront of his mind. 

He might just be John right now, and you’re just you, but soon enough you’ll be soldier and captain again.  How will it ever work, now that you’ve fallen from grace together?