#just take a knife to yourself and proceed with a click

[gloomwitchwrites]

Hello, hope you're a having a good day

Could you write something about 141 x reader where the sparring session turns a little too not your usual sparring (if you know what I mean). The reader and them being all sweaty and shit and like the sexual tension that's been there for a while. This idea has been plaguing my mind since forever. Thank youuuu

Haha! Yes! Omg, I love it. Okay, for this, I didn't go full smut. When someone mentions sexual tension, I tend to hyperfocus on that and want to bathe in it. Give me naughty thoughts and flirting-maybe even some actual physical contact that borders on dangerous territory. Give me the yearning! I want to giggle and kick my feet and think about what might happen later.

So, I indulged in that regard! I had lots of fun with this. Thank you so much for sending it in!!!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x TF141!Female Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, suggestive themes, knife play, grinding, rough kissing, caught in the act, training, naughty thoughts, mutual yearning

Word Count: 2.4k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John "Soap" MacTavish

“Come on. Come at me.”

Soap rolls his shoulders and then brings his fists up in a fighting stance. He makes a “go on” gestured with his hands.

Every muscle in your body is sore. Tired doesn’t even begin to describe how you’re feeling. But you want to best Soap. He’s been on your ass for weeks now—insisting that the two of you should spar together. It’s not the sparring that makes you warm and tingly but the way he suggests it.

Always leaning in. Standing far too close. Bumping your shoulder with his.

Soap waits, but you’re not sure how to proceed. So far, you’ve been completely unsuccessful. As if knowing all your moves, Soap has dodged each blow and kick, effortlessly taking you down to the mat every time you thinking you’ve ensnared him.

Stealth is more your thing. Creeping around in the shadows. Taking out opponents from afar. A sniper scope is your friend. Hand-to-hand isn’t.

You lunge for him and Soap steps back. Fist missing him, you sidestep and go for a jab in the stomach. Soap slaps your hand away, and you want to yell in frustration.

“Sloppy today,” chides Soap, grinning like this amuses him.

It probably does. He’s one for a good laugh.

This time you feign, and Soap takes it, moving in. You’re ready for him, turning out of his swing to duck beneath and then aim for the face. Soap rises to block, and opens a clear line to his groin.

Fucking beautiful.

Lifting your foot, you don’t tap him hard, just enough for his cheeks to go pink. Soap grunts, and you chuckle.

“Shouldn’t have left yourself—”

With an oof, your back smacks against the tumble mat beneath you. Soaps snags your wrists and pins them above your head. You go to kick out at him, but Soap’s knees are between your legs. He shoves them wider.

You’re completely trapped beneath him.

And in a completely inappropriate position.

From where you’re pinned, you notice the small beads of sweat on his brow and how a few pieces of hair stick to his skin. Though his chest is covered by a shirt, it’s snug, with every muscle on display. Those powerful thighs of his press against yours in such a way that you’re imagining nothing between your bodies.

Would he feel this powerful over you if the two of you were elsewhere? Perhaps, somewhere more private. Somewhere without a tumble mat. Somewhere with a bed.

“Can’t harm the goods, love,” says Soap, his voice husky. You’re not sure if it’s from the close contact or from the tap you gave his crotch.

“Then don’t leave them vulnerable,” you reply, almost not recognizing the sound of your own voice. It too is husky as if dipped in desire.

The middle of Soap’s brow scrunches slightly. His gaze travels downward to linger on your lips and then further still until you sense him admiring more than he is observing.

“Soap—”

His gaze snaps upward. “Johnny,” he corrects. “Think we’re on closer terms.”

“Are we?” you ask, as his hips start to relax.

The press of him against you is apparent, and the hardness there is poking at you. Insistent. And you don’t want to ignore it.

Instead, you press upward, grinding against him.

Soap—no—Johnny, makes a sound in his throat.

One moment you’re under him and then you’re in his lap, the two of you sitting up, staring into each other’s eyes. Your heart hammers in your chest, and your hands fists the front of his shirt.

“You—”

“Are we interrupting something?”

You and Johnny turn just as Ghost and Gaz enter the gym. Gaz has a towel draped over his shoulder. The water bottle he holds it half-way towards his mouth before he freezes, gaze locked on you and Johnny.

Ghost cocks his head, arms crossed over his chest.

You’re speechless. Lost. Your mind hasn’t caught up.

But Johnny’s has.

With a twist, Johnny rolls and then lightly tosses you off him as if the two of you were simply practicing and not staring into each other’s eyes.

“You want a go, Lt?” asks Johnny.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“You up for another round?” asks Kyle.

The man is grinning like he could do this all day. You’re sore everywhere—ready to collapse from exhaustion. Hand-to-hand combat is not your thing which is why you’re here in the training room with Kyle.

Yes, you need practice, but you’ve also had your eye on him, admiring him when you think no one is looking. It’s an excuse for some alone time.

“I’d rather eat glass,” you mutter, snatching up your water bottle and drinking the last of it.

“Hate me that much?” he teases.

“So much so that I wanted to spend the afternoon beating your ass.”

Kyle bursts out laughing. He snatches the water bottle out of your hand and aims it at you, squeezing. There’s nothing in it. A few measly drops hit your face and then you lunge for him. Kyle jumps back and extends his arms outward.

“One more round.” He winks. “Come on, love.”

He’s being cheeky, and your blood is pumping.

Kyle tosses your water bottle to the side as you stride forward. His arms go up, and then the two of you are nothing but flying fists and feet. He’s faster, blocking every blow you send his way.

Sweat accumulates on your brow and on the back of your neck, dripping down your spine. You lick your lips, taste the salt from the sweat.

You duck. Swing. Kyle snatches your wrist and twists, pinning your arm behind you. With a sharp jab of your elbow, you nail Kyle in the stomach, freeing yourself.

As you spin to lash out, Kyle is right there, in your space, blocking all movement. You try to step back, to allow space in your next strike, but Kyle rushes in. The two of you are twisted up. Falling. Slamming into the mat on the floor.

You shove and Kyle resists, his strength outmatching yours. With cheek pressed into the mat, you have nowhere to go. You’re completely on your stomach, and all of Kyle’s weight is on you. He breathes heavily, chest heaving. You feel his breath against your skin, and the contact only sends your skin into a shiver.

Your mind drifts, lingering in places it shouldn’t. Worse—Kyle is aroused. His hardness pokes at your ass. But whether he notices or not is unclear.

“You’re improving,” he says.

“I have a good teacher.”

Kyle makes a noise that sounds like agreement. Every muscle is tense, and even Kyle’s hold on you seems laced with something harsh. But then it eases. Softens. His grip loosens enough that you roll onto your side, glancing up at him.

He is so goddamn close. Just a gentle tilt of the head and your lips would meet his. It wouldn’t be that hard. He’s right there.

Kyle blinks, and then his gaze trails downward, lingering on your lips.

“We,” he begins. “We shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

His thumb traces along the side of your throat, and your eyelids flutter with contentment. A little moan escapes you, and you hear Kyle’s sharp inhale.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck it.”

His thumb becomes his whole hand. Holding you in place, Kyle goes all in, claiming your lips with his. It is dominating, and you happily give in to him.

John Price

Your back hits the tumble mat with a sharp slap. The exposed portions of your shoulders and back sting from the contact.

"Again."

Groaning, you push up to a seated position. "We've been at this for hours."

"And you need practice," counters Price.

He's hatless. And shirtless. Only in cargo pants and boots, Captain Price's bare skin glistens with sweat. You won't pretend that the sight of him like this doesn't intrigue you. For months now you've been observing Captain Price in more than just a professional manner. It's hard not to, and the sweat-drenched man before you isn't helping things.

Captain Price runs his fingers through his hair, taking a step back. The casualness to the movement causes your stomach to twist with desire. Your body betrays you, and you have no idea if these feelings are entirely one-sided. Sometimes you think you might gleam a notion of his thoughts, but it always manages to slip through your grasp.

Price offers his hand, and an idea forms.

You extend yours, but don't close the distance. Price is the one that leans forward to do so. It's the perfect opportunity. When your fingers close around his, you tug back, throwing him off balance.

Price tips forward, and you turn to the side as he crashes down to the mat. In one fluid movement, you roll Price onto his back and straddle his stomach.

"Never let your guard down. That's what you always say."

Price's eyes widen slightly before softening. The corner of his mouth twitches into a hint of amusement. It immediately sends heat flaring through you.

"I do," he replies, and it's nearly a coo.

That smirk of his widens into an actual smile, and then it's you on your back and Price straddling. You strike out with an elbow but Price catches your swing, trapping your arms above your head. He bends forward a bit, and it is then that you feel the stiffness against your stomach.

Price makes no move to hide it, and you don’t dare glance downward.

"You need to do better-"

"Captain."

Price immediately recoils, sitting up and releasing your arms. You twist to look behind you, only to find Ghost and Soap standing nearby. Ghost is ever the silent observer, but Soap's head is slightly tilted to the side, the middle of his brow pinched like he's not sure what's happening.

"Meeting starts in five,” says Soap. “Came to find you."

Price coughs and then he's off you, kneeling and offering you a hand again. You don't try to knock him down.

"Just going over some pointers,” replies Price.

"Pointers?" deadpans Ghost and you shoot him a look. He shrugs at you, gaze lingering before moving to his captain.

"Give me ten minutes. Shower. Then I'll be there."

Captain Price gives you a quick glance before walking off with Soap. Ghost crosses his arms over his chest and just stares.

“What?" you snap

"Pointers," he repeats.

"Oh, fuck off, Simon."

He chuckles and turns to follow the two out of the training room.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

"Your posture is terrible."

"That's very helpful, Lieutenant,” you deadpan.

"Are you sassing me?"

"No."

Simon shakes his head and sighs. “Can’t throw a knife accurately if you’re hunched like a goblin.”

“Goblin,” you mutter under your breath. “Asshole.”

“What was that?”

You clear your throat. “Seems easy, Lieutenant. You just throw the pointy end at the enemy.”

Simon grunts and then grabs your raised arm. "You won't hit anything standing like that."

You resist his pull but you're outmatch when it comes to strength. With one hand on your arm and one on your waist, Simon shifts you into position.

"Like this," he instructs, bringing your arm back. "Firm grip. Feet pointed forward." Simon releases your arm but his hand on your waist remains. "Throw. At the target."

You let the knife fly. It strikes just right of the bullseye.

"Again,” nods Simon.

"Really?"

Simon slowly drops his hand from your waist, the tips of fingers lingering a second longer than necessary.

Removing a knife from his boot, Simon flips it end over end. "We could hone your skills a different way."

"What way?"

“Grab your knife and find out.”

Stalking toward the bullseyes, you yank out the knife, joining Simon in the sparring ring. He bends at the knee, crouching into a fight stance. You mimic the movement.

Simon lunges first and you sidestep. But he's quick for such a large man. He moves around and behind you so fast he's almost a blur.

Grabbing your wrist, Simon lightly twists and pins you against his front, the knife tip pointed at your throat.

"Again,” he growls.

Simon lightly shoves you away. You spin. Striking out. He slaps your arm down and raises his own, the knife tip pointed at your throat for a second time.

"Again."

Showing your teeth, you charge at him, barreling into him at the middle. Simon staggers but doesn't faulter. He attempts to toss you off him, but you remain firm, grabbing hold.

This unloads him, his weight toppling with you. The two of you go down. Simon rolls you onto your back, his body pressed to yours, knife at your throat again.

"Better,” he says. “Still needs improvement."

You go to shove him off, but Simon doesn't budge. He remains where he is, and every point of contact is like an electrical spark. Even his face is close, balaclava nearly scratching against your skin. There is not part of him you’re not touching.

Awareness settles in.

Simon is all hardness over you.

"Have any tips you can give me?" you reply.

His gaze slowly lowers to your lips. His hips shift slightly, something stiff poking against your inner thigh.

“I have one,” he murmurs.

Bet I can guess.

“How do you want it?” he continues.

"You're the expert," you reply softly, hooking your leg over the back of his.

It's an invitation, one you aren't sure he'll take.

There’s a brief pause, and then Simon hums in agreement. It’s a pleased sound, one that instantly makes you shiver. Without taking the knife from your throat, he closes the distance, lips pressing against yours through the balaclava.

Heat erupts, the knife in your hand forgotten on the floor as you grab at him, fingers digging in.

It's only a tease. You want the real thing.

"What's the tip?" you ask once he breaks the connection.

Simon answers by grinding his hips against yours.

That one. Got it.

“We should—”

A door slams from somewhere down the hall. Simon’s head snaps up. The knife disappears, and then Simon is pushing himself away, kneeling beside you. His head is turned toward the main doors, but no one enters.

“It’s late,” you say. No one should be coming this way.

He turns back to you. “Your knife skills are shit.”

You groan. “I know. Goblin hunch. Got it.”

Simon snorts, and offers his hand. You take it, and he pulls you into a seated position. “Just a few more rounds,” he says, and then with a husky twinge to his tone, “and then I’ll go make sure the locker room is clear.”

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[fyuyushia]

Overprotective!Sung Jinwoo who often worries for his hunter darling.

Though you prove capable of taking care of yourself in dungeon raids, he can't help but worry ceaselessly whenever you enter a gate without him around.

You could be winning the battle against the beasts but then your shadow shifts, and out comes either Jinwoo or his lackeys to save the day and protect you from the non-existent harm.

Whenever you're in raid and is engaging in combat, two of the given possibilities might occur: (pick your poison: Beru or Jinwoo edition)

Swerving to your left, you narrowly dodge a sword thrown your way by an enraged beast.

It screeches, grating your ears with it's scream. Frustrated by the beast's aggressive nature, you twirl the dagger in your arm and dash directly towards your opponent.

With a click of your tongue, you imbue the dagger with mana. You shift your hold on the handle to a more comfortable one, preparing to put an end to this fight. With a decisive step, you jump and appear directly on the beast's peripheral.

They open their mouth, revealing sharp teeth as wide as the dagger you had in hand and possibly even sharper. Sparks coil around on their throat, and, with a roar, they breathe it out in your direction.

You equip yourself with a shield you conjured yourself, preparing to block the attack entirely.

The shadows lurking beneath you however, seemed to have other plans.

"My queen!!!!" From behind you, your shadow writhes around.

Shooting out of it directly, an insect flies at speed inconceivable to human eyes and decapitates the monster before it could inflict even the smallest burns on the strands of your hair.

"Beru?!"

You fall to the ground, with a soft thud once you've lost your momentum. What the hell.

"My queen, please take better care of yourself! Jumping headfirst into danger is reckless! Your beloved would surely not be pleased to see you hurt."

"First off, I'm not dating your master, second, I had it handled!" You huffed, sheathing your weapons.

You place your hands on your hips, glaring down the ant-like shadow. "Time out! Go back in the shadow and do not interfere unless I say so!"

"But, what if you get hurt?" The insect shrinks in on itself, clearly not happy about being scolded.

"I'll call you by then. For now, stop appearing unsolicited and killing off everything and everyone!"

Beru whimpers, fiddling with his fingers.

"Understood?"

"Understood, my queen. I will make sure not to appear unless told to. But please promise this humble servant that you really will call for me!"

You sigh. "I will, I will. Just, behave for now. Return to your master or whatever, stop bothering me."

Or, It could also be a case where the ringleader themself appears out of the same worry Beru had shown towards you as he got exposed to Sing Jinwoo's antics.

"Nicely done, everyone!" You cheer, a bright grin splayed out on your lips after successfully killing the large chameleon-like beast that provided you all a headache.

Your party members cheer, glad to rid themselves of the particularly bothersome beast.

As you talk with your members about how to proceed, you feel a hostile presence lurking within the distance.

You pull yourself away from the conversation, placing your hold on your weapon as you got ready for battle.

Sure enough, a beast—a humanoid one, appeared and charged blindly in your direction. You narrow your eyes, lips curled into a sneer.

You unsheathed your weapon, and, with a succession of slashes, sent multiple wind blades in their direction. The beast succumbed to the slash, piercing through its heart and more like a hot knife to butter.

At the same time you dealt with the monster, something—no—someone came up from beneath the shadow and profusely beat up the already dying ogre. Severing its limbs and then its head, you catch a glimpse of the ebony haired man you recognized to be Jinwoo.

"Jinwoo? What are you doing here?!"

Your eyes widened in surprise. In an instant, the blue that enveloped his figure disappeared. He flinches, turning almost robotically towards your direction.

"Oh, you're safe, that's a relief."

"That's not the problem here, the more important one is what are you doing here?"

You frowned, lips pursed. You peered up at him, daring him to answer. "Right after I told you to leave me alone and let me hunt on my own too."

Again, he flinches.

You weren't really on the best terms with him since yesterday. He was too much of a worrywart. With the increase of stronger monsters and stronger gates lurking around, Jinwoo felt uneasy letting you do raids. It was a worry you dismissed as useless, seeing as you were a hunter who's more than capable of taking care of yourself.

You stared at him, he simply stands still, not saying a word, not doing a single movement aside from breathing and blinking. You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose.

"fine, I'll admit I'm thankful you did that—even though I could handle it on my own—and will forgive you this once. Now, please return from wherever you came from."

For the third time, Jinwoo flinches. It's a sight your party members relish in like it was a forbidden sight. Who would've thought that the powerful, almighty Sung Jinwoo who easily cleared A rank dungeons and S-rank beasts solo would be terrified of one person, and one person only.

"Well, the thing is," he tells you about the fact that he's unable to use shadow exchange to go back.

You, who simply wanted a raid free of him, went livid.

"You can't use shade exchange yet?!"

He nods, appearing much like a sulking child who got scolded by his mother.

You suck in a breath, really, this worrywart was something alright.

"Ugh, fine. You stay with us while we clear the dungeon. You're stuck here with us anyway."

Jinwoo lights up, he was partly sure that you would've told him to find the entrance of this dungeon and leave him, seeing that you didn't, however, made him grin.

He nods, easily agreeing to the terms you made him promise to follow. He wouldn't actually follow them, heaven forbid he allow you to fight whilst he's left watching in the sidelines

Unbeknownst to you, as you introduce Sung Jinwoo to your party members and explain the unexpected circumstances that led him here, the faintest smirks came up on his lips for a brief second.

Your party members who caught him in the act, deadpans.

Oh, he definitely planned it.

[callsigns-haze]

The man's job

At The Hard Deck, Sniper—Hangman’s sharp-tongued WSO—tries to ignore her growing attraction to Rooster, but he sees right through her. After a heated exchange, Rooster pulls her into a quiet hallway, desperate for the truth, and when she finally gives in, he kisses her like he’s been waiting forever. Between breathless kisses, he asks why she joined the Navy, and when she teasingly admits it’s because she likes dressing like the men, he grins against her lips and murmurs, "I do too."

Warning: This story contains intense romantic tension, heated moments, and Rooster being utterly irresistible. Proceed with caution—you might fall for him all over again when he loses his cool.

4k words

Just saying English isn't my first language and this is crap because I got bored and wrote yap

The Hard Deck was alive with laughter, the low hum of conversation mingling with the distant crash of the waves. The scent of salt and spilled beer hung in the air, the jukebox spitting out a country song that had more than one pilot tapping their fingers against the worn wood of the bar.

Jake "Hangman" Seresin leaned against the pool table, a cocky grin playing at his lips as he chalked his cue. His gaze was locked onto Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a knife.

"You wanna try that again, Rooster?" Hangman drawled, voice as smooth as whiskey. "Because I could've sworn you said I got lucky on that last shot."

Rooster scoffed, arms crossed over his broad chest, aviators still hooked onto the collar of his Hawaiian shirt. "You heard me just fine, Bagman. One lucky shot doesn’t make you the best."

Your fingers tightened slightly around the glass in your hand as you took a slow sip of your drink, the cool condensation slick against your skin. From your seat, you watched the exchange unfold, feigning indifference behind the rim of your glass. But your eyes weren’t on Hangman—not really.

They were on Rooster.

The way his jaw tensed, the way his biceps flexed beneath his rolled-up sleeves, the way the veins in his forearms stood out when he gripped the pool cue. You knew better than to stare, but the dim lighting and the amber of your drink made for good camouflage.

Beside you, Bob and Fanboy were deep in conversation, their voices threading through the noise of the bar.

"I’m just saying," Bob mused, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, "a good WSO doesn’t just read the pilot—they anticipate them."

Fanboy nodded, ever the calm voice of reason. "It’s about trust. You can be the best at reading radar, but if your pilot doesn’t trust you to have their six, you’re dead in the air."

You hummed in agreement, setting your glass down with a soft clink. "It’s instinct. That’s why some pairings work better than others. Right, Bob?"

Bob smirked knowingly, glancing over at Hangman, who was now leaning dangerously close to Rooster, both men locked in a silent battle of egos. "Yeah, like you and Seresin," he said. "You two just… click."

"Match made in heaven," Fanboy teased, nudging you with his elbow.

You rolled your eyes but didn’t deny it. It was true, in a way. You and Hangman worked well together, your sharp instincts and calculated precision balancing out his reckless confidence. In the air, you made each other better. On the ground, though?

That was different.

"Hey, Snipes!" Hangman’s voice cut through the conversation as he straightened, smirking at you. "Tell Rooster here that he should quit embarrassing himself and rack ‘em up for a rematch."

You raised an eyebrow, the weight of Rooster’s gaze settling on you before you even turned to meet it.

"Don’t look at me," you said smoothly. "I just work here."

Laughter rippled through the group as Rooster smirked, shaking his head before taking a long sip of his beer. The golden liquid caught the light, and for just a second, you let yourself look—really look—before turning back to your drink.

You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on the bar, swirling the remnants of your drink in the glass as Bob and Fanboy continued talking shop beside you. Their conversation faded into the background, your focus slipping as Rooster set his pool cue down and stretched, arms lifting high above his head before settling back down, fingers tapping absently against the side of his beer bottle. The stretch pulled his shirt tight across his chest, and you forced your gaze away, taking a slow sip of your drink to cover the way your pulse kicked up.

"You good?" Bob’s voice cut through your thoughts, quiet but pointed. His pale blue eyes studied you with the kind of sharpness that made you wonder just how much he noticed.

"Yeah," you said quickly, setting your glass down. "Just tired."

Bob hummed in a way that said he didn’t quite believe you, but he let it go, turning back to Fanboy, who was now deep in some exaggerated retelling of a training exercise. You took the out, shifting your attention back to the room, where Hangman had just stepped closer to Rooster, that ever-present smirk still in place.

"Come on, Rooster," Jake drawled, resting his pool cue against the table. "You gonna admit I got you, or do you wanna lose again?"

Bradley scoffed, shaking his head. "Man, I swear, you could fall into the ocean and still find a way to be cocky about it."

"Damn right," Jake shot back, tipping his beer up for a slow sip.

Your lips twitched, but you hid your smile behind your drink, letting the glass linger against your lips. Bradley's eyes flicked toward you, quick but sharp, and for a second, you thought—no, you knew—he caught you watching. The corner of his mouth lifted, subtle, like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

Heat licked up the back of your neck, but before you could react, Jake clapped a hand on Bradley’s shoulder with a grin. "Come on, Bradshaw, let’s go again. Unless you’re too busy staring at Sniper over here."

Your stomach dropped.

Bradley’s jaw tightened just slightly, his fingers flexing around the bottle in his hand. But if he was caught off guard, he didn’t show it for long. Instead, he just smirked, slow and easy, before turning back to the table.

"You wish, Seresin," he muttered, racking up the balls.

The moment passed, the conversation shifting, the music playing on. But as you turned back to your drink, your heart was still hammering against your ribs. Because if there was one thing you knew for sure, it was that Hangman never said anything without a reason.

And now, thanks to him, you weren’t the only one noticing where your attention kept slipping.

Bob was still half-listening to Fanboy, nodding along as his fingers drummed against the side of his glass, but you could feel his attention flicking back to you every so often. He wasn’t obvious about it—not like Hangman, who would’ve just called you out in front of everyone—but Bob noticed things. Always had. It was part of what made him such a damn good WSO.

You exhaled, forcing your shoulders to relax as you pushed your empty glass toward the edge of the bar. "I’m gonna grab another drink," you said, keeping your voice even, casual.

Bob’s gaze lifted from his own glass, studying you for half a second before he nodded. "You want company?"

You shook your head, already sliding off the barstool. "I’m good. Be right back."

Bob didn’t press, just hummed in acknowledgment, but you caught the way his eyes lingered as you turned away. If anyone was gonna figure you out first, it would be him. You just had to make sure you didn’t give him anything more to work with.

You wove through the crowd, dodging a pair of aviators deep in some animated debate over dart scores, before finally making it to the bar. Penny was a few customers down, pouring a round of shots, so you leaned against the wood, letting your fingers trail along the smooth, worn surface as you waited.

It wasn’t until you felt a presence beside you that you glanced up—and immediately regretted it.

Bradley.

He was close. Not enough to be improper, but enough that you could catch the faint scent of his cologne beneath the salt air, enough that you could see the way the dim bar lights caught on the gold in his hair.

"You hiding over here, Snipes?" His voice was easy, teasing, but there was an edge to it, like he already knew the answer.

You rolled your eyes, willing your pulse to slow. "Just getting another drink, Bradshaw."

He smirked, leaning against the bar beside you, his fingers tapping absently against the wood. "That so?"

You didn’t answer immediately, but you didn’t have to. Because the way his eyes stayed on you—the way they held just a little too much knowing—told you he wasn’t buying it.

Penny slid a beer across the bar toward Rooster without him even needing to ask, a silent acknowledgment that he was a regular here. He caught it easily, fingers wrapping around the bottle as he turned back to you, his smirk still in place but softer now, more amused than cocky.

"You always this jumpy, Snipes?" His voice was low, meant just for you, the rough edge of it curling around your name in a way that sent heat flickering down your spine.

You scoffed, shifting your weight against the bar. "I’m not jumpy."

"Mm." He took a slow sip of his beer, eyes not leaving yours over the rim of the bottle. When he lowered it, he let his elbow rest against the counter, his body angled just slightly toward you. "You sure about that?"

Your brows lifted, feigning disinterest. "You always this nosy, Bradshaw?"

His grin widened, like he knew exactly what you were doing. "Only when it’s interesting." He let the words hang in the space between you, light but deliberate, before nodding toward your empty glass. "What’s your poison tonight?"

You should’ve just answered him. Should’ve just kept it casual, like you did with everyone else. But the way he was looking at you—the lazy tilt of his smile, the barely-there rasp in his voice—it made you want to push back just a little.

"Why?" you asked, tilting your head. "Gonna buy me one?"

Something flickered in his expression, brief but unmistakable, before he leaned in just slightly, enough that his voice was low when he murmured, "That depends."

Your fingers tightened around the glass, pulse kicking up. "On?"

Bradley let the silence stretch, like he was giving you time to think about it, about him, before finally smirking again. "On whether or not you’ll actually drink it… or just use it to hide behind."

Your breath hitched, but before you could come up with a response, Penny stepped up to take your order, cutting through the moment. Bradley didn’t move, didn’t look away—just waited, watching, like he already knew he’d gotten to you.

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to look away from Rooster’s knowing gaze as you turned to Penny. "Whiskey, neat."

If she noticed anything in your voice, she didn’t comment on it, just nodded and reached for a bottle. But Bradley? He let out a quiet chuckle, the sound warm and teasing as he took another sip of his beer.

"Didn’t peg you for a whiskey drinker," he mused, tilting his head.

You shot him a look. "And what exactly did you peg me for?"

He let his gaze flick over you, slow and measured, before shrugging. "Something smoother. Less burn."

You smirked, rolling your empty glass between your fingers. "Maybe I like the burn."

Bradley’s smile didn’t falter, but something in his expression shifted, the teasing edge softening just slightly. "Yeah," he murmured, voice quieter now. "Maybe you do."

Penny slid your drink across the bar, and you grabbed it quickly, grateful for something to do with your hands. But when you turned back, Bradley was still watching you, eyes dark with something unreadable, something you weren’t sure you were ready to decipher.

"Careful, Sniper," he murmured, tipping his bottle toward you before taking a sip. "Keep looking at me like that, and I might start thinking you like me."

Your stomach flipped, but you refused to let it show. Instead, you lifted your glass, letting the whiskey slide down smooth and slow before setting it back on the bar with a soft clink. Then, with your best smirk, you leaned in just a fraction, just enough for your voice to dip between you both.

"You wish, Bradshaw."

But even as you said it, you weren’t sure who you were trying to convince—him or yourself.

Rooster was still smirking when he took another sip of his beer, but when he lowered the bottle, you caught it—just the smallest trace of foam clinging to the edge of his moustache. It was barely noticeable, but once you saw it, you couldn’t unsee it.

Without thinking, you reached up, the tips of your fingers grazing his jaw as you swiped your thumb along the corner of his mouth. "You had a little—"

The words caught in your throat the second his breath hitched, his entire body going still under your touch. His skin was warm beneath your fingers, the slight stubble along his jaw rough against the pad of your thumb. You should’ve pulled away the second you fixed it, should’ve stepped back before the moment stretched too long, before the air between you shifted into something heavier.

But you didn’t.

Bradley didn’t move either, his eyes locked onto yours, something unreadable flickering behind them. Slowly, so slowly, his lips quirked, and you felt it—the way they just barely brushed against your thumb before you finally dropped your hand.

"Thanks, Sniper," he murmured, voice lower than before, rougher.

You swallowed, gripping your glass a little tighter as you forced yourself to scoff, to play it off. "Try drinking like an adult next time, Bradshaw."

He grinned, eyes still on you as he took another slow sip—deliberate, careful, like he was daring you to look away.

But you didn’t.

And maybe that was your first mistake.

You should have walked away. Should have taken your drink and gone back to Bob and Fanboy, slipped back into easy conversation about WSOs and manoeuvring and anything that didn’t involve the way Rooster was looking at you.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you stayed put, fingers curling around your whiskey glass, pulse thrumming beneath your skin as Bradley studied you with that lazy, knowing smirk. The worst part? He wasn’t even trying. He wasn’t laying it on thick like Jake would, wasn’t feeding you some line just to see if you’d take the bait. He was just… there. And for some reason, that made it harder to shake.

"You always this handsy, Snipes?" His voice was smooth, laced with amusement, but there was something else beneath it. Something quieter.

You scoffed, finally forcing yourself to take a step back, putting distance between you both. "Don’t flatter yourself, Bradshaw."

He hummed, tipping his beer toward you in mock salute. "Too late."

You rolled your eyes, turning toward the crowd, desperate to pull the focus away from whatever the hell this was. The Hard Deck was still alive with energy, the Dagger Squad scattered around the bar. Hangman was now leaning against the jukebox, arguing with Coyote about song choices. Payback and Fanboy were deep in conversation, likely rehashing old stories from training. Phoenix was at the dartboard, eyes locked in concentration as she lined up a shot.

Safe distractions.

"I should get back," you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

But before you could step away, Bradley's voice was there again, softer now. "You ever gonna let me catch up to you, Snipes?"

You hesitated, fingers tightening around your drink. The question wasn’t loaded, not on the surface. But something about the way he said it made you pause, made you consider the weight behind it.

Slowly, you turned back to him, arching a brow. "What makes you think you’re behind?"

Bradley smirked, but this time, it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Call it a gut feeling."

You held his gaze for a beat longer than you should have, something unspoken lingering in the space between you. Then, with a small shake of your head, you turned on your heel, slipping back into the crowd before he could say anything else.

But even as you walked away, you felt it—the heat of his gaze still following you, like he wasn’t quite ready to let you go just yet.

You barely made it three steps before you felt it—fingers curling around your wrist, firm but careful, like he wasn’t trying to stop you, just… slow you down.

"Hang on," Rooster murmured, his grip warm against your skin.

Your heart stuttered, but you didn’t stop him, didn’t shake him off. He didn’t give you the chance to. With a gentle but insistent tug, he steered you through the crowd, slipping easily between groups of aviators and locals like he’d done it a hundred times before.

You knew where he was leading you before you even saw it.

The narrow hallway just past the bar—the one that led to the bathrooms, the back exit, the only quiet place in the Hard Deck that didn’t involve sneaking behind the counter with Penny’s disapproving glare burning into the back of your head.

The second you stepped into the dimly lit corridor, away from the noise, away from the others, Bradley let go of your wrist. But he didn’t step back. If anything, he was still too close, the faint scent of his cologne and the salt air clinging to his skin.

You crossed your arms, forcing yourself to level him with a look even as your pulse betrayed you. "Seriously, Bradshaw? The hallway?"

His lips quirked, but his eyes stayed serious, steady. "Seemed like the only way to get you to actually talk to me."

Your stomach flipped, but you forced a scoff, leaning back slightly against the wall. "Talk to you? About what?"

He didn’t answer right away. Just let his gaze flicker over your face like he was trying to figure something out, like he was debating how much to say. Then, finally, quietly—

"You’re different with me."

Your breath caught.

Bradley took a step closer, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up slightly to keep your eyes on his. "You talk all that shit with Hangman. You joke with Bob, mess with Fanboy, keep up with Phoenix. But with me?" His head tilted, voice dipping lower. "You’re careful."

You swallowed hard, willing your expression to stay neutral. "You’re imagining things, Bradshaw."

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "No, I’m not." Another step, closing that last bit of space. "And I don’t think you are either."

Your back hit the wall. You hadn’t even realized you’d been inching away, hadn’t noticed how close he’d gotten until there was nowhere else to go. But even now, even with the way his voice curled around your name, warm and teasing and just a little too soft, he didn’t touch you.

Didn’t have to.

Because the way he was looking at you—the way he always looked at you—was more than enough.

Rooster’s hands flexed at his sides, like he was physically holding himself back. Like if he didn’t, he’d reach for you without thinking. His jaw tightened, his breath uneven, and for the first time all night, he didn’t have a smirk, didn’t have a teasing remark locked and loaded.

"Tell me no," he murmured, voice rough, low, almost desperate. "Tell me to back off, and I will."

You should have. You knew you should have.

But you didn’t.

"Rooster, it's the alcohol talking."

His eyes searched yours, flickering between them, his throat working as he swallowed hard. "Snipes…" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head like he was trying to pull himself together, but then his voice dropped even lower, nearly breaking—

"Please."

Your breath caught, your pulse hammering in your ears. Because he wasn’t just asking. He was begging. Begging for permission, for just a sign that he wasn’t crazy, that whatever this was—whatever had been burning between you for months—wasn’t just in his head.

And God help you, you wanted to give it to him.

"Bradshaw…"

His lips parted at the sound of his name, something flickering in his expression—hope, relief, hunger, you weren’t sure. But his hands stayed at his sides, fists clenching, because he was waiting. He was waiting for you.

"Tell me yes," he whispered. "Just once."

Your breath shuddered.

And then—

You did.

The word barely left your lips before Bradley moved.

Not rushed, not reckless, but like he’d been holding himself back for so damn long that the second you gave him permission, he couldn’t stop himself. His hands finally found you, one pressing firm and warm against your waist, the other cradling your jaw, fingers skimming your skin like he needed to memorize the way you felt beneath his touch.

And then—God—his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t tentative, wasn’t careful. It was needy, desperate in a way that sent heat rushing through you, like he’d been dying of thirst and you were the only thing that could quench it. His lips moved against yours like he was making up for lost time, like he couldn’t get enough, like he was afraid if he let you go, you’d slip right through his fingers.

You fisted the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and he groaned—deep, low, the kind of sound that sent a shiver down your spine. His grip on your waist tightened, his body pressing flush against yours as he kissed you harder, deeper, like he needed to prove something. Like he needed you to feel how long he’d been waiting for this.

It was overwhelming and dizzying, and God, you should have stopped him. Should have pushed him away before this became something you couldn’t take back.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you let yourself sink into it, let yourself drown in him, let yourself pretend—just for a second—that this was something you could have. That Bradley was something you could have.

And when he finally pulled back, breath ragged, forehead resting against yours, his voice came out rough, almost wrecked.

"Tell me I’m not crazy," he whispered. "Tell me you want this too."

You swallowed hard, hands still curled into his shirt, your heart pounding against your ribs.

And when you finally answered, your voice was barely above a breath—

"I do."

Bradley kissed you like he was starving, like he’d been waiting years for this moment and now that he had you, he wasn’t letting go. His hands gripped your waist, your jaw, like he needed to feel you everywhere at once, like he was trying to make up for all the times he’d held back.

You were just as desperate, fingers threading through his hair, tugging him closer until there was no space left between you, just heat and pressure and the intoxicating taste of whiskey and beer on his lips.

But then—between kisses, between the ragged breaths you barely had time to take—he murmured against your mouth, "Why’d you join the Navy?"

You barely processed the question at first, not with the way his lips trailed along your jaw, not with the way his hands were tracing slow, burning lines down your sides. But then he pulled back just slightly, just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded but curious. Like he needed to know.

Your breath hitched, your heart hammering against your ribs. Of all the moments, of all the things—he wanted to ask this now?

You smirked, tilting your chin just slightly, your hands still tangled in the fabric of his shirt. "I like dressing like the man."

Rooster froze for half a second, his brows lifting slightly—then he let out a sharp, breathless laugh, his forehead dropping against yours. "God, I knew I liked you," he murmured, voice husky, and before you could say anything else, his lips were on yours again, deeper, hungrier, like your answer had just sealed something in him.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips, "I do too."

And then he was kissing you again, harder this time, like he was proving a point, like he was making damn sure you’d never forget it because to you, he is the man.

[slightly-knot-insane]

I Insist

Monstertober 2024 - day 20 + 31 [ Fear of the Dark + Creature Feature ] by @/ozzgin

[ m!psoglavs* x fem!reader ]

*The quite literal translation for 'psoglav' is 'doghead'. They are nasty creatures, scavengers that eat corpses. They are described having human bodies with a dog head, one eye, iron teeth (and possibly hooves)

content: dub-con, gangbang, knife play, p in v, bukakke, biting, oral (both) tw: dub-con, (mention of) discrimination, racial fetishization

You look behind yourself. The street is very poorly lit and the gangs of psoglavs have been an issue in this area for a while. You click your tongue in annoyance. Calling groups of protesting psoglav "gangs" is very disrespectful. They've been discriminated for many years. Only working the worst jobs and suffering constant repression. The recent case of a psoglav child being refused treatment by a racist doctor sparked protests in the city. And they also ignited the darker side of psoglavs, especially at night.

But you know how much people have been unfair toward them. You've been working as a social worker for ten years and the amount of times you had to fight, yell and scream at authorities and your co-workers to stay professional and fair is alarming. And disappointing.

This is not your usual route of going home. The train stopped outside the station since it broke down and you had to walk through this unfamiliar district or go around following a quite longer path. It's an industrial zone and it's completely abandoned this late at night. You, admittedly, didn't think about that or about the lack of street lights. Which is very foolish.

You use your phone's flash to illuminate your path, but it feels like you're in a horror video game. You push your chin deeper into your jacket and walk faster. You don't get far before hearing a familiar sound of iron hooves ringing against the pavement. A group of psoglavs are following you. Shit.

You stop and turn around and your flash illuminates their impressive teeth and whites of their glaring eyes.

"I'm sorry for walking through here," you say. "I had no idea this was your area."

"Oh don't worry, we don't mind," one of them replies. You count four almost glowing eyes surrounding you. "We can help you get through here."

You take a step back, noticing the dangerous note in his voice. "I'm f-fine."

One of them pulls out a knife. "Oh but we insist."

"Wait..." The one whose eye is shining in a deep green shade steps forward. "I know her. She's one of the social workers who helped my nephew stay with my sister. She's... really nice."

The amount of humans and psoglavs that go through your office is too high for you to remember everyone... but you actually do remember this young man. A few weeks ago, he was sitting in the hallway comforting his little nephew while his sister was nervously pacing in front of the office. An immediate thought flashed through your mind - how caring and sweet he was. Not to mention you have a bit of a... thing for psoglavs and their lanky bodies and elongated arms.

"Is she?" The one with the knife relaxes. "That's okay... But she's still a human. I just... don't like them. Not anymore."

Being surrounded with these tall psoglavs fully electrified with conflicting emotions, aggression and frustration - got you sweating. And wet.

"Well, in any case, too bad such an opportunity go to waste." The next second the knife is at your throat, tip pressing against your pulse. You are too scared to swallow. "Unzip, darling."

One of them takes your phone and illuminates you as if you're on the stage. You remove your jacket and it falls to the ground. The knife slides between your breasts as it cuts your blouse. The tip burns your skin as it lightly enters your skin.

"Not even a little yelp?" The one with the knife mocks. "You are so brave." He proceeds to rip and cut your clothes, and his sharp knife makes a few cuts here an there. Soon you're left in your undies, exposed and trembling, covered in small lacerations. Psoglavs lick their lips and growl.

The knife dances across your stomach and ends up pressed just above your clit. You gasp from anticipation. "You're wet, darling. Your panties are soaked. Such a filthy slut you are." He lifts his knife and pulls it to his mouth. The slow dragging of the blade across his moist, steaming tongue sends a throb right into your core. You're no longer sure that the cold is making you tremble.

"Cherry boy!" You're surprised by his bark. The psoglav you know unglues his eyes from you and looks at his most likely leader. "Would you like to taste a human cunt?"

The cute psoglav seems flabbergasted at first, like he didn't understand the question, but then his bright green eye flashes. In one quick jump he's behind you, pulling you backwards with his long arms. He is squeezing your tits and pushing his hand between your legs, rubbing your damp underwear against your moist lips. He is too rough with you and you jolt.

"Ah... sorry!" His voice is less deep than the leader's, less rough, almost velvety. "You are just so... gorgeous. I really want to... fuck you... I've watched so much psoglav and human porn..."

His friends giggle. The young psoglav growls and fondles you harder. His eager, impatient, raspy pants tickle your exposed neck. He is drooling down your bare back. You can only imagine the state this youngsters is in - and that excites you. Especially the hardness pressing against the small of your back. His bony long fingers pinch your nipples. "So pretty... so soft..."

"Bend her down," the leader instructs him. "She is too short for you so I will help you. It's a shame not to use that delicate mouth of hers too."

He pulls out his semi-hard cock out of his jeans just as the young psoglav pushes your back, bending you forward. "I love human asses," he growls and slaps you. "They are so fat, so soft, I just.... nggghh..."

You feel his hot breath on your ass. The first bite is unpleasant and you yelp. "Hey, easy!"

"S-sorry... I just can't control..." His sharp teeth will definitely leave bruises but you're sure he could do a lot worse if he wanted to.

"Let's keep that mouth of yours busy." The leader takes you by your shoulders and lifts you right in front of his red and swollen cock. He doesn't need to tell you anything and you slurp that thing right in your mouth. You always wondered how does psoglav cock taste like. The leader hisses through his teeth, surprised by your action. "Fuck..."

The young psoglav behind you moves your underwear to the side and the next thing you feel is the long and slimy tongue hitting your g-spot like a torpedo. You whimper and wriggle around, but strong arms hold you in place. "Keep sucking my cock you slut, and let my friends have fun with you."

"You taste so good..." Youngster is slurping and humming against your pussy, eating you out like a juicy watermelon. You knees tremble and you have to grab the leaders jeans just to stay on your feet.

"Come on, cherry boy. Get your cock out. We don't have all night."

With an annoyed grunt, the tongue retracts from your core, just as your orgasm was starting to build up. You whimper and buck your hips wanting him to continue. And fast. The two other psoglavs get their leaking cocks out and stroke them on each of your side.

"Fuck..." The nervousness almost breaks young psoglav's voice. He lifts your thigh high up to position himself, lifting you up with his other arm cupping your stomach. He misses once, twice... but the third time your soaked pussy almost sucks him in. "Oh fuck, I'm inside...." His excitement is so adorable. "I... oh fuck... oh fuck... this is so good..."

His thrusts are insecure for mere seconds before they turn impatient and vigorous, catching a delightful rhythm. Your g-spot gets rubbed by his thick cock, the pressure sending pulses of irresistible pleasure. You get slightly dizzy, two strong psoglavs holding you horizontally almost completely lifted in the air, and you just buck your hips chasing your release before it washes over you. Your scream is muffled by a cock shoved down your throat and they barely notice it from all their panting and growls.

"Great job!" the leader praises the ex-virgin. "You made her cum. You will be an excellent lover."

The young psoglav doesn't say anything, but his thrusts become erratic and irregular and, with a low growl ,he grabs your thigh and pushes himself inside your pussy as far as he can go and releases his load into a body for the first time. Probably turned even more on by his and your panting, the rest of psoglavs shoot their loads on your face and back, covering you with their thick and sticky seed.

"Well..." The leader is breathless. He suddenly releases you and you would've fell onto the ground face first if the young psoglav behind you didn't grab you by the hips and helped you up. "This was fun. Thank you for being on our side, human. We'll keep an eye on you."

The three of them push their cocks inside their jeans and walk away. The young psoglav stays a bit longer to make sure you can stand on your own. After fixing himself up, he removes his jacket and places it on your naked shoulders and runs after his friends. But you see his green eye flashing back toward you, at least one more time.

[osamucide]

FLAVOR PROFILE—gn+afab!reader, alternate universe - PM boss!Osamu Dazai, interrogation+torture, psychological manipulation, noncon to dubcon—not safe, sane, or fully consensual, perv+sadist!Dazai, knife play, blood play, tiny bit of choking, degradation, cutting, scratching, biting, marking, mindbreak, debatable whether Dazai kills reader at the end? all around depraved, DEAD DOVE/DARK CONTENT—PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION

ABV—3.8k

BAR OSAMUCIDE IS STRICTLY AN 18+ ESTABLISHMENT. FAILURE TO PROVIDE VALID ID/AGE IN BIO UPON INTERACTING WILL RESULT IN REMOVAL FROM THE PREMISES. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED.

“So, here we are.”

It’s only a matter of time ‘til you start talking, was the last thing the redheaded mafioso told you as his grip on your hair loosened and you slumped forward into the chair once more. We’re gonna kill ya anyway. Just not before the boss gets his hands on you. Don’t you wanna make it easier on yourself?

You really do. You do want to make it easier on yourself. But you pledged your loyalty to your misfit faction of gifteds threatening the Port Mafia’s turf as of late—in a rather alarming way, it’s worthy to note—and as one of their highest profile members, as a leader and exemplar of the values of honesty and fairness that you promised to uphold and instill in your society as part of that pledge, you can not, in good conscience, betray what you know. What you call home.

There’s a cause at stake that is larger than your life. What kind of leader would you be if you crumbled? If you failed a cause that’s meant and hoped to outlive you anyway?

It’s your own fault you got caught to begin with.

It’s your own fault for thinking you could go out on recon in the dead of night by yourself. You’ve long known better that the Port Mafia doesn’t sleep; what you hadn’t known or expected was to run into the ruthless commander of the Black Lizard in a warehouse during the hours too late to be considered night, too early to be considered morning. The boss takes the liberty of reminding you.

“I think we’re all lucky Akutagawa’s built up some restraint over those impulses of his, hm?” he continues, his sharp dress shoes clicking cleanly against the concrete floor of wherever it is you’re being held. It just meant they already had their sights trained on you specifically before you started sneaking around—longer than you’d anticipated, and longer than you’d been prepared for. Had you brought along a few of your subordinates, you might’ve stood a chance—well, maybe against a group of low-ranked patrolmen. But that wasn't the case, and now, here you are. Caught.

You're hunched over, wrists at your back, ankles bound, the way Nakahara left you; assured fingertips—softer this time, but only marginally so—find the spot on the crown of your head that he favored earlier and you find yourself held up by your hair once more, wincing through a crusted-over bloody nose into the eyes of the boss—Osamu Dazai.

What strikes you first, aside from the sting curling across your scalp, is the utter emptiness in his stare—the first brown irises you think you've ever seen entirely devoid of warmth. He regards you with an expression you can only place through your blear as distaste—maybe a little boredom, then maybe a contradictory twinge of amusement when you sniffle. You're wholly unsure. All you know is it feels like whiplash when he lets you go and your chin snaps back down to your chest.

"Pretty thing," you almost don't hear him say; you're focused on registering the cuffs falling away from your wrists, the way your upper body is sent forward, and the fact that you can use the momentum to propel yourself up—or try, rather, but you're absolutely concussed and you forget your ankles, having lost feeling now from the restraints, are still attached to the seat. Your palms hit the concrete, the back of the chair knocks into your lower back and you yelp; suddenly you're a pathetic, twisted mess facedown on the ground.

He's chuckling. You can't imagine it reaching those eyes.

And if he's going to strip you of your dignity by laughing, well, at least you were upright before. Now, as your elbows give beneath your own weight, there's tears springing to your eyes; you're sure if they were to fall they'd streak through a layer of grime. And it's not from the pain—no, if you were going to cry from the pain, you would've a lot long ago. You can't remember how long you've been in here, and there's no window, no clock to give you any grace, but it has to have been at least a couple of days. Your body threatens to cry from the sheer humiliation of being crumpled beneath this chair, unable to scramble up—as your cheek hits the floor, a tear crawls across the bridge of your nose and you swear you can hear it echo as it splatters—while this man laughs at you.

By the grace of some god, you feel your tingling feet and ankles coming back to life as he undoes the bindings around them. And you scramble, not unlike a bug, when he lifts the chair off of you and tosses it aside, but still, your body fails you, and he's walking around you to crouch down near your face.

You see him before you feel him; the Port Mafia boss is willing you up by your arms, setting you on your ass, almost sympathetically, as you combat your sniveling. Still crouched, he speaks again only when you look to him, your eyes brimming with disgust.

He speaks softly, like he almost feels sorry for you as he does. "You're free to go, if you can get up."

But you're not stupid enough to try again. The tingling has morphed to the stage which it starts to almost hurt; you don't trust your feet, and only when you try to draw your knees up to your chin do you realize how badly all of your muscles tremble—too badly to make it up the daunting set of stairs that lead to the exit of your chamber. You wish he wouldn't watch you. You'd surely try if he left you alone. You'd look for something, anything, around you that you could use against him—there's nothing in the room other than your chair, a solid oak dresser with drawers against the wall, and your limp, abandoned bindings. You'd shoot him if your gun hadn't been confiscated first thing, and if he wasn't undoubtedly armed himself. Anyway, he gazes at you, intently, still swirling back and forth across the line that separates boredom from amusement. You won't get away with anything beneath his stare.

So you don't try. Your ass hurts, too—that damn chair wasn't forgiving at all, and your palms sting when you touch your own skin. You ache all over, in every joint, like you've got some mutant strain of the flu, and your head pounds with icepick intensity. It's a struggle just to look at him, despite the dimness, despite your desperation. So you don't. You curl in on yourself, and you don't cry. And he stares.

He hums, standing back up. His eyes on you—they feel like ice.

"Chuuya couldn't get anything out of you," he sighs, recounting it like he's briefing you on the morning news. "But you look pretty close to breaking. I'll have to thank him for getting you started."

"Kill me." You mean to spit it at him, but your voice shakes out, hoarse. "You won't get anything from me. Just kill me."

"Oh, but that wouldn't be as much fun yet." He's smiling; you could almost mistake it for a kind expression if it wasn't for those eyes. He's reaching for you again, deceivingly soft—you know it's deceit, how he gathers you up onto your feet with near-gentleness and leads you over to the dresser. He doesn't look strong, but he must be; you're mostly dead weight when he picks you up to sit you on the wooden surface, let you lean back against the wall.

You know what comes next for someone like you when you're faced with someone like him. You don't know what he's rifling around in one of the dresser drawers for, but it hardly matters; he's shuffled himself between your knees, and your closed eyes will not be enough to shut him out; you're already so exhausted. You're already dead, and you try to take comfort in that fact while he picks up your wrist, trails his fingers over it like you're as fragile as you look.

It's when you feel something cold against your forearm that your eyes snap open again, searching.

He looks sharper than the knife. It's a switchblade, glinting as it lays flat against the vains in your wrist; Osamu Dazai's lips twitch into a smile for the first time you've ever seen as you glance between him and it.

"Please don't," you whisper, but it's too late.

One horizontal slash against your arm. At this point it almost feels familiar, like a routine injection. A shot of whisky. You wince, but don't whine.

It's deep enough to pour. Your blood is warm as it circles your wrist like a bracelet, warm as it soaks through the knee of your pants when he drops it like you're a ragdoll to pick up your other one.

"You can cooperate and they won't have to match," he mumbles casually, tracing the tip of the knife across your palm like a pencil across paper as he studies your face.

You close your eyes again, tilting your head back. This isn't the worst of what you've experienced down here. It'll take more than a few slashes on the wrist to make you talk.

Before you can assert that, another one. Opposite arm. They match.

He clicks his tongue like he's disappointed in you. Like he doesn't like having to do this. But when you open your eyes again, that little smile is still there, cracked into his pale face.

You don't have to say it'll take more than that. He knows.

That's why the tip of the blade presses into the space between your collarbones, above the neckline of your shirt.

You suppose you've been lucky to keep it on this long.

So when he drags the knife down, slicing cleanly through the fabric and catching the skin of your chest, abdomen along it a couple times, you don't budge. You don't let yourself look scared. You don't twitch at the hand gripping your thigh hard while he nudges the tattered piece of cloth down your shoulders to expose your heaving chest. That's the most glaring giveaway—your breathing. And now that your shirt is gone, he can see it clear as day.

"Shame Chuuya had to go for your nose." That almost sympathetic tone is back. His thumb comes to swipe at the blood dried above your lips. You jerk your head away, but fall back into his hand when the icepick stabs again. Fuck, it hurts. Your head hurts worse than anything, probably thanks to said nose shots. Your heartbeat is in your temples. "But it's okay. You're still pretty."

You'd be flattered under other circumstances. It's true you could say the same about him, but it's all clouded, hidden beneath the malice he inflicts upon you with such ease.

That smile widens.

"I might have to mark it up, though," he remarks. That false regret—it makes you boil. "Which is too bad."

You've bargained down here, but you figure through your haze, through your bleeding arms, to try again. "You don't have to do this. We can reach an agreement."

"An agreement, you say," he zeroes in on you, hands on either side of your hips as he leans forward to meet you at eye level. "An agreement. What would that look like for you?"

"You can kill me," you concede, breathless. "Let me tell my men to stand down and then you can kill me. It can be over. We won't have to deal with each other again. Ever."

Osamu Dazai looks at you thoughtfully, like he's considering, like he hadn't thought of that as an option before.

You are, unfortunately, stupid enough to let a flicker of hope arise inside you. Even if you die—when you die, you can spare yourself from more suffering and your faction will back off. You will let yourself be the example of what will happen, and no one part of your cause will be subjected to this treatment; you're okay with that, you're okay with being a martyr, if it only means it can all be over—if it only means it won't happen ever again.

Dazai looks to you again. Cold. "You can tell your men to stand down," he begins, fanning that flicker.

You take a deep breath.

"...After I'm done with you."

You're not fully sure what that means until his fingers are popping the button on your pants.

He's got no intention of letting you die in anything less than agony, you realize, no matter what you say.

Tears well up again. You shake your head, kick at him with your weakened legs, but he dodges you easily, picks up the knife again as your trousers settle beneath your knees and you mutter no, no, no over, over. He pushes them off, with your underwear, to the ground and kicks them away, grabbing your flailing hands and holding them to the wood as he threatens you with the restraints once more.

"You're gonna fuckin' talk either way," he growls through his teeth, the first hint of frustration finally seeping into his demeanor, into his eyes. It's gone in a second; gone, replaced with that stale amusement, more chilling than the frustration perhaps, and you almost wish for him to be angrier, more explosive like the executive named Chuuya had been. This quiet rage that seems to be his trademark is far scarier. You can't bite back at it. Especially with your bare ass against the dresser, you can't find your own volatility. It's stuck in your chest. He disarms it, like magic, with each conspiratorial smile, each gentle caress. You can't get around it.

You get your wish when one of his hands grips the column of your throat, throttles your hammering skull back against the wall. You finally whine at the pain. Your hands flail still, clawing at him more out of instinct than anything, but the switchblade is enough to chase you away as he leans into you, pins you in place with his hips—pathetic, as you collect cuts and gashes across your knuckles, fingers, palms while he undoes his belt.

You can feel his throbbing tip against your pelvis as he scoots you closer to him by the small of your back; the blade flips in his grasp and finds a path to hover, pointed over your eye and you catch his wrist as he tells you—

"Keep squirming and this goes through your eyeball right to your brain."

What else can you do but let all your tense limbs fall to rest? You feel him poking you uncomfortably, hotly as you crane your neck away from the knife; you're caught. You're really caught, more than you have been the entire time you've been down here. Squirm one way, suffer another. You're stuck between a rock and a hard place and the hope you had, so brutally snuffed out by his cutting words, all dead now, like you will be soon, almost lets you look at him like a man you could want. You would, certainly, under normal circumstances. But you're bleeding, you're concussed, your body is giving up and he's the most powerful man in Yokohama and the way his bangs curtain over his eyes after he pushes them back has you, in your delirium, hesitantly linking your ankles around his waist and it's numbly and distantly infuriating, the relief that washes over your body when you drape onto him, but it's relieving no less, and he's almost beautiful to you if you just don't think too hard about any of it.

Don't think too hard about any of it.

Steal it back from him—look like you could like it through the dwindling coherence you have, and maybe you can steal it back from him.

You find yourself smiling, too. Annoying, he thinks—he knows what you're doing. He holds the blade over your eye which falls shut and opens again in an unconcerned blink that could almost be considered sultry—you must be demented. He knows what you must be thinking. Knows what you must've snapped to.

So he flips the knife again—holds the blade, carefully, handle out, and dips it down to your cunt.

He wants to stab you when you roll your hips against it.

It would embarass you, how quickly you get yourself wet from grinding your clit on the handle of his blade, if you weren't so close to total depletion. Maybe, you think, if you grind hard enough you can get him to cut himself with it; you've never gone down without a fight, and just because you're at your wits end doesn't mean that'll change.

In fact, you channel it into everything you can give. You grind on the handle, and he watches you, cold eyes wholly unamused but now totally focused on you. You'll be a project. You'll make it difficult.

Good thing he likes a challenge.

Dazai's smug again when he pulls the knife back up and shoves the handle between your teeth; "Suck," he instructs you, and you do, widening your drooping eyes, swirling your tongue, urging him forward with your legs around his waist.

It's what you seem to want, you think he mumbles before he's pressing himself into you remorselessy; it hurts, the stretch—he harshly bypasses the ring of taut muscle at your entrance, plunging into you deep, and you whimper around the handle of the knife and he pushes that deeper, too, into your throat, and you gag as he splits you open and the tears finally fall. Not because it hurts or because you're overwhelmed but because you know, through all of it, you're going to break him the same way he and his men have broken you—even if not to the same degree, it'll be enough. A little victory to die with.

And he starts fucking you, fast.

With what little strength you have left, you tear the buttons of his shirt open. A bandaged torso, a chest heaving just as much as yours now—you look at him, ravenously, and he twirls the knife one more time to tell you to watch it, watch your hands, and as he fucks you he's grunting in irritation at your response, and the blade is at your throat, pressing uncomfortably close just like his tip had against your tummy and your moans are open-mouthed, loud, shameless as your nails rake up his chest, throat, and land in his hair. Your blood smears across his neck, across his shoulders.

"You're—ngh—you're fucking crazy," he hisses at you as you clench, arch, press your forehead to his almost like you're lovers. You have to be fucking crazy. The worst part for him—he isn't stopping you. Not that he can't, he just isn't; you're not supposed to enjoy this, but you're lapping your own blood up from his milky skin as the threat of a slit throat is suspended between the both of you and you're kissing him, kissing him and biting his lip, clashing your teeth; he tastes both of your blood and he's pressed the knife harder into your neck in his shock because you should be screaming, begging for him to stop but you're not—you're meeting his heavy thrusts with enthusiasm, deranged in your hysteria.

He's dredged up enough of your wetness now that you're squelching around him. You dig your teeth in deep when you feel the sting from the blade on the delicate skin of your neck; he's losing himself as much as you are yourself, and you're smiling still, smiling as finally as he wraps a cruel hand beneath your thigh and pushes it up to hit you deeper and the pleasure registers through the revenge and the hot, sticky blood. He might cut you to death before you cum but not before he does because you pull back and he's ruined—the most dangerous man in Yokohama, the boss of the Port Mafia, Osamu Dazai is crumbling to ruin inside your dripping cunt; you could laugh—you will laugh, when this is over, and you hope it'll haunt him until the day he's in his grave—but for now, you can only dig your fingernails into his scalp (a little more of his own medicine) and moan, gasp, sob over the way he drags himself in and out of you deliciously. It feels like heaven compared to everything you've been through at the hands of his subordinates in the last thirty-something hours.

Since you're not begging him to stop, you should be begging him to let you cum—but you're not doing that either, and the resolve of the boss of the Port Mafia is shattering, slowly—too quickly—as he pounds into you harder, harder, harder. Bandages coming unwrapped, sweat dripping from the perfect, pointed end of his nose; you lick that up too, gently as you can through the way he jostles your body with each of his movements.

"This the only way you get pussy, huh? Capturing and forcing it? Ungh—Pathetic fucking man," you groan out, smirk playing on your face as you fight the way your eyes roll back. Impossibly harder, faster.

"Sh-shut the fuck up, slut," he spits back at you. Those cold eyes burn.

"You're fucking a dead bitch," you taunt. You think he'll break you. You think you want him to. You think he already has. You have to do it back. "Slut."

The knife presses harder into your throat. You can feel the blood flowing freely.

"Talk or I'll fucking kill you before you cum." But his voice, so smooth and suave and bored and casual earlier, is so broken now, so clipped. "Tell me where those six fucking friends of yours are. I'll find them anyway."

Six friends—your executives and subexecutives. It pulls you out of the moment that he knows how many of you there are. But you put on a good show; you're a good leader who will die with their secrets. His threats are empty to you. You clamp down on him, you clasp your teeth into his jaw, his shoulder as his thrusts slow, still bruising but slow as you feel him coming unraveled—it's enough to send you over, too, blacking out and hearing only your own voice as you sob, squirt a pitiable orgasm onto his stomach but it's one nonetheless and his seed is filling you, warm. You come back to and find his eyes one last time as they fly open, glazed over. He's gorgeous. He really is. You don't mind that he's the last thing you'll see. How unfortunate he couldn't be the death of you in some other way. Maybe in some other life.

A final long slash to send you unconscious. A smattering of sizzling red across his face.

He watches your body collapse at the foot of the dresser. You could've been the death of him too, in some other life—he saw it in your eyes.

How unfortunate it all is.

Osamu Dazai, the boss of the Port Mafia, stands and stares at you, your weakening pulse, for a long time before he gets to cleaning up your blood.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Meet the Family 3

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your boss needs a last-minute favour for the holidays.(petite!reader)

Characters: Lloyd Hansen

Note: I'm feeling very Little Lies about this.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

"So this is the reason you missed Thanksgiving," a butter knife jabs in your direction as you poke at the white turkey meat; this? You look up then at Lloyd as he nearly chokes.��

"Uh, yeah," he coughs behind his fist and swallows, "we were out of the country..." 

"Yes, why would you bother to stay. No use in seeing your mother at the holidays, or the rest of your family," she reproaches. 

"Mom," he groans. 

"For ten years," William adds from his wife's side. "Now you show your face and you look as if you're eating rotten apples." 

"No," Lloyd argues. "It's just... I'm busy and I don't get a lot of time away from work." 

"We all have obligations," Gwenyth argues. 

"Well, I took her away so I could propose," he explains as he presses his fork into the whipped potatoes. "And it worked out perfect, right? Cause now I can bring her to meet everyone." 

Gwenyth hums flatly, "I suppose." She clicks her tongue and takes a healthy gulp of wine. 

"So, Pixie," Lillian drawls from further down, "what do you do for work? Oh let me guess. A librarian?" 

You don't let the suggestion bother you. You don't see it as an insult even if she says it like one. You shake your head. 

"No, I--" you begin and Lloyd stomps your foot so you bite down on your voice.  

"She is a corporate consultant. International corporation," he explains.  

"Oh, wow, sounds busy," Gwenyth remarks. 

"Yes, how will you have time for children?" Lillian challenges. 

"I'm sure they'll find time to make them," Benson chortles over his snifter.  

"Ben, please," William rebukes. 

"We're focusing on the wedding before all that," Lloyd says. 

You peer around as you chew your cheeks in frustration. You're annoyed by how they speak of you as if you're not even there, and so intimately. Yet, you don't have much to say for yourself. This whole facade is tiresome and you really don't care what they think about a made-up job. Or marriage, for that matter. 

"That will be done with quickly," Gwenyth sniffs. "And she will need to quit that job if she wants to do her duty as your wife." 

"I can handle a job and a husband," you blurt out. 

The table quiets as if stunned that you can speak. You blink and Lloyd puts his fork down and touches your arm, "sweet pea--" 

"I highly doubt you'd be marrying him for any other reason than that nest egg promised to him," Lillian scoffs. "You don't need to play a saint with us, darling. Marriage is a transaction in more ways than one; affection, money, sex--" 

"Lilly," William warns and she laughs. 

"Well?" She shrugs. "You do know, the wedding only guarantees a twenty percent payout. He needs an heir to get all of it." She pets her stomach smugly and smiles. "I can assure you it's well worth it. Once you meet Lorelai, you'll see." 

"Oh? Maybe when you meet her, you'll consider being a mother too," Lloyd retorts. 

"Excuse me?" Lillian snarls. "I love my daughter." 

"Of course you so," he sneers. "I'm sure she feels all that love right now as she enjoys her turkey and carrots with the nanny." 

"I can't have her around adults and alcohol. You can't possibly understand," she snaps. "And maybe it's better that you never do. I could never imagine you as a father, especially when you are such a child." 

"Takes one to know one," Lloyd growls. 

"Enough," William barks. "Both of you." 

Ransom laughs loudly at the end of the table. Lloyd shifts and Lillian rolls her eyes. You sigh at your plate. You miss your family. For the first time in years, you truly miss them. 

"What the hell are you laughing at, Hugh? The only reason you're here is because your grandpappy exiled you." 

Linda gasps, "He's not exiled--" 

"Oh, right, of course not, Lin, that's why you're here breaking bread with the peasants. That's what you called us at great grandmother's wake--" 

"Lloyd, watch your mouth," William snarls. "Better yet, shut it." 

Lloyd recoils in his chair and stiffens. His features sharpen then he lowers his chin and picks up his fork. His jaw is stone as he stirs the gravy into his potatoes. You wouldn't call him humbled, more whipped like a dog. These people make you feel something for him you never thought you could; sympathy. 

"I don't care about money that much," you say. "It can't buy respect. Besides, I would never marry a man without a prenup. Whatever Lloyd has will remain his." You push your shoulders back as a yawn tickles in your throat. "At this point, he can keep you lot as well." 

You stand up and take the cloth napkin from your lap. You fold it neatly, "Gwenyth, you can tell whoever cooked dinner that it was delicious. I appreciate you all having me but I'm going to go find a hotel and some peace." You step around the chair and push it into the table, "happy holidays." 

You turn, your insides jittering. What are you doing? Where did that come from? You could say you're tired and not thinking straight, but honestly, you're just so repulsed by these people that your head could explode. They're lucky they only got a a few pieces of shrapnel. 

You march out without looking back. Your cheeks tinge hotly with self-awareness. You've messed it all up. After years of harnessing your emotions under Hansen's thumb, you finally snapped. You blew it all. 

"What she said," another chair scrapes as Lloyd speaks. "Mom, dad, good night." 

You enter the hall and head for the entry way. You hear him beside you. You're still foggy with disbelief. It isn't until you sit to put on your boots that you notice Lloyd. 

"I know, I'm done. Fired." You pull on your leather booties. "I'll take the severance and figure it out." 

"I didn't say so," he says as he grabs a coat from the closet. 

"Um..." 

"You're completely right. We can't stay here. They're all a bunch of pricks and they wonder why I didn't come home for ten years," he pulls on his coat as he speaks. He pushes back his hair then smooths his mustache. "We're better off at the hotel. We'll sleep better there--" 

"We? Lloyd, please. Stay with your family. I need space," you stand and reach past him for your jacket. "Besides, I booked a single queen and it's Christmas Eve." 

"Queen's big enough. You're tiny--" 

"Okay, no, no," you hiss. "It's not happening. Stay--" 

"But I don't want to," he whines. 

"Mr. Hansen," you say. "You're out of your mind." 

"Well, after your blow up, I don't think I'm welcome," he puts his hand on his hip. "So this is your last chance to save your job. You made the mess, you clean it up." 

"Me?" You exclaim. 

He hushes you and step closer, "Pix, you already made a scene, let's not do the encore. I'm gonna grab my bags, alright?" 

"You can't be serious." You say. 

"Hey, I gotta play the loyal husband--" 

"And why exactly is that necessary? Why couldn't you get one of those Tinder girls?" 

"Woah, woah, come on, someone will hear you," he covers your mouth with his hand and you turn your face away with a blech. "Go warm up the car. We'll talk on the ride to the hotel." 

You stare at him. He watches you, as uncertain as you've ever seen him. In the silence, you can hear the din in the other room. 

"Always was such a baby," Lillian laughs venomously. 

"He could've chosen someone without an iron spine," Gwenyth adds. 

You grimace and throw your hands up, "fine, get your things." 

"You're the best," he grabs your shoulders but before he can kiss you, you put your hand up to pinch his nose. He recoils and rubs the tip, "ow." 

"No more of that," you say as you pull your keys out of your pocket. "Thank god I only had one glass of wine." 

You stomp out the front door. The frigid winter air hits you like a bus. Once one even ground, the swirling snow flecks onto your shoulders and hair. Great, now you get to drive in the snow with an unwanted passenger. 

You get in the driver seat and push the ignition. You turn on the heater and the heated seats. At least Hansen pays enough for the add-ons. Still, you’re not sure there’s any compensation equal to what you just went through. 

You look over as the front door opens and closes. Lloyd rolls a giant suitcase with him, another smaller bag strapped on top, and a third in his other hand. You don’t move as you watch him descend the steps, easing the wheels over the edge one-by-one. 

He comes down the long walk and jerks as his loafers slip on the icy pavement. It would be funny if you weren’t so damn exhausted. You steadies himself and continues on. You should get out and help him. You don’t. 

You pop the trunk with the button. He loads in his bags as you check the rear view. He comes around the passenger side and pulls the door open. He lets out an obnoxious ‘brrrr’ as he drops into the seat next to you. You shift gears as he shuts the door. 

“Ugh, I feel so much better getting out of there,” he says as he adjusts the seat, making room for his long legs. 

“Why?” 

“Um, why not? My family is the worst--” 

“No, why did you drag me into this?” You ask as you lean into the wheel and squint over it. The dark, the snow, the unplowed roads, it’s like the universe can’t stop throwing you obstacles. 

“You want the real answer or the nice answer?” He replies. 

“Mr. Hansen,” you growl. 

“Right, I had no other choice.” 

“No other choice?” You repeat. 

“Look, those long-legged beauties back home, they’re fun, but they don’t got much else going on. I needed someone who could play along,” he explains. 

“Play along?” 

“Yeah, I mean, you’re smart so--” 

“I’m smart...” 

“I wouldn’t hire you if you weren’t--” 

“Jeez, wow, Mr. Hansen, thank you so much. You think I’m so smart, so you should know I’m smart enough to know better than to believe you. You think I’m desperate,” you turn slowly onto the next street. “You think I have nothing else going on.” 

“No, that’s not--” he shifts in his seat. 

“It’s exactly what you think,” you huff. “Well, I do. I have a flight in...” you pause and check the time on the dash, “five hours so when we get to the hotel, I’m going to sleep and you’re going to let me. Then I’m going to catch my flight and the curtain can be pulled on this whole theatre.” 

“Your words, not mine. I don’t think you’re desperate.” 

You don’t respond. You’re tired. He just can’t leave things alone. He always has to say something. You wonder if he was truly left to his own thoughts, if his head would combust. 

“I’m actually impressed,” you says, “you held your own.” 

“Sir,” you utter. 

“It was good. Entertaining. I mean, all these years, you never once talked back to me but wow, that was... majestic, really. You didn’t even wait to see my mother’s face. Or my sister’s.” 

“Your family is weird,” you blurt out. “Sorry, uh, I didn’t mean--” 

“I mean, yeah, we probably are but I don’t really have anything to compare it to,” he says. 

You nod. He has a point. Yet, while that horde of entitled brats might explain his personality, it can’t excuse it. 

The hotel’s marquee shines like a beacon as you steer into the lot. You yawn and shut off the engine. You let yourself out and drag your feet around to the trunk. You take out your carry-on as Lloyd hovers at the other side. 

“All of your stuff, out,” you say. “I’m going straight to the airport in the morning. Checkout is ten so as long your gone by then, I don’t care what you do.” 

He’s quiet but he obeys. He takes his bags out and sets them on the ground. He pulls the rolling bag and slings his smallest bag on his shoulder. You snap the trunk shut and turn, shuffling across the icy tarmac. 

You enter through the automatic doors and cross the desolate lobby. You check in with your ID but as you look for your credit card, Lloyd flicks his between his fingers and offers it up to the clerk. 

“It’s on me,” he insists. 

You won’t argue. You really don’t trust him to leave by checkout. As you head for the elevators, he takes a deep breath. He doesn’t speak until you’re behind the sliding doors of the compartment. 

“You know, I’m still your boss so you can’t just order me around,” he says. 

You glance over at him. “Right, won’t happen again, sir.” 

“It could have been worse, you know? I could’ve actually had you come all the way out here just to drop off some gifts. If you think about it, you got a free dinner and some wine--” 

“Yeah, it was a great time,” you say dryly. “Mr. Hansen, I’m too tired to lie any more. Tonight was one of the worst nights of my life so no, I don’t think it could be worse.” 

The doors open and you stride out. You swipe the card at the door corresponding to the number written in the folio and let yourself in. He follows closely, nearly running over your heels with his suitcase. 

You take your bag to the bed and take out the cotton pajamas stuffed inside just for tonight. You bring them with you into the bedroom, doing your best to ignore your guest. Lloyd wanders along the wall and finds his way to the mini fridge. 

You’re in no rush to change, only to get to bed. You trade your dress and stockings for the cotton two-piece and emerge. You shove your bag and clothes beside the night table and slide under the blankets. You pull them up to your shoulders. 

“They got wine, tequila, beer--” 

“I’m going to sleep,” you insist. 

“The alcohol will help.” 

“No, it will make waking up even harder.” 

“After tonight, I think you need a shot.” 

“Mr. Hansen,” you grumble and cover your head. 

“Fine, more for me.” He snickers. 

You’re happy he can’t see the irritation on your face. You might just be better off to let him drink whatever. Eventually, he’ll have to pass out. At least, you can only hope he does. 

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

monster - haegeum, m | myg, jjk

pairing(s): yoongi x reader x jungkook

summary: Mafia boss Min Yoongi. Bodyguard Jeon Jungkook. And the weapon. The monster. The violent creation of the shadow king. You.

--

please, read the following.

As you can see, this is not the story. This is your warning. Only this post should be tagged / reblogged and not the actual post. This is intentional.

Some of you have read the 'monster' AU. The 'monster' AU is based off the world within the Daechwita MV. It was also written back then, in 2020. What many of you don't know is that the three parts on this blog (part i | part ii | part iii) are only some of the sex scenes of a much larger story. Mhm. I have never posted 'monster' in full anywhere. It would be misconstrued and misunderstood too easily. It is not for unprepared souls.

The gist of the story is that black-haired mafia boss Min Yoongi wants to kill the blond-haired Mad King, and he does.

I often get requests to revisit this AU.

My original intent was to not write anything more. I thought about taking the posts down at one point, as they are technically parts to an incomplete story I will never publish on here. Eventually, I decided to just let it be. People enjoy guilty pleasures. As long as you have your head straight and know this isn't real.

If there was any time to revisit these three, well, it would be after the release of Haegeum, wouldn't it?

Again, this is your warning. The following is not for the faint of heart. I am not holding back. If you click forward, that means you have read the following warnings below and you still wish to proceed. You know what you are getting yourself into. This is violence. This is insanity. This is 'monster' and there is no redeeming them.

Remember, everything is fiction. Read the disclaimer in my masterpost.

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; premeditated killing and mass death with all three contributing; graphic descriptions of murder; blood; gun + knife violence; arson > explosion; thievery (money); mentions of reader placed in solitary confinement as punishment; physical abuse; sociopathic and manipulative behaviors; intense smut (fem reader, threesome, unprotected penetrative sex [reader is medically sterile], restrained [arms pinned down], choking with leather collar and with hand, heavy bite / scratching / bruising, stimulation to climax with the handle of a switchblade and said closed switchblade inserted into reader's vagina; reader being spit on and licked degradingly; cum-covered switchblade and later fingers in JK's mouth by Yoongi; standing sex, standing doggy, multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation, m-masturbation onto reader's face); non-idol!AU - mafiaaboss!AgustD!Yoongi (long black-haired Daechwita/Haegeum AU), longhaired!tattooed!bodyguard!Jungkook; mercenary!reader; m/m tension between them; JK has a praise kink; you have a pain kink

-

This is after the death of the Mad King.

Now, Min Yoongi has all of South Korea within his clutches, puppeteering the dirty money that goes in and out of this country. The underground ruler of the inhumane ruthlessly takes out anyone that is stupid enough to step forward and challenge his rule. Oh, they will always come, their greed tempted by the prosperous forbidden fruit flourishing in the darkness. Foolishly thinking, ah, but who could stop me? After all, no one knows who the shadow king really is – not until they are already locked within the fangs of death.

--

by proceeding, you are verifying that you have read all warnings.

--

masterpost

[eclipseiz]

Commander ﹒⪩⪨﹒

pairing- phillip graves x reader

(♡ synopsis)- a mission results in you getting hurt, but also with commander graves head between your legs

warnings- "who did this to you" trope, established relationship, oral (fem receiving), dirty talk, fingering

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

Charging back into base you shoved pass the lingering soldiers who's gazes were glued to you.

Weather it was because you were the 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 woman on base or because it looked like you were hit by a bus. Your hair that was normally thrown back in a tight bun was sticking up at all different angles. Your dress has a tear up the side that was being held closed by your hand and the star of the show was the deep purple bruise that imprinted on the side of your face. Sending you into a drug house acting like a prostitute had to be the worst plan in history

"L.T hold on" you heard Soap yell from behind you but you kept moving forward not bothering to stop your journey to the bathroom to wash up before crashing in bed.

You felt a hand grip your arm making you whip around and lock eyes with the mohawk wearing man, "What in gods name do you need right now? Wasn't sending me into El Sin Nombre's house 𝚞𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 may I add enough?!"

He quickly dropped your arm, "Were sorry L.T we didn't know it would escalate that quick." he said solemnly.

You scoffed shaking your head and rolling your tongue against your cheek, "It wasn't on you Soap. Its on the idiots that sent me in there and didn't proceed to have my back." you patted his shoulder before stepping back. "I'm gonna clean up and get some rest, tell the others I do not want to be bothered unless someone's dying."

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

Stepping out of the steamy shower you quickly dried off before walking to the mirror assessing the purple marking around your cheek.

Hearing the door click open you quickly turned around to yell at whoever was charging into an occupied bathroom but cut yourself seeing it was Phillip.

"I heard you got hurt." he said before stopping infront of you and bringing his fingers to your chin to turn your head. "W𝗁𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝖽 this 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎?" he asked between clenched teeth.

You brought your hand to his chest rubbing down the hard abs underneath his muscle shirt, "I was told to go into a back hallway to find an entrance to the third floor. Ghost said he was watching but he must have gotten distracted because a Cartel member cornered me in and tried to make advances on me." You sighed. "When I rejected him he backhanded me. I got the knife I had on my thigh and killed him."

He tensed under your hands, "Are you okay?" he asked slowly watching for any reaction on your face.

"Coudn't be better. Would just love to take a nap." You stepped back towards the door to your bedroom, "Wanna join?"

Phillip didn't skip a beat in following after you and sitting on the bed, watching as you dropped the towel covering your naked body. You went to reach for pants and a shirt but he stopped you, "Don't bother with that, come lay down baby."

You smirked as you walked to the side of your bed and crawled over to him, "Why's that?"

"Lay down and I'll show you." as you moved onto your back he moved onto his stomach, his breath hitting your hot core, "Aw look, my pretty girl already soaked." he rubbed your juices around your lips before moving up to your clit.

"P-please." you gasped out, hand coming down to grip his cropped brown hair.

He chuckled before lapping at your clit while pushing the tips of his fingers into your entrance. Your head hit the back of the pillow as you moaned out a dreamy sigh. Noticing you already chasing your high he pushed his finger the rest of the way in, curling them to hit your g-spot at the perfect angle.

You had only been in this position for 3 minutes and he already had you a panting mess, "Make me come Commander. Please."

He perked up at the use of his title flicking his tongue faster, "Cmon Baby, Cmon Baby, Cmon Baby." He whispered agaisnt your puffy clit.

You came with a earth crushing moan, your body tensing and your hands pushing Phillips head further into your core, "Holy Shit." you sighed out as he moved back up your body giving you a passionate kiss before moving off the bed.

"Sleep well baby, Ill be back in a little bit." the Commander said before tucking the blankets over and turning the light off.

Lets just say Ghost got his ass handed to him that night.

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

[br0-k3n-sch00lb01]

THIS MAY BE UNCOMFORTABLE FOR SOME READERS.

PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION.

THIS DEMONSTRATES THE EVENTS LEADING UP TO THE DEAD ENDING.

IT SHOWS BASIL AND SAGE’S RELATIONSHIP HOW IT REALLY IS..

NO MODIFICATIONS DONE BY BR0K3N.

PLEASE BE CAREFUL READING FROM THIS SCENE FORWARD.

[TICK-TOCK]

[TICK-TOCK]

Basil sat in the interrogation room. Bright white light was shining into his eyes.

“So, Mr Fey.”

“Yes?”

“You know about the suicide of Sunny Suzuki, correct?”

“Yes.”

“You claim to not have been involved in it?”

[TICK-TOCK-TICK-TOCK]

“I was not involved in the suicide of Sunny Suzuki.”

“Very well then. You may go.”

[CLICK]

[PUSH]

He walked out as the heavy door closed behind him.

Of course he had been involved in the suicide of Sunny Suzuki.

It wasn’t a suicide.

“Those officers sure are gullible, eh?”

His footsteps hit wetly against the sidewalk in the rain. He hummed a bit. A small tune. Melancholy. 

[SPLISH-SPLASH]

[WHRRRRRRR-SPLASH]

Basil let out a displeased cry. A car roared past, splashing water all over him, drenching him more than he already was.

“Why doesn’t the government outlaw driving in the rain? That was just outright disrespectful!!”

Another set of footsteps behind him. Pink hair was soaked, plastering the girl’s body like wet glue.

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting a bit?”

He paused.

“Hello, Aubrey.”

The girl nodded at him.

“Honestly, Basil, get a grip on yourself. So what? You got a little wet. No big deal.”

A fire of rage sparked up inside of Basil. Flared. He turned. Sage was whispering little nothings in his ear, meaningless for the time being.

“NO BIG DEAL?!”

Aubrey rolled her eyes.

“Jesus Christ, Basil. CALM DOWN. What’s gotten into you?!”                                       

He scoffed.

“I could ask you the same! There’s nothing going on with me!”

“How annoying. Wouldn’t it be so satisfying to see blood leaking from her mouth? To feel your knife in her chest? WOULDN’T IT BE SO-”

Basil merely kicked Aubrey in the shins.

“You’re being disobedient again. What a pain.”

No reaction. He kept walking towards his house. As he stepped inside, warm, red, sticky liquid seeped into his shoes.

“Your house is filthy. Clean it up. All this blood is ruining the place and will get you arrested.”

Basil tossed his jacket on the couch.

“That’s what you want to happen, is it not? Stop acting like you care; you’ve already made me do enough things I didn’t want to do.”

“Your complaints mean nothing to me. If you continue with such arrogance, I’ll make you do much worse.”

[DRIP DRIP DRIP DRIP.]

That sickening sound was something he had gotten used to. He went into his basement to assess the leak.

“Ah, Sunny, your door is open again…”

He swiftly closed the door. Better not to think about what was in there.

“Why do you take such measures to keep his corpse preserved? He is dead, is he not?”

‘Because you want me to use it for other means, do not act as if this wasn’t your own request, Sage.’ Basil thought.

“We’ll meet again”

“Don’t know where, don’t know when”

“But we’ll meet again”

“Some SUNNY day”

“Turn that infernal noise off.”

Basil turned the volume of the music higher.

“I’ll kill you for that.”

“Oh no, how sad.”

His voice oozed with sarcasm. He could feel Sage roll his eyes.

“I can hear the news now. ‘Notorious killer Basil Fey commits suicide.’ How depressing.”

“Shut it.”

“As you say.”

Basil messed around with the latches on the heavy door to the cryosleep chamber. The sun was setting, changing the rain to a deep blood-red color.

“Oyasumi, Sunny Suzuki. Oyasumi, Kelsey Garcia. And oyasumi to you  soon as well, Aubergine Smith.”

[CLICK.]

..

[WHIRR-SPLASH]

Basil screamed rage through his gritted teeth as he was soaked for the second time in two days.

“THIS IS GETTING OLD!”

He seethed, boiling with rife fury as he stormed down the sidewalk. It seemed as though it had been raining in Faraway forever. The sun hadn’t been out in ages, and there had been multiple flash floods in the past few months. It hadn’t necessarily bothered Basil. EXCEPT for when these dumb cars zoomed past him and splashed the dirty rainwater all over him. IT WAS GETTING VERY ANNOYING. Sage knew this and teased Basil about it endlessly.

On this miserable day, Basil was in a particularly sour mood and he figured that if one more person were to bother him, he’d probably explode. 

“Hey, you. Fey.”

Basil hissed and turned on his heels. Aubrey stood there looking bedraggled and mildly insane. She may have been drunk.

“What the hell is going on with everyone? WHY ARE THE OTHERS ALL DEAD?!”

He punched her straight across the face. Her face paled and she blacked out. Basil lugged her over his shoulder, sprinting home through the heavy shadows so as not to be seen. He opened his door and the foggy, heavy warmth was dizzying as it hit him in the face like a brick wall. Maybe Sage was right about Basil needing to clean up the blood around here. He walked down to the basement, tossing Aubrey onto the stone floor. She yelled in pain. He kicked her, roughly, and stepped on her, placing all his weight on her chest. She SCREAMED. 

What a lovely sound.

[KKK-SHINK]

He roughly stabbed a knife in her chest. 

[KKK-SHINK KKK-SHINK KKK-SHINK KKK-SHINK]

Over and over.

“Oyasumi, Aubergine Smith. Sleep well.”

..

[...]

I don't remember it ever being this bad.

HE won’t shut up.

It’s getting worse, I think. 

…

Should I tell someone?

…

There’s nobody left to tell.

They’re all DEAD.

Because of me.

“Is this really what you think?”

…

“You know you’re doing the right thing, don’t you?”

… 

I don’t think it’s the right thing to do anymore.

[...]

..

[CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLI-]

“Stop that.”

“Fine.”

[..........]

[CLIC-]

“I SAID STOP THAT!”

…

[SCREEEEEEEEEEEEECH]

“Fix that.”

[SCREEEEECH]

“FIX IT.”

[STEP STEP. STAB.]

[SCREEEE-....]

[CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CL-]

[CRASH]

“If you won’t stop doing that I’ll stop you myself.”

“Chill.”

“No.”

[CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICKCLICKCLICKCLICKCLICKCLICKCLI-]

[the-consortium]

The world outside the tank is silent.The laboratory is dark except for the lit area around the tank where Rosen sleeps and dreams of the hunt. Their limbs twitch and eyeballs roll under closed lids.

Here is no roaring wind at tucked wings and no thundering hoofbeats of fleeing prey. And above all, here is - yet! - not a being of muscle and terror.

Here is the possibility for such a being. The body is not that radically changed yet. Things are still doing their work that lesser doctors would never dare to do.

Time passes, which inside the tank is only the trembling of leaves on trees dead for ten thousand years. How much time? Here in the Eye of Terror, it is not a concept. Time is pollen blowing from blossoms that are not flowers and sand moving on living planets in the dead wind. Days? Weeks? Months? Just dates counted by cogitors. Out here Fabius takes samples, observes. Adding components to solutions that eat through Rosen's spinal cord and their blood vessels. They change.

The Chief Apothecary takes a datapad. Looks to the side as a shadow very respectfully steps half beside, half behind him, wings folded tightly, head lowered because the long clawed legs would otherwise make it tower high above the Clonelord's fragile form. Which he might take as disrespect. Or maybe not. Fabius is hard to figure out. Still, Herik is taking no chances.

They both contemplate the in-between creature in the tank in front of them for a while. A soft bird sound precedes a question from Herik. "It won't be able to fly?" he corrects himself, "Not yet?"

Fabius nods, adjusting a few values on the datapad. "Not yet at the initial stage. Jumping, impossibly far, yes. Gliding with the first membranous wings, that too. But not flying. I have to get an accurate picture of how the body adapts first. It's not like you. You're not going to create a new species. You're just being yourself. But this …" a knife tip of the surgeon taps the glass. "This has a future, and so in a way it's all just accelerated evolution."

Herik walks around the tank. His claws click on the ancient stone floor. He regards the changing creature with birdlike curiosity.

Fabius puts the datapad aside. The bluish-green glow of the tank's liquid makes his pale skin with surgical scars look even more unhealthy and darkens his eyes. "As soon as our patient decides that the first stage is complete - by my calculations in a few days - and wakes up, you will go hunting with them. You and the pack of Gland Hounds. Watch the creature adapt. It will be angry, because an intermediate step is always frustrating. But I trust you'll get it to show itself. I need to know how to proceed. Get the best out of the creature and report back to me where there are still problems to be solved and what I need to tweak."

Herik bows his head obediently.

In the world in the tank, Rosen can clearly hear the young Astartes' voice as if he were right next to them. "I see what you mean. I see where your journey is going. First steps are never easy, if they are worth taking."

To the laboratory

For @gibmirrosen, continued from here

The apothecary nods in his terse way. "You understand? Do you understand how expensive his time is? That you fight for his attention? Against men who hold the fate of the galaxy in their hands and who want unspeakable horrors from him to make their armies invincible?" He looks amused. Apparently he likes the fact that Fabius, in his erratic way, prefers to occupy himself with a small mutant creature rather than do the bidding of the mighty. A final needle is inserted into Rosen - without warning and with often practised smoothness. Deep into the spinal cord and with a pain that runs through all the nerves like a fire. It feels as if claws are scratching at the bones - cold as the void between the stars. A colourless liquid is drawn up and each drop is more pain. Takes and takes and violates autonomy. Herik's warmth beside them becomes a dominant source of heat, as if everything else is suddenly far too cold. His presence is a rock. The aseptic feathery smell barely tolerable. Do seconds pass? Or hours? How long can pain be endured? But then it is over. The metal is out of their body. Herik eyes them. Becomes a bird of prey again, changed back from the towering monster. He turns to the samples he has taken from Rosen. Examines them at length. Shakes the little jars with the discolouring paper strips. Hums to himself and writes notes. Further back in the room, a couple of the monstrosities in the tanks turn lazily, open eyes in Rosen's and Herik's direction. Making inaudible sounds of greed. The Astartes pays them no further attention. Finally he presses the "send" button on the dataslate and turns around. Then he reaches for the samples and carefully stows them in a small box with the winged helix on the lid. Hands these to Rosen. "Everything is a test, everything is observation. You are a fighter, aren't you? Then get dressed, go to the Chief Apothecary now and let nothing stop you." He leans against the table, crosses his arms and points his chin towards an exit, dark and strangely silent, on the far side of the laboratory atrium, under an old colonnade. "Through the passage to the end. That's all." He waits, watching.

[dayseternal-blog]

Can you name some naruhina angst fic that really ruined you, like reaaaaallyyyyyy? I'm in the mood for some ugly crying sobs 🥺

:( Okay.  I always end up rereading fics when I make these lists, so here we go, together 😭  I’ll list all the ones that have made me cry, and some that didn’t make me cry but still upset me.  Also, I can’t handle memory loss AUs, so I’ll put those on here, too.

I think like, half or more of these have a sad or inconclusive ending.  Some of these I’ve recc’d before.  I hate a bunch of these lol.  And then I reread them anyway lol.  Why.

NaruHina Angst

“A Place In The Sun” by ihaveastorminme - Rated M for smut and depictions of violence, Canon-Divergent, Multi-chapter, Incomplete.  Naruto realizes that he’s not enough to love her.  He’s not enough to save her, either.

“A Fate Worse than Death” by Caelestia - Rated M for smut, ABO Canon-Divergent, One-shot.  Naruto, improperly socialized and traumatized as a child, rejects his inner Alpha, which has devastating consequences on his family and marriage.  “A Risky Bet” is its fluffier follow-up.

“Girl No 10″ by meeiwen - Rated M, Modern AU, Multi-chapter, Complete. Naruto makes a mistake with a dancer one drunk night.  Years later when he meets her again, he begins realizing his perfect life is a lie, but he’s too late to fix it. Angst if you want to know what dying feels like warning.

“if this is love (why does it hurt?)” by ClairvoyantDreamer1011 - Rated M, Friends with benefits Canon-Divergent, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. Hinata knew many things about Naruto Uzumaki. She knew that his heated glances meant 'I want you'; that lingering touches whispered 'please', and that the sight of his back to her screamed 'leave'. But she couldn't tell you what they were to each other for the life of her.

“If You Said You Loved Me” by destiny’s sweet melody - Rated T, Canon-Divergent, One-shot.  Naruto begins to realize he took her feelings for granted and now he’s too late.

“The Ring that Binds” by softwind - Rated M, Canon-Divergent, Multi-chapter, Incomplete.  Naruto and Hinata are married.  So why is Naruto calling “Sakura” in his sleep?

“Why would innocent little Hinata be out dressed like that?” (One-shot) and its follow-up “On Any Given Day” (Long One-Shot) by @utsus - Rated T, Canon-Divergent. Hinata tries to move on from Naruto, right when he realizes he wants to keep her.

“For the Future” by @utsus - Rated T, Canon-Divergent, Multi-chapter, Complete. Hinata understands this better than anyone else. Naruto is easy to love.  (I actually just hate the ending a lot.  That’s what puts this on the list).

“Gilded Butterflies” by Kid Crisis - Rated M for depictions of violence, Modern AU, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. Tenshi, beautiful prostitute of the Villa, realized from a very young age that people seem to do nothing but empty her, and not even Naruto seems capable of convincing her otherwise.

“Serenity Prayer” by @katarinahime - Rated M for smut, substance abuse, PTSD, and depictions of domestic violence and non-con, Modern AU, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. When their fairytale endings smash to ugly pieces, Hinata and Naruto help put each other back together.

“Common Side Effects” (Naruto’s POV) by @katarinahime & “Medicated” (Hinata’s POV) by @szajnie - Rated E for smut, substance abuse, mental illness, and depictions of violence, self-harm, and attempted suicide, Crime/Modern AU, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. Naruto and Hinata, in a struggling relationship, must confront the pain inside before they can love each other.

“In Another Life” by theGeneralissimo - Rated T, Canon-Divergent, Multi-chapter, Complete. In which Naruto listens to his mother's advice and marries a girl like her. And lives to regret it. 

“Mistake” by Cherry1315 - Rated T, Canon-Divergent, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. Naruto falls apart, and, unfortunately, Hinata has to pick up the pieces.

“Until the Day I Love” by BluBlooThalassophile - Rated M, Canon-Divergent, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. Everyone is recovering from the war.

“Hidden From Sunlight” by @bunny-hoodlum - Rated T, Canon-Divergent, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. How different could Naruto's life be when the girl that seemed 'barely around' is truly hardly around at all?

“Powerless” by @bunny-hoodlum - Rated M for depictions of violence and character death, Mystery/Crime High School/Modern AU, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. His family’s past can’t be taken at face-value, and it comes clawing back to hurt him in ways that are out of his control.  DELETED FIC.

“April - Too Late/Missed Opportunities” from “Still Falling for You” by @chloelapomme - Rated T, College/Modern AU, One-shot. After her 3 years away for college, Naruto decides to confess.

“June - Honor/Sacrifice” from “Still Falling for You” by @chloelapomme - Rated T, Modern AU, Multi-chapter, Complete. Naruto marries Hinata, the girl of his dreams.  If only she loved him back.

“you totally almost killed me that one time (it’s okay I still love you)” by @itachiboutit - Rated G, High School AU, Multi-chapter, Complete.  Naruto, a promising baseball player, returns to Konoha Prep, and, without so much as even a “long time no see,” hits a ball into Hinata’s face. (This isn’t really angsty...but I get really upset in Ch. 4 and cry a lot every time.)

“Asylum AU” from “Tales of Two Ninjas” by @magmawrites - Rated M, Modern AU, One-shot. What's to say what's real and what isn't? The only thing that's valid and true in all universes is their love for one another.

“Dreaming of AU” from “Tales of Two Ninjas” by @magmawrites - Rated M for implied suicide, Modern AU, One-shot. Naruto dreams of her. He grows to love her. Dreams are nice. Too bad reality is a nightmare. (Most likely a continuation of the Asylum AU.)

“Memory Loss AU” from “Tales of Two Ninjas” by @magmawrites - Rated M, Amnesia Canon-Divergent AU, One-shot. I LOVE YOU. Will I ever hear those words from your lips again?

“The Path We Walk” by @tenney-shoes - Rated T, Amnesia Canon-Divergent AU, Multi-chapter, Complete. With his memory of the past five years missing, Naruto never expected to be married to Hinata, and now he must navigate through the maze that is their life together with no memory of how he got there.

“Easier For Me” by @tenney-shoes - Rated T, Amnesia Canon-Divergent AU, Two-shot, Complete. How will Hinata handle waking up with no memory of how she got there?

“My Escape” by @marimare-writes - Rated T, Amnesia Canon-Divergent AU, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. Naruto wakes up from a coma with no recollection of life after graduating the Academy. Hinata, anxious and with a secret that will change both of their lives, struggles with what to do.

“Consolation Prize: Through Her Distorted Mirror” by mysterious intentions - Rated T, Canon-Divergent, Multi-chapter, Incomplete.  Her love is taken lightly, as if her heart could change so easily.

“Good Luck” By LovelyLori - Rated T, Flowers/Ballet AU, Two-Shot, Complete. A Japanese ballet company arrives in Naruto’s town.  Can love transcend language barriers? (I spent HOURS looking for this one, it totally breaks my heart.)

“On the outside looking in” by @char-lotteral - Rated E for smut, Modern AU, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. Naruto’s in love with his best friend’s girlfriend fiancee.  And he’s not moving on.

So that’s...yah.

Unhappy Fic Reading! 🥺

[lrissa]

I Promise To Marry You

summary: as kids you and levi would think of a future together

warnings: none

part two

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩

Sprinting past the stands that littered the streets you clutched two necklaces, a huge grin showing your pearly whites as adults with voided dreams turned to look at the happy child.

You even jumped as you ran, being ecstatic as you neared your destination with yearning. Passing by all the people with ruined, unrequited dreams and distressed knees.

He was finally done with session and you were thrilled, even if it had been about 10 hours since you’ve seen him last all you wished was to be in his company. Your young spirit could carry you anywhere as long as you always had your partner.

Looking up as you ran your eyes were met with the dull ceiling that you called a sky. It was the closet thing to a sky, you’ve never seen a real one but have been told wonderful stories of the real one. It was bright blue and had huge fluffy clouds that gave you shade. But even with your depressing sky it made you grin, because you shared it with Levi.

Taking a hard left you ran faster, it was so close. Nearly running into countless bodies as you did, the streets weren’t very big here in the underground.

Halting outside a rundown building you quickly fixed and adjusted your shirt, dusting yourself off, and prepping your hair you opened the big door. From the opposite side you saw Kenny and Levi, stepping inside you shut the door behind you causing the pair to look over.

A grin formed on Kenny’s face and he waved, Levi stared before giving you a small wave aswell. He wasn’t surprised by your actions, he had gone through it millions of times.

“Y/N! Good to see you, kid.” Kenny called as he dismissed Levi, their training time was over anyways. “Hi Kenny. Hi Levi!” You beamed and ran over to the short boy, wrapping your arms around him and smiling with joy. He looked down in disgust and grumbled before patting your back lightly.

Looking over at Kenny you piped a question you’ve been meaning to ask, “Kenny, why don’t you train me too?” You tilted your head a bit to the side and rocked on your heels, energy was always vibrating off you.

The young man looked to you, rubbing his stubble before leaning down in front of you and ruffling your hair, “Maybe soon.” You stared up at him in awe, smiling wide as you pipped your arm up in joy. Kenny truthfully didn’t want to ruin your childhood yet because he knew the moment you held a knife to a man you wouldn’t be the same.

Levi watched from beside you, your energy almost pissing him off but he liked seeing you happy nonetheless. Kenny turned to Levi and gave a curt nod, “Did well today, meet me again tomorrow we still have things to work on.” Levi nodded and watched as the man left.

You heard the door shut and turned to Levi, grabbing his hand in yours as you begin to run out the door. “Idiot, where are we going?” He asked and pulled back on your hand, stopping your haste to turn and answer him. “The roof.” You answered and began to tow the raven head again.

Reaching the stairs you dropped his hand and ran up two at once, getting to the top and sighing contently. Levi walked up the steps quietly, taking a stance beside you.

“Levi, can I put this on you?” You asked quietly and held up a little necklace, on it was just a simple letter, the beginning letter of your name. He stared at it for a moment and looked to you again, “Is it dirty.”

You pouted and quickly cleaned it in your shirt, holding it up once again. “Tch, idiot, where did you even get this.” He asked and took it from your hand, letting it rest in his palm as he studied it for filth and giving it a good look. Honestly, his heart was warm with happiness. The little deed you did was enough to form a faint smile on his lips.

You stared at him, noticing the little smile. A big grin broke out onto your face and you gave yourself a mini win for having the cold boy smile. “I stole it.” You replied and took it from his hand, walking behind him and putting the little piece of jewelry on his neck. He shivered a bit at the coldness of the metal on his skin, you clicked the lock together and looked at him.

“Pretty! Put mine on now?” He peered at you and then to the necklace, on it was a small ‘L’ for his name. His heart swelled and he paused for a instant before taking the necklace from your hand, “Tch, you’re so cheesy Y/N.” You laughed.

He softly moved the hair away from your back onto your shoulder as you took it and held it infront of you. Levi then proceed to let the metal fall into place, clasping it together and letting the hair return to its natural position.

He looked at you from ahead, it was such a stupid piece of jewelry but it made his heart flutter with kindness. You wrapped your arms around his chest and felt him slowly return the embrace, a little smile on his face that you never saw.

“Do you like them?” You asked softly as you continued to hug eachother, you always cherished your friendship with Levi. Because in the underground you’d better be lucky to even have family.

“Yeah.” Was all he said, you had anticipated a little remark but he never gave you one. Pulling back from the hug you sat down and urged him to sit beside you. He listened shortly after and sat with you, your legs touching as they dangled off the edge.

You sucked in a breath of air and blew it out through your nose. Eyes gazing at the staircase that led to the surface, a place you wished to go with Levi.

“Levi, will we see the surface together?” You asked with your eyes still strained on the taunting steps. “Yeah, one day.” His eyes also had drifted to the stairs.

“We’ll even get married! Under the sky.” You proposed as he looked to you dumbfounded, his eyes widening in surprise before grunting and shutting them momentarily as they returned to their normal icy expression.

“As long as you aren’t an annoying brat.” He retorted and you laughed, even if Levi would argue with you and make hurtful comments you knew deep down he truly did care about you, more than you thought.

Slowly you learned your head on his shoulder, he gave you a dirty look that you ignored. All you needed was his company, even if you were both young all you had was eachother.

“I’ll even wear a pretty dress.” You concluded and gazed at your fingers, extending them out infront of you, “And a pretty ring!”

“Shut up, marriage isn’t even close.” He stated as you pouted, kicking his leg with your foot. “Well.. since it’s far away,” You took your head off his shoulder and turned to face him.

You put your hand between eachother, your pinky finger sticking out as you looked at him expectantly. “Idiot, pinky promises aren’t real.” He shook his head while you still persisted.

“It’s a promise Levi. Just do it.”

He grunted and turned a bit at you, sticking his hand out unwillingly and wrapped his pinky around yours.

“Okay, now say. I promise we’ll get married!” You grinned and waited for him. His annoyed expression only getting worse as he furrowed his brows, ‘What a stupid game’ he thought.

“Fine. I promise to marry you.”

You yelled ecstatically and pulled Levi in for another hug, pushing himself out immediately as you whined.

“You’re a bully!”

“And you’re a brat.”

i love the idea of young levi. so cute

part two

[punemy-spotted]

The Price You Pay Chapter 4: Breach

Pairing: Mob!Steve Rogers x Reader, Senator!Andy Barber x Reader

Warnings: Rape/Non-Con elements, Dub-Con, Dark!Fic, Abuse of Legal System, Murder, Character Death (minor, possibly major), Love Triangle, Political AU, Mafia AU, Workplace Sexual Harassment, Abuse Mentions, Possessive/Obsessive Characters, Other Chapter-Specific Warnings May Apply, Possible Dead Dove: Would Not Eat

Chapter Warnings: Angst; Mentions of Past Sexual Abuse; Betrayal; Lies; F!Reader’s Age Kind of Finalized; Specific Reference to Age; Blackmail; Crying; Slight Panic Attack; Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

Chapter Summary: Even the truth can’t set you free.

Chapter 1; Chapter 2; Chapter 3

Notes: And we’re back to pain. My outline got derailed for this chapter so bear with me, sometimes revelations need to be hammered in. No smut here for now but I also needed to get this arc finished so I can start on the next.

Also I know I keep jumping forward — I swear I will write about their relationship growing.

Thank you all for reading and commenting! As always, feedback is greatly appreciated, even if you’re yelling at me.

Not beta-read, these sins belong to me and me alone.

All of my work is 18+ Only, Minors DO NOT INTERACT. I do not consent to my work being posted anywhere besides Tumblr or Ao3 and I post my work there myself. Do not copy, translate, or repost any of my content.

The air is…

Shifted.

Shifted enough that the whole office notices, avoids yours, avoids the glare Steve Rogers fires at them the moment they approach the door, avoids your eye. Shifted enough that you miss the before, the pressure of his presence demanding your attention, the smugness in his endless eyes you denied looking at.

Shifted.

Counsel.

What?

We need to talk.

Is that not what you’ve been avoiding doing all morning, Captain?

You swear you can hear his molar crack in the dead silence, but your eyes never flit upwards from the contract you’re poring through, red pen in hand.

Focus.

It’s a job, this life, and this is a part of it, the presence of him, the pressure of him. It’s a job, and he calls on you to do your duty and you do but no one has ever asked you to be kind and no one has ever asked you to smile as you bear it so you don’t.

It’s a job, this life, and this is a part of it.

You. Are a part of it.

Counsel.

It’s a bark, an order, an annoyance and you shouldn’t let his stubborn fury be the thing that derails you. This is your domain. Your palace of glass and steel, remember? New York buzzes behind you and you surge forward on the tightrope of his affections, teetering dangerously close to his temper and always, always daring him to pull you down.

Try it again.

Fine, with a sigh and a setting down of your papers, You’re closer to the door.

And in your defense, he is, seated on your couch as stiff as a board, scrolling through his phone on occasion and — previously, at least — deftly ignoring your inquiries about the status of his office and why he needs to spend his morning in yours.

He fixes you with a look you do not name and proceeds to stand anyways. The door clicks shut and stays that way — both of you have learned.

Do you still talk to him?

Excuse me?

The Senator. Are. You. Still. In. Contact.

He spreads out every word like an accusation and every word turns you a little colder. You’ve been avoiding this. Avoiding him, distracted by work, the both of you but now you are back in each other’s orbits and this…

This cannot be avoided.

I haven’t spoken to him beyond to tell him I returned home safe that night.

Not. For lack of wanting.

If he’s hurt you, just say the words.

There’s nothing you can say.

It’s been a week. Almost two.

He’s been kind, stayed away, kept his distance but that… that will not last. Only as long as whatever conference has his office busy and then you know what comes next and then you know what comes after.

The bruising may have faded but the memories remain, after all.

They always do.

Steve Rogers is not Andy Barber, is not warm-eyed concern or a soft-voiced invitation, is not trying to save you from the horrors you cannot name, is not to be trusted but Andy Barber is also not Steve Rogers, is not exactly the man you expect, is not the answer to your dilemma, is not the devil you know and you…

Are still testing your wings.

Get up.

Get up and walk away from the prison of your desk, see how far you can get before you shackle yourself to your own ambition. Get. Up.

Blue eyes watch you like he’s calculating the next angle of his attack and technically you know that’s exactly the case but let’s pretend a moment he doesn’t have his claws out and you aren’t trapped in a cage for him to batter.

Delude yourself into the power you think you have, and keep him there, across the room where he cannot show you how effortlessly he strips you of it and how deeply you enjoy it.

Don’t.

You may be in bed with the mob but you are not asleep to his crimes and this is just an interim, a plan, a moment.

You stood me up, Counsel. After we made our deal.

It was a week ago and you ever-so-kindly taught me my lesson — don’t wince as you speak, don’t let him know you remember, don’t let him think you actually learned from his hand, hard against your body.

He hasn’t since, after all.

He says your name.

He says your name and your blood runs cold and you freeze by the coffee machine you keep in your office and you turn. Senator Barber is a friend.

A dangerous friend. I won’t even ask if you know his stance on —

On the Syndicate? Oh I know. I know who he shakes hands with.

Then you know why I’m asking.

Are you loyal?

Are you?

Is it loyalty that keeps you here?

Don’t let your hands shake when you look at him. Don’t let him see the slide of your eyes, the glance outside, the wondering how long before your window would be a portal and that tightrope would snap.

You are not a fool.

This. Is not loyalty.

I keep to my ethical duties, Captain.

You’re sleeping with your boss.

Oh that one makes you laugh, sharp and cruel and you do look at him then, fix your eyes onto him and raise an eyebrow and watch. All that power, all that smugness, wrapped up in one body and how does he contain it, do you know?

I believe the actual term is serving at your pleasure.

It’s back to the game, the dance, the ruse, the steps you take around each other, the blades he digs into your chest the reminders he gives you you are a whore you are a whore you are a whore and you lift your chin up, dare him to look at the bruises his lips leave on your skin and ask him in the silence and what will you do about it.

You could hate him. You do, technically. You hate that you could love him in the early hours of the morning, when his eyes seek you out and soften at the reminder you’re still here. You hate that his invasive presence in your office is a shield as much as it is a virus, a comfort in the silence and you hate most of all that the way he looks at you with that open desire women might normally have just dreamed was possible makes you want to return it.

You hate that he is dangerous. That he has bound you to him like this, chained you to the idea of his warmth and that there is a sick sort of safety in the binding.

You hate that he looks at you now with something like hope, with something like obsession, with something like vulnerability and you hate that it strips you of that cold armor as effortlessly as his hands strip you of your resistance.

And he could hate you too, in the whispers he leaves on your shoulders when he thinks you’re asleep. He could hate that you are soft, that you are sweet on his tongue that you…

Are his.

Could hate that he has thought of nothing else but the very theory of your betrayal and you know none of these things but his eyes are not so inscrutable as he thinks and so—

He twists the knife.

I talked to your Judge, by the way.

You did what?

You heard me. Interesting conversation.

Excuse me?

You really sold yourself to me for a lover’s spat, Counsel? I thought you were better than that — woman of the law and all.

A lover’s spat? That’s what he told you?

Just what would you call it, if not that?

He’s daring you, back to somewhere between smug and angry, as if disappointed you made him waste his time and all you can do is feel your heart sinking, feel yourself back in that place again, the decade-long sting of control over your body, the painful reminder of the girl you once were.

Where is he?

Did you think I’d clean up your dirty laundry for you? I’m not a breakup counselor, and you nee—

You left him alive!? The panic in your voice is so palpable it stops him in his tracks all over again, suspicious and surprised and you step back to reach for something — steady yourself steady yourself steady yourself you are not safe you are not safe you are not safe.

I’m not killing your ex-boyfriend without a good reas—

I was nineteen!

The world tilts, shifts, your knees are buckling, that’s tears in your eyes and you.

Are that girl again.

Too small, too scared, too naive to know better, too easy to mold and break and manipulate and you promised you’d never be her again, you promised you’d get her justice and you promised it wouldn’t be like this over and over again, promised he wouldn’t sink his fangs into you a third time.

What? He sounds smaller. Or is it faraway? You are too busy trying to stand, trying to still the shaking of your hands, the cold chill in your veins, too busy feeling your knees surrendering, too busy sliding to the floor and staring blankly into your memory.

Counsel. What. Did. You. Say. He repeats himself, and then he’s crouching before you, holding your chin in his hand and when did you start having tears on your cheeks for him to wipe away?

I was nineteen, you repeat, blank and broken, not seeing his brow furrow, not seeing the regret flash over his expression, I didn’t want it. I never wanted it.

What are you saying, sweetness? How dare he sound so soft? How dare he sound like he actually cares, when he’s the reason you’re here, on this floor, barely resisting your breakdown yet again?

You know better.

I was nineteen, a third time, I needed a job, something to give me experience, and he — he used me. That was my experience.

He’s starting to understand, but it doesn’t matter to you, not when you’re staring too far into the past, into a sneering face and cruel hands.

(I can ruin you or I can help you, Intern, so you make your choice. You need me.)

It never stops. Not after the first time — but you know that.

But you know that. That’s your knife, the one you twist into his chest and the realization sinks in heavy as an anchor, the thing he’s done.

The thing he’s done to you.

So why wait until now?

I would have waited forever.

You hid the letter. Hid it well enough even he wouldn’t have found it rifling through your things. Hid the threat in those typewritten words and the casual signature swept across the stationary, unaffected.

Men like him never face consequences. Only you, only the women they make use of, the ones they turn into commodities for their enjoyment. Who would care if you’d made it public, if you showed the world the kind of man he was — he was appointed for life, he was friends with the Governor, he was powerful and you were never going to be strong enough.

(You wouldn’t want anyone in the District Attorney’s office knowing just the sorts of things you’re willing to do to get your way. I can still help you be an exceptional lawyer, Intern.)

What are you? Ambition and drive and skill but what does it all mean when it can be reduced to plaything and pet project and whore.

I helped him get appointed. He helped me get into law school. Introduced me to… To Andy Barber, who calls you Sunshine and watches out for you and comes to New York despite having no power in the state just to see you again because he worries, because he cares.

You pay.

And sometimes that payment bounces back.

You pay and you pay and you pay and you struggle but what is the culmination of your strife is it the sight of you finally broken on the floor, is it the moment he’s been waiting for, dragged off your pedestal why couldn’t he have left well enough alone didn’t he know the horse was for your protection and not his pride?

No.

They never do.

They never do, do they, always so wrapped up in themselves and even now he kneels in front of you and wipes your tears but he has no words to say to atone for what he’s done and you know he can never.

I need you to leave.

The words come out without your control.

You know what you are. You are fury made flesh and you will not be manipulated again, not by the pressure of his hands on your face, not by the way he almost hugs you, he lied he lied he lied he lied.

Sweetness…

No. You don’t get to call me that. Not anymore.

You could have tolerated it. You could have accepted it you could have let yourself become the prize he took, owned his defeat by defeating you, you might even have enjoyed it but no.

No.

I held up my end of the bargain.

[the-darklings]

Heyyy, I honestly love your writing and was wondering can we have more Clara x reader, please??

what if I told you I have an entire E-rated mini-series half done for clara x reader set in an original world???

but yes, always, always yes for her.

pairing: clara (v) x f!reader

wc: 1.3k+

verse: coa; post the hunt, pre-john's wedding

notes: reader is part of the continental staff

“You’re back.”

Words slip past your lips without you meaning to say them; more of a strained exclamation of surprise than a casual greeting.

The woman halts in her tracks (is she limping?) and rotates her neck. Lips pressed in a bloodless line, the Vipress’ wan expression slices into you like a dull knife. Her chestnut hair hangs limp and soggy with water around her face. Her jaw rigid and her body tense.

Dark eyes squint at you, scanning, and you note the way her deft fingers twitch against her thigh, fighting back an impulse to reach for a weapon. You heard about the Hunt. Heard about all the awful things she was put through before eventually settling with Camorra. There were rumours about their protection being extended towards her. Some say she slept her way into it, namely through Santino D’Antonio who you have to admit has an intense interest in her. Others say she agreed to be Giovanni’s spy, others believed it was all a ploy by Viggo Tarasov to unleash a snake inside the Italian ranks.

Truth is you don’t believe any rumours you’ve heard about her. You recall a woman who used to shadow John Wick with a grin sharper than her blades. But she never struck you as conniving or cruel. She’d been… kind. Kinder than most people you’ve dealt with. In such subtle, unexpected ways. Gratitude few extend for those beneath them, inquiring about your day, or idle conversation. You often wondered if she was lonely. As lonely as you. If that’s why she was so kind.

Everyone wears a mask, but the Vipress always allowed you to see more. Or used to.

A permanent cloud of restless misery seems to hang over her since her ill-fated trip to Tokyo—another pool of rumours swirling around that particular event—and you can’t recall seeing a single smile since.

You miss it. Crinkled eyes and scrunched nose. Rare but potent joy. Infectious in its intensity. She…

Swallowing, you venture closer, risking a soft, “Are you injured?”

Her black clothes drip with water but you don’t comment on the steadily growing pool of water beneath her feet. Her expression doesn’t so much as shift. Stony and untrusting.

“Is Winston in?”

Rough words, her voice scratchy with tension. Her eyes scan briefly behind you, anticipating a danger she shouldn’t. You doubt Winston would ever allow anyone to disobey the Continental rules, much less when in relation to her.

“No, he…” you trail off, still staring at her. “He has your room key. I’m afraid you can’t get in until he returns. You need a change of clothes. I have some spares if you like? You’ll catch a cold otherwise. You’re soaked to the bone.”

A mirthless, half-smile crosses her face, twisting her expression into a pained grimace you hate. She doesn’t suit it. When was she bled of her fiery, snarky humour you always admired? Found secretly hilarious?

“Figures,” she mutters under her breath, glancing behind herself. An empty hallway greets her but you note how her shoulders loosen slightly, forcing a soft sigh out of her lungs. “Sure. I appreciate it.”

Giving her a weak smile, you gesture for her to follow after you. You count to five before her light footsteps register behind you. Your skin tingles as you walk, feeling her intent stare at the back of your neck. Your heels make it even harder to keep an even gait but you succeed. Charon taught you better than that.

Spine straight, you walk proudly ahead, one of the deadliest women in this city trailing after you. Questions bubble in your chest, tingling your tongue but you bite your cheek to keep them locked away. Vipress looks no better than a caged animal right now—the last thing you want to do is add to her troubled, exhausted state.

It’s not long before you reach the staff wing, unlocking the spare laundry room connecting with your new office. Your heels click while you move across the space, pulling out a new pair of jeans, a jumper and undergarments. Simple, standard clothes Continental provides free of charge to its patrons in case their previous clothes are destroyed beyond repair.

You can’t hear her while you shuffle around, but you certainly feel her presence. Prey is always aware of predators even if they can’t see them.

“You’re no longer working in housekeeping,” she speaks suddenly, a question there.

You nearly jump out of your skin, tightening your hold on the bundle of garments in your hands. Inhaling deeply, you turn to her with a slight smile, a little frail around the edges but present all the same.

The assassin leans against the wall opposite to you, bright fluorescent illuminating her features, giving her a near gaunt appearance. When did she lose so much weight? Her usually soft freckles stand stark against her too pale skin.

“I got a raise,” you tell her, pride colouring your voice and you move in her direction with a shy smile. “Just last week.”

Her eyebrows quirk, searching over your new attire of tailored dress pants, white shirt and polished heels.

“I told you, didn’t I?” she says after a pause, and you falter under her piercing stare.

Yes. Yes, she did. She told you repeatedly it’s only a matter of time before you get a raise. She thought you were a great worker and oftentimes joked about putting in a good word to Winston about you. You always wrote off her words as nothing more than jokes, meaningless conversations you have with someone when you want to be polite. John Wick certainly never got involved in your banter. His dark eyes unfailingly trailed after her smiles and laughs instead.

You could understand his appreciation, his secret hoarding of those rare instances. He wanted something—someone—he couldn’t afford to have. Couldn’t permit himself to reach for.

Staring at the Vipress you think you understand him better than you would care to admit.

She’s beautiful in a way a wild flame is beautiful. Get too close and you know you will suffer for it. But you want to.

God, you really do. Crave her in secret because… well. What are you? What can you give to a woman like her? When she holds the interest of so many above your stature. The things they say she did during the Hunt. People who are dead because of her.

She’s one of the most horrible people alive.

Yet her smiles are more blinding than the sun, and you selfishly want every single one of them.

“Yes, you did,” you agree weakly, holding out the bundle of clothes to her.

Her hands are cold when they touch yours but a tingle rushes up your spine all the same. Electric current hums under your skin when her guarded eyes do another searching sweep over your expression.

“You know my sizes?”

Your heart quivers in your chest, unsure how to proceed. Does she think you stranger, wrong, to have remembered such a thing?

“I… your laundry,” you splutter, then exhale, calming yourself to give her a steadier, “When you lived here. The dry cleaner. I… sorry, I realise this might be uncomfortable for you.”

Her hazel eyes drag over you again, hard and unyielding. Your breaths slow when she takes a few steps closer—close enough for you to scent the flowers, herbs and soil that forever seem to cling to her smooth skin. You’ve never wanted to nuzzle into someone’s neck more, feel their warmth beneath your lips. Taste and savour the exquisite familiarity of someone’s very being.

“My sizes have changed,” she says and you tell yourself you imagined the slight smile you glimpse for a split second. “But you’re welcome to learn them again.”

She brushes past you—flowers and poison and death—and you force yourself to breath, ignoring the heat crawling up your neck.

an: she. that's it - that's the message. but thank you so much for asking for her!!! I think Clara deserves a soft sapphic romance, as a treat.

[elysianslove]

Hello! Can I please request a hc of Kuroo, Bokuto and Akaashi with a s/o who easily passes out when they see blood? idk but like for me even thinking any anything graphic makes me super light headed or when I watched a birth video I almost passed out :P but yeah something like if someone at practice gets a deep cut and they pass out, sorry if this is too vague but thank you anyways! :))

hi!!! yes you absolutely can i hope you enjoy mwah <3

kuroo tetsurō

it probably comes up every once in a while, in a conversation, but he’s never actually seen you react to blood. 

any time a bloody scene happens in like a movie or something you’re always so quick to shut your eyes and he’s so quick to laugh the bastard. 

probably teases so much whenever it’s brought up like he’ll be telling you about an injury someone on the team sustained and you’ll be cringing so bad and he’ll just coo at you like aw my baby’s scared of a lil blood

he doesn’t realize how serious it is until he sees it happen before his very own eyes: it’s a weekend and you’re hanging with kuroo and some of your mutual friends outdoors on like concrete ground. they’re playing easy going volleyball it’s all chill and stuff and, since yaku’s libero, he goes in to receive the ball and he scrapes his knee really bad. nobody’s really worried but they make him walk over to where you are with all the water to clean it up a little. you can’t really see what’s going on until yaku walks up to you and his knee is so. it’s so bloody. 

you react the only way you know how to

you faint lol

kuroo’s so confused tbh he’s like that video of the guy screaming what happened! what happened! what the fuck happened! while people cheer in the background

he rushes over to where you are and asks yaku what happened, to which yaku shrugs with wide eyes like bro i did nothing i swear 

you come to pretty quickly though and kuroo’s so worried about you he’s all over you asking you if you’re okay if you need anything makes you rest your head on his chest to prevent dizziness makes you drink water all that. when you spot yaku’s knee again you freeze up and just slap your head over your eyes and then it all finally clicks 

proceeds to laugh

what a big meanie rip 

he’s like here i thought you were dying and turns out you’re just a pussy haha 

but he is a lot more careful after that! like he makes sure not to be around you when he’s injured and whenever he sees someone else get hurt he immediately turns your head and hides your face in his chest. also always makes sure you yourself don’t get injured, and if you do, even though he’s teasing you so much, he’ll patch you up so you don’t have to. if you’re asked to watch something like a birthing video or anything equally disturbing to you, he watches it for you and just explains what you need to know for class.

he’s very supportive and protective but will never miss an opportunity to laugh at/with you in the process. it’s his way of lightening up the mood :)

bokuto kōtarō

if you’d told him before he’d actually seen you react to something gore-like or blood in general, he’d be like 

so amazed. like he’d just feel this surge of protectiveness over you like don’t worry never fret i’m here i’ll protect you always!! he is literally the sweetest he doesn’t even need to take you seriously he just wants you to know you’ll never have to worry about something like that

but then it happens: you’re cooking something up in the kitchen and he’s like watching you, keeping you company. you’re just having a normal, lighthearted conversation, talking about your days as you cut up some vegetables, when you accidentally just slice your palm. it’s a relatively deep cut, you’re not sure if you’ll need stitches or not, but suddenly you’re bleeding out really quick and you feel lightheaded. bokuto has really good reflexes though, and as soon as he sees the blood drain from your face and your eyes roll back, he’s immediately by your side, stopping you from hitting the ground.

he’s kind of panicking honestly, because not only is your hand bleeding, but you’re also unconscious. he reaches out to hold your hand and cover it with his own big one, but the blood seeps through also. you come to relatively quick and the first thing you see is the blood, but then bokuto takes his other hand and covers your eyes, turning your head away from the sight.

he’s not entirely sure what to do he just doesn’t like seeing you like this. when you try to turn your head again, he tuts, pouting and going, “don’t look,” while his brain finally catches up and he grabs a towel. he wraps your hand in it and helps you stand, leading you to the sink to wash off the blood, and just as softly as he can runs the water over your cut palm.

he’s insanely gentle. bokuto’s a really hyperactive person, but when it comes to it, he can be really serious, especially when someone he loves it upset or hurt. seeing you like this left him all frowned up and pouty, and he doesn’t like the fact that you look like you’re on the verge of tears. or he fact that you just passed out. like are you okay????

never lets you cut up vegetables after that. or never lets you near a knife in general. paranoia? protectiveness? a good mix of both. 

also constantly kisses your bandaged hand, and if it scars, he’s always tracing it and leaving little featherlight kisses on top of it. 

his panic just makes time move slower, so he’s able to react a little better than others would. overall very protective but in an endearing, soft way

akaashi keiji 

i think akaashi would probably be even panickier than bokuto lmfao

but he’d be the one out of the three to absolutely take you serious when you tell him of your phobia. like as soon as it comes out he finds himself hyperaware of his surroundings whenever he goes out with you, constantly making sure there’s nothing that’ll make you uncomfortable or trigger you

he’s never actually seen you react to blood, but he’s always preparing himself for it to happen. ironically, it happens when he least expects it: you’re carrying around something fragile or made of glass, like a mirror or a porcelain plate and you accidentally trip. he barely manages to react quick enough to catch you before you fall, finding the both of you on your knees, but the glass falls to the ground, crashing and spilling across the room. it cuts him deep on his arm, and you’re immediately fussing over him when you hear him hiss in sudden pain. you hadn’t expected the heavy flow of blood on his pale skin, though, and he hears you gasp before you fall on the ground, unconscious. he’d been a little too distracted by the pain and blood himself to remember your phobia and he immediately panics like ohmygodshit what did i do what do i do 

but then he recollects himself and rushes to get a towel or something to hide his bloody arm, before returning to your side as you’re waking up. starts asking you if you’re okay, repeatedly, as he’s helping you sit up, while you ask if he’s okay because you’re convinced it’s your fault he got hurt in the first place. that kinda makes him smile, steadies and calms him a bit. he helps you to a couch or something while he cleans and bandages his arm away from you, returns to cuddle you and kiss all over your face. 

he was already really painfully aware of your surroundings but after seeing you actually faint because of blood, he’s way more protective. he also learns to respond super quick to your reactions, so if you’re ever out with him, or like with a bunch of other people and you start cringing away at the sight of blood or you faint again, he’s really quick to calm you down or catch you. coddles you and holds you near his chest whenever you’re returning back to consciousness, just whispering softly that you’re okay and urging you not to look.

so, initially he’s very panicky because he thinks he’s prepared but he isn’t. but once he actually experiences it he learns your cues very well and is super good at taking care of you! 

[cloudytamaki]

can i call you tonight • k.tetsuro

⤷ genre: angst and breakups.

⤷ summary: lonely nights after a breakup; he’s wondering how he could’ve kept you just a little longer.

he lay on his bed, staring up at the small brown stain on his ceiling. the fan smoothly cuts through the air, blowing strands of his hair around his face.

kuroo’s nose scrunches as he relives the memory; you’d been fooling around one morning and you were jumping on the bed with your mug of coffee in your hand when you’d accidentally splashed it on the ceiling.

the room is dimly lit except for the office light on his desk, the bulb is slowly wearing out. the rushing traffic outside never fails to keep him awake; it’s midnight and tokyo never sleeps.

it doesn’t matter to him, really.

kuroo’s not been sleeping the same without you. too many thoughts and feelings consume him at night; energy drink cans litter his desk; dark circles underline his eyes.

even kenma said he looked like shit. he felt like it, too.

his heart stirs in his chest and he releases a breath, briefly closing his eyes. but his phone buzzes against his shoulder and he rolls over to grab it.

he squints at the bright screen: a calendar notification for tomorrow’s work event. he ought to get some sleep if he wants to keep his job.

the fan comes to a stop and the desk light shuts off; the hum of the dishwasher in the kitchen ceases instantaneously. a power outage, just great.

a warm breeze blows in from the open window and he groans, gripping his phone tightly when his fingers brush against the buttons and he brings the phone up to his face.

what if..

one call.

he doubts you’ll be awake, but it’s worth a try. opening his contacts list, kuroo scrolls through the never-ending sea of names until his finger stops on yours.

he clicks the contact, opening the information stored. he skims over your name, picture, and number — but the personal note section is what grabs his attention.

‘your loving soulmate, y/n. always answer texts and calls from this number.’

there’s a heart emoji, too. you’d secretly added that back when you’d first started dating and never thought to erase it. his finger trembles over the call button and he grits his teeth.

since when had he been so damn nervous to call you?

fuck it, he thinks, and presses the button. he has nothing to lose; you probably won’t pick up. it’s midnight anyways.

kuroo inhales through his nose when the phone continues to ring — it’ll go to voicemail, he’s sure of it.

“hello?” your voice comes through the phone and his breath hitches in his throat as he nervously runs a hand through his hair.

“hey, it’s me.”

“tetsuro?” you say his name before a long pause ensues. “is everything okay?”

“to be honest, not really,” he replies with a small laugh, even though his voice cracks painfully. the only okay thing right now is the fact that he doesn’t feel so alone with you on the other end.

you release a soft sigh, lying back on your own pillow. “tell me about it.”

he proceeds to tell you about the many energy drinks he’s bought and gulped down, the small power outage, his practiced job event. kuroo hasn’t told you everything he wants to get off his chest, though.

you laugh at one of his funny stories and he cherishes the sound. more silence before you speak up.

“it’s almost one, you should go to bed, tetsuro.”

he blurts something out that he should’ve said a while ago. “if i’d been—” he almost chokes on the word, happiness fading as his eyes fill up with tears, “better, would we still be together?”

“no.” you don’t hesitate, the word rolls right off your tongue and it’s like a knife stabbing into his heart. “it’s — it wasn’t your fault, so don’t ever think it was. i fucked up too, you know. i share the blame with you, tetsuro.

“don’t you dare say you could’ve been better. please don’t doubt yourself, tetsu.”

tears roll down his cheeks and he nods as if you’re right beside him. his phone beeps and he panics at the 1% left on the damn thing.

“y/n, i – i love you.”

his phone shakes in his grip as he silently urges you to say it back to him.

“please take care of—” before you can finish your sentence, the screen goes black. the phone’s dead.

and just like that, he’s alone again.