#key+sun puzzle

[finnamesracerx]

Why they got Cell War doing THE uke in a hoodie pose 😭

“N-nrg- guys! Don’t tease me…” lookin ah 💔

I love Cell War so this is lovin hate

[dearlenore]

THE FIRST, FIRST LOVE COMPLEX • S.REID

SUMMARY: when a serial killer obsessed with Spencer sends threatening letters to the BAU, they uncover mentions of a mysterious first love the unsub vows to kill. Confused, the team questions Spencer — wasn’t Maeve already dead? Left with no choice, Spencer is forced to confess the truth.

PAIRING: fem!reader x spencer

tags: reader is a cutie pie, reader wears sun dresses and bikinis, reader is flirty bombshell, mentions of eating disorder, mentions of death, stalking, etc

a/n: i was thinking about this concept forever and finally got around to writing it so this one might be my longest fic yet please bare with me <3

w/c: 3.5K (goddamn!!)

The BAU’s bullpen was unusually quiet for a Tuesday morning. Phones still rang, keys still clattered, but there was an undercurrent of unease — that lingering tension that crept in before a storm.

Spencer Reid sat at his desk, flipping through a worn copy of Gödel, Escher, Bach. The logic should have grounded him, but his mind refused to focus. His fingers fidgeted with the corner of the page, folding and unfolding it absentmindedly. Something was gnawing at him — something he couldn’t quite place

“Reid?”

He startled, glancing up to see JJ standing by his desk, a thick envelope in her hand. Her expression was serious, eyes scanning him with quiet concern.

“This came in this morning,” she said, placing the envelope on his desk. “Addressed to you.”

Spencer’s eyes dropped to the envelope. His name was scrawled across the front in elegant, looping cursive. No return address. The paper felt heavy, expensive — like something you’d use for wedding invitations. His stomach twisted.

“Did you open it?” he asked quietly.

JJ shook her head. “I wanted you to see it first.”

The bullpen felt quieter now, the air heavier. Spencer slid his letter opener beneath the envelope’s seal and carefully unfolded the thick parchment inside. The paper smelled faintly of ink and something floral — lavender, maybe.

And then he read the words:

A heart once shattered, sewn in gold,

Memories linger though years turn cold.

The girl who smiled with eyes so bright,

Will burn again before the night.

A book’s torn page, a crimson thread —

Retrace the steps or find her dead.

Spencer’s fingers went numb. His pulse thumped in his ears as his gaze lingered on the words — especially the third line.

“Reid?” JJ’s voice was softer now. “What is it?”

“It’s… it’s a poem,” he said quietly, his voice tight. He swallowed hard. “It’s referencing my first love.”

JJ’s brow furrowed. “Maeve?”

Spencer nodded hesitantly. “She used to write me poems like this — riddles, puzzles. But this…” He reread the words. Will burn again before the night. His stomach twisted.

JJ’s expression hardened. “I’ll get Garcia.”

“No.” Spencer’s voice was sharper than he intended. JJ froze, her eyes narrowing.

“Why not?”

“Just… give me a minute,” he said, folding the letter carefully and sliding it into his desk drawer. “I need to think.”

JJ didn’t look convinced, but she relented. “Okay,” she said softly. “But you’re not figuring this out alone.”

As she walked away, Spencer leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, pressing his fingers to his temples. His heart raced — not just from the letter, but from the secret he had buried for months now.

Because whoever wrote that letter wasn’t just referencing Maeve.

They knew about her.

The team gathered in the briefing room minutes later. The envelope lay open on the table, its contents displayed beside it. Garcia’s fingers flew across her keyboard, her usual energy tempered by the tension in the room.

“Okay, so the envelope’s custom stationery,” Garcia reported. “Handmade, actually — imported from Italy. Not cheap.” She tapped a few more keys. “I’ve reached out to the company for a buyer list, but this isn’t something you grab at a corner store.”

Hotch nodded grimly. “This poem… you said it references Maeve?”

Spencer shifted in his seat. “I think so,” he said carefully. “The way it’s written — it’s similar to how she’d write riddles for me. But the wording…” He hesitated. “It’s different. Darker.”

Emily’s gaze sharpened. “You think the unsub’s mimicking her?”

“Or they knew her,” Spencer murmured.

“Maeve’s been gone for over two years,” Rossi said. “Why now?”

Before Spencer could answer, Garcia’s computer pinged. She clicked into her inbox, her eyes widening.

“Oh no…” she whispered.

“What?” Hotch asked.

“There was a break-in at a lab in New York. last night. One of the items reported missing…” Her fingers moved rapidly as she pulled up the list. “Several vials of thallium sulfate. Highly toxic, fatal in small doses.”

“Wait,” Emily said, her face pale. “That’s the same poison Maeve’s stalker threatened to use, isn’t it?”

Spencer barely heard her. His mind was spiraling — the poem, the poison, the threat.

Retrace the steps or find her dead.

“Spencer?” JJ’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“I need some air,” he mumbled, pushing back his chair.

The corridor outside the bullpen felt too bright, too sterile. Spencer leaned against the wall, dragging a shaky breath into his lungs.

“You’re not okay,” JJ’s voice said softly.

He didn’t turn. “I just… need a minute.”

“You’ve been quiet since this morning,” JJ pressed. “What aren’t you telling us?”

“I told you everything I know,” he lied.

JJ didn’t buy it — he could feel her gaze on him, sharp and unwavering.

“Spencer…”

“I said I’m fine,” he snapped. His voice cracked, betraying him.

JJ stepped closer, lowering her voice. “If this isn’t about Maeve…”

“It’s not,” Spencer admitted before he could stop himself. His breath hitched. “It’s not about Maeve.”

JJ’s expression softened. “Then who?”

Spencer closed his eyes. He could see her face — soft eyes, that satisfied smile, the way her hand lingered just a second too long when she passed him a book.

“Her name’s y/n,” he said quietly.

JJ blinked. “y/n?”

“She was… someone I knew years ago. Before Maeve.” His throat tightened. “I haven’t seen her in years, but…” He shook his head. “The poem — the way it references a ‘girl who smiled with eyes so bright.’ That’s her. She used to say that I —” He stopped, his voice breaking.

“You think the unsub’s targeting her?”

Spencer nodded. “I think they know about her. And if they’ve been watching me…”

JJ’s face hardened. “We need to find her. Now.”

Spencer knew she was right, but something cold coiled in his chest — the kind of dread that gnawed at the edges of logic.

Because whoever had written that poem didn’t just know about you.

They knew about him.

JJ and Spencer reentered the conference room, their faces shadowed with unease. The tension in the room deepened as they sat down.

“This…” JJ began softly, her voice unsteady. “This isn’t about Maeve.”

For a moment, no one spoke. The silence felt like a crack in the foundation — thin, fragile, and threatening to split wide open.

Hotch’s gaze sharpened. “Who is it about?” His tone was stern, but there was an edge of concern beneath it.

Spencer swallowed hard, his fingers twisting together. “Her name is Y/N.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but it cut through the room like glass. “I knew her years ago… before Maeve.”

Emily’s brow furrowed. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I didn’t think it mattered,” Spencer said quickly, guilt bleeding into his voice. “I haven’t seen her in years. I thought she was safe… that she’d moved on.” He paused, voice breaking. “I thought I’d moved on.”

“But the poem,” JJ pressed gently, “it’s about her?”

Spencer gave a shaky nod. “That line — ‘The girl who smiled with eyes so bright’ — that’s her.” His voice softened as if the memory itself had a heartbeat. “She always said…”

The room was quiet again, but this time, it wasn’t tense — it was heavy.

“Spence…” JJ’s voice was softer now. “Why would someone go after her?”

Spencer let out a long breath, reaching down to his bag. The zipper hissed as he pulled it open, his hand disappearing inside. When he brought it back up, he was holding a sleek black hard drive.

“What’s that?” Garcia asked, her curiosity tempered with concern.

Spencer stared at the device for a moment, as if gathering the strength to hand it over. “It’s…everything.” He slid it across the table to Garcia. “Every memory I have of her.”

Penelope’s fingers curled around the hard drive, her colorful nails stark against the black plastic. “Everything?” she repeated softly.

“I started keeping track after we lost touch,” Spencer admitted. “Photos, videos… voicemails.” He swallowed hard. “I didn’t want to forget her. Not again.”

“Forget her?” Emily asked, her gaze narrowing.

Spencer looked down at his hands, his fingers tightly intertwined. “I met her when I was still a rookie with the Bureau,” he explained. “We… we kept things quiet. She wasn’t in law enforcement, and I didn’t want her to get caught up in what I was doing. But then…” He faltered. “There was a case — a stalker who fixated on me. He started following Y/N too.”

“Wait,” Morgan cut in, voice sharp. “You had a stalker back then?”

“I never told anyone,” Spencer said quickly. “We weren’t public. Nobody knew about us — except him.” His eyes flicked back to the hard drive. “I thought if I cut ties with her… if I made her think I didn’t care… she’d be safer.”

“You let her believe you didn’t love her?” JJ asked softly.

Spencer’s voice cracked. “I had to.”

“Did it work?” Rossi asked.

“For a while,” Spencer said quietly. “The stalker went dormant, and Y/N disappeared from my life.” His voice wavered. “I thought she was safe.”

Hotch leaned forward. “But now you think that same stalker is back?”

“I don’t know,” Spencer admitted. “But this letter… the way it’s written… it’s personal. Someone’s been watching me long enough to know about her. And if they know about her…” He trailed off, his chest tightening.

“We’ll find her,” JJ promised firmly.

“I just…” Spencer shook his head, his fingers curling into his palm. “I don’t know where to start.”

“I do,” Garcia said gently. “This?” She held up the hard drive. “This is a map — memories, places, dates. If someone’s been following her or tracking you, I’ll find the connection here. I think it’s best we all take a look.”

Spencer managed a faint smile, though his eyes were still troubled. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“Spence,” JJ said softly. “What was she like?”

His expression softened, memories flickering behind his eyes. “She was… kind,” he said quietly. “And patient — God, she was patient with me.” He chuckled softly, just for a second. “She had this laugh — this really loud, almost embarrassing laugh — but I loved it.” His smile faded. “She made everything… brighter.”

“You loved her,” JJ said gently.

Spencer exhaled shakily. “I do.”

For the first time in years, he let himself believe that maybe — just maybe — she still loved him too.

The team gathered closer as Penelope carefully plugged the hard drive into her computer. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of her system booting up the device. Spencer’s fingers drummed anxiously against the table, his eyes locked on the screen as folders began to populate the display. Each folder was meticulously labeled.

“You really kept everything,” Derek murmured, her voice soft with surprise.

“I couldn’t let myself forget,” Spencer admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Alright, sugar,” Penelope said carefully, scrolling to the Videos folder. “Where should I start?”

“Anywhere,” Spencer said tightly. “I just… I couldn’t pick…”

Penelope clicked on a file labeled “Bookstore - November 17” and the screen filled with a grainy but warm video.

The camera wobbled at first before settling. The angle suggested Spencer had set it on a nearby shelf. The room was dimly lit — a small, cozy bookstore with stacks of novels lining the walls.

You appeared in the frame, sitting cross-legged on the floor between two shelves, a book balanced on your knee.

“Spencer,” you called teasingly, barely glancing up from your page. “Are you filming me again?”

“You always read out loud when you think no one’s listening,” Spencer’s voice answered from behind the camera.

“That’s because I think no one’s listening,” you shot back with a laugh. “Now come sit down.”

The camera shook as Spencer joined you on the floor, his arm barely visible in the corner of the screen.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

“Sherlock Holmes,” you said proudly, tapping the book’s worn cover. “I wanted to understand what’s going on in that big brain of yours.”

“You could’ve just asked me,” Spencer teased.

“Yeah,” you said with a grin, “but this way I get to imagine you in a ridiculous hat and smoking a pipe.”

You both laughed — warm and unguarded. The kind of laughter Spencer hadn’t let himself remember in a long time.

The video ended, and the room fell silent.

Spencer swallowed hard, his chest tight. “Play another,” he said softly.

Penelope clicked on a second file titled “Movie Night - March 3.”

This time, you were curled up on Spencer’s couch, clutching a blanket to your chest. Spencer’s voice, from behind the camera again, spoke up.

“It’s just a horror movie,” he teased.

“You say that like you’re not the one who jumped during the last scene,” you shot back, eyes narrowing playfully.

“I did not jump,” Spencer protested.

“Oh please,” you giggled, tossing a piece of popcorn at him. “You’re the genius — shouldn’t you know when a jump scare’s coming?”

The camera wobbled as Spencer sat beside you. “Maybe I just like the excuse to sit closer to you.”

The playful grin on your face softened. “You don’t need an excuse.”

The video faded to black.

“That’s adorable,” Garcia whispered, her voice unusually soft.

“Play one more,” Spencer said, his voice tight. “Please.”

Penelope hesitated before opening the folder marked “Voicemails.” The file names were organized by date, and Penelope scrolled down until she found one titled “Last Voicemail.”

“Spence…” JJ said quietly.

“I need to hear it,” Spencer insisted.

Penelope clicked play.

“Hey, Spence!” Your voice burst through the speakers, light and full of energy. “I know you’re probably knee-deep in some criminal mastermind’s twisted head right now, but I just wanted to say I miss you. Oh, and…”

There was a pause, followed by muffled shuffling.

“Okay, okay, I’m ready!” Your voice returned, playful now. “I have something important to tell you…”

Another voice — Spencer’s voice — cut in faintly from the background.

“Wait, what are you doing?”

“Recording your new voicemail greeting, obviously,” you teased. “Come on, it’ll make you smile when you check your messages.”

There was more muffled laughter, then you continued in your most dramatic voice:

“Hello! You’ve reached the phone of the one and only Dr. Spencer Reid. He’s probably off being a genius right now, so please leave a message — and don’t forget to ask about statistics, he loves that.”

“I do not love that,” Spencer’s voice mumbled in the background.

You burst out laughing. “Okay, love you, nerd. Call me back.”

The voicemail ended with a beep.

Spencer pressed his hand to his mouth, his eyes fixed on the screen. For a moment, he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe. The warmth of your voice — your laugh — it felt so close yet impossibly far away.

“You still have her number?” Morgan asked softly.

Spencer blinked, his hand slowly lowering. “I… yeah.”

“Try calling her,” JJ encouraged.

Spencer hesitated, but then slowly reached for his phone. His fingers hovered over the contact button — Y/N — for a moment before he pressed Call.

The room was so quiet you could hear the faint buzzing as the line rang once… twice…

Then came your voice — that same playful greeting that spilled from the speakers moments before:

“Hello! You’ve reached the phone of the one and only Dr. Spencer Reid. He’s probably off being a genius right now, so please leave a message — and don’t forget to ask about his statistics, he loves that…”

Spencer’s breath hitched.

“I do not love that,” his own voice muttered faintly from the recording.

“Okay, love you, nerd. Call me back.”

The voicemail beeped. Spencer just sat there, phone still pressed to his ear. His voice shook when he finally spoke.

“Y/N… it’s me.” His voice cracked. “If… if you get this, please — please call me back. I just need to know you’re safe.”

He ended the call and set his phone down, his fingers trembling.

“We’ll find her,” JJ promised again, her hand squeezing his arm.

Spencer didn’t look up. His gaze remained locked on the screen, still frozen on your face — smiling, warm, and so painfully alive.

“The invitation… it looks like a wedding invitation…” Emily mused, holding it to the light.

“Yeah or a funeral if we don’t hurry. Wheels up in 10.” Hotch announced, walking out quickly.

The BAU’s jet cruised steadily through the sky, but Spencer couldn’t seem to sit still. He shifted in his seat, eyes flickering from the case file on the table to the phone resting in his lap — still silent. The unanswered call gnawed at him.

Across from him, Rossi watched quietly, fingers curled around his coffee mug. Derek leaned back in his chair, arms crossed as he studied Spencer.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Derek said finally, breaking the silence.

“What thing?” Spencer asked distractedly, still glancing at his phone.

“That thing where you’re in your head so deep you might as well start charging rent,” Derek teased, but his tone was softer than usual.

Spencer sighed and set his phone down. “I can’t stop thinking about her,” he admitted.

“Good,” Rossi said simply, setting his mug down with a quiet clink.

Spencer blinked. “Good?”

“Yeah,” Derek chimed in. “If this guy’s targeting her, we need to know everything about her — who she is, what she cares about, what makes her stand out. That’s how we build the profile.”

“I know,” Spencer murmured, his fingers tracing the edge of the file. “It’s just… I don’t know what’s relevant.”

“Then start from the beginning,” Rossi encouraged. “Tell us about her.”

Spencer hesitated for a moment, unsure where to start. But once the memories began to surface, they spilled out like water breaking through a dam.

“She’s… different from me,” Spencer said softly. “Where I overthink everything, she’s spontaneous. She’s the type of person who’ll pull over just because she spotted a cute bakery and decided we had to try it.” He smiled faintly. “She doesn’t need a reason to be happy — she just… is.”

“Sounds like you’re pretty taken with her,” Derek said with a knowing grin.

Spencer’s smile widened. “I was — I mean… I still am.”

He glanced down at his phone again, hoping for a missed call, a message — anything.

“She loves color,” Spencer continued, his voice softer now. “Her whole apartment had these soft pastel accents — blankets, mugs, flowers… all delicate and warm. She always wore perfume that smelled like vanilla. You could walk in and just know you were in her space.”

Derek chuckled. “I can’t picture you in a pink room.”

Spencer’s smile turned wistful. “It didn’t matter. Anywhere was fine with her.”

“She sounds like she grounded you,” Rossi said.

“She did,” Spencer nodded. “And… she has this dream — one that always seemed so simple, but it meant everything to her.” He paused. “She wanted this little white house — nothing fancy, just something cozy — with a white picket fence and a big backyard. She wanted dogs — at least two, maybe three.” He chuckled softly. “She even had names picked out.”

Rossi smiled. “A dreamer.”

“She’s always been like that,” Spencer said, his voice quiet but warm. “She believed in fairytales — the real kind, where everything works out in the end.”

“You think she’d still go for that?” Derek asked. “The house, the dogs?”

“I know she would,” Spencer said with certainty. “Even when things were hard, she never stopped believing in that life — in finding comfort and love wherever she could.”

“Did she have a favorite place?” Rossi asked. “Somewhere she’d feel safe?”

“Yeah,” Spencer said, his brow furrowing in thought. “She loved this café — Mason’s Corner. She used to sit in the back corner with her headphones on, sipping iced coffee and writing in her journal. She’d lose track of time there.”

“Sounds like someone who chases the simple things,” Rossi noted.

“She does,” Spencer said softly. “She doesn’t need much to be happy — just a good book, an iced coffee, and somewhere quiet to think.”

Derek’s expression softened. “That’s what makes her special, man — that’s the stuff that sticks out. Whoever’s watching her isn’t just targeting her because of you… they know her. The way she thinks, what she wants. Everything you just told us — that’s what’s going to help us find her.”

Spencer looked down at his phone again, the screen still dark.

“I just hope she still believes in happy endings,” he whispered.

[andypantsx3]

BY THE BOOK : MIDORIYA IZUKU X READER

SUMMARY: When your pro hero boyfriend comes home to find you studying, he suddenly takes a great interest in helping out. You find his methods... questionable. TAGS/WARNINGS: nsft, hysterical literature (reading out loud while sexually stimulated), pro hero deku, deku still has ofa, support tech grad student reader, slight intelligence kink, gn + afab reader, cunnilingus, established relationship, aged up characters, fluff (3k) NOTES: Hi guys! I have been in survival mode as of late and the writing has been slow going; my sincerest apologies for how long it’s taking me to burn down my @ficsforgaza backlog. But I finally had the time & energy on my hands this weekend to work on this one and I had such a blast!! I hope I’m not too rusty—and if I am, I hope you enjoy it as much as I loved writing it regardless lol. Love you and thank you always for your patience. Happy Holidays!!

Sometimes, you thought you could tell your boyfriend was near, even before you heard his key in the lock.

It was something to do with his power, you’d always suspected—as a support engineer unduly interested in other people’s capabilities, you’d spent hundreds of hours turning it over in your head. It was the unnatural immensity of other people’s powers, you thought, pulling and coiling just beneath the surface of Izuku’s skin. In close proximity, after prolonged use, its presence felt like a shiver up the back of your neck.

You felt the barest hint of it now, an unsettled feeling creeping into the marrow of your bones, and you sat up on the couch just as you heard the scratch of Izuku’s keys at the door.

One For All fit cleanly into Izuku’s own unwavering intensity somehow, like the last piece of his puzzle. Though one would certainly never think so looking at him as he spilled through the door, pink-cheeked from the cold, all bright eyes, sweetly angelic features, and a riot of wild green curls. He looked windswept from the biting winter breeze. He also looked too kind to be carrying the sort of power he did—too sweet and eager and lovely.

“Look what the wind blew in,” you grinned at him over the back of the couch, after assessing he was well. Your eyes tracked the sinuous movement of those broad shoulders as he yanked his mouthguard over his head, the flex and pull of his bicep as he hung it beside the door. He was moving without pause, no sign of injury or muscle strain , and his suit was intact. Ordinarily you didn’t mind if there was a bit of shredding about the abs as long as he came back to you whole and hale, but in the winter you didn’t like him wandering about risking the chance of frostbite.

Your heart fluttered when Izuku returned your smile with one of his own, so beautiful and bright, chasing away the cold he’d tracked in like a warm sliver of sun.

“Lots of small, easy fights today?” You guessed, judging from his intact suit but clear whiff of power about him.

Izuku scrubbed a hand through that riot of curls, exposing the reddened shell of a cold ear. “I only had to use blackwhip a couple of times,” he said as he shouldered the door closed behind him, the muscle of his thighs flexing enticingly as he stepped out of his boots.

You gestured at the pot of soup you’d left warming on the stove, and the veritable pile of crusty bread beside it. Warmth and carbs, exactly what you would have wanted if you were a pro hero fresh off a long day of patrolling in the snow.

Izuku’s eyes fixed on it with an obliging amount of interest, and he almost tripped over himself in the genkan in his haste to get to the kitchen. “I love you,” you heard him say, muffled through a mouthful of bread, heard the clatter of the silverware drawer and a bowl being placed on the counter.

You smiled and turned back to the book in your lap, a particularly dry, knotty text on robotic imitation learning that had had your eyes drifting closed for the better part of an hour. It was the last you’d need to get through for your Wearable Technologies graduate course, and something you were deeply interested in incorporating into your design practice. You could train a piece of equipment on how an individual pro hero moved and deployed their quirk, and use predictive modeling to deploy assistance functionalities within milliseconds if you got it right—such as immediate cooling in pro hero Shouto’s temperature vest the moment he ignited an arm.

The implementation was going to be so cool—but the theory was so mind numbing.

You felt the couch sink in beside your feet, and Izuku peered interestedly at the title in your lap.

“Introduction to Robotic Imitation Learning,” he echoed, and you could hear the note of excitement in his voice. You suppressed a fond smile, knowing he was already thinking through the same applications you had—he was just as much of a nerd as you were.

“Introduction to Snoozing and Napping,” you grumbled, turning back to your page. “There are only so many words on the Kalman filter framework a brain can handle before the human mind shuts itself down.”

Izuku hummed in interest around a spoonful of soup, propping himself up against your leg. The exterior of his suit was still cool from the outside, and he groaned with relief from the warmth of your skin, even as you hissed at the chill.

You knew he wanted you to go on, so you generalized for him. “It’s an algorithm used for robotic motion planning—you not only take measurements of the thing you want to model but you account for uncertainties to predict the probability that something is going to happen.”

Izuku nodded, taking another spoonful of soup, gesturing for you to go on.

You summoned up the willpower to explain joint probability distribution, pleased when Izuku easily managed to follow—he’d always been a quick study, especially of anything that could be employed in the service of heroics. You’d long thought if he hadn’t been gifted his quirk, he would be an insane support engineer.

He managed to finish his entire bowl of soup in the time it took you to explain, and housed another two slices of buttered bread with the sort of alacrity you’d only ever seen in pro heroes and professional athletes, making you smile while you spoke.

His spoon clinked softly against the edge of the bowl as he set them aside on the coffee table, and he hooked his chin over your knees as you finished explaining. In the setting sun from your windows he looked especially lovely, the kind, angular planes of his face brushed in gold, softening the spots of his freckles.

His eyes were especially bright, the way they always were when something in particular had caught his interest, and he smiled at you again over the tops of your knee caps.

“I admire how smart you are,” he told you, in the simple, straightforward way he always gave out compliments. It was like a shot to the heart every time, and you could feel your face warm with the praise even after years of receiving similar compliments.

You reflexively flapped a dismissive hand. “Not smart enough to have internalized it all! I have mostly been falling asleep to it,” you promised him.

He tilted his head, a green curl falling into his eyes. “I know you won’t have a problem when you’re awake.”

You shifted your legs with embarrassment, and a long fingered hand came up to cup the front of your thigh, as Izuku turned more fully towards you. You could feel the warm, hard planes of his chest against your shins, the line of his jumpsuit’s zipper pressing insistently just below your knee.

“Gotta try to impress you somehow,” you joked, your skin prickling as Izuku’s fingers absent-mindedly drew a pattern across your thigh. You could feel the heat of his hand through the thin material of the leggings you’d lounged around in all day, the chill finally chased away from his skin now that he’d come inside and warmed up.

“You do impress me,” he said in his soft, gentle tone. Which made your cheeks and nose burn hotter.

You knew you did, and the steady faith Izuku had in the people around him was one of your favorite things about him. It still made you feel like a middle schooler with a crush to think about, though, the intensity of your feelings too much for one body to handle.

“I will study hard to live up to your faith in me,” you promised, unable to help the goofy smile you knew you were giving him.

Izuku’s chin shifted against the tops of your knees, and he pressed his mouth to the knob of your left one, leaving a smiling kiss. “Tell me more?” he asked, fingers still sliding softly over your thigh.

“I’ll read it to you as I go, then,” you said, turning back to the brick of a tome, propping it up more firmly on your stomach as you adjusted yourself against the couch arm. Izuku’s eyes watched you over the top of the pages, that emerald gaze tracking your face closely.

“‘The algorithm works via a two-phase process: a prediction phase and an update phase’,” you began, trying to turn your attention away from Izuku and back to the text. “‘In the prediction phase, the Kalman filter produces estimates of the current state variables, including their uncertainties. Once the outcome of the next measurement (necessarily corrupted with some error, including random noise) is observed, these estimates are updated using a weighted average, with more weight given to estimates with greater certainty.’”

Izuku’s long fingers traced firmer lines across your thighs, almost like he was taking notes. He layered another kiss along the line of your knee, eyes glittering at you as you read.

“‘The algorithm is recursive,’” you continued, “‘It can operate in real time, using only the present input measurements and the state calculated previously and its uncertainty matrix; no additional past information is required.’”

You almost jumped as Izuku’s mouth trailed lower, into the space between your knees, leaving kisses along your inner thigh. His fingers gently pulled one thigh away to make space for him in between, and you cleared your throat, trying to return to the text at hand.

“‘Optimality of Kalman filtering assumes that errors have a normal–that is, Gaussian–distribution,’” you read on. “‘The following assumptions are made about random processes: Physical random phenomena may be thought of as due to primary random sources exciting dynamic systems. The primary sources are assumed to be independent gaussian random processes with zero mean; the dynamic systems will be linear.’”

Izuku let out a soft breath, insinuating himself further between your thighs. Your own breath came out a little uneven as he bent over you, mouth tracking dangerously towards the inseam of your leggings.

You paused, but Izuku fixed you with a look of his slightly-darkened eyes. “Please—keep reading,” he said, his tone a little lower than it had been a minute ago.

You swallowed in shocked understanding, skin tingling. You felt yourself nod, as Izuku’s fingers strayed to the waist of your pants, dipping below the band.

You let him slowly peel your leggings down, your underwear with them, adjusting as needed to make it easy for him, even as you tried to return your attention to your textbook.

“‘Regardless of Gaussianity, however, if the process and measurement covariances are known, then the Kalman filter is the best possible linear estimator in the minimum mean-square-error sense,’” you quoted, nearly squeaking when Izuku pressed his mouth to your hip, his curls tickling the skin of your belly. His hands gripped either side of your thighs, palms square and rough against your skin, and you tried not to shiver with the feeling.

“Um—‘Although there may be better nonlinear estimators’,” you said, then nearly jumped out of your skin when Izuku pressed his mouth to the core of you, only the strength of his grip stopping you from accidentally kicking him in surprise.

“Oh my g—uh! It—um—‘It is a common misconception perpetuated in the literature that the Kalman filter cannot be rigorously applied unless all noise processes are assumed to be Gaussian,’” you managed, before your cut off into a groan as Izuku layered a hot, sweet kiss over you, tongue dipping carefully between your folds. “Ah-–Izuku—”

Izuku petted a thumb gently over the top of your thigh to show he was listening, even as he swiped his tongue over you again, a long, firm stroke that had your thighs flexing in his hold. He laved over your clit, sucking ever so slightly, and your grip almost tore the edge of your textbooks as it tightened.

“Keep going,” he urged briefly, then did it again, punching a groan out of you.

“Extensions—oh—‘Extensions and generalizations of the method have also been developed, such as the extended Kalman filter and the unscented Kalman filter which work on nonlinear systems,’” you read on, voice shooting up nearly into a squeal when two of Izuku’s long, firm fingers pressed into you, as his mouth moved over you again.

“Ah! Oh my god—the—um, the basis—-” you said, breath growing short. Izuku’s fingers unerringly found the spot inside you that made you twist in his grip with the ease of long practice, and his jaw worked as he kissed you so shockingly filthily. You could feel something already starting to build up behind your navel, a fluttery lightness, an insatiable insistence on more.

“‘The basis a hidden Markov model—oh, fuck—such that the state space of the latent variables is continuous and all latent and observed variables have–ah!--Gaussian distributions,’’’ you recited, your voice tripping up further into a register that sounded more like begging than reading.

Izuku’s fingers worked you, long and thick and perfect inside you, as his tongue drew unrelenting circles around your clit. Stars seemed to spark in your vision, and your eyes squeezed shut, losing your place on the page as your hips flexed into his face. You felt suddenly very floaty and lightheaded, and not at all in a position to keep going.

Still, you tried to refocus your attention.

“‘K–Kalman filtering has been used successfully in—oh—multi-sensor fusion—ah, ah!--and distributed sensor networks–fuck, please, Izuku—to develop distributed or consensus Kalman f-filtering,’” you said, your tone nearly a cry.

Izuku groaned softly, sucking gently as his fingers curled inside you. It made your veins spark under your skin, your legs shaking in Izuku’s hands. You abandoned your grip on your book to seize the arm of the couch, clawing desperately at the fabric.

“Please, Izuku,” you cried, hips bucking towards his mouth.

The book tumbled off your stomach but you hardly noticed, gaze refocusing on the way his eyelashes fluttered as he licked you. His fingers played gently within you, a maddening press that was simultaneously too much and not enough, and his other hand came up to slide under your sweater, plucking gently at your nipple.

You lost yourself to the feeling—caught between the mind-melting curl of his fingers, the delicate suction of his mouth, and the careful pinch of your nipple. A delicious heat curled through you, waves of unbearable pleasure, and you could hear yourself babbling nonsense—garbled syllables of Izuku’s name, and every entreaty you could think of, a hundred thousands mores and oh pleases.

Izuku abandoned your nipple to pull you more firmly against him with a strong arm curled under your thigh, pressing you even harder into his mouth.

You muffled a scream in the sleeve of your sweater as he sucked you harder, tongue laving over you in loving strokes. Only his terrible strength held you down as you writhed beneath him, and then his fingers twisted in a way that had your vision whiting out—and you were suddenly thrown out over the edge of your pleasure.

Izuku licked you through it as you squirmed and begged and cried out his name, your climax seeming to last for eons.

You were panting hard when you finally slumped into the cushions of your couch, the ceiling seeming to swim in and out of focus before your eyes. When you gained enough control of your body again you looked down at Izuku, finding him watching you with a satisfied, almost shy curl to his mouth.

“You’re beautiful,” he told you, emerald gaze glittering with sincerity. “You’re so smart.”

Impossibly you felt your heart swell with even more love for him, and you seized his shoulder, dragging him up over you so you could kiss his mouth. The taste of yourself on him was embarrassing yet thrilling, and you petted a pleased hand through Izuku’s wild mess of curls as you kissed him.

“Well you are amazing,” you told him, swiping a thumb over his cheek fondly, smoothing over his freckles. A gorgeous watercolor of pink washed over his cheeks and nose at the proclamation, and you could hear his fingers flex in the cushion beside your head.

The sight of him flushed and waiting over you like another small something inside of you, like a pilot light, and you let your mouth pull into a wry grin.

“I hope you know I learned nothing though,” you said casually, your plan for your next steps already forming in your head. You let a hand trail carefully down Izuku’s flank, tracking towards his waist. “I think maybe I might need a few rounds for it to really sink in.”

Izuku’s ears went red against the green of his hair, and you felt your smile widen. “Maybe you could read it to me this time?” you asked, guiding him to roll under you, retrieving your book from the floor as you did so.

You settled yourself on the tops of Izuku’s thighs, feeling the hard press of him against your core, as you placed your textbook into his waiting hands.

Izuku’s answering smile was all the permission you needed. You directed him to start from the beginning of the chapter, and he did so in that soft, lilting tone of his you so loved. And then your fingers trailed up to the zipper at his collar.

It was time to return the favor—wholeheartedly.

REFERENCES: Kalman Filtering (Wikipedia) I took the passages our Reader recited from here because I do not actually understand Kalman filtering at all and could not organically come up with feasible text for her to read through. Sorry in advance to the author of this page lol.

[clioerato]

Steve's first game.

Eddie — Dungeon Master, game host

Steve — Paladin in D&D

Eddie: You enter a public bathhouse. Right by the entrance, a security guard is sitting with a crossword puzzle in hand. Behind the counter stands a female gnome with bold makeup and a name tag. Behind her, a rack with keys numbered 1 to 3—though there are no actual keys in sight...

Dustin: Well, Steve, go talk to her! Steve: About what? Lucas: Come on, you’re the dashing paladin in our party. Use that charisma! Steve: What am I even supposed to say?! Eddie (playing the gnome girl): Hey, hey, boys! Welcome to the bathhouse! Steve: Hold on, hold on… uh… Madam… (Steve frantically checks his character sheet, searching for something useful in his inventory.) Steve: I… uh… I need to put on my sunglasses, or else… (dramatically gazes at Eddie) I’ll be blinded by your beauty.

Party: Oooooh!!! Eddie, choking on air: Uh… roll for Persuasion. D20. Steve: No, no! I’m not trying to seduce her! I’m just giving her a compliment! Lucas and Dustin: What do you mean?! Steve, we need information! Steve: This is gonna go sideways, and then you’ll all blame me for ruining the game! Mike: Steve, I really hope your "success" with girls doesn’t carry over into DnD. Just roll already! Steve, sighing: This hasn’t been my strong suit for a while now. (Eddie stifles a laugh, but Dustin’s loud exclamation drowns it out.)

Dustin: Steve, I know dating hasn’t been your thing for a long time, even though I keep telling you about Robin! But right now, you need to get information from the gnome girl! Steve: Fine, just out of curiosity—will my words actually work? Lucas: You have +6 to Persuasion! (Steve rolls the die… and gets a 1.)

Party: CRITICAL FAILURE!!! Steve: I told you! I TOLD YOU! Eddie (as the gnome girl): I’m calling security! Hey, I’m being harassed! Help! (The guard is already rushing toward the group.)

Lucas: I grab Paladin-Steve by the arm, pull him aside, and try to apologize to the gnome girl. “Miss, please, listen… He’s lil nontraditional…” Steve: Wait! Wait! Eddie (in character): The security guard is closing in on you, Steve. Steve: I can’t perform under pressure! But now… Now! (Steve suddenly lowers his voice to a sultry tone and locks eyes with Munson.)

Steve: Mmm… what do we have here? My, you’re so handsome… I’m so glad I put on my glasses earlier, or your smile would have blinded me. (Eddie turns red.)

Eddie: Roll for Persuasion. Charisma. (Steve rolls… and gets a 20.)

Party: AAAAHHHH!!! CRITICAL SUCCESS!!! Mike: Steve, we asked you to get information from the gnome girl, and instead, you seduced the guard! Will, baffled: You didn’t want to flirt with the girl, but you ended up seducing the guard… (Eddie, regretting ever convincing Steve to play, sighs heavily.)

Eddie (as the guard, now smitten): The security guard smiles at the paladin, gazing at him with newfound admiration. He reaches out, gently takes off Steve’s sunglasses, and whispers, “I have already burned under the sun of your beauty. Join me. We barely know each other, but I must ask… will you be with me, now and forever?”

Steve, completely forgetting the game: Yes. Eddie, also forgetting the game: …Yes? Steve: Yes.

This is not entirely my idea, but partly a retelling of a real game in D&D

✨ If you like my stories and vibes, you can support me here: [Ko-fi]

[lavenderspence]

Sweater Thief | A.H.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader

Content warning: fluff, domestic fluff, mention of scars, inaccurate use of law jargon

Word Count: 1.5K

Summary: You’ve always loved wearing Aaron’s quarter zip, especially when he is away on a case. But he also loves coming home and seeing you in it.

A/N: Welp, this is my first Hotch fic! Honestly, I love this so much, and the inspo is simply my love and appreciation for Hotch in a quarter zip sweater, simply delicious. Enjoy this little baby, I have more Hotch fics in the works. And also, storyboards or gifs, what's better?

masterlist

The house felt unusually cold for mid-September. The sun had long ago gone down the horizon, taking the little warmth it had provided with itself. Your home was quiet - Jack was spending the 3 day weekend with Jessica, and Aaron had been on a case in Massachusetts for the past 4 days. 

You were feeling the loneliness slowly start to take over. Although Jack had been gone for no more than 4 hours, you had gotten used to it being the two of you whenever Aaron was away. He’d become your little partner in crime in the year and a half you've been dating his dad. He was an unbelievably charming and calm kid - you guessed the perfect mixture of both his parents. At least you thought as much, from what Aaron, Jessica, and Jack had shared about Haley. 

He loved cartoons, and he loved building things - legos and 3D models. He also loved puzzles, especially when you helped him assemble them. 

But you also shared one very important thing - you both loved and missed his dad whenever he was traveling for work. That’s why having each other was so special, and spending time together was always a blast - you baked together, you played, and you went on walks. You were there for each other whenever Aaron had to work.

To be fair, neither you nor Jack blame Aaron or his job. You knew how important it was to him and how important his work was to the families that faced tragedy. He was an important part of the BAU, and he needed to do what he was doing - he was made to help people. 

But not having him here and not having Jack to love on, and take care of, the house felt far too empty and quiet. It was bringing forth a sadness that often came with the feeling of missing him, and in this case, missing them both.

With a defeated sigh, knowing you had nothing to do this evening, and with the cold chilling you almost to the bone, you started for the stairs and walked into the master bedroom. You made it into the closet and went searching around deep in Aaron’s winter clothes until you found what you were looking for and pulled it free. 

The quarter zip was dark brown and soft against your palms, and it faintly smelled like him. It was one of your favorite pieces of clothing he owned and your favorite to wear when he wasn’t home. 

You pulled it on, almost melting into the fabric. It was a little big on you, reaching down past your hipbones, and around your fingers. That was fine though, it was just another reason to love his clothes. You felt like you were wrapped around him, calmed by the feeling and the scent of him around you. It made you feel just a tad less lonely, especially today. 

You went around the house, doing small things here and there, trying to pass the time. After an hour though, you felt like you needed your mind occupied, just for a little while longer. Like a part deep inside of you was expecting Aaron home tonight.

It wouldn’t be the first time you’d stayed up to wait for him to get home, but he usually called if he was returning in the late hours of the evening. A call hadn’t come though, neither had a text, and still you felt it. 

You found yourself in the study, pulling a book from the shelf before you relaxed on the little couch there and cracked it open. No more than 40 minutes had gone by, escaping into the world the pages painted for you, when you heard the front door. The familiar clank of Aaron’s keys being put on the little table by the door followed. 

You dog-eared the book, too excited to search for anything else to mark your progress, and then you left the room, making your way towards the front to welcome him home.

He’d just taken his shoes off, pulling his tie free, when you spotted him by the door. He heard you walk it, smiling your way gently, if a little tiredly.

“Hi, honey.” He greeted you with a whisper, just as you stepped in front of him. Your arms automatically wrapped around his middle, and your face found its’ favorite place - at the crook of his neck. You sagged against each other, a sigh escaping him, just your touch enough to make him relax.

“Hey, I missed you.” You whispered back, as he pulled you even closer to himself, one arm low on your back, as the other cradled your head with a gentle touch.

“I missed you, too.” He pulled back, only to lean in for a sweet kiss. His lips pressed against yours tenderly, a magnetic current passing through you at the touch. As you relaxed into the kiss, letting him bleed his love though, the longing within you quieted. You took everything he gave, and still wished for more, starving for him and his touch, after days when you couldn’t have him like this.  

You’d never get enough of the kisses he pulled you into the moment he walked home. The yarning for each other and the quiet relief of finally being in the arms of the person who loved and cherished you like no other. Kisses full of want and love. So similar in taste, but vastly different every time, as if each time was the first time he was coming back home to you. 

When he pulled away, he cradled your face in his hands. You studied him, the dark circles under his eyes were now more evident than ever. His hair looked unkempt as if the frustration of the job had really gotten to him this time. The more he looked at you, the more his eyes softened, and the worry left his body gradually. 

“Why are you up this late?” His thumb ran across your cheekbone.

“Had a feeling you might be coming home tonight.” He pulled you to him, kissing the side of your head as you slowly started pulling him towards the bedroom. He left his go bag next to the door, leaving the worry of unpacking for tomorrow. 

You finished pulling his tie free, before removing it. His suit jacket came off next, and you draped it over the back of the vanity chair. 

His hands found a place on your hips, and every few seconds he’d give you a light squeeze as you worked on unbuttoning his shirt.

“Isn’t this the sweater I was looking for before I went to Boston?” He tugged on it gently, a furrow in his brows, but the smile on his face betrayed him, he was amused because he already knew the answer.

“Oh, this one? I must have been thinking about another one, sorry honey.” You were barely holding in your smile. This was in fact the quarter zip he had been looking for 4 days ago, wanting to pack it in case of bad weather, but you’d stashed it deep into the closet after the last time he’d worn it. 

He chuckled, sounding tired, as you pulled off his shirt, laying a few kisses on his chest and abdomen as you chased the phantom pain of the scars left standing from his past. Each one got attention, just like every time you undressed him. His breathing always picked up, at first in surprise, and quickly after that out of love. 

You knew his feelings about the scars left from a dark moment in his life, having talked about it at length, and you always told him the same thing. Regardless of his past, his demons, fears, and even those scars, the man that he was now, was the man you loved. The man you went home to, kissed every morning and each night, whose smile you saw in your sleep. Nothing was going to change that. 

You went in search of a sleep shirt for him as he finished getting undressed. 

“I knew you were a heart thief, sweetheart, I mean, I have the evidence to prove it, but a sweater thief, I didn’t take you for.” He pulled you into another kiss, voice teasing, as was the smile on his face. He always claimed you stole his heart, but then again, he’d stolen yours just the same. 

“Your honor, the prosecution has no evidence to support such a claim, it’s all a ploy to smear my good name,” You rambled, getting a rich laugh out of him, “In all fairness, it smells like you, reminds me of you in the sweetest and hottest way possible. It’s comforting, whenever you’re away on the job.” You confessed. 

He searched your eyes before he pulled you in to kiss your forehead, “Next time we’re sent on a case, I’ll make sure to leave something for you to wear while I’m away.” He promised, before he undressed you too, pulling one of his shirts over your head, and taking you to bed, where he cuddled you until morning. 

Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated!

[wibben]

GLOAMING — NANAMI KENTO

↳ Summary: Post-Shibuya, Nanami Kento needs to be reminded that he's still beautiful and you still love him.

↳ CW: smut, vaginal sex, mirror sex, hurt/comfort, optimistic ending, body worship, burn scars, established relationship

↳ WC: 7.5k

↳ AN: My contribution to Nanami Week's day 6 prompt: Scars / Body Worship!

“Kento, I’m home! And I’ve got goodies…!” 

The day had been long, but not nearly as long as it ought to have been. By some twist of cosmic pity or karmic reimbursement — the universe tossing you a bone for services rendered — you’d been spat out of work two hours early, blinking and disbelieving in the late afternoon sun. A rare mercy, considering your two-man team had become a one-man operation, and your off hours were more theoretical than real.

You didn’t ask questions. You just ran.

Your keys clattered into the wicker bowl on the foyer table. Coat off, boots toed loose, you shelved a crinkly paper bag on one hip, grinning like a bandit. Inside: the spoils of a quick but completely necessary pit-stop to the local patisserie for the modest luxuries of a still-warm baguette, a wedge of gruyere, folded slices of ham sweating through its wax paper and a dark, sticky fig jam you used to love. All things you hoped would make for a nice early dinner to polish off the bottle of wine gathering dust in the rack.

All it needed now was him.

You hadn’t seen much of each other that morning. You’d woken up to the back of Kento’s head, blonde hair flattened and smushed to one side across the pillow. He’d hardly roused at all when you squirmed up against his back to press a soft kiss the pale pink, glass-smooth, no longer freckled skin behind his ear. 

Just a grunt, and the sluggish lift of his shoulder, edging you out of his warmth with a half-hearted shrug. Once, he might’ve rolled to face you and hauled you against his chest, trapping you in an affectionate chokehold until his sloppy sleep-misaligned kisses across your face made you laugh him awake.

But you didn’t mind. He hadn't slept well… had accidentally kicked you more often than usual. He was probably exhausted.

You rounded the corner into the living room, your mood still lifted, buoyed by the scent of warm bread and the delight of sharing your foraging finds. Once, you would’ve heard the wordless groan from deep in his chest when you flopped onto the sofa beside him, and felt the way his arm would lift loose and heavy and waiting for you to worm your way underneath. Your knees would’ve puzzle-locked over and under his to tangle in those soft, lived-in heather sweatpants. He’d have smiled, pressed a kiss to your brow, then your cheek, then your mouth — Act Two of the ones he didn’t quite manage in the morning.

‘Welcome home’ and ‘I missed you’ rumbled between pecks to your lips, with nothing to do but bask in each others company and let your hands wander wherever they may after a glass of Shiraz, there was always a surplus of stolen time to make up for, and you were always keen to play the part of the debt collector—

But your husband wasn’t there. 

A glass of water sweats a dark ring into the cork coaster on the coffee table, and the TV crackles dully on the wall and Kento’s latest read lay flat out on the cushion like he intended to return for it, but nothing of the man himself. 

“Kento…?” You called again, a little less certain this time. 

Maybe he’d gone out with the same hankering as you, heart set on a fresh and indulgent dinner of things not kept readily in the pantry. He did do that more often these days — the disappearing. Aimless but equally determined, suddenly running odd errands at odder hours only because he could. Freedom, once tasted, was hard to give up.

He could’ve texted you, or left a note, or waited for you. 

You sucked your lip between your teeth and swallowed your disappointment — you’d survive being left alone. It wasn’t the end of the world, but you hadn’t expected to spend your unexpected afternoon of freedom alone. 

Ssssskkkkkkkkkk-splsh. 

The sound startled you. Porcelain on wet skin, squeaky movement further down the hall.

You didn’t mean to rise to the balls of your feet, or to avoid the floorboards you knew by heart — three and seven always creaked. 

Your hand curled around the frame of the ajar door, and you eased it wider with the softest nudge of your fingers, sheepish as you leaned your head into the narrow gap.

He hadn’t heard you come in. 

The door hadn’t creaked, and your footsteps stayed soft. 

Months later you still weren’t sure where you were allowed to stand.

Kento lay reclined in the tub, his long legs bent at an angle to fit, arms resting along the smooth edges. His head was tipped back on a rolled towel, jaw slack, the slow rise and fall of his chest syncing with the rhythmic plink… plink… plink of the dripping iron faucet. It rippled the water which lapped at his ribs, his collarbone, it kissed the pale maps of old healing, and one hand — scarred but whole with all five fingers — twitched with a sleepy spasm. 

He was peaceful. More peaceful than he ever looked when awake or even in your bed. 

And on the sink, closer to you than to him, was his eyepatch. 

You stared into the hollow where his eye used to be and even after all this time, you were distantly befuddled that it didn’t stare back. It fascinated you — the pitted, rough skin of his left side. His lashes were gone. His brow, gone. What remained of his hairline stopped in a sharp crescent across his scalp, knotted and textured like old oak bark. You wanted to touch him, to reacquaint yourself what it felt like under your fingertips. 

You’d seen it all before in the earlier days following Shibuya, back when you weren’t even sure Kento would ever come home again, and when sleep was a fickle thing that only came in collapsed increments in uncomfortable chairs. 

‘He shouldn’t make it’, Shoko told you outside the infirmary. Her voice was blunt as ever, but her hands shook as she lit a cigarette. ‘But then, he’s Nanami, so… he shouldn’t do a lot of things. Bet he’ll live.’ 

And when he finally squeezed your hand, hours or days later you didn’t know nor did you care, you’d cried so violently Shoko thought you were seizing. You’d vomited in the biohazard bin. You still hadn’t cared, because Kento was alive and nothing could ever matter more than that. 

He tried to smile with nothing but teeth and gauze. He said he couldn’t leave you. 

Those early days, despite the way Kento’s body would shudder and twitch with the burning pain of dying nerves, and your own chest would seize when his rose too shallowly for comfort, there was hope. He had lived and he was free, because nobody in their right mind would ever ask Nanami Kento to return to Jujutsu after what he’d suffered; and if they’d tried, you’d have risen and raged and crusaded to prevent it from being so. 

So you shouldered his work load and marched like a mule to prove they didn’t need him more than you did, and they would not steal him from you.

He was lighter, even bound in heavy bandages. There was peace in freedom, if only he could heal and get there.

But healing, you both learned quickly and Kento struggled to reckon with, was not the same thing as coming back whole.

Recovery was excruciating, for him and for you. He followed orders grim and obedient as a pit dog. He set alarms for pills on a new watch bought specifically for that purpose. He charted ointments and attended every physical therapy session even when his hands shook from exhaustion and agony. He was as meticulous in his pain as he was furiously dignified in his destruction. 

But his fingers didn’t curl the way they used to. Sometimes his grip failed him entirely. He dropped dishes and mugs, ceramic shattered across the kitchen tile like little glass bombs. He spit and snarled and cursed, raging against his new shortcomings while you stood silently with the dustpan. 

His depth perception was a bastard thing — you learned to keep the cabinets half-empty and the corners always padded. You drove him to every appointment and took notes. You asked the questions when after a year he didn’t have the energy left to care. 

And as soon as he was able, barely able, he pushed you away. 

He started locking the bathroom door to bathe and change his dressings alone. He took the train into the city for his appointments without ever telling you he had one. He began cooking again — and you felt that spark of hope ignite deep in your heart again. It would be good for him to return to old passions, you thought. But he refused anything you made from that point on. He would make it himself, or not eat at all. 

It was grief, you thought, denying and justifying the decay of your living man. Then it was guilt. Or pride. Or maybe all of them wound tight and festering under his skin that healed over a wound you couldn’t get close enough to fix. You understood as best you could, and you waited. 

But it was getting harder. The space between you no longer felt temporary, but structural, with foundations and beams and skeletons in the closet.

You loved him. And you knew he loved you in the good times. He still opened doors, carried your bags, and held you so long as you faced away. 

His body was still perfect to you too. Slightly tanned and pink with the water's heat, freckles on his right shoulder with soft hair dusting his arm and leg. The burn only cut him into halves… the merciless split cleaved between your husband and the man he treated himself as now.

You hadn’t meant to enter the bathroom, but you only wanted a closer look. Old habits die hard, and you’d come far too close to losing him once that the deathly stillness that cradled him in slumber rattled your nerves too close for comfort. You felt sick with it. You would just listen to him breathe for a moment, you compromised with yourself. Then you’d go, he’d never even know you were there— 

You sank to your knees beside the tub. 

Ribs cut hard lines under his skin, and his chest rose, fell, rose again like reliable forge bellows. Beneath the water, a pale ghost of his old body haunted the new one, all lean muscle and purple memory. You thought, somewhat stupidly, about how he used to fold you in half and still have breath left over, and how your bath bombs used to amuse him with their soothing-lavender-scented-pseudoscience, but the bubbles that thinned near the waters center were distinctly purple hued now, and the balmy bathroom air smelled like flowers. 

There were still parts of him your eyes remembered better than your hands. The seam along his neck where new skin met old, and the small twitch in his shoulder that never went away, not even when he slept. He was leaner in a way that didn’t quite make sense — his wrist was too narrow, like something essential had been siphoned out and never replaced. And there were hollows you didn’t remember being there, faded pink and stark whites of injury shimmering beneath the bathwater like some prehistoric reef, rough and raw and no less beautiful for its distress. 

Your palm itched to drag over his sternum and trace the place where he was split in two. You wanted to memorize him as he was now because how else were you supposed to hold him? You sat greedily still, a silent supplicant at the altar of the man you still loved so wholly it killed you. 

You stayed there, hands clenched in your lap so they wouldn’t do something stupid like reach for him. You’d walked in on him naked a hundred times before, but this time you didn’t feel entitled to look, a veritable voyeur in your own home, with a man to whom you should’ve had every right and reason to see. 

You swallowed hard, valiantly blinking back the sting rising behind your eyes. Time to go. You’d seen enough — stolen enough — and you would carry it like contraband tucked deep beside your heart.

He would wake up eventually and offer you something smaller, safer: the distant affection he rationed out in careful portions, a kiss to your cheek that you knew he still meant with all of his heart but delivered with only the right half of his mouth. It would be enough and you would smile and kiss his right cheek when he offered it. 

You shifted to stand, but your foot clipped a trip-wire bottle of lotion by the tub. It skidded across the tile with a damning clack. 

Kento stirred and you locked up. 

His good eye blinked open — slow and still groggy.

For a moment, before the waking world caught up to him and he shrugged off that liminal space between conscious and not, he smiled. 

The smile you used to see in cobalt blue mornings, limbs tangled under the duvet while you whispered conspiracies against the alarm clock into his collarbone, seducing a sleepy Kento back down with kisses and half-threats of ten more minutes; the same as the one he gave you in the hush after he’d throughly made love to you, when his weight pressed you into the mattress just right and he nosed lazy affection into your jaw, murmuring I love you. 

He was soft, half-drunk from sleep, his adoration backlit with the bright affection that still burned for you. His body remembered you before his brain did. Like loving you was mere muscle memory. 

It was stupid how much of him poured into one look. Stupid, and gut-wrenchingly painful how his whole face melted like sugar and his breath sighed blissfully from his lips, and how that stupid stubborn tremor in his shoulder paused for just one moment. 

The water sloshed as he reached for you, sluggish, uncoordinated, unthinking… until his gaze caught on the burn-scored arm breaking the surface. The ruined skin, puckered and red, warped the motion into something monstrous. And your heart cracked with the force of his recoil, because you saw it all. You saw him forget, and then you saw him remember. 

The mask snapped back in place like a bear trap. The walls slammed up. That same arm jerked up to shield the left side of his face with his hand too late. He lurched upright, water thrashing around him, breath shallow and eye wide, rigid and rageful as a wounded animal tense with shame. 

“Sorry—I didn’t mean to wake you—“ you started, stumbling back a step.

“What are you doing?” He snarled. You flinched. 

And just like that, the version of him who smiled at you was gone. 

“I got home early,” you hedged. “You didn’t answer so I was just checking on you—“

He sneered, bitter and nasty and turned from you. His dripping hand curled around the marbled skin of his face and he hunched toward the wall of the tub. “I think I’m capable of bathing myself. I’m not a child.” 

Your eyes widened and you scurried closer, hands splayed forward now. “I know you can, I wasn’t implying—“ 

“—get out.” 

“No, Kento, come on—“ Your words died with a squeak as Kento abruptly swung his hand away from his face to ward you off, water and suds doused the tile floor, soaked your socks and sprayed your shirt. 

“I asked you to get out.” 

Your mouth twisted and you ground your teeth, trying your hardest to ward off the prickling tears in your eyes and your burning nose. He glowered at you, fire in his eye and dead black coal in the other socket, but you didn’t turn away. You clenched your hands into fists, your shoulders trembling with indignant fury. “We’re married, Kento! You don’t need to be like this with me.” 

Kento laughed — but it was nothing like he used to, full-bodied, warm, that made you feel like you’d earned it. He was as cold as the drops of water that dripped from the flattened tips of his hair and carved their way down the divots of his healed skin. 

“Is it too much to ask that I want my wife to see me when I’m…” he scowled, his mouth twitched and stretched before settling, “—decent?” 

“Kento,” you said, willing yourself to stay calm. You wanted to touch him, but didn’t. Wanted to sob, but didn’t do that either. “You always look like this.” 

He scowled, the warped thin skin of his lip peeled back from his teeth in disgust. “I’m half a fucking corpse, darling.”

“Don’t say that!” You choked, feeling that awful clog in your throat damming your voice, turning your nose red with tears you knew were imminent, fight as you might against them. 

But Kento continued as if your heart weren’t mid messy detonation. 

“It’s a wonder you’re even here,” he seethed, “you nursed me back to health, you can go off and find somebody better now, free of guilt. You’ve done your charity—“ 

“Don’t you dare,” you hissed, voice shaking now — not only with tears, but with fury. “Don’t you fucking dare reduce what we have to charity. You know better.” 

Kento stilled uncomfortably. He didn’t apologize nor did he flinch, but you could see the tension taut just beneath his shimmering skin, the fight-or-flight of a man who would rather die on the battlefield than be pitied in the field tent. His jaw locked, and his breath burst through his nose like he fought it as much as he was fighting you. 

“You think I stay because I have to?” You marched closer and Kento recoiled, but there was nowhere to go in the tub, no doors to put between you and latch the lock. He would hear you. 

Your wet socks squelched on the bathmat. “You think this is guilt? That I—what—get off on the martyrdom of it all?” 

Kento scoffed. “At least you’d have an incentive.” 

You reeled back. You blinked, stunned, your mouth twitching. And then your throat went hot, and your hand came up fast to smash the tears away as quickly as they burned past your lashes. 

“Do you honestly think I’m so shallow, Kento?” 

The room was silent save for the dripping of the faucet, but you couldn’t even hear that over the roaring in your ears. 

The briefest flicker of shame crossed his half-scarred face. He wavered and clenched his jaw like he’d swallowed glass and now it was trying to climb back out.

Your tears always gutted him. He used to scoop them up with his thumbs, gentle as pearls. Used to whisper soft apologies into your skin and kiss away the tracks, warm and pleading, all while plotting to look for the source like it was something he could kill. 

And now he was the source. He loathed that he was the type of man to make his wife cry. Something in his chest collapsed inward, tectonic. A man used to fixing things now realizing he was the broken pipe flooding the whole house. 

He raked a hand through his hair and turned from you, muttering your name in warning. 

But you were incensed, righteously enraged, and Kento jumped as you roughly clambered into the tub, socks and clothes and all. The water soaked through denim and cotton in an instant, clinging to your boiling skin. Kento scooted back and tried to twist away, but you sloshed after him. 

“What are you—“ You didn’t let him finish. 

You dropped to your knees and charged between his, your clothes heavy and dripping with bathwater, you flung your arms around his neck so hard he grunted. You dragged him down into the wreckage of you. 

“God, you arrogant, idiotic man! Do you even realize how much I miss you?” You buried your face into the left side of his neck and choked against the burned skin. 

He struggled, tried to pry your arms off of him, wedging his fingers between your ribs and his chest like he could dislodge your love with leverage but you only gripped him tighter, not caring how your nails dug into his shoulders you clung as aggressively as you could. He had to listen to you this time, you couldn’t bear any more of this. 

“You need to let go—“ 

“No!” 

“I loved you before, Kento,” you spat, “and now, I love you so much it makes me sick.” Your voice cracked on the last word, and you hated it as much as the taste of the salt on your lips and the sting on your cheeks and the awful distance he kept between you like he was still burning. “And I can never—never—love you enough! There isn’t enough!” 

You felt the artery against your cheek jump and squirm when he swallowed, and the riot beneath his ribs locked against yours, but he still clung to his resolute silence like a shield. 

You jerked back, just enough to see his face and for him to see yours. You gripped his head tightly between your palms, and he didn’t blink. “You think this is pity?” you demanded. “You think I’m staying because I feel sorry for you?” 

Still, he didn’t answer — a statue carved out of ash and arrogance. But you saw the tic of his jaw and the slow flare of his nostrils when he exhaled. He wasn’t unmoved by your fury, he was enduring. He accepted the flames whipped from your tongue as readily as he had the ones that scorched his body. 

“Well, I am sorry,” you said to the brick wall. “I’m sorry that you don’t love yourself, and I’m sorry that things are hard for you, but I’m not sorry that you lived. Maybe I’m selfish—I’d rather you be miserable and alive—but you are alive, and I am not sorry for you.” 

You pulled back more and sat on your knees in the lap of the man you married. You wanted to shake him, to rattle out this wretched silence and shake into place anything. Let him yell, or rage, or cry, anything— 

And so you said it. You said it without thinking, weaponized and guttural and sharp as a slap: 

“Dammit, Nanami—!”

He stared at you blankly. 

Then he seemed to realize… oh, right, that’s his name but coming out of your mouth.

He buffered, and you watched his brow finally furrow when he shook his head, appalled. 

“…What?” 

You blinked back, shoulders shaking. 

“Yeah. Nanami. I called you Nanami.” 

He stared at you like you’d just smacked him with a sandal. 

He was silent again, but his eye was on you.

“You haven’t called me that in years,” he said finally, sounding satisfyingly perplexed. 

“Well maybe I should! Maybe I should start again! Would you like that? You like the formality? The distance? Huh, Nanami?”

There was a beat of silence, and then another where you both stared each other down.

You punctuated your petulant tirade with a shove to his chest, watery and weak but defiant all the same.

Something shuddered in Kento’s cheek. 

Then — he laughed. Or close enough to it, more like a disbelieving chuckle-huff, or a tire deflating. 

“You sound like my old boss,” he said, half-dazed. “Or like my doctor… Nanami-san.” 

You tried to stay angry, you really did. But a helpless, startled laugh sobbed out of you instead. 

“Oh, screw you,” you snapped, but a watery half-smile still wobbled onto your face.

He gave a soft, wrecked little sigh, lips curling with bitter melancholy. “There she is.” 

The atmosphere shifted, if only by one blessed fraction. You hadn’t escaped the violence of guilt, and grief and unsaid things left to fester — the wound didn’t vanish. But the ache softened, just a bit, and that was enough to make your shoulders slump and your hands to weakly drop from his face to his chest instead. 

You were still in his lap, soaked through and shivering, and Kento finally lifted a hand. It hovered at first, and you could’ve wept at the tentative contact of his palm between your shoulder blades, gently guiding you to lay against him. 

“I didn’t go anywhere,” you mumbled into his neck.

Kento nodded. He rubbed your back, up and down, your soaked shirt dragging over your skin with each pass. He hummed his acknowledgment — wordless, but he knew. You’d always been there, and he’d been hurting you. 

He lifted his burned arm and hesitated again, but that too ended up wound around your waist, crushing you to his body. You heard his wet intake of breath above the crown of your head, and you knew better than to mention it. The bubble was fragile, and you were terrified to pop it, so you just let him hold you again.

You clamped your arms around his neck and tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him to your shoulder. “I know,” you whispered. “That’s okay. I can feel you enough for us both.” 

His fingers curled into your shirt, and his left arm cinched tighter. He scoffed, that familiar bitterness creeping into his tone when he growled: “I can’t even feel you.” 

Kento shuddered, goosebumps prickling down his nape and raising the hairs on his arms as your nails circled his scalp. He groaned, but did not object. 

“Can I?” You murmured hopefully. Your heart galloped in your chest, adrenaline and feverish hope burning bright in the long darkened corners of your heart. “Can I…can we try?” 

Kento didn’t answer you, nor did he stop touching you. His calloused fingertips caught on your shirt, his nails skated over the exposed small of your back like skate blades, light and precise and beautifully spiraled as he indulged in the feel of your flesh with his good hand. You let him, you wouldn’t push, he could say no and you would still be thrilled for having had this. 

The water had gone tepid around you both, bath bombs long dissolved into faint lilac ghosts. You were shivering and weighed heavy with your water-logged clothes, but you refused to move if it meant letting go. 

When his mouth brushed your temple you froze, and shook under the warm exhale blown against your skin. His arms loosened, then drew tight again, drawing you closer into his lap. His mouth dipped, his lips brushed the corner of your mouth, hesitant and light as a feather, and then again — firmer. 

“We’ll catch colds like this,” he murmured. 

You nodded. You were already stiff, your toes numb and scrunching against the porcelain floor to coax blood back to your feet. “Then take me to bed,” you said simply.

Kento leaned back slowly to look at you and his eye flicked between both of yours. Sharp. Anticipating and bracing for the disgust he expected to find there so he could be the first to turn away from this fragile bridge.

Sincerity shone in your gaze, firm and convicted and about as loving as the day he’d married you.

You toweled each other off in the warm yellow light, you didn’t dare speak — just watched the water run from each other's skin, and the way he avoided the mirror and the left side of his face. You didn’t rush him. You let him flinch, and then let him find his stillness again. 

He shifted beneath you then. His joints creaked and cracked, old aches and new ones alike surfacing as he stood, dripping and unsteady, his arms looped around your back — aiding you as well as allowing you to support him. 

You kissed the hollow beneath his ear, and he followed when you whispered, “Come.”

The bedroom was dim, the dipping afternoon sun barely cresting the slatted blinds sealed stubbornly shut. But you could see enough. If the darkness was of any comfort to Kento, you would afford him that much. 

The mirror still stood against the far wall, full-length and framed in soft walnut. He’d ignored it for months now, it existed draped under a spare blanket more often than not. But tonight you crossed the room with purpose and yanked the quilt away and let the reflection breathe again.

Kento loitered in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest and with his hip cocked against the wood trim. He glowered at you, looking every bit as skeptical as he did mouth-watering. 

“Come sit,” you insisted, dragging him by the hand to the bed and pressing a hand to his sternum until he sat on the edge, just how you imagined. The mirror caught his shape in crystal clarity, and you saw the tension that rolled through his shoulders the first time he caught his own gaze around your waist. 

Before he could retreat back into himself you took his face in your hands. “Just look at me,” you said. “Please. I just want to show you what I see when I look at you, if that’s okay.”

You stood between his knees, still damp and rosy, your towel soft but loosening and drinking the racing droplets of water that plinked from your hair and got lost in the swell of your cleavage. Kento’s lips parted and his mouth went dry, yearning to chase that water and quench his suddenly parched tongue. 

You reached for his hand and placed it flat against your waist. “You remember how to touch me,” you teased.

His fingers curled instinctively into your towel, pulling you closer until your knees brushed his groin. He inhaled, and his palm slid up, over your ribs, thumbing the indent just beneath your breast. 

You smiled, and untucked your towel and let it fall to your feet. Kento froze. 

His eye ravaged your form like he was memorizing it, starved for every soft slope of skin he hadn’t let himself reach for in months. He hadn’t estranged himself from your body in that time, he had never let you go without or become frustrated — he made do with his hands and his mouth on the evenings where you needed him — but he never let himself indulge. It was never for him. 

You reached for the knot on his towel and undid it slowly. You gave every opportunity for him to still your hand — and with how it flexed against his thigh, you almost thought he would. 

But Kento didn’t stop you. His thighs parted to make room as the fabric dropped, baring him fully to you and to himself. His cock was half-hard already and flexed against his thigh. 

Hearing your swallow and seeing the obvious wanting ignite in your eyes made Kento burn with pride he hadn’t felt in ages. He could almost forget — almost. He felt you quiver between his legs as you slowed yourself, you kept your movements controlled and predictable when your hands framed his face.

He knew from before what a ravenous little thing you could be, how such slowness was how he had to approach you when all you wanted was to eat him alive. This was taking effort, and you were doing it for him.

He could still see it in you, and could feel the trembling of your fingertips as your thumb swept just beneath his eye… maybe both of them, if only he could feel it. One enormous hand moved to the small of your back, pulling you in so that your knees were forced to the mattress on either side of his hips. He tilted his head back and smiled. 

Seeing the change in him was enough encouragement for you. You leaned in, nosing along his throat and dragging kisses along the smooth skin of his right side. “Can you feel this?” you asked as you kissed the hinge of his jaw, just beneath his ear. 

You grinned when Kento groaned, shifting beneath you with an involuntary flex of his hips. He exhaled shakily, and you gripped his shoulders tighter.

“Yes.” 

You drifted back down to his right shoulder, your tongue flicking and tracing the sun-spotted freckles still scattered like constellations on his skin. You sucked his skin, desperate to taste him after so long, and shuddered in delight when his fingers curled into your spine, banding you to his broad chest with an arm that still boasted such brutal strength. 

“Here?” you whispered. 

“Yes.” He groaned, his left arm which had hung limp and curled in the bedsheet beneath him suddenly wrapping around your hips, crushing you against the length of his body and sandwiching his now fully-hard cock between your bellies, and you could’ve burst with pride at how his thighs flexed and lifted to grind up against you, panting and shivering against your hair. 

You shuddered, angling your hips to sweep your pussy up the length of his cock and choked at the sensation — homecoming. Your hand slid to the left and you pressed your palm flat against the ruined skin, high on his chest, just under the hollow of his collarbone. The scar tissue there was glossy, raised and stretched tight over his chest. He stilled beneath your hand. 

“What about here?” you asked quietly. 

He stared over your head and into the mirror. His face, half recognizable and flushed pink, his arms wound tight around your body which folded neatly around him, and yet, it was like seeing a different man entirely in the mirror; the hands of a different man touching and holding his wife so intimately. 

“No,” he grunted. 

You nodded, teeth nipping at his tilted throat as you sucked your way back up towards his ear. “That’s okay,” you murmured, your fingers pressing more firmly over the same spot, feeling the staccato hammering of his heart beneath your palm. “I’ll feel it for you. I still feel you. You’re still here.” 

Kento’s frustrated growl fizzled into a surprised groan when your hand snuck down between you, a thief, and your deft fingers curled around the thick, scalding base of him. You choked the uncertainty from his brain which fled like static in his ears, his eyelid fluttered with bliss as you stroked him once, twice, feeling the oozing perfection of him in its entirety as you positioned his cockhead at your entrance.

You kissed your way back to his mouth, hands cupping his cheeks to tip his chin back and allow you inside. “I love you,” you whispered fiercely. “I love you,” you kissed him again. “I love you, I—aah!” 

Kento rumbled an all-encompassing sound as he rolled his hips up, just once, and just about choked on his own tongue as he pressed inside you. You folds parted for him as if no time had passed at all, welcoming him home into the deep embrace of your body. You broke off with a whimper and circled your hips, sliding further down Kento’s length.

Every nerve in your body was alight. You glowed as you sank down one inch at a time, the muscles in your back tense and quivering handholds for Kento to grab and grip with his nails. He watched you in the mirror until your ass squished against his thighs; you gave all of you and took all of him. 

His left hand raked up your back, tangling in your hair and held you to his neck. You panted and gasped, your body galvanized by the jump-wire only Kento possessed, and he stared at your connection in the mirror. He spread his knees and you wider, his other hand groping from your hip to your waist, down to your ass to knead and spread your cheek, and rocked you against him, watching the way you stretched around the thick base of his cock and your arousal oozed down his balls. 

Like nothing had changed for you. You were still driven as mad for him as you’d always been, always hungry and wanting for him, his body. 

“So good,” he prayed and praised. “Always—always so good…I’ve missed you, such a good girl…nice and slow, slow—mmph—wait—“ 

You held him tighter, tears twinkling in your eyes as Kento’s throat turned red and humid with your gasping breaths and greedy teeth. You felt Kento tense beneath you and inside you, his whole body gone rigid as he railed against the orgasm so quickly knocking through his body — he resisted, held you still until he settled, and you shivered in his lap until he squeezed your hip again. 

You slid against him, massaging him with your cunt as you rocked up and down, and finally you did sob at the enormity of your relief of being so utterly and completely filled. 

Feeling the way his cock kicked inside of you, the helpless twitch of his skin gripped tightly in your hands as he watched the play of muscle and sinew in your back in the mirror, had you moving just a little faster. Kento growled, rumbling approvingly against your flushed skin, and his hand — burned and numb — reached up to cup your breast in his large palm. 

Feeling your overwhelm Kento soothed you, combing his fingers through your hair and mumbling into your temple. His hips flexed up to meet each slow descent of your own, his hand guided you to keep sliding your pussy up his throbbing cock and then ground up hard against you until you gasped against his neck. 

He couldn’t feel it, but he could’ve burst then and there when he heard you gasp. 

“Yours,” you promised. “Every part of me.” 

He’d only needed to hear it. 

He locked his arms around you and fucked up into your cunt with sudden, ruinous purpose. The air was driven clean from your lungs. Not greedy — grateful. Hungry like a starved man knelt before a banquet laid out solely for him, and only ever for him. He had gone without this. He had let you go without this, the greatest injustice of all. He was sorry, and broken, and wanted to get better, and so very grateful. 

You gasped like you were drowning in him; his cock so deep it tilted everything inside you, your stomach cramping with the pressure of it, your pussy clenching like it couldn’t possibly take more and wanted to draw him deeper anyway. 

Kento gathered you in with trembling arms and rutted up into you again, this time faster and harder, chasing something far beyond orgasm. His hips snapped up again, again, again, splitting you apart on the thick base of his cock. 

Your cunt squelched with each stroke, every drag of his cockhead bullying your walls apart, and the obscene slick sounds of your arousal echoed in tandem with the rumbling, wrecked groans slipping through his clenched teeth. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he hissed, pressing his head hard into the hollow of your neck, sweat dripping from his brow into the curve of your collarbone. “You feel—ahh—fucking exquisite—“ 

You sobbed against his temple, doe-eyes wide and watery and lips moist and wordless with the overwhelming swell of sensation as Kento fucked you in earnest, every inch of him hot and hard and home as he punched up like he needed to re-brand his shape into the softest parts of you. 

He buried himself to the hilt and held, his shaft flexing into the spongy spot along your frontal wall in a way that had your thighs spasming around his waist and your voice broken into sporadic little mewls. You felt full to bursting, your cunt spasming as you tried to meet his thrusts with your own broken, shaky rhythm. He shushed you, gentling you with his hands and mumbling sweet reassurances into your hair. 

“Oh—God—it’s been so long…Kento, I can’t—“ 

“You can.” He whispered at you fiercely. “You’re taking me so well, baby—look at you…fucking look at you—“ 

You turned over your shoulder, eyes watery and flicked to the mirror and you nearly came on the spot. 

Your body bouncing in his lap, your breasts flushed and heaving, his arms caging you in like steel but with such certainty they were the safest place in the world to be, his burned hand fisting in your hair while the good one dragged down your back to grip your ass and slam you down on him again. He looked enormous like this. Like he could destroy you, and you would absolutely let him. 

He angled his hips and found your g-spot again. And again. Old muscle memory returned so easily, and now he sought to unravel you like he’d neglected to until now. Again and again and again. 

His brow furrowed with focus, so thoroughly consumed by his devoted possession of you, that old competitiveness of his reared its head. Kento grunted, locked your hips down on his cock with his brutal hands and ground deep into your dripping core. 

“Come for me,” he murmured. “Let me feel it.” 

You shattered in his arms. A year of wanting, of yearning, of desperate grinding into his fingers and wishing with violent desperation that he would give you the rest of him, all unraveled with a jolted cry.

Hearing your gorgeous gasps and moans spurred him on. His hands gripped your waist, his pounding erratic now, furious and feral and so overwhelmed he couldn’t speak. You felt his chest heave and then catch, his breath held and his hips rammed up once more with the frantic throb of him thick and ready inside you— 

Your back arched and your breasts crammed against Kento’s chest. Your pussy spasmed and milked him in wet, clutching waves as your orgasm consumed you. Your hands scrabbled at his shoulders, holding on for dear life when he started to move again, dragging you fractious and feral through the first of the many orgasms he owed you. 

“Kento—inside, please…!” you begged. 

Kento came with a deep, barked “Fuck!” 

He pressed his forehead to yours, his orgasm contracting his balls in heavy, hot spurts, his cock pulsing thick inside your still-quivering and tender cunt. You felt the first dreg coat your insides, the second flood them, the third overflow. 

He kept rutting through it, slow, helpless, desperate thrusts that dragged his cum deeper inside you, like he couldn’t bear to leave your body empty again. He would imprint himself there, he would stay, nothing would ever drag him from you again. 

You kissed him. Sloppy, gasping and open-mouthed, cum-spilled and half-delirious with pleasure and joy. Your body shook with the echo of it, your pussy still fluttering around the fullness inside you with his spilled seed now dripping all over your folds. 

Neither of you moved for some time. 

The room swam in the scent of sex, skin, and lavender, and the slanting afternoon light in the blinds changed places and burned gold stripes across your bed. Kento’s breath slowed and his shoulders rose and fell with a serenity you weren’t used to seeing anymore. His arms looped loosely around your waist now — protective, not possessive, but trembling with the cold, ice-bucket fear of knowing this would only last if he let it, if he allowed himself to have you again.

Nanami didn’t say anything when he finally pulled out. Just held you fast as his cum began to drip free, sticky and white between your thighs. He chuckled at the way you whined your displeasure into his ear.

He kissed your temple and made you sit, reluctantly, while he gathered your discarded towel from the floor to clean you. 

Eventually you curled into the pillows, and Kento pulled you into his chest, face buried in your hair, one arm curved instinctively around your hips like a gate that he would never open again. 

You both fumbled in the murky dusk-dark with tired hands. Neither of you quite brave enough to break the silence yet, and both of you content to simply let it sit and have its space. This silence was not the same as before when the mirror was draped and your bed was quiet and his warmth was rationed out like wartime sugar. 

His eyepatch still lay on the sink. And the mirror, still uncovered, reflected back two who sat quietly in the golden spill of bedroom light. Naked and imperfect, both slightly ruined in a way that didn’t feel quite as tragic anymore. 

There were still cracks. Of course there were. 

But tonight, they let the light in.

Kento drew one of your hands up to caress his face, turning to exhale a kiss into your palm. Your fingers folded around it, only for him to move your fist down his sternum — left side, smooth and finally available to you — where the living rhythm inside beat softly in your grasp.

Smiling, you kissed the skin beside your knuckles, and Kento let his eye close, sweetened by you. You feel the rumble in his chest before he speaks.

“Feel you.”

[kortac-sweetheart]

it wasn’t like nikto intended to frighten you. it’s just that old habits die hard, and you’re his little adorable astronaut— head in the clouds and always daydreaming about some sweet little date you want to take him on.

one day, enough was enough. he had accidentally snuck up on you again, his large hand brushing against your back was enough to startle you, your hands fluttering this way and that. the pen you were fiddling with dropping with a quiet clack on the floor whilst you let out a little (downright adorable) squeak of surprise.

turning to face nikto you pouted with a little glare up at him, letting out a exasperated huff and shaking your head disapprovingly.

“andre, i swear i’m going to have to get you a collar with a bell if you keep doing this!” you kept rattling on and on about how he doesn’t need to sneak around in the sanctity of your home but his mind was miles away. already latching on to your words.

“i’m going to have to get you a collar with a bell..!”

“get you a collar with a bell..!”

“your collar with a bell…”

he quite liked the sound of that.

it was only a week later when you were relaxing on the couch, halfway off to dreamland again when nikto crawled over besides you on his knees to present you something.

“solnishko…” was all he murmured before holding something out in front of you, reverently with both palms up. it took you a moment to figure out what is was, rubbing the sleepiness out of your eyes as sat up to assess it further.

a collar. with a bell.

it was a finely crafted one at that. silky smooth white lace and luxurious pink satin, a hefty heart shaped buckle in the middle engraved with the word “nikto” front and center.

if you squinted further you could see additional engravings just below his name, ones that read “property of ___, if lost return to ___.”

underneath the buckle sat a dainty silver bell, one that miraculously twinkled with mirth when rung.

you sputter, eyes flicking between nikto’s quietly expecting gaze and the satin collar still in his palms— mouth gaping like a fish.

“honey, i— i was joking about the collar, you really didn’t have to buy this.” his expression crumples a bit despite your soft tone, eyes growing glassy.

“do you not like it, lyubov?” his usually stoic and confident tone dampened, muddled with sadness at the thought of displeasing you.

you gently pull his head closer to you, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders and nestling his face into your chest.

“it’s not that i don’t like it, dearest. it’s just— do you like it? you really want to wear it? will it make you happy if you wear it?” your hand goes to pet his head and he all but purrs at the affectionate touch, rumbling against your chest.

“of course we like it. we like being yours. we want to wear it, show everyone who we belong to.”

well if they’re so happy to wear it, who are you to judge?

your hand gently plucks the collar from his grasp, finger making a spinning motion. a silent order, one that he will follow diligently, eagerly. with his back facing you, you gently thread the collar around his neck, tying a secure bow in the back with the excess.

tight but not too much, it sits delicately on his neck. a permanent visual and weighted reminder of you, his beloved. it’s downright euphoric feeling, one that he never knew was missing. like a lost lock finding it’s missing key or the last piece of a puzzle being fitted into place— it just feels so… so right to them. it’s a part of the natural order of the world, like how the sun rises in the east or the waves will always lap against the shore, how birds will sing and flowers will bloom, it’s just how it’s meant to be.

nikto was always meant to be yours.

he wears it daily. its become a part of routine, just like when you share a pot of russian caravan with him in the mornings, or how you always eat dinner together side by side, ankles intertwined under the table, a day cannot be complete without it.

it’s always you who does it for him, hands steadily and reverently tightening and loosening it. never him. it’s meant for your hands, and yours alone— it’s meant to show he’s yours after all.

he wears it with immense pride. despite it seemingly being unbecoming of a man such as him, it was ultimately his choice after all. but if you do happen to mention wanting to see something different on him, then he’s all for it. he gently pulls you to sit in his lap, to browse with him looking for new collars to display on his pretty neck.

yes, that black leather one, with the heavy silver buckle and menacing spikes looks quite nice. do you like that white silk one too? the one with the lace trim as well? yes, they have to agree, it’s gorgeous. you can buy as many or as little as you’d like, he’ll wear whichever you choose without complaint.

whatever he wears, it doesn’t matter. all that matters to them is that it lets everyone know that he’s yours at the end of the day.

[13tinysocks]

My Dead Girlfriend

Surrounded by Marks, but you still yearn for him. You take soul-sucking measures to dull the pain, and get someone on your side to hunt down Phantom.

NSFW. Shlorp shlorp!

[Invincible Variants X Reader]

[Part one]  [Ao3]  [15] [17] [Chapter Index]

16 * Hindbrain [8.8k]

"Outside your house,

Down on my knees,

Swollen with doubt and animosity."

Mercy - Sir Chloe

        Gray didn't turn around when he entered. Back to you, sat ridged, trying to rest and conserve what energy he had left. "What do you want?" 

        Tracksuit set you down on the corrugated metal sheet flooring as Maskless touched down beside him. "Wow dude, I come bearing gifts and this is the thanks I get?"

        Gray turned, "What-"

        Surprise wasn't an expression he was used to wearing. Foreign. Alien as his blooming feelings for you that he thought had been snuffed out with your apparent death. But there you were. Standing, leaning on a crutch. Dirty and miserable, but alive. 

        He looked nearly identical to the last time you saw him. Suit knicked, scratched in a few places. Hair undone, slightly longer. Strangely, no stubble grew from his cheeks. Somehow not a degree tanner or paler.

        He swallowed back the urge to rush forward. He approached slow, measured. "My compatriot will be pleased at your return." He made himself say as he scanned clinically over your body. You weren't rapt with starvation and your skin was unburned by the sun. Curious. Then there was the mystery of the crutch and your wrapped and splinted leg. He didn't like the look of misery on you. Didn't like it one bit. "He will be returning from scouting soon." His eyes flicked to the others, hovering nearby. "You can go."

        Tracksuit blinked. "Go?"

        Gray nodded a tight solider's nod. "You've done well brining her back. Am I wrong assuming you would rather be rid of her?"

        "What the fuck?" Tracksuit had to do a doubletake at the pure audacity. "I know I said gifts but that was a joke, man. She's like- a person."

        "I am aware." Gray said, hovering around you in a loose circle, getting a better idea of your condition. The bruises made him rather unhappy, he had to suppress the urge to reach out. "She is a person safer in our care than anyone else's." 

        "Uh, yeah, that's not happening." Maskless said though it wasn't aggressive. This move wasn't a trade, it was an olive branch. An acknowledgement they trusted one another even after the shitshow. 

        Gray didn't understand the concept of life not being tit or tat. He'd rather barter now than feel he owed the duo something later on. He was also not too keen on expanding the camp by three people. It would draw untoward attention from the others, make you less safe. 

        "I doubt we'll have anything worth your time." He said, implying the idea of trading. He knew a human wouldn't like that word in regard to their autonomy. 

        "We're not trading." Maskless said with an annoying lack of tact. "Think of this as a favor." He moved to the center of the room where a fire pit better than anything he could build waited. 

        Gray eyed you. Were they really going to give you up? Just like that? When he and/or Omni could double-cross them at any moment? What was the angle?

        You hobbled to the fire, sat by it when you were close enough. Bad leg stretched in front of you with a grunt. Maskless had a growing fire and the rudimentary cookware set up by the time you were settled. Arms lifting out of the cloak, little bugs crawling up and down your forearms. You picked one off, killed it with a flick to the chest, and popped it out of its exoskeleton.

        Gray watched on. Tried putting together the few puzzle pieces he had. The bruises. The bugs. The misery on your face. The story he put together in his head wasn't too far off from the truth, though it was missing some key points. Leaving him to calculate risk versus reward. Give up his healing accelerant and get... Nothing. You could aid in his survival with a healed leg, yet you were a crutch yourself, especially when you could not give him children. But despite this, when he saw you it had his immediate thought, to heal your wounds and any burden that would come. But there was no need, you were already giving him food and according to Maskless it was for no trade. He didn't need to barter when provided with everything he needed for survival- bet he still wanted you better. Seeing you hurt, the way your eyes were hollowed out- it shifted something solid within him. Perhaps this was what father described feeling for mother. Caring? Affection? 

        Maybe he didn't need to get something out of helping you- when helping you was fulfilling enough. Was this...

        Gray's stomach growled. Thankfully, you didn't look at him in his embarrassment. You went on, picking bugs off your skin, killing them, and shucking them as the water Maskless brought in the basin started to boil. 

        Maskless had explained the plan on the way over, though you weren't listening. Feed those two and they'd have two more allies who weren't about to die. By no means did he want to have more buddies or to share his newfound food, but the tortured screams during the night had shook him. He was terrified Lensless and Scars would come for him next. Make him scream while everybody listened and nobody helped. It was better to have people to throw at them first. People who were strong enough to not immediately die so he could get away. Live on for William, for the world lost to his father. 

        Gray would parse his intentions out later, but in the moment he was focused on you, his mind made up. His heart fluttered as he knelt down, pulling a vial out of his pocket that meant more to him than you could know. 

        Especially when his voice came out as flat as usual, "Here." 

        You vaguely remembered him showing them off on one of the first nights. You didn't take it, not quite remembering what it was. Cologne? Plasma from a spine? No, that didn't sound right.

        "For your leg." His flat words make you remember. Wound something or other.

        You snatched it out of his waiting fingers. He relished the moment of contact but his face gave nothing away. You snapped the top off and threw your head back. His hand is back on the vial, over yours. 

        "No." He says sharp. Maskless and Tracksuit tense. Not quite willing to fight for you but not quite willing to give up a bargaining chip either. "You have to directly apply it to the skin." 

        Your hand fell, your companion's shoulders relaxed. Imagination running wild with what would've happen if you drank the stuff. "You're only telling me this now?"

        "An oversight." 

        Tracksuit laughed to himself, "Oversight. Who the fuck says oversight?" He went ignored.

        You started to bend forward to undo the tight cloth wrapping only to cringe. A pulse of pain shooting up your leg. "Shit."

        Gray didn't think, just moved. Propped up your leg with a rock he zipped away to find before you even noticed. Unwrapped it and laid the bandages and splint to the side. It was... Not good. Your skin was discolored up and down your shin with a noticeable lump in the middle where your bone had snapped. The only good thing was that the skin didn't break. 

        He held out his hand for the vile, "May I?" 

        You eyed him suspiciously. His intentions were always hard to read, he was short and acted without explaining. But you had no idea what you were doing in regards to self care beyond stitched up gut wounds. No choice in the matter, you returned the vial. 

        "I need to make an assessment first." He said, "This will hurt." Before you could protest, his hands were cupping your leg, pressing down gently but sending rockets of pain shooting through your body. You gasped, flinched back, jostled your leg and flinched again. Gray steadied you, voice neutral, "Don't hurt yourself."

        You straighten your leg best you could and let him continue pressing, lifting, assessing the damage. The only sounds were the water hissing and fire crackling. It reminded you of the cave. Of Mark. Suddenly you are on the verge of tears, blinking them back.

        "How do you know how to do this?" You make yourself say, voice calm but wavering. You needed to think of something else but every time you tried you saw Mark's face in the pale firelight. Then blackness, hearing echoes of his voice. His dying gasps. 

        Gray notices but doesn't pause. "Viltrumite and human biology are almost identical." He says, "The key differences are in our muscle tissue, much denser than a human's. Our brain tissue as well is denser, allowing for better senses, especially in battle."

        "Doesn't make sense why so many of us are so stupid then." Tracksuit said, sitting feet away, idly watching. Ears perked for Omni's arrival. Wondering if he'd kick Gray's ass for weirdly massaging your leg. 

        Again he is ignored. "As part of the World Betterment Committee, we must be prepared for all sorts of resistance. Many worlds fought against our occupation. Many had no chance but some were clever. We are trained to assess physical damage and minimize the time needed for healing." He flipped the vial, spilled a few drops onto his hands and lathered them together. His hands came down, encompassed your leg best they could. You hissed, pained, but the liquid made his hands a cool relief in the sweltering heat.

        "You really are one of them." Maskless said to himself- literally.

        Gray didn't reply. Focused on rubbing the slick into your leg. "This is agent fourteen. It enters through the skin into the bloodstream. It targets damaged tissue throughout the body but is faster acting when applied to the-"

        "How can you live with yourself?" Maskless said, a little louder this time.

        You winced while trying to relax into his cool, gentle touch. His hands were calloused, movement rigid and precise. He was distracted by everything happening around him, the smell of soup wafting on the hot wind, making his stomach lurch and his mouth go dry, unable to salivate with the lack of water in his system. The feel of your skin under his own, the way your heart was beating erratically from the pain. But he didn't stop. "I'm almost finished."

        Tracksuit snorted. Maskless snapped, "How could you turn your back on your own people like that?"

        "Earthlings are not my people." Gray said coolly because clearly this man-child would not stop pestering him until he answered, "The Viltrumites are."

        "Your mother is an 'Earthling.'" Spat like a slur.

        "Yes, she's proud of her heritage, but recognizes that Earth was primitive compared to the empire. She has long since accepted what became of it." 

        Maskless's lip twitched. "And what became of it?"

        He had to wait for a reply. Gray only truly cared for your comfort. "You should be able to put some weight on it in a few days. Though it may be a week or so until it's fully healed. It's the best I can do."

        "I'm talking to you."

        But Gray doesn't hear his poisoned words, focused on the way you mutter, "Thanks," under your breath and look away.

        "You are welcome." Said more robotic than usual.

        "Hey."

        Ah yes, the other one was still speaking to him despite his disinterest. "Most of Earth's population had to be culled to quell any resistance." Despite this resistance was rampant on the colony. The human spirt was a strong, burning flame that'd never go out. Much like the Viltrumites, but they didn't have the strength to back it up. That's why he took you. You burned bright despite your circumstances and it helped he found you rather pleasing to the eye. "Last Father reported, the population had been growing." Gray didn't bother meeting Maskless's hard stare. Attention set upon your leg, now lightly glistening. "Earth's occupation was a success."

        Your skin tingles as his touch leaves. 

        "A success?" Maskless fists ball and unball. Body undecided as his mind was ready for blood. Attack and quell some shred of vengeance. Don't and let that abomination with his face continue to exist. "You call killing thousands a success?"

        "We killed millions." Gray corrected. "I don't see your point. You did the same thing working with Angstrom Levy." Gray rose, padding to a stockpile of potentially useful garbage. Looking for something clean enough to wrap your leg in.

        Maskless's hand went to his chest, "So I could fix things."

        "Millions had to die for the betterment of Earth. It's the same thing." 

        Maskless's body twitched. The idea of attack clear in his movement. Yet he made no move to hop over the fire and give Tracksuit the drama he craved. Gray waited for him to make a move, back to him, sifting through the materials, body relaxed purposefully. Almost a taunt. He wasn't worried. Which made Maskless want to kick his ass even more.

        "I can't believe we're the same person." Maskless rose to his feet. Purposeful. Gray pulled out the longest stretch of dry canvas he could find in the pile- a faded white and green ad for some long dead company. He passed by Maskless, paying him no mind as he began to rewrap your leg. Purposeful.        

        "Neither can I." Gray's eyes left your leg to flick up and down Maskless' blood-crusted suit. Hoping he'd get the message, that he was a hypocrite- All that death, not for the greater good or the Empire, but for personal reasons. Pathetic. He fought for nothing. Unlike Gray, who finished wrapping your leg. Setting the splint firmly as you'd allow- fighting for something he didn't yet understand, and the Empire, of course.

        Maskless stepped around the fire, stood before Gray. Fists twitching. Gray stood, body a shield in front of you. Maskless's gaze flicked to you- his apparent Achilles' heel. "If you don't care about us Earthlings, why do you care about her so much?"

        "Keep me out of this." You grumbled.

        Maskless went on, chest puffed, feeling emboldened with rage and memory. "Is she different because she was some sort of slave to you? Did you tie her down and force her to have your kids?"

        The thought had occurred to him but mother insisted he try things the human way- after he kidnapped you. Despite his attempts, Viltrumite ideology rang true, "Viltrumites choose their mates. If the selected can not fight off their prospective mate, procreation occurs."

        A collective cringe crossed your faces. You were thankful for Gray, for the balm, already feeling like the pain had ebbed. But the idea of you as some baby-birthing machine to an alien empire made you look at him differently.

        He sensed the shift. "I did not do things the Viltrum way. I courted her." He said carefully. "Mother said humans like to have a choice." She hadn't had one, but you didn't need to know that. "My comrades looked down on me for it but I enjoyed our time together." Much as he'd allowed himself to with the perpetual stick up his ass. "It was a shame when she passed." He snapped her neck like one kills a sick pet rabbit. You were sick, too poisoned by the rebellion's ideologies. Ungrateful for the second chance. Yet he could never bring himself to return to Earth for another mate. Strangely burned on the inside, like something had been lost. He had enjoyed when you were more docile with fear. When you talked with him of inconsequential Earthly things. It was nice, but you were not. So that you had to die. This time he'd do things different. Even if you hated him for it, you would not die so long as he drew breath.

        This you didn't need to be so scared. You should be afraid of him, yes, fear would keep you in line, but too much and you'd reject his advances again. Because he wanted to try again, to soothe the burn that ate away at his insides.

        Gray thinks he's done well curbing your idea of him. He had, all save for that last part, said with too little care. Like you were a childhood pet, remembered fondly but inconsequential. Maskless opened his mouth to jab at him.

        The barely secured floor shook as Omni landed. Suit torn at the knees and fingers. Cape shreds of what it used to be. He stepped into the tent, pulling his mask off his face, blinded by the switch to shade after hours in the bright desert. He was so tired. So frazzled. So grief stricken he didn't notice anything but your loss. "There's no sign of-"

        His mask was freed from his sweaty face. Black lenses glinting sunlight. Tanlines softer on his face than you'd expect. Stubble a solid shadow on his jaw, though not as dark as the circles under his eyes. Light and honey-toned but flat with despair. 

        Until they land on the sliver of you visibly behind Maskless and Gray. They would've been toppled over if they hadn't moved. Quarrel put aside, for now as Omni barreled past them. 

        He stopped at your feet. Standing close but not touching. Scared you and the food were a mirage. "Is it really you?"

        You looked awful. Tortured. Not as bad as he'd let himself hope late in the night- wishing he could see you one last time. Assuming that last time would be holding you dying again. If he ever got to see you, bones lost to the dunes.

        "Yeah." You were not enthused by his presence. By any of their presence. You missed Mark, missed being held and kissed. Missed the cool cave but couldn't imagine going back.

        "You.." He knelt, hovering over you a moment before lunging. Hugging you flush to his chest. Feeling your skin, your raggedy clothes, your breath and heartbeat against him. "You're really real." He at least avoided your leg, seeming to notice the splint. To be asked about later, but forgotten for now.

        You could have shoved at him and he'd have let go. But you didn't. Even as Gray eyed Omni's back, as Maskless stared in mild disgust, as Tracksuit watched the others for their reactions. The contact felt like a missing puzzle piece. You had missed being held, arms like a vice keeping you together in this fucking wasteland.

        "I thought you were..." He can't say it. Can't say it because then you'd dissolve in his arms.

        You felt that. Deeply. Too deeply. 

        Your arms came up and held him back, hard as you could. Pressing your body to his like you were trying to become a single whole being. You needed to be held. Needed to be comforted. Hated it at the same time. Hated yourself for throwing yourself into it like a sad puppy. You wanted to scream and cry and puke just as much as you wanted to hold him until everything was better. 

        Omni pulled back, hands sliding up your sides and to your face, holding your cheeks. He sees it then. The bruises, dark and puffy where Mark had held your mouth shut, where he'd tied rags around your face for days. Your hands come up to push his off, wincing from the pain. Which only lets him see your wrists. The rubbed raw indents, just starting to scab over where the rebar had been for days.

        He was absolutely murderous. "Who did this to you?"

        Mark. 

        Mark was right in front of you. Mark was beside you. Mark was watching over the fire. Mark was happy without you in another dimension. Mark was dead. Everything was Mark's fault.

        You hated that you couldn't stop the tears. The way his dark brows knit together and his lips fell when the tears came and didn't stop. He reached to wipe them away but it reminded you too much of Mark. You flinched back, covered your face with your hands.

        "Eat." You managed. "We brought food."

        Omni doesn't want to be away from you. Still partly terrified you'll vanish. He sat beside you, thigh grazing your own as Maskless reluctantly served them both bowls. You were aware they were eating. Talking. You were too busy trying not to lose your shit more than you already had. When the tears and sniveling were done for good, you removed your hands the best you could. Face stinging with shame as wet friction. Palms slobbery with snot. The fire only made your misery more apparent. 

        Omni had long since finished his bowl. Watched you quietly convulse. Wondering what happened to break you down like this. What stroke of luck brought you back to him. He held out his cape to you. You took it, wiping off your hands. Nodding a tight lipped thanks. He tried catching your eye but you looked away. To the desert and the gray sky. 

        Maskless told Gray and Omni some of what he knew. The cave, the bugs, how he found you. He left out the rebar around your wrists, the dead body. He hated talking to these assholes enough as it was, that part was yours to tell. But you didn't start talking, just looked into the sandy nothing while they stood around, dicks in hand.

        "If there's anything else down there we don't know about, now's the time to tell us." Maskless tossed the ball in your court.

        Only for it to bounce, once, twice, then roll to your feet. You hadn't been listening to him anyways.  "The bugs. These are the last of them." You said. "Unless you can dig out the nest and save the queen larvae, but they're probably all dead. There's a mold farm too. I think you said it was also collapsed but maybe you can recover some spores from it." You knew what they wanted to hear but couldn't bring yourself to say.

        Gray thinks those resources could be recovered but he cared more about, "The prisoner- that's his blood on you, correct?"

       You don't say anything for a moment.

        "The bugs will last us awhile. Don't make me eat him." An acknowledgment, but the most you were willing to do.

        Omni's leg pressed more into yours. "He's gone then."

        "I don't want to talk about this."

        Tracksuit scoffed, drawing annoyed glances. "Oh, boohoo, your crazy desert boyfriend died. News flash, sweetheart, you've got like a bazillion boyfriends who aren't as crazy right here. So why don't you fess up n' tell Daddy what's wrong?" At Omni's expression, he quickly added, "Not countin' myself or my good man 'ere." He wasn't scared of Omni but he'd rather watch the drama unfold than be part of it. He wasn't good with other people's feelings, let alone his own.

        "Did you see the body?" You asked, remembering in flashes. The dark, the blood stench, the sound.

        He seemed oblivious to the shift in your tone, the way the others had stilled.

        "Nah, but my boy here said it was nasty."

        The response made you want to scream, to tear him apart. You turned on him then, hollow eyed, "I could do that to you. I'm stronger now."

        You meant it. Wanted to do it. But you were scared of feeling another Mark's body heat dissipate beside you. You knew you wouldn't, but the threat felt good. 

        "Meeee-ouch! I thought we were friends but apparently not. Okay, cool, I get it. I'd hate me for being chill and normal too since you like 'em crazy." Clearly, Tracksuit wasn't taking you seriously.

        You clicked your tongue a few times and tiny bugs began crawling up his legs. He batted a few off but some make it under his collar, crawled under his clothes while he shot up and danced around, trying to swat them all. "Call them off! Call them off!" Bugs were no big deal, they weren't even biting but he hated the little fuckers. 

        "We ate their queen and lived in her exoskeleton." You say, "They listen to me now. Do you know how many of them there are left?"

        "I don't fucking care! Get these things off me!"

        "I tried counting before. Lost my place after a thousand." Though there were way more than that and counting had been an exercise in boredom. You couldn't tell one bug apart from another. "I could make you tear yourself open and let them eat you. Think about that before you say rude shit about him again." A few clicks later and the remaining bugs crawled out through his sleeves and dropped to the sand where they burrowed before he could stomp the life out of them.

        You regretted calling him crazy, regretted so much you had done. But you didn't regret your freedom, being in the sun, horribly hot as it was. You missed Mark so much your chest ached.

        "Wasn't bein' rude." He shivered, still feeling the little legs on his skin.

        "If she said you were being rude, you were being rude." Omni said but still, he needed to know, "We need to know what happened to you down there, we want to understand. What happened?"

        Nothing. Everything. A lifetime in two weeks. You didn't want to talk about it, but you knew they were like dogs with a bone.

        "He took me down there and I let him. Told me how he was going to fake the disappearance and everything."

        "You assholes cut us out?" Tracksuit huffed.

         "Would you have taken everybody?" You asked.

        That stung. Tracksuit thought you were cool before but... you were sort of traumatized now more than you already were. He could almost give you a pass for being a massive bitch, and you were right. He probably wouldn't have taken you. "Should've never let you smoke my shit."

        Omni eyed him quizzically but looked back to you when the story kept going. "Phantom found it first. Showed Mark and Mark showed me." Omni and Gray should've felt insulted you called that prisoner their shared name, but oddly they didn't. Omni knew you knew his name- Markus, though you hadn't said it again. Gray was content with your nickname specially picked for him. The dead man could have the title Mark. 

        "He was supposed to stay long enough to convince you all I was gone, then he was going to come back. Help us make a tunnel out that you wouldn't find so we wouldn't get cabin fever down there but-" You thought about the screaming in the night but remembered he's fucking Invincible. He should've been able to get away to tell someone else where you were. He'd had all the power in the world to help you and had done nothing. "-Man, wha'dya do when you got two ex-cons and want 'em to hate each other?" Looks of concern were shared but nobody said a word, "That's right! Leave 'em in a dark cave for two weeks until one of them..." The word stuck in your throat, you couldn't say that he killed himself. You'd made him do it.

        Omni leaned in soft-browed, fingers hovering over your wrists, "He did that to you?" He was partly horrified Mark Grayson of any variation could torment you so. He had killed you sure, but it had been quick. 

        "No shit." He doesn't move back despite your venom, "I answered your questions. Answer mine. Where is that screaming asshole?" 

        Omni hesitated. Gray doesn't. "They're close enough to be a threat."

        You leaned in, blood in the water. "Where?"

        "If you're trying to get me to take you to him- it won't happen. He is constantly surveilled by those pests." Scars and Lensless in their yellow suits.

        You felt the need for revenge pulsing in your scabs, under your bruises, in your heart. "Take me to them."

        You cast the net too wide. Connect weakly with Maskless and Tracksuit, but Gray's mind is like a steel trap and Omni had always been difficult to control. Maskless and Tracksuit come for you, held off by the others a few moments until you control snapped back in your face like a bungee cord. Their expressions hard, daring you to try again.

        Blood trailed down to your lip. "Fine. I can wait." Until you were stronger, strong enough to get a ride and kill all three of those assholes. A few days was all you needed. 

        You don't say it but they feel your intent. An uneasy undercurrent passed between them. You were weak, but controlled two of them at once. Being strong enough to survive this long wasn't a small thing. You were a real threat to yourself and to them.   

        "Don't do that again." Omni warned, though it was soft as he reached to wipe the blood dripping down your nose. "You don't know what you'd be getting into. Those two are a problem but don't push yourself for revenge. It's not healthy." Said the psychosexual, emotionally-incestious-daddy-issue-having freak. 

          You let him touch you. Smear the hot blood away. Fractionally leaning into his touch. Missing Mark. But knowing, "I can wait." 

        "Whatever." Tracksuit's feet left the floor. Head shaking off the cloud you'd laid over his brain. "We did what we came to do. We're gonna head out if you're all powered down."

        You had some dregs left. You don't tell him that. Thinking it'd be good to always keep a little power in your back pocket. It was safer that way. "I am."

        He turned to Maskless, "Cool. You carry her this time."

        Light early-life wrinkles the rest didn't have deepened on Omni's brow. He opened his mouth.

        "You haven't shown us the cave with water." Gray said first.

        "Fine. We'll show you, then we leave." Tracksuit jutted his head toward you, Maskless approached but Omni was in front of him.

        "I can carry her." He said.

        Maskless narrowed his eyes. "How do we know you won't just take her?" He didn't care about you, not at all, but he recognized you were the glue keeping things together before. Best case scenario, the others would flock to you, kill each other to get in your pants and he'd have more meat. Worst case scenario, you could be traded for his own life. 

        "How do I know you won't take her away and never let me see her again?" Omni retorted.

        You weren't waiting for them to hash this out, "I'm not going down there." You said.

        Tracksuit crossed his arms, little more than tiffed with you and your emotional outbursts. He'd been baking in a desert, starving and thirsty while you were cool and fed, and probably getting dicked down. 

        "Oh yeah? Whadd'ya gon do to stop us?" He was above ground, where the bugs couldn't get to him.

        You should save the power but the rage boils out, unexpected and deeply hateful, "Hit yourself."

        Tracksuit's fist came up against his will. Reeled back to the shoulder blade before springing forward, cracking against his jaw. Not as hard as Mohawk, but hard enough to send his flight off balance. You caught a look at his face before his mask fluttered down, lip smearing blood cross his teeth. 

        He doesn't attack as he stabilizes himself. Omni was in front of you like a Viltrumite-human shield. So he spat out a wad on blood onto the corrugated floor, "Touchy, but I'll admit you got me there."

        "I'll do worse if any of you think about taking me back down there." You said, weak and weary, "You all go. I'll wait here."

        "No." Gray and Tracksuit. 

        "'S just asking for those other guys to snatch you up then boom! There goes the food-lady." Tracksuit alone this time. "One'a you assholes stay with 'er."

        "I will," Gray said before Omni could. Omni wanted to protest, but he needed the building trust between him and Gray to stay. Gray had been the only one Omni semi-tolerated in the caves. The only reliable ally he had. So he'd allow it, remembering he'd get his turn alone with you in time.

        "Not alone," Maskless added. "You stay too."

        Tracksuit spluttered. "What- No way, man!"

        "You got lost on the way here." Maskless deadpanned.

        "Only a little!"

        "Fifteen miles give or take."

        Tracksuit didn't argue that. 

        And so it was. 

        Maskless led Omni into the dusking desert, leaving you, Gray, and a pissed off Tracksuit alone. Leg tingling with numbness.

        "Hey," Tracksuit was first to talk in the minutes of long quiet. You sat by the fire, the same way you had in the cave before things got bad. Gray stood by the edge of camp, hovering an inch over the sand, straight postured with hands behind back like always. "You're not gonna kidnap her if I take a s-"

        Gray held up his hand. "There's nowhere for us to go. This alliance is worth too much to put at risk anyway." 

        "Cool, cool. Uhm, others shouldn't be back for a bit if they-" He doubled over clutching his stomach, "come back before me tell them to suck it." Tracksuit was gone in a flash. Too much food after a period of starvation making his stomach a roiling mess. 

        You were alone.

        Two days after your... after Mark died. Aching stupidly on the inside, the dark of the desert whispered memories you tried to drown out. Trying to turn your thoughts to Phantom. Where he and the others were, if he was truly suffering or not. If Phantom was already dead, if you'd get revenge or not.

        "Where are the others?" You ask.

        "In the cave that you-"

        "The other others."

        "Ah." He's quiet a moment. Deciding weather or not to tell. You didn't exactly need to know. But it wasn't like you could fly or walk. 

        "Gray." You turned on him, find his expressionless mask cracked by a single word. "Where are they exactly? I need to know."

        He knew that look. Saw it on his mother all the time. When father was following Viltrum's customs a little too closely. You'd given him the same look, the other you, when you told him how you hated him even though he brought you to a utopia. Emotional determination that perplexed him so. Father would give into mother, but he never gave in then. He should now to win you over- but you had powers. You cried in front of him and clearly hated it- you were unstable, unreliable. You had plans in mind, ones that'd get you killed.

        "You can not make me tell you where they just like you couldn't make me take you. You are powerless."

        Stubborn insistence, you knew better. He tried to stay impartial, but he cared about you like the others. He just needed a push and you needed to forget.

        "I controlled that asshole." You scooted toward him on your ass, using your good leg as leverage. "You don't know how much shit I got stored up."

        He watched you, confused as to why you were trying to pick a fight with him on the floor. "If I were to attack, you're making it much easier for me."

        "You won't." You grunted with effort, pulling the last few inches you needed to be by his feet. Sat splayed by his legs like a good dog, looking up at him from under your lashes. "You're right, though, I probably couldn't control you, not for long anyway."

        His gaze hardened, understanding you had ulterior motives, "Don't make me restrain you."

        "I'm not doing anything." You said as your hand moved to his leg. Feeling up his calf that tensed at your touch. 

        You knew Gray wanted you. Knew he was some repressed alien freak. People who say 'courting' have never came in their entire fucking life. These over-protective assholes wouldn't give you what you needed, not like this. But if you leaned into their underlying carnal desires- they'd be putty in your hands. Revenge would be yours for the taking.

        And Mark. You could hold Mark again. Not your Mark but a Mark and for now, that was enough.

        "What are you doing?" Gray watched you feel up and down his calf. 

        Your hands traveled further up. Over the knee to his strong thighs that unwillingly flexed at your approach. He didn't move away. "Just admiring the view."

        Viltrumites didn't do such things. He'd walked in on his mother and father, sure, but not in the light touches of pre-sex, pre-foreplay. He didn't see the bait you were holding.

        "You need to touch me to do so?" Your fingers were feather-light. Tracing then cupping much of him as you could in your palm. It sent tingles down his back, electrical shocks to his abdomen. Made something within him that had been in a lifelong slumber, open its eyes.

        "Gotta get the full picture." You lifted onto your good knee. Leg numb but scared you'd hurt it. Hands splaying the expanse of his legs, up the to creases his hips not hidden by his stupid skirt. You press your thumbs in and he shuddered. You saw it, how the usual lump in his skirt was a little larger than you remembered. Easy, just like Mark had been. A distraction from your situation, just like Mark had been. 

        Your touch moved up, to his lower belly. Up the muscles, tightly packed in white clothes. "Very nice."

        You weren't just buttering him up. The man was drool worthy. Part of your plans, yes, but a distraction you desperately needed. 

        He watched you, expressionless, gaze intense. You think he's going to crack. So you snatch his forearms and use them to pull yourself up. He gets the memo, ends up pulling you up himself, feet coming to the ground. "You shouldn't be on your feet for long." He said as you leaned in. Pressed your chest to his, arms going around his shapely waist, hands skimming across his broad back, head crooked in his shoulder despite the height difference because he was so much (taller/shorter) than you. His arms refolded behind his back. Heart hammering oddly in his chest as blood rushed low in his body. He knew what was happening but feeling it was another story. Territory he had never crossed into with the old you, too afraid to touch him in any capacity.  

        "I won't be." You grabbed the hammer and swung it down- pulling his stupid collar to the side and kissing his neck.

        He tensed. Crack. You kissed lower. Crack. He white-knuckled gripped his elbows. Crack. You trailed kiss, kiss, kiss, until you reached the nape of his neck where you sucked. He let out a nearly inaudible sigh. Crack.

        Gray knew he should make you stop this nonsense. But when you lathed your tongue up the side of his throat, groaning into his never-before-worshiped skin, his resolve disappeared. He wouldn't stop you, but he wasn't stupid. "He will return soon." Your husband. Technically not, but still he claimed the title. Humans took that title very seriously. Except you.

        You kissed his jaw, felt him swallow. Pulled back and looked at his embarrassingly flushed face and apparent hard-on. "I won't need much time."

        "Time for what?" He knew what you meant but... why? Why him? Why now? Usually he could think, figure you out but his mind was a haze tunneled on you. The questions quieted when you pressed your lips to his. Chapped and rough. The pressure was pleasant. 

        You pulled back, ending the feeling too quickly. "You gonna just stand there the whole time?" 

        He tilted his head. Wracking his brain. He'd never been kissed like this before, his mother had pressed them to his forehead and cheeks when he was young. He had seen mother and father kiss quick morning pecks, but that was no tutorial or training with his mentor. 

        You breathily laughed at his expression. "What? Big bad alien boy doesn't know how?"

        "There is no use for mashing lips together on Viltrum." He wanted his voice to be even but it warbled. Palms sweaty behind his back. 

        Your hand came to his neck, pressing gently, "Tilt your head like this." He did and went too far, you had to adjust him again. "Good, and I'll come in like this. Just follow my lead, okay?"

        He mirrored your parting lips. Was robo-stiff in the kiss while you moved, lips, jaw, and all. Teeth came down on his lip and made his hands slip behind his back and his cock throb in his uniform. When you slipped your tongue past his defenses, he had to reinforce his knees as not to fall. You did all the work while he let it happen. Trying to take mental notes, trying to commit the moment to moment while living in it. So unreal, so good. 

        When you pulled back, his lips followed yours. Pressing tentative kisses to your buzzing mouth. You chuckled, grinding your tongue against his just to hear his soft whimper. Then you left him, red faced and wanting, looking absolutely fucked-out from a little light kissing. "You've got a lot to learn." 

        "Activities like this were not part of my training regimen." Gray was unsubtly looking at your lips. Hands hovering, wanting to take your sides and press you to him but he didn't know if that was the right thing to do. He wanted you, but wanted it to be good, worthwhile the way you'd made it for him.

        You laugh. "That's fine, you're a fast learner."

        Which was true. Heat pulsed hard between your legs. You'd like to take him to the floor. Like to teach him a lot more, but you didn't have time to teach him to get your rocks off. You knew however, you had more than enough time to take care of his straining hard-on which had been delightfully pressing to your thighs. He had twitched, but hadn't dare truly hump your leg. 

        Your hands go from his sides, down the hard planes of his chest, over the needy bulge. He gasped, shuddered into your hand. "What are you-"

        "I think it's pretty obvious." You ran your hand slowly up and down. Watching his face tic and contort. "Do you want me to stop?"

        Gray's throat twinged as he tried to find breath, find words as you squeezed him ever so gently. "Don't." He just barely managed to sound composed.

        You grinned, touch leaving him a moment to move his skirt to the side. Without the gray fabric, you got a better idea of how pleased he was with his current predicament. Dick straining against the alien white cloth. "I've barely done anything to you, and you're this hard." Your teasing touch returns and his eyes go misty. "Are you sure you're the same guy who conquers planets?"

        "Yes." He replied stiffly.

        "I'm having a hard time believing that."

        "I was a part of three large scale invasions and countless solo scouting excursions-" You palmed at him harder now. Every tense of your fragile human fingers had the composed solider gasping and twitching. 

        "Wow, great dirty talk." You smiled as you sank to your knees. You paused, pulling hard at his pants that didn't seem to have an obvious fly. "How do you open this thing?" 

        He slid his thumb into an invisible seam beside his crotch but paused, "The others..."

        "Trust me, you'll be done before I even get started." 

        Still, Gray scanned the horizon. Nobody. Plus, you were... humiliatingly right. He'd never cum before but knew of the function. Knew his heart was hammering, his lower belly coiled tight, cock aching were all signs of what was to come. It'd be better to take care of his problem before anyone saw anyway. He pulled the fabric apart, held together by an invisible magnetic strip. 

        His cock sprang free in front of your waiting face. Thick and defined as the rest of him. Precum wept out the tip. Slippery and shiny on your hand as you brought it down, from tip to base. Gray had to actively prevent himself from thrusting into your palm as not to hurt you. He watched you, lips parted, gaze burning as you admired him. Jerking him off slow.

        "We," his chest heaved, fingers twitching, feeling pleasure he never had, "we don't have much time."

        You hummed, pressing a kiss to the side of his cockhead. Eyes looking up at him as your lips slowly captured him. Tongue lathing unhurried over the sensitive skin. Your jerked him off lazily from the thick base. Pushing and pulling his skin back but never enough to fully expose the flash of pink you saw. Not yet. You had to build him up. Make the chance for another blowjob like this worth risking his life.

        So you jerked him off, pushing more of your head down his cock. Bobbing lazily, eyes always locked on his. Moaning at the stretch of your lips around him. So big it was hard to swirl your tongue around anything but the bottom of him. Veins pulsing on your tongue. Tasting of salt and sweat. 

        Gray doesn't know what to say. Can't speak at all. All he can do is try to repress the moans that escape him, foreign as they sounded on his lips. Your mouth was wet, and warm, and so inviting. Lips good on his but so much better on his dick. Looking up at him like you needed this, not the other way around.

        His cockhead started to stretch the back of your mouth, soon to hit your throat. You moaned. Feeling a phantom of him in your cunt. Not really there but the thought of him inside you drove your head up, down, up, down until the only thing separating you from his pubic bone was your own hand. Which migrated to his thighs, trying to pull him closer, deeper, to fuck your throat. Fuck the pain away. 

        "Too-" He gasped, feeling your throat open up around him, feeling your lips press to his hips. Throat tight and vibrating with your moans, "Too much-"

        You should finish him off. The others could be back soon. You pulled your head back, feeling the regrettable loss of his girth from your mouth. His cock glistened with spit and a wishing well's worth of precum. It was too easy to grab his dick and pull the skin back, expose the lickable pink of his unsheethed head. 

        Your open mouth came down, tongue teasing along the bottom when Gray gutterly groaned. Shooting cum onto your waiting tongue. You paused. You were expecting him to not last long but wow. You hadn't even really gotten going.

        His chest rocked. Never before had someone, even an enemy or his mentor, left him so red and breathless. Then there was the feeling of cumming, so foreign, but like a straight shot of adrenaline after a hard battle. But there had been no battle. Only you and your flushed face and cum coated tongue that slipped back into your mouth. Throat bobbing before your lips reopened. His fluids gone down your tight throat. 

        If he hadn't gone soft, he'd cum again. 

        He could stare at you like this all night long. Wanted to return the favor, though he had no idea how. 

        Except you rocked back, patting his thigh, "Clean yourself up, think I see company."

        He was back in his pants. You were back sat by the fire with him yards away. You looked back at him, lips buzzing, tongue tasing of him, a smile that left him dizzy as you said, "Hey, I'm not doing that again unless those assholes are dead."

        You little...

        "I'll-" He swallowed, watching the figures grow closer but still out of earshot. "I'll confer with your husband."

        You didn't have the energy to be annoyed by the title.

        ***

        He never thought those assholes would leave. Always lurking in the fucked up castle they built. Always indulging in the freshest meat the desert could offer. They had to go out a search for you sometime. Through the madness, it was apparent that they'd lost hope. Looking was just a part of their schedule now. They expected nothing.

        Mohawk slipped inside the ruins. Knew what turns to take, he'd done this before. He'd been watching them for days. Stealing food from under their noses. 

        He's where they left him just... missing another piece. The first time Mohawk saw him, it was his broken forearm. Then it was his calf. Now, they'd taken the rest of the leg nearly up to the hip. Yet he still breathed, shallow in his unconscious stupor. Wounds wrapped tight in bloody cloth.

        He recalls your voice, missing it so much it hurt. You called him, the pathetic, plotting motherfucker- Phantom. 

        So he said it now, hoping the name would goad him into the world of the living. "Phantom."

        His head stayed dropped, chin to chest. Unmasked and sunburned. Scalp scabbed and stubbly from where they'd sheered off his hair with that knife that used to be yours. At first, they kept him masked, seeing their own face tortured was too weird, but the hair got in the way of remasking and the longer you stayed missing, the more they wanted him to hurt. They let his skin blister and peel. Broke his bones unhurried before tearing off the limbs and eating them raw. Mohawk had too grown used to the feel of wet, raw meat slipping down his throat. Had almost come to savor the taste, but never as much as those two.

        "Phantom." A little louder this time. Mohawk wasn't afraid of Lensless and Scars per se, but they could be back anytime. Give up leaving any day, eat Phantom whole and let their fragile brains collapse even further into ruin. "Hey."

        Phantom's head bobbed. "Whhaaa?" Mohawk was in front of him, holding him hard by the chin, forcing him to look up with those disgustingly blue eyes. Cloudy with hardly held on lucidity. 

        "Where is she, shithead?"

        Phantom hadn't told Scars or Lensless where you were despite the torture, so there was no way in hell he'd tell Mohawk. Would rather go to the grave then let them find you. But he wasn't planning on it. He told himself he'd escape sooner or later. He'd get back to you. Take care of Baldie. Be with you the way he had planned. Delusionally sure since they made the first cut.

        Phantom smiled before his body slumped. Unconscious again. Dying. 

        "Hey." Mohawk shook him. "Hey!"

        The building shuddered as one of them touched down, then the other. "Did you hear that?" Lensless. Home earlier than usual.

        "No."

        "I swore I heard something. Do'ya think he got loose?"

        Boots crunched glass and gravel as they made their way through the winding halls. Mohawk looked to Phantom, still unconscious, useless. Mentally promising to be back, to get answers, and if he didn't? He'd kill the fucker himself.

        Mohawk slipped out the busted window, flying low and thanking Art for his suit that melted into the night.

[letteremi]

childhood friend!Gojo x fem!reader

credit goes to @uzmacchiato for the divider!!

part 0 <- part 1 -> part 2

Preschool was okay after you befriended Gojo. Well, with the sole exception of your developing feelings.

“What are you doing?”

Hunched over in the sandpit with a bucket and a shovel, you’d hope the answer was obvious. “Sand.” 

Gojo rolls his eyes. “I asked what you’re doing, not where you are.”

“Making sandcastles.” You hold the neon blue shovel up, brandishing it like the sword against his blunt comments. 

He plops down next to you without asking, knees brushing yours. He doesn’t move away, even when you stiffen, feeling the warmth of him seep into your side. 

You don’t think you want him to move though. Would that be weird? 

He peers over, squinting curiously at the shapes you’ve carefully traced into the sand. 

“What’s that?” He points at a spot near your castle walls — the messy, half-hidden scrawls of your names side by side, encircled by a shaky heart. 

You freeze, heart leaping into your throat. The world narrows to that single, fragile shape in the sand. In a panic, you smack your palms down, smudging the letters into a vague blur of lines and lumps. The sand flies everywhere, the secret sticking to your sweaty hands.

“It’s nothing!” you squeak, cheeks burning hotter than the summer sun. 

Gojo raises a brow, tilting his head like a puzzled puppy. “You’re weird,” he decides, but there’s no real malice behind it. 

But he doesn’t push further, and pulls his gaze from the muddled shapes and lines you’ve hastily covered. Instead, he holds out his palm expectantly, to which you drop your shovel into without thinking. 

And then he starts digging a moat around your tiny castle, tossing the scrambled sand behind his back, like a tiny demolition expert — humming off-key. 

You watch him, your chest heavy with something akin to relief and disappointment. Had you wanted him to know? 

No. Yes. Maybe?

And so, your first attempt (?) at a confession stays buried in the sandbox, lost beneath giggles and your flourishing sand kingdom that he never realised was meant for two.  

taglist: @bloopsstuff @vynn30

an: my forward slash and question mark key broke in the middle of writing this whole mini series (?) so whenever you see a ? just know I was ctrl + v it HAHAHA

[cupidlovesastro]

your sign and the partner you could be

this is silly and stupid and for jokes, check your sun, moon, or venus !

aries- they get cuteness aggression over you and they like to argue for fun, or jokingly argue

taurus- doesn’t know when to stop being physically affectionate, but in return you have to give them your credit card information

gemini- constantly chewing your ear off about some interest they have and low key wanting to people please you without saying it directly

cancer- is low key role playing, mother and child, with you and gets emotional over any tonal changes

leo- thinks that you guys are the hottest couple to walk the earth and doesn’t mind if the attention isn’t on them if it’s for you

virgo- you low key give them the ick but they’ll tolerate it because you the least cringe option and you like playing puzzle games with them

libra- changing their entire aesthetic to fit yours and asking every 2 seconds your opinion for something. also you choose what to order to eat because they can’t decide

scorpio- somehow knows every last detail about you even though you haven’t been together for a year and you can’t lie to them because they will know

sagittarius- wants to take you on adventures with them and loves sharing their opinions with you. they also like debating with you

capricorn- doesnt mind being the provider and caregiver as long as you prove that your deeply devoted to them. they may act distant sometimes but will show love through buying you shit for no particular reason

aquarius- they see you as their best friend and will refer to you as that even if your dating, but they mean it in the most loving way

pisces- every love language is their love language and they’re just happy to be around you. they also see past all your icks and they find it cute or funny

[whirlybirbs]

Do you have anymore sharpshooter/zoro thoughts? I don't even watch one piece but that drawing was so cute and I want to hear more!!

— SWAN DIVE ; RORONOA ZORO ; ぞろ

summary: port d'beau proves to be anything but an easy job. you almost drown, zoro saves you. [set post-arlong, pre-alabasta] pairing: roronoa zoro / f!reader ; straw hat pirate wc: 2.7k tags: shameless potc reference, reader has a backstory, frenemies-to-lovers, an "oh" moment, mutual pining, the corset is a plot point, t+, no use of y/n a/n: i drew this a few days ago and here we are. i'm sure we've all seen the source material for this one — this scene actually altered my brain chemistry as a child and i'm still unpacking that to this day.

It was supposed to be an easy job.

Port d'Beau proves to be anything but.

Roronoa Zoro crosses his arms and leans back into the scarce shade on the Going Merry's deck. The mid-day heat is suffocating — and the swordsman can't help but pity the two girls high up the marina's cliffs. 

The sounds of a party float through the air. Slow waltzes on strings, the tinkering of silver on porcelain, and laughter far too refined for his taste. 

Overhead, the furled sails of the four-cannon caravel flap in the meager breeze rolling in off the sea. Waves lap at the ship's side and somewhere at the bow, Zoro can hear Luffy fidgeting. Sanji is no better, pacing and mumbling something about the heat. Usopp, to his credit, has given up entirely and surrendered himself to the shade with nothing but a peep.

The boys were forced to stay back while you and Nami played dress-up. 

In all fairness, Nami did have a point when she shoved her finger in Zoro's face and said he was too well-known to pass as some upstanding gentleman. On top of that, news of Luffy's brand new bounty of thirty million berries is sweeping ports across the East Blue. There's no doubt the Marine branch stationed on this island — the Thirty-Ninth Division — would recognize their captain immediately. Sanji did whatever Nami said, like an obedient dog, and Usopp needed no convincing to tag along once he heard about the Marine presence. 

Nami's plan was simple. 

The papers had boasted about Port d'Beau's annual gubernatorial luncheon. Hundreds of high-standing families across the East Blue were invited to celebrate Governor Bidon's re-election and his daughter's engagement to the 29th Marine Division's Commodore. The guests pocket purses and that engagement ring was a sitting duck, just waiting for Nami's sticky fingers. 

She'd sneak in alongside you — a key piece in the puzzle. You were a lady once, the daughter of a politician. You knew the ins and outs of the upper echelon's etiquette and formalities, something Nami had little grasp on when it came to burglarizing.

Once in, the entire banquet was theirs for the taking. Nami would steal what they could off the unsuspecting patrons, you'd keep the targets busy with idle chat over tea, and they'd high tail it out of there before dessert even hit the tables.

Easy. 

Quick. 

Fun, even. 

The day proves to be anything but that for you.

The heat seems like proof you're in hell — and you furiously fan yourself as some Lieutenant named Pinard leads you away from the bustle of the party. The afternoon sun beats down on your shoulders and you exhale tightly, wishing for an inch more room in this corset. Nami tied it a bit too tight in her zeal.

Your lungs and ribs ache and you heft the petticoats beneath your skirt up into your hand as you step up onto the overlook. 

Though the view of Port d'Beau is beautiful, it's one you've always sought comfort in — the view of the bustling port, the rolling waves, the marina below...

Lieutenant Pinard offers you a sweaty hand and you accept it with a grimaced smile. Keep up the act. Just about now, Nami is slipping away with a bundle of treasure and headed to the docks. Soon, you'll be out of this dress and back on the Going Merry.

You flutter your fan a bit harder as you swipe away a bead of cold sweat that runs down your temple, avoiding the wistful and adoring gaze of the spindly Lieutenant. 

You're selling this whole act a little too well, but who can blame you?

Your whole life you've defied the expectations placed on a woman of your station. You have had no intention of sitting idly by like a wallflower. Etiquette classes were overshadowed by marksmanship. You had a gift for shooting, and though sport was rare on the cluster of islands making up your home, you excelled. Trophies and ribbons are half the proof of the shot you are. 

The moment you stepped aboard the Going Merry, you thought you left petticoats, gossip, and high tea in the past.

And yet, here you are.

Your sweaty hand in Lieutenant Pinard's sweaty hand.

The heat feels worse up here. You wonder if Nami's made it to the docks yet. Just hold on a little longer, then you can excuse yourself from the party and disappear. 

The chiffon ribbon beneath your chin, tying your hat to your head, flutters in the breeze — and you try to gasp in some of the cool air before it dissipates back into the stagnant summer heat. Sweat runs down the back of your neck and beneath the collar of your dress.

You fan yourself a little harder as Lieutenant Pinard begins to speak.

You can't bring yourself to look at him.

Instead, you try to breathe and lean against the cool stone of the battlement. 

Port d'Beau has long since boasted about its impenetrable Fort Beaumont. 

Zoro, as he tips his head back into his palms, understands the reputation. From the marina, Fort Beaumont has a bird's eye view of all the ongoings. That was why they were so quick to furl their sails, hiding the Straw Hats flag deep in the gulley, as they tied off in the marina under the guise of merchants. 

He closes his eyes and wonders if he'll be able to get a wink of shut-eye in this heat. Nami should be back by now, with you in tow.

Up above him, on the cliffs, you're trying to swallow down the roll of nausea threatening to bring up the meager few bites of a finger sandwich you had an hour ago. 

Your mouth is dry.

You can't breathe.

"—That is why I wanted to speak with you privately, my lady," the Lieutenant drawls on as you flutter your lace fan faster and faster, feet wobbling; he turns his back to hide his apparent flush, "I have never met a woman as beautiful, and... daring, I may even say—"

Suddenly, the world tips.

It's enough that you stagger and press your hands against the limestone battlement. Then, the world tips the other way. Your head feels funny; your body feels like it's diving headfirst into vertigo.

Oh. 

Oh, you're fainting.

Annnnnnd, now you're falling.

SPLASH!

The Commodore blinks.

He turns around.

And you're gone.

Nami's got one foot onboard the Going Merry when you hit the water.

Zoro's head snaps up, his eyes widening at the sound of the splash from the cliffs; he's not the only one. The entire crew is rushing to the railing of the deck with confusion and panic on their faces.

"Nami—" Zoro begins, his voice is a low warning. He's already stripping his swords from his belt. 

The thief gasps in horror.

"—Where the hell is our sniper?" he grits, deep and unamused. Zoro's eyes don't leave the splash once — because deep down, he already knows the answer to that question.

Nothing ever goes to plan with the Straw Hats.

Nami spies the sudden cluster of Marines up on the battlements and her gut sinks. Her hoard of stolen goods tumbles to the deck as she throws herself against the railing.

"Shit! Zoro, she can't swim!" Nami screams, frozen in fear.

The last of his swords hits the deck as he barks: "I know that!" 

Zoro's eyes snap to the white echos of a wave from the splash, and a floating hat with a streaming emerald ribbon catches his eye. 

Not good.

Not good!

What's worse is that Luffy sees it too, and the idiot is two beats from throwing himself off the edge of the bow before Zoro hauls his shirt over his head and smacks the Captain in the face with it.

"Don't even think about it," he grits out, wagging a finger in Luffy's face, "I won't drag your sorry ass up from the bottom too."

Any protests (whines) from Luffy are drowned out by the sound of Zoro's boots on the wooden deck as he takes a running start.

Sanji's tripping over his boots, trying to follow Zoro in, but he stops completely when Usopp calls out and points to the cliffs. "We've got trouble!"

The Marines are mobilizing.

"Sanji, time to get going," Nami panics, backing away from the railing as she realizes they will need to get you out of the water fast — and get the hell out of Port d'Beau faster. 

"On it!" Sanji agrees, calling out to Luffy, "Time to move, Captain!"

Fast and strong, Zoro makes a break. With two long strides, he plants his boot on the railing and pushes off the bow to cut into the waves with a sharp dive. 

The clear blue water is cool — enough that the initial splash makes Zoro's heart pound. But, what's worse for his heart is the sight of you rapidly approaching the bottom of the marina faster by the second, weighed down by a plume of petticoats and silk. 

He curses to himself and pushes himself to dive faster as a harsh stream of air leaves a trail back to the shimmering surface above you both.

Now, as he barrels deeper into the water and tries to save their marksman from drowning, is probably not a good time to confront his feelings for you. 

It's certainly not time to address the fact that the manufactured malice he fronts aboard the deck toward you is just that: fake. It's certainly not time to address the fact he has a well-guarded soft spot for you, nor the time to address the fact he can't help but wonder how one person can make him feel so damn weak.  

So, he pushes them away, ignores the burn in his chest, and equates it to nothing more than a lack of oxygen.

They'll be time for that shit later. 

Right now, he's busy wrapping his hands around your waist and trying to urge you up to the surface.

It proves to be an easier idea than in practice, though. Zoro huffs out an exhale of frustrated bubbles as your skirts tug him — and you — back down to the bottom. 

And so, he ignores the guilt gnawing at his brain as he unceremoniously yanks the front seams of your dress open and clumsily slips you out of the layers of silk with his last breath. Calloused knuckles knock against the boning of your corset and the rough drag of fabric stings his knuckles.

The swordsman breaks the surface, gasping and coughing, just in time to spy a throng of Marines headed down the beach. In his arms, your head lolls back onto his shoulder. You haven't moved — not once, and Zoro's panic is only rising. Wet tendrils of your hair tangle across his neck as he hauls you towards the docks, your body hefted over his shoulder as he scrambles. 

Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go. 

One hand is on the back of your thighs. Your torso is thrown over his back. Your arms sway as he breaks into a controlled jog.

Up the plank, across the threshold of the dock, onto the hot deck of the Going Merry. He makes it, just in time for the lines to be cast and the sails to unfurl, but Zoro isn't even close to relaxing.

"If you die, I will kill you," he can't help it — his voice is stern, the low timbre snapping like a slap as he gently sets you down on the dock's wooden deck and pants. His hand braces against the back of your head as his body bends to hover over you. 

You're not breathing, and water drips off Zoro's nose and lands on your cheek as he starts to panic — and then his eyes land on the tight front lacing of your corset.

Immediately, he's barking at Sanji. "Sanji! Knife, now!" 

It's sacrilegious, sure, but Sanji doesn't really give a damn if it means you don't die. The pairing knife is handed off to Zoro in a flash, and the swordsman holds it like a weapon and not like a cooking implement. There's something poetic about that, but Sanji doesn't have the time to mull over why Zoro is so ready to wield a weapon for you.

Some other time, maybe.

Nami is barreling down the deck, her eyes wild. "What the hell are you doing—?!"

The lacing is sliced clean through in a flash of the steel blade. Your corset blooms open, and immediately you gasp — and water bubbles from your throat in a panicked cough that rifles you awake immediately. 

You writhe, twisting on the deck to brace yourself on your elbow as you hack and cough. Your lungs burn and your throat is on fire and everything tastes like seawater. Hair hangs in your face while you try to breathe in that puddle on the deck of the Going Merry. 

Zoro leans back on his knees, shoulders sagging, and feels a wave of relief wash over him as he hands off the pairing knife to Sanji. The swordsman is also trying to catch his breath — water running down his chest and arms — as his boots squeak against the deck. The cook takes it slowly, his mouth agape, as he lets out an exhale.

Then, gently, Zoro places a hand on your shoulder.

Slowly, you lift your head.

He's haloed by the sun and the bluest sky you've ever seen. 

Roronoa Zoro looks beautiful. 

It feels like you're seeing him for the first time — like you've been slapped across the face by divine intervention. It's like the ocean shook you by the shoulders and made you look directly in his eyes. 

Maybe you're dead.

"Are you alright...?" he asks roughly, his eyes inspecting you over in a way that makes a newfound heat thrum through your veins. The sound feels different than all the other times he's spoken to you (i.e., snapped at you). This time, it's softer. Low and warm, like a warm meal. His earrings glint in the sun, and a drop of water runs down his neck and down, down, down his sternum.

You stare.

Then, like you suddenly realize just what sort of position you're in, you blink down at the thin chemise clinging to your figure. Every curve, every dip — it's all on display, and you can't help but go rigid. 

Doesn't help that Zoro is realizing that little fact too. Your chest heaves out a panted breath and he has to physically tear his eyes away. 

"I'm fine," you manage to grit out, turning your cheek as you slowly sit up, "I—"

"Go slow," he urges gently, his hand coming to fall along your lower back, "You took a pretty hard fall."

You push the wet, tangled hair out of your eyes and ignore the bloom of goosebumps his hand ushers in. You lean on your palms. Water runs off the tip of your nose. 

When you speak, it's so soft it's nearly a whisper.

"...Thank you, Zoro."

Sanji shifts awkwardly above the both of you.

What the hell is going on?

Mosshead and the crew's beloved sniper never go more than two sentences without ripping into each other — everyone knows that. It's the way it goes. They can't stand one another. Zoro thinks their sniper is a delicate, spoiled, little princess, and their sniper thinks Zoro is a bullheaded, impulsive brute. Tit-for-tat. Grounded in reality. Unlike whatever the fuck is going on right now before his very eyes.

The swordsman's ears go red.

Sanji can't fucking believe it.

Zoro catches your eyes for a beat longer than he should have, and he swears something in the air just changed. 

And you smile at him. 

"Let's get you covered up," Sanji breaks the moment, half-tied between disbelief and fear. Maybe you did hit your head on the way down. The cook's jacket comes across your shoulders like a blanket.

Never in his life has Zoro ever been so thankful for shitty cook's interruption, or Nami's shouting, or Luffy's laughter, or Usopp's wailing. The entire crew spills onto the deck around you, sweeping you into worried hugs and doting touches — leaving Roronoa Zoro to wonder what the hell just happened.

It was supposed to be an easy job.

Port d'Beau proves to be anything but.

Because Zoro can't stop wondering if he should confront those feelings in his chest, and you can't stop wondering when those feelings for him ever took root in your own. 

[inkdrinkerworld]

could you pretty please write a reader meeting james' parents with like two versions: the first time where she's shit scared and nervous, and the time where she's completely blended in with the family and is talking like a family member, helping effy in the kitchen nd everything pretty please? (sorry if this was too specific, i love love love ur writing! <3)

This was such a cute ask! I’m sorry that it’s taken me this long to get to it, but I hope you enjoy it

The first time you meet Fleamont and Euphemia Potter you’re literally on the verge of passing out from how bad your anxiety is.

You want them to like you.

James does his best to keep you calm but the second he parks his car in their driveway your heart rate picks up again.

“James, what if I mess this up and they hate me?” You turn to him in the passenger seat, staring at him with wide eyes.

James cups your cheeks, “You’re not gonna mess anything up, lovie. They’ll adore you, I promise.”

The minute he knocks on the door Euphemia is there, her apron still on and her gray hair combed back in a French twist.

“Jamie,” she envelops him in her arms and as he hugs her back she meets your eyes. “Oh you’re just gorgeous.”

James pulls away from her to introduce you. Euphemia shushes him with a wave of her hand. “Hi darling,” she pulls you into an equally enthusiastic hug and your fears start to melt. “I’ve heard so much about you. But come in and tell me everything.”

Fleamont brews tea for everyone, you and Euphemia finish dinner in the kitchen together, but it’s not as nerve wracking as you’d thought it’d be.

She’s made a roast dinner, beef, potatoes, salad, and broccoli cheese. You’d brought an apple crisp and ice cream for dessert.

By the end of the night, your fears are all gone. James can’t help but he smug on the drive home.

After a year of dating James, he swears you and his parents speak more than they do to him.

You don’t even have to knock anymore when you get there, you have a key to their house now.

Euphemia beams when she sees you, James rolls his eyes fondly when you wrap your arms around her.

“Hi mum, nice to see you too.” He says sarcastically and Fleamont laughs from his spot in the kitchen.

“Jamie boy, help out your old man.” Fleamont and James are one and the same, you know Euphemia cooked, but her husband and her son don’t let her pull the hot trays from the oven. James never lets you do it either.

James pulls a tray of scones out, Fleamont gets the iced tea from the fridge and the clotted cream and jam.

You and Euphemia are doing puzzle, a spring river one you’d gotten her last time you’d come by.

“Do you think the heat will disrupt the flowers too much?” You ask as you take a peek into her garden. Euphemia has the loveliest flowers you’ve ever seen.

“I’m hoping they won’t, but if it comes to it, I’ll set the sprinklers on.”

James comes in just then, two glasses of iced tea in hand.

“Did you add berries to this one mum?” He asks as he sets the glasses down.

“Some of the blackberries came out early, so I just threw those in before the heat could get to them.”

James smiles, “It’s delicious.”

You take a sip and can’t help but agree. “Do I smell scones?” You ask and Euphemia beams, she loves feeding people.

“The last of the oranges were out there so I made plain scones and orange jelly.”

They’re perfect, and what makes it even more perfect is the sun and breeze coming in through the windows.

[xoln04f1xo]

Smut

Pairings: CL16 x Reader

Warnings: unprotected sex, P in V, oral (f!recieving), shower sex

WC: 2.1k

Divider credit: @kodaswrld

The key turns in the lock like a promise.

It’s barely past midnight when you hear the familiar sound of Charles’ footsteps in the hallway, suitcase wheels skimming across the floor, followed by the gentle click of the door closing behind him. He’s home. Finally.

You don’t wait for him to call out. You’re already at the edge of the living room, breath catching when you see him - hat backwards, hair a mess, black hoodie hanging off one shoulder, eyes dark from travel and no doubt, longing.

“You’re awake,” he says, but his voice is low, rough.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you whisper.

Neither of you moves for a second. There’s too much heat in the space between your bodies - too much build-up from the weeks apart, the late-night FaceTimes that always ended with heavy breathing and aching goodbyes, the teasing texts, the tension that’s been simmering since the second he left.

Charles drops the bag, crosses the distance in three strides, and grabs you by the waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“I missed you,” he says into your neck, lips brushing against skin. “I thought about you every fucking night.”

You lean into him, hands fisting into the back of his hoodie, pulling him impossibly closer.

“You could’ve come home sooner,” you murmur, teasing—but your voice betrays how much you’ve needed this, him.

He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze dark, hungry. “Not soon enough.”

Then his lips crash onto yours - urgent, messy, perfect. He kisses like a man starved, like he’s trying to memorize every part of your mouth before the moment slips away. His hands roam with a mix of reverence and desperation - under your shirt, over your hips, dragging your body into his like he can’t bear an inch of space.

Your back hits the wall, a soft gasp leaving your lips as he mouths down your jaw, your throat, whispering your name like a prayer between kisses.

“I don’t want to wait,” he whispers, breath hot against your collarbone. “Let me have you. Right here.”

Your breath hitches as Charles presses his hips into yours, every line of his body slotting perfectly against yours like a puzzle piece that’s been missing too long. You feel the tension rolling off him in waves - three weeks of high-speed circuits, podium pressure, and nights spent alone in hotel beds with only thoughts of you to keep him warm.

“I need to touch you,” he murmurs against your neck, the words barely a whisper but sharp enough to make your knees weaken.

You nod - no words, just want.

His hands slide under your thighs, and you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist. He carries you effortlessly through the apartment, like he knows exactly where everything is even in the dark, guided by muscle memory and need.

The bedroom door barely has time to creak open before your back is on the mattress, his hoodie already discarded, revealing the golden skin and the toned lines of his torso, kissed by Monaco sun and adrenaline.

“You’ve been teasing me for weeks,” he says, voice low as he crawls over you, caging you beneath him. “Sending me those photos, saying those things on FaceTime…”

You smirk, fingers curling around the waistband of his sweatpants. “You liked it.”

“I loved it,” he said. “But now I want the real thing.”

He kisses you again, slower this time, deeper. His tongue drags against yours like he’s savouring the taste he’s been denied. One hand slips beneath your shirt, tracing up your ribs until his palm finds your breast. He groans into your mouth as your hips arch up to meet him.

Clothes come off in a blur - shirt, shorts, underwear - all dropped carelessly to the floor. You’re bare beneath him now, and he pulls back just enough to look at you, gaze sweeping over every inch like he’s trying to sear the image into memory.

“Tu es magnifique,” he says, voice thick, almost reverent. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

“Then show me,” you whisper, pulling him back down.

He doesn’t hesitate.

One hand braces beside your head, the other sliding between your legs, fingers teasing, circling - until your hips are rolling against his touch, chasing the high only he can give you. He watches your face, drinking in every gasp, every flutter of your lashes.

“I love making you like this,” he murmurs. “So fucking pretty when you fall apart for me.”

And then, finally, he sinks into you - slow, deep, like he’s anchoring himself after weeks adrift. Both of you gasp, clinging to each other like lifelines. He sets a rhythm that’s deliberate, controlled - every thrust dragging moans from your throat, every grind of his hips stoking the fire in your stomach.

“You feel… so good,” he groans, voice breaking. “I missed this. I missed you.”

You meet him thrust for thrust, your fingers tangled in his curls, your nails raking down his back. He swears softly in French against your skin, forehead pressed to yours as the moment builds between you - bodies moving in perfect sync, heat and love and hunger all crashing into one.

“Cum with me,” he whispers, lips brushing yours. “Don’t hold back, baby. I want to feel it.”

And when you do - when pleasure crashes over you in waves, tightening your body around him - he’s right there with you, falling apart in your arms with a raw, beautiful sound you’ll never forget.

The world stills.

For a while, there’s nothing but his breathing against your neck and the soft, whispered “je t’aime” he repeats between kisses to your shoulder.

You smile, eyes half-lidded, fingers stroking his hair as he settles beside you, pulling you into his chest.

“I don’t care how many triple-headers they put on the calendar,” he murmurs, voice already drowsy. “Next time… you’re coming with me.”

You wake to the sound of water running.

The bed’s still warm beside you, the imprint of Charles’ body lingering in the sheets, but when you blink your eyes open, he’s gone. For a moment, you think maybe you dreamed it all - that the kisses, the weight of his body, the way he said je t’aime like it was sacred - had only been in your head.

But then you hear the bathroom door creak open, and he’s there.

Towel slung low around his hips, skin damp, hair dripping. And he's looking at you like he’s already thinking about doing it all over again.

You sit up slowly, letting the sheet fall from your chest - and Charles immediately notices.

His eyes darken.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he says, voice still gravelly from sleep, but laced with that now-familiar hunger.

“You started it,” you murmur, sliding out of bed. “Leaving me all alone for three weeks…”

He doesn’t wait for you to finish. He tosses the towel aside and holds out a hand.

“Shower’s hot,” he says, a wicked little smirk curling on his lips. “You coming?”

You don’t answer. You just walk to him, take his hand, and let him lead you into the steam.

The shower is already fogged up, the heat soaking into your skin the moment you step inside. Water cascades down his back as he pulls you in, hands sliding over your body like he’s trying to relearn every inch.

There’s something different this time - less desperate, more worshipful. Like now that he’s had you once, he wants to take his time. Devour you slowly.

Charles pushes you gently against the cool tile, the contrast of heat and chill sending a shiver down your spine. He kisses you again, but this one is slower, deeper - his tongue teasing yours as his hands explore every inch of your wet skin.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice low and thick with desire. “Even more like this…”

He drops to his knees.

The spray of the water hits his shoulders as he settles between your thighs, lifting one leg over his shoulder, his gaze never breaking from yours as his mouth descends. The moment his tongue touches you, your head falls back against the wall with a moan - water, lips, and heat all blending into something dangerously addictive.

He works you open with slow, deliberate licks, fingers teasing in perfect rhythm, tongue swirling, tasting, claiming. And when you start to fall apart, thighs trembling, breath catching, he doesn’t stop.

He groans against you, like your pleasure is the only thing he’s hungry for.

When he finally rises, eyes dark and satisfied, he doesn’t give you a second to recover. He lifts you into his arms - wet skin sliding against wet skin - your back against the wall as he slides into you again, slow but deep, filling you until you can’t breathe.

“God, yes,” you gasp, clinging to him, nails digging into his shoulders.

He sets a rhythm that has you unravelling all over again - each thrust hitting deep, the water wrapping around both of you like a blanket of heat. He kisses you like he needs it to breathe, whispering things in French between moans, filthy and tender all at once.

Your bodies move in perfect harmony - like a race car and its track, built for speed and control, every twist and curve pushing you closer to the edge.

“Let go for me again,” he pants against your ear, voice wrecked. “Cum for me, mon amour. I want to feel you.”

And when you do, it’s more intense than before - pleasure rippling through you as your body clenches around him, pulling him under with you.

He follows with a groan, his hips stuttering, arms wrapped tight around you like he never wants to let go.

The water keeps running.

But all you feel is him - his heartbeat pounding against your chest, his lips soft against your temple, his voice, breathless and content.

“Best homecoming ever,” he murmurs.

The water’s long gone cold by the time Charles finally reaches over and turns off the tap. Your skin is flushed and your limbs are like jelly, but you don’t move - just lean your forehead against his shoulder, eyes closed, breathing in the scent of his soap and skin and him.

“Mon amour,” he whispers, voice low and full of affection, “you okay?”

“Mmm,” you hum, nuzzling closer. “Perfect.”

He chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You look wrecked.”

You lift your head just enough to give him a lazy smile. “You did that.”

“Je sais,” he says, grinning with a flash of teeth, proud but also impossibly tender. “And I’m not sorry.”

He helps you step out of the shower, careful and slow, hands steadying your hips as he reaches for a towel. He wraps you up first - like you’re something delicate - and then grabs one for himself. The moment he’s done, he scoops you into his arms again with a playful grunt.

“Charles!” you laugh. “I can walk, you know.”

“I don’t care,” he murmurs, nose brushing your cheek. “I just want to hold you.”

He carries you back to the bed and lays you down gently, then crawls in beside you, wrapping you in his arms like a blanket. Your head fits perfectly against his chest, where his heartbeat is still a little fast, but steady. Reassuring.

His fingers find yours, lacing them together.

There’s a long, soft silence - just breathing, and the occasional brush of his lips against your hair.

“I missed this,” he says quietly. “Being with you like this. No cameras, no races. Just… us.”

You tilt your head to look up at him, tracing his jaw with your fingertips. “I missed you, too. I’m proud of you, but God, I hate being away from you for so long.”

“I know,” he whispers, pulling your hand to his lips and kissing each knuckle, one by one. “Next time, I’ll fly you out. Even if it’s just for a night.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Leclerc.”

He smiles, that soft, sleepy kind that makes your heart do somersaults. “I hope you do.”

You rest your head back on his chest, letting his warmth seep into you. His hand strokes slow circles over your spine, soothing, grounding. Your legs tangle together under the blanket, and for the first time in weeks, you feel completely safe. Completely home.

“I love you,” you say, almost inaudibly, like it’s something precious.

Charles’s arms tighten around you instantly. “Je t’aime plus.”

His voice is full of conviction, and something else too - promise.

You fall asleep like that: tangled up in Charles Leclerc, wrapped in towels and love, the scent of him clinging to your skin like the echo of everything you’ve shared.

Click here for more!

[pavosnoctua]

cw: yandere, isolation, forced imprisonment, kidnapping mentions, mdni. diluc and his complex. mentions of phys. harm but not from diluc. dubcon ment. pregnancy ment. afab reader. slight ooc on dilucs end.

blank blogs and minors dni

not my best work but the plot bunnies were working (part two might come)

You don't sleep often anymore and it worries him - you pace late at night, mumbling to yourself like some madwoman and he thinks of hiring the best physicians to see if you are okay. But the last time he did that, that had you upset and telling him to fuck off. He'd saved you, he tells himself, from the people who hit and made you cry.

Diluc misses your energy now - your spark, the thing that vindicated him and irritated him and...the only reminder you were still alive.

"Beloved, it is late." he tells you, unable to avert his eyes from your bosom, swallowing heavily as a familiar hunger overtakes him. Indecently dressed - no, appropriately dressed for bed time. But yet...he makes a mental note to have the maids get rid of all these outfits that show off too much.

Nobody else is allowed to see you in such clothes if you insist on pacing the halls like some poltergeist. You do not respond, only stepping past him to continue your nightly, hours long path.

"Bed, my beloved. You will see the sun in the morning."

"I can't sleep." you tell him, bluntly. "I cannot go outside, you have me under lock and key - I simply wish to move about."

"I allow you to help Adelinde with the chores indoors." he argues and draws in a deep breath. No - no, he won't fall for your bait. The bait that has you feeling self righteous and angrier, ammo for arguments later. "Is that not enough?"

"No! It's barely anything! Dusting here and there, organize the shelves. You never have me do tasks that could cause even just a bruise!" You're tired, sleep deprived. Energetic, yet feeling sluggish and exhausted.

And Diluc stares at you. It's a disconnected thought.

"Come back to bed with me love, we'll figure it out." There's distrust in your eyes but you obey, because arguing while you're tired gives him an advantage. Archons, forgive him because you won't.

When your head hits the pillow after you accept a drink from him - resigned, accepting, incapable of fighting at this time - he's relieved to find that you're even more tired.

"Love, I know a way to...get what we both want." Archons, forgive him.

"If - if we have sex," you murmur, understanding in your tired state. "Will I earn more privileges?"

"Yes." It's half a lie.

And he repeats, Archons forgive him.

Diluc marvels at your wet heat at first penetration - he wants to stay like this but can't. If this goes on too long, you will get upset. At least, for now, he has you.

Your privileges come with how much you're willing to agree to - and outside is precious, so you agree to a lot. You still barely sleep, but your pacing as stopped and he has you in his arms every night.

Your mouth is always soft and warm, and the perfumes from your baths are always enticing for him - his favorite scents. How he adores you.

Red marks on your neck - you complain he bites too much. You complain about him cumming inside. But you moan sweetly for him. Nicely. Desperately. Your breasts are starting to swell and there's all the telltale signs.

And yet -

All good things come to an end - when you are in tears as your growing belly, all the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. Diluc is elated. He's always wanted children.

He ignores your little no's as he kisses you more - after all, your freedom has come at a price and he is not a man who breaks promises.

[ghstyles]

For Worse or For Worse

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WC: 3.8K

Masterlist

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A year had passed in whispers of change, in small steps forward and occasional steps back. A dance of rediscovery that had transformed them both. 

The guest house had remained Y/N's sanctuary for three months before she'd started spending most nights in the main house, and by four months, they'd quietly moved her things into what was now undeniably their bedroom. Her textbooks mingled with his music sheets; her practical pottery sat alongside his expensive art; and somehow, the house had become a home once again.

Harry stood in their kitchen, nervously adjusting the collar of his shirt for the fifth time while checking his pocket for the hundredth time to make sure the ring was still there. 

Grumps watched from where he was perched on the counter, head tilted and tail swaying as if puzzled by his human’s unusual restlessness.

"What do you think, mate?" Harry asked the cat. "Too much? Not enough?" He gestured to the room, where he'd spent the morning arranging Y/N's favorite flowers. Not in elaborate bouquets but in simple mason jars, the way she preferred them. Candles waited to be lit, and the table was set for an intimate dinner he planned to cook himself.

Grumps yawned, distinctly unimpressed.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Harry muttered, checking his watch again. Y/N would be home from her afternoon class soon, and everything needed to be perfect.

A year ago, he would have hired professionals to handle every detail, would have made grand gestures designed to impress rather than connect. But he'd learned, sometimes painfully, that it wasn't the grandeur that mattered to Y/N; it was the thought, the effort, the personal touches that showed he was paying attention.

And he had been paying attention. To the way she absently twisted her hair when she was concentrating on her studies. To how she always turned her face to the sun whenever it appeared in London's often gray sky. To the small, contented sigh she made when she took her first sip of tea in the morning.

He'd learned that she preferred walks in the rain to fancy dinners, that she laughed hardest at his worst jokes, that she still sometimes doubted her place in his world but was brave enough to claim it anyway.

Most importantly, he'd learned to be honest, with her and with himself, about his feelings, his fears, his hopes for their future.

The sound of a key in the front door made him freeze, his heart suddenly pounding. This was it.

Grumps immediately perked up, leaping down from the counter and trotting toward the entryway, tail held high in greeting.

"Hello, my sweet boy!" Y/N’s voice carried through the house, followed by the rustle of her dropping her bag and bending to scratch the waiting cat under his chin. "Did you miss me? I was only gone for three hours, you dramatic thing."

Harry took a deep breath, smoothing down his shirt one last time before following the sound of her voice.

He found her crouched in the entryway, still in her coat, laughing as Grumps wove figure eights around her legs, purring loudly. Her hair was slightly damp from the light rain outside, her cheeks flushed from the brisk autumn air, and Harry felt the familiar surge of love that never failed to take his breath away

"Welcome home," he said softly.

Y/N looked up, her smile widening as she took him in. "Well, don't you look nice," she observed, rising to her feet. "What's the occasion? Did I forget something important?" A flicker of worry crossed her face.

Harry quickly shook his head. "No, nothing like that. I just thought... it might be nice to have a special dinner tonight."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, brushing a raindrop from her sleeve. "On a Wednesday? Must be very special."

Harry stepped forward, helping her out of her coat. "Maybe," he said with a small smile. "How was class?"

"Interesting, actually. We had a guest lecturer from the Victoria and Albert Museum discussing textile conservation. Did you know they have to use special vacuums with adjustable suction to clean antique fabrics?" She paused, taking in his slightly distracted expression. "And you don't care about this at all, do you?"

Harry laughed, hanging up her coat. "I care that you care," he corrected, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. "Tell me more over dinner? It's almost ready."

Y/N sniffed the air appreciatively. "Something smells amazing. Did you cook?"

Harry nodded, taking her hand and leading her toward the kitchen. "Your favorite. That pasta with the spinach and sun-dried tomatoes."

Y/N squeezed his hand, her expression softening. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble."

"It's not trouble," he assured her as they entered the kitchen. "Not for you."

Y/N stopped short at the threshold, taking in the flowers, the candles, the carefully set table. "Harry..." she breathed, her eyes wide.

Harry watched her face anxiously. "Too much?"

She shook her head slowly, a smile blooming on her lips. "No, it's... it's perfect. But you're making me suspicious now. What's going on?"

Harry's hand moved instinctively to his pocket, feeling the outline of the ring box. "Can't a man just want to do something nice for the woman he loves?"

Y/N narrowed her eyes playfully. "He can, but this man usually has ulterior motives when he gets that particular look in his eye."

Harry grinned, unable to deny it. "Maybe I do have something in mind for after dinner."

Y/N stepped closer, sliding her arms around his waist. "Are you sure it has to wait until after dinner?"

The teasing lilt in her voice sent a rush of heat through him, momentarily distracting him from his carefully laid plans. He dipped his head to capture her lips in a kiss that started gentle but quickly deepened as she pressed herself against him.

When they finally broke apart, both slightly breathless, Harry rested his forehead against hers. "If we start that now, dinner will burn," he murmured.

"Would that be so terrible?" she whispered back, her fingers playing with the buttons of his shirt.

Harry groaned, genuinely torn. A year together had done nothing to dampen the desire between them. If anything, it had only grown stronger as they'd learned each other's bodies, each other's needs. "You're making this very difficult."

Y/N laughed, the sound low and knowing. "That's rather the point."

With heroic effort, Harry stepped back, keeping her hands in his. "Later," he promised. "Trust me, it'll be worth the wait."

Y/N sighed dramatically but allowed him to guide her to the table. "Fine, but I'm holding you to that."

Dinner passed in comfortable conversation, Y/N recounting more details from her lecture while Harry shared stories from his day in the studio. They'd fallen into an easy rhythm over the past year, her studies and his music creating a balance that somehow worked despite their different schedules and demands.

As they finished the last of their pasta, Harry found himself growing increasingly nervous. He'd rehearsed what he wanted to say countless times, but now that the moment was approaching, all his carefully prepared words seemed inadequate.

"You're staring," Y/N observed, setting down her fork.

Harry blinked, caught. "Sorry. You're just...you're beautiful."

A light blush colored her cheeks. Even after a year, his compliments still had that effect on her. "And you're being suspiciously sweet tonight."

Harry took a deep breath. It was now or never. "Actually, there is something I wanted to talk to you about."

Y/N's expression grew more serious, a hint of uncertainty entering her eyes. "That sounds ominous."

Harry quickly reached across the table for her hand. "No, nothing bad. The opposite, actually." He paused, gathering his courage. "I've been thinking a lot about us lately. About how far we've come."

Y/N's fingers curled around his. "We have come a long way, haven't we?"

Harry nodded, his thumb tracing circles on the back of her hand. "A year ago, I showed up at your door, desperate and terrified I'd lost you forever."

"And I slammed it in your face," Y/N remembered with a small smile.

"Rightfully so," Harry acknowledged. "I was a mess. We both were."

"You brought Grumps as a secret weapon," Y/N teased, glancing at the cat who had settled under the table, watching intently for any opportunity to steal a bite. His tail flicked with lazy anticipation.

Harry laughed softly. "I needed all the help I could get."

He took another breath, feeling the weight of the ring box in his pocket. "That day, I asked you for a chance. A chance to prove that what we had could be real. That I could be worthy of your trust again."

Y/N's expression softened. "And you have been. More than worthy."

Harry stood, still holding her hand, and came around to her side of the table. Her eyes widened as he dropped to one knee beside her chair.

"Harry..." she breathed, free hand flying to her mouth.

He pulled the ring box from his pocket with fingers that trembled slightly. "A year ago, we were legally married but emotionally strangers. Now, we're legally divorced but..." He opened the box, revealing the emerald ring nestled inside. "Y/N, I love you more than I ever thought possible. You've changed me, challenged me, made me better in every way that matters."

Tears filled Y/N's eyes as she looked from the ring to his face.

"I want to marry you again," Harry continued, his voice growing steadier as he spoke from his heart. "Not for publicity or contracts or any reason except that I want to spend my life with you. I want to be your husband, for real this time. No games, no lies, just us."

He lifted the ring from its box. "Will you marry me? Again?"

A tear slipped down Y/N's cheek as she nodded, too overcome to speak for a moment.

"Yes," she finally managed, her voice thick with emotion. "Yes, I'll marry you again."

Harry slid the ring onto her finger, his heart so full he thought it might burst. The diamond caught the candlelight, sparkling almost as brightly as Y/N's eyes.

She pulled him up and into a kiss that held all the promise of their future—tender and passionate, familiar yet still thrilling.

When they broke apart, Harry brushed away a tear from her cheek with his thumb. "I was so nervous," he admitted. "I wasn't sure if you'd think it was too soon, or if you'd even want to go through another wedding after how the first one started."

Y/N laughed softly, admiring the ring on her finger. She looked up at him, her eyes shining. "This time, we'll do it our way. Small, intimate, only people who truly care about us."

Harry nodded, relief and joy washing over him in equal measure. "That sounds perfect."

Y/N stood, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Now, about that promise you made earlier..." She pressed herself against him suggestively.

Harry grinned, all thoughts of dinner cleanup forgotten as he swept her into his arms. "Always so impatient."

"Only for you," she murmured against his lips as he carried her toward their bedroom.

Harry barely made it up the stairs before the weight of his emotions overwhelmed his patience. With a low growl, he pressed Y/N against the nearest wall, his hands framing her face as he kissed her with an intensity that made her gasp.

"Mine," he murmured against her lips, the single word carrying a year's worth of hard-won certainty. "Finally, truly mine."

Y/N's fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan. "Possessive much?" she teased breathlessly, but the flush spreading across her cheeks betrayed how much his words affected her.

Harry lowered his mouth to the sensitive spot just below her ear, nipping gently before soothing the skin with his tongue. "My fiancée," he whispered, testing the word like a fine wine on his tongue. "God, do you know how long I've wanted to say that and actually mean it?"

His hands slid down her sides to her hips, gripping firmly as he pressed his body against hers, letting her feel exactly what this moment was doing to him. The ring on her finger caught the light as she braced herself against his shoulders.

"Harry," she breathed, her head falling back against the wall as he trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down her throat. "The bedroom is literally twenty feet away."

He smiled against her skin, his fingers already working at the zipper of her dress. "Too far," he decided, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze, his eyes dark with desire and something deeper, more profound. "Need you now. Need my wife now."

The word 'wife' sent a shiver through Y/N—not just from the possession in his tone, but from the redemption of it. This was nothing like the cold, contractual way he'd once claimed her. This was heat and heart and hard-earned truth.

"Not your wife yet," she reminded him, even as her fingers worked nimbly at the buttons of his shirt. "Have to marry me properly first."

Harry pushed her dress off one shoulder, his mouth following the fabric's retreat. "Semantics," he murmured against her collarbone. "You've been mine since that day at the creek. Maybe always."

His admission, raw and unfiltered, sent heat pooling low in Y/N's belly. She yanked his shirt free from his trousers, needing to feel his skin against hers.

"Prove it," she challenged, her voice husky with want.

Something flashed in Harry's eyes. A primal recognition of the gauntlet she'd thrown down. In one fluid motion, he hitched her up, his hands gripping the backs of her thighs as her legs wrapped around his waist.

"Fucking hell, Y/N," he groaned as she rolled her hips against his hardness. "You drive me absolutely mad, you know that?"

She smiled, deliberately grinding against him again. "Good."

Harry captured her mouth in another searing kiss, this one harder, hungrier. Y/N moaned into it, her hands clutching his shoulders for support as he pressed her more firmly against the wall, creating the perfect friction where she needed it most.

"Not. Enough," Harry growled, setting her down just long enough to tug her dress over her head in one impatient movement. It landed somewhere in the hallway, forgotten as his gaze raked over her—black lace bra, matching panties, miles of smooth skin flushed with desire.

"Christ, look at you," he breathed, his accent thickening as it always did when he was aroused. "My gorgeous fucking fiancée."

Y/N reached for his belt, her fingers working quickly. "Too many clothes," she complained, shoving his trousers and boxers down his hips in one determined push.

Harry kicked them aside, then pressed her back against the wall, his cock hard and heavy against her stomach as he reached behind her to unclasp her bra. As it fell away, he cupped her breasts reverently, his thumbs brushing over her nipples until they peaked.

"Perfect," he murmured, lowering his head to take one sensitive bud into his mouth, sucking gently before grazing it with his teeth.

Y/N arched against him, her nails digging into his shoulders. "Harry, please," she gasped, beyond caring about dignity or patience.

He smiled against her breast, one hand sliding down her stomach to push inside her panties. "So wet for me already," he groaned, finding her slick and ready. "Is this what the idea of marrying me does to you, love?"

Y/N would have rolled her eyes at his smugness if his fingers hadn't chosen that moment to circle her clit with devastating precision. "Shut up and fuck me," she demanded instead, her voice breaking on a moan as he pushed two fingers inside her.

Harry's eyes darkened further at her words, his cock twitching against her thigh. "So fucking bossy," he murmured approvingly, hooking his fingers inside her as his thumb continued its maddening circles. "My bossy little wife."

The possessive endearment combined with his skilled touch had Y/N teetering on the edge embarrassingly quickly. Harry, reading her body like a familiar song, withdrew his fingers just before she could fall.

She made a noise of frustrated protest, but he was already lifting her again, pressing her back against the wall as he tore her panties down her legs.

"Wrap your legs around me," he commanded, his voice rough with need. "Need to be inside you now."

Y/N complied eagerly, locking her ankles behind his back as he positioned himself at her entrance. Their eyes met in the dim hallway light—a moment of perfect understanding amid the desperate passion.

"I love you," Harry said, the simple truth more powerful than any vow they'd yet exchanged.

"I love you too," Y/N whispered back, and then words became impossible as Harry thrust into her in one deep, perfect stroke.

They both groaned at the sensation. The exquisite fullness, the slick heat, the completion that still felt miraculous after everything they'd overcome.

Harry held still for a moment, his forehead pressed against hers, his breathing ragged. "Fucking perfect," he gasped, his hands gripping her thighs so tightly she knew there would be marks tomorrow. Marks she would trace with secret satisfaction.

Then he began to move, setting a relentless pace that had Y/N clinging to his shoulders, her head falling back against the wall as pleasure built within her. The position allowed him to hit that perfect spot deep inside with each thrust, while the friction of his body against her clit provided the dual stimulation that always drove her wild.

"Mine," Harry growled again, punctuating the word with a particularly deep thrust that made Y/N cry out. "Say it. Tell me you're mine."

The demand might have rankled once, might have felt like another attempt to control her. Now, earned through months of patience and respect and genuine love, it felt like a gift she was eager to give.

"Yours," she gasped, meeting his thrusts with equal fervor. "Always yours, Harry."

Something like triumph flashed in his eyes, quickly consumed by raw need as his pace increased. "And I'm yours," he promised, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his own release. "Only yours, Y/N. Forever."

His hand slipped between their bodies, finding her clit again, circling with just the right pressure to send her hurtling toward the edge. "Come for me," he urged, his voice dropping to that husky register that never failed to undo her. "Let me feel my fiancée come around my cock."

The combination of his words, his touch, and the relentless rhythm of his thrusts pushed Y/N over the precipice. She came with a sharp cry, her inner walls clenching around him as pleasure crashed through her in overwhelming waves.

Harry followed moments later, driven beyond control by the sight and feel of her climax. He buried his face in her neck, groaning her name like a prayer as he spilled inside her, his hips jerking erratically against hers.

For long moments afterward, they remained locked together against the wall, breathing heavily, sweat-slicked skin cooling in the hallway air. Harry pressed gentle kisses to her shoulder, her neck, the corner of her mouth, as if unable to stop touching her even as the desperate urgency faded.

"Okay?" he murmured eventually, carefully lowering her feet to the floor while keeping her steadied in his arms.

Y/N laughed softly, feeling pleasantly boneless and thoroughly claimed. "Definitely okay," she assured him, reaching up to brush a strand of damp hair from his forehead. "Though I think you've ruined me for proper bedroom sex."

Harry grinned, utterly unrepentant. "Couldn't wait," he said simply, his thumb brushing over the engagement ring on her finger with obvious satisfaction. "Needed to make you mine again."

Y/N shook her head fondly at his possessiveness, but couldn't deny the thrill it sent through her

"I think you made your point," she teased, gesturing to their discarded clothes strewn across the hallway floor.

Harry laughed, pulling her into his arms for a softer kiss. "That was just the beginning," he promised against her lips. "I plan to make my fiancée come at least twice more before morning."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, a challenge sparking in her eyes. "Only twice? Getting old, Styles?"

Harry's eyes darkened again at her provocation. "Is that a challenge, Mrs. Almost-Styles-Again?"

"Maybe," she replied with a deliberate smirk.

In one swift motion, Harry scooped her up into his arms, carrying her toward their bedroom at last. "Challenge accepted," he growled, kicking the door shut behind them with a decisive thud.

The engagement ring caught the moonlight streaming through their bedroom window, winking like a promise as Y/N reached for her fiancé, her almost-husband, the man who had fought his way back to her through pride and pain and misunderstanding.

This time, she knew, they were doing everything right.

Later, as they lay tangled in sheets and each other, Y/N traced lazy patterns on his chest, her ring catching the soft light from the bedside lamp.

"I never thought we'd end up here," she admitted quietly. "That first day when I showed up at the manor house with your ridiculous contract and your terrible attitude...I hated you."

Harry laughed, running his fingers through her hair. "I was awful. I deserved it."

"You were," she agreed without hesitation. "But somehow, underneath all that...there you were. The real you."

Harry pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to her temple. "You were the only one who ever really saw me," he murmured. "Even when I was trying my hardest to be someone else."

Y/N propped herself up on one elbow, studying his face in the dim light. "Do you ever regret it? The way we started?"

Harry considered the question seriously. "I regret hurting you. I regret the lies, the games, the time wasted trying to be what my mother wanted instead of who I really am." He reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "But I can't regret anything that led me to you. To this."

Y/N leaned down to kiss him softly. "Even though I'm just a small-town nobody?" she teased, the old wound now healed enough to joke about.

Harry's expression grew serious. "You are the most important person in my world, Y/N Styles-to-be-again. Don't ever forget it."

She smiled, settling back against his chest. "I won't. Not this time."

Outside their window, London carried on its busy nighttime rhythm, oblivious to the promises being made within the walls of their home. But inside, in the quiet space they'd created together, two people who had started as reluctant partners in a business arrangement lay entwined, planning a future neither could have imagined a year ago.

And somewhere in the house, Grumps sighed contentedly in his sleep, as if he'd known all along that this was exactly where they were meant to be.

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

A/N: My babies. I love them so much. I have a few blurb ideas hehe. I can't wait. Feel free to send some over if you have anything you'd like to see these two doing

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[velvetdaisies333]

Could you write (can be either one shot or headcanons whatever you want) of JD having a crush on you while you're friends but you just being completely oblivious.

-Thank you and have a nice day!

Word count: 3417

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Bags (Jason Dean x Reader)

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At the end of the day, you'd finally get it.

At least, that's what JD told himself when the sun shone through his curtains every morning.

Today just had to be the day you'd notice something, and you'd finally put the puzzle pieces together. Except instead of it being a puzzle with a thousand pieces, it was more like a puzzle with less than a dozen.

JD was dumbfounded every single day at sundown when he'd realize that another day has passed that you didn't catch on. Along with dumbfounded, it left him frustrated.

How in the world was he supposed to make it even more obvious that he liked you?

He had done everything, yet nothing worked. Nothing just came crystal clear to you.

"Wanna share a smoke?" He'd offered, leaning on his motorcycle, already lighting said cigarette.

It was a standard night for the two of you. JD would take you out after dinner, or sometimes even for dinner, and you'd hang out, talking and laughing about anything and everything.

Tonight, the laughter and jokes brought you right back to the Snappy Snap Shack parking lot. Typical.

"I'll have a puff or two, I guess." You replied, shrugging your shoulders. Upcoming exams were weighing on your mind, so it wouldn't hurt to share a smoke with your best friend.

JD smiled, taking a drag before exhaling the smoke through his nostrils. He handed you the cigarette, watching as your fingers delicately held it before bringing it up to your lips. He smiled when the thought that you two had technically 'kissed' had swam through his mind.

"What's so amusing?"

"Nothing, nothing at all."

You hummed, taking your second drag before handing the smoke back to JD. Taking the cigarette between his fingers, he studied the slight stain of your lipstick that adorned the filter.

"What, you don't think I have cooties do you?"

JD laughed, a genuine laugh that you'd noticed he'd been showing around you more often.

"No, of course not, you just left your lipstick behind."

" 'Of course not' ?" You asked, wondering what he meant by that. He lifted his gaze to you, realizing what he had said, hoping that you got the hint this time.

"Yeah, you know..."

Silence hung in the air between you two, JD's heartbeat quickening with every second that passed. He was more anxious than excited, really. He wanted you to know how he felt despite the fact that if you didn't feel the same for him, he'd at least have an answer.

"Well, we do share drinks and straws sometimes."

Your answer almost made him roll his eyes and groan in front of you but he contained himself to avoid further questioning.

"Yeah, I guess so."

Finishing the smoke off and dropping it to the dry pavement below him, you both stood under the neon lights, comfortable in the silence that embraced the two of you. The night wasn't too cold, but it wasn't exactly warm either. JD's coat had kept him almost a bit too warm for his comfort, but he kept it on, awaiting the opportunity to give it to you if you'd even shivered once.

It was like he had spoken of the devil, as a brush of wind had just walked by you the wrong way, making you lightly curse under your breath.

"Want my jacket?" He offered, already starting to take it off his shoulders.

Lightly shaking your head, you replied, "Nah, I'm okay. I think we should head home, though. It's getting pretty late."

"Can I stay over tonight?"

"You don't even have to ask."

Closing and locking the front door behind you with your key, you kicked your shoes off while shoving them in a somewhat neat position away from the door's proximity. Following your actions, JD did the same.

JD followed you into the kitchen, watching as you poured him the drink he preferred without him having to remind you. He smiled at the miniscule gesture, leaning his elbow on the counter, bending over slightly, and resting his chin on his palm. Pouring your own glass, you set the two on the counter in front of JD while grabbing some snacks from a nearby cabinet.

Hearing your silent request, he grabbed both glasses in his hands and traced your steps into the living room to watch some TV. There was usually a station, targeted to teens who stayed up late, that played some John Hughes' movies or other movies of a similar genre.

Tonight, turning on the television with your remote and scanning the channels, you found the one you were looking for, clicking the 'enter' button. The Breakfast Club was playing, which was one of JD's guilty pleasure movies.

Though, tonight, he wasn't feeling it. He didn't really feel like watching TV, he'd much rather just lay on the couch with you and talk until you both fell asleep. However, this did give JD an opportunity to watch how you react to certain scenes to a movie you've both watched a dozen times together.

With the light from the TV on your face, JD leaned back into the couch to make it seem less obvious that he was staring at you. Yes, he liked you, and he wanted you to know, but he didn't want you to think of him as weird for staring at you instead of the screen.

He was bored, truly. He had gotten tired of the same routine over and over, but he was glad that it was at least with you.

"You know, The Heathers are having a party tomorrow night." You said, leaning back beside JD, and turning your face towards him with a small smile.

"And you wanna go to a Heathers party?"

"Do you have anything better we could do?"

Thinking for a moment, he turned his body to full face you, still leaning on the back of the couch on one side.

"We could always stay in your room, or mine, and just talk."

You sighed, mirroring his actions and turning your body to face him.

"We do that almost everyday, though. Wouldn't be nice to do something different? We've never gone to a Heathers party."

JD stared into your eyes for a couple moments, taking in the colours and then the expression on your face.

Letting some air fall out of his mouth before bringing his gaze down to his hands.

"Alright, which Heather's house is it at?"

The next day, a Saturday, JD woke up before you as usual. Cleaning up any empty chip or popcorn bags you both had eaten the night prior, and washing the glasses used for your drinks.

Folding the blanket he had used to fall asleep, you opened your eyes and then frantically shot up.

"Oh my god, what time is it?"

JD laughed seeing the look on your face.

"Relax, you have a ton of time to get ready."

"You still have to shower?" It was more than a question than a statement.

"I already did, don't worry."

Some food, makeup, hairspray, and a bunch of clothes thrown on your bedroom floor JD kicked back on your bed, reading a book you had laying around.

"What am I honestly supposed to wear?"

JD looked up, seeing you in your bathrobe with your hair and makeup done, and a crease in between your eyebrows.

"Clothes?"

"Very funny. I have so many clothes but not enough outfits. And I can't wear red because that's Heather Chandler's colour; can't wear green because that's Heather Duke's colour; can't wear yellow because that's Heather McNamara's colour; and I can't wear blue because that's Veronica's colour."

"There's always purple."

"Yeah, but I'm not the queen."

JD looked at you with furrowed eyebrows but an almost open smile on his face.

"Wearing a specific colour to a high school party isn't a big deal."

"It is for the Heathers."

Sighing, JD got up, placing the book down on your bed.

"There's nothing wrong with some black and white."

"I'm not trying to look like your identical twin here."

"Then just wear white."

Getting off the back of JD's motorcycle, JD grabbed his pack of beer and led the way to Heather McNamara's front door. After a few steps, he turned back to see you standing in the same spot.

"Nervous?"

Seeing you nod your head, JD walked back towards you, placing his 6-pack on the pavement. He took his coat off placing it over your shoulders, letting you put your arms through the sleeves by yourself.

"I won't leave you by yourself unless you ask me to."

With the reassurance, you smiled at him. He picked up his beer again, extending his hand for you to take. Taking his hand with gratitude, you then held onto his arm as you both walked into the McNamara residence.

The elegant place, adorned with white walls and golden accent decor, reeked of beer, vodka and rum. Though you could still somewhat make out the original scent of vanilla faintly lingering in the air.

Seeing more and more people in your vision the longer you looked, the more you clasped onto JD's arm. The apples of his cheeks warmed up, holding onto your hand tighter before taking you into the kitchen.

There were less people here surprisingly, minus the couple people making out with each other on or against the counters. Opening his box of beer, he dragged the ice box of the bottom of the fridge open, thanking god no one thought to place their drinks in here at all. He placed the cans in the freezer, leaving one for himself on the floor. He hid them by placing whatever bags of frozen vegetables Heather had before closing the drawer with his boot.

"Want anything?" He asked, opening the fridge looking for any left-behinds someone left.

"Is there any vodka?"

"Vodka-cran?" He asked, to which you nodded. He chuckled to himself about your basic drink choice, but knew you were just playing it safe while you're here.

"Well, if it isn't the goth couple." A deep voice said from the entrance of the kitchen. You turned around knowing exactly who it was. Heather Chandler stood with her hands on her hips, her devilish lips painted red to match her scrunchy and red dress. Black tights and red heels clacking against the tiles made their way to you.

She was so effortlessly evil, but glamourous. The thought of her not even having to take her time while getting ready made you roll your eyes in annoyance.

"A white dress is certainly a... an interesting choice for a party with drinks." Heather sneered, tucking one of her blonde curls away from her face to get a better view of your outfit.

"Mind your business, won't you, Chandler?" JD snapped, taking a swig of his beer.

Heather laughed, looking in between the both of you, noticing JD's jacket on you.

"So you've finally made it official, huh? Took you long enough, Dean. Nice to see you actually have a pair of balls on you. Just a shame Ram's not gonna have his turn with her now."

You furrowed your eyebrows what she meant by anything she said, but before you could properly ask, she was gone around the corner. You turned to face JD who had handed you your drink before walking away briskly.

So much for not leaving you by yourself unless you asked.

You hugged JD's jacket around you before making your way through the house, hopeful to find a familiar, friendly face somewhere.

JD, however, made his way to the garden in the back, away from the loud music and his classmates yelling to collect his thoughts. He was upset that it wasn't even him that got to tell you about his feelings, but Heather Chandler, of all people. Afraid of losing you and your friendship with him, he took a chug of his drink, before looking up at the stars. The night was chill, but not much wind. Would you make fun of him, laughing along with Heather Chandler for thinking he even had a chance? He'd never had these fears before, so he was chalking up these thoughts to the alcohol plaguing his mind.

Not even a full beer in, and he was already letting it affect him. Cheap.

Inside, you found Heather McNamara in the bathroom. A glass of white wine in her hand, crying on the ledge of the bathtub. You closed the door behind you, sitting on the toilet cover, and placing your glass on the sink counter.

"Heather? What happened?" Though you two had drifted apart in recent years, you'd never let your first childhood best friend cry by herself at her own party.

"It's just something stupid, really." She cried, taking a sip of wine from her glass. Mascara littered under her eyes, and you got a little bit of toilet paper to fix up anything you could.

"You can always talk to me." You softly smiled, bringing your legs up to sit crisscross.

Heather nodded slightly, putting her glass down between her legs, but shill holding onto it with her hands.

"It's just Ram. Heather told him about you and JD, and he got all upset."

You blinked, confused what she had meant by 'you and JD'. Though, to not change the topic in your favour, you instead asked, "What do you mean he got upset? I thought you two were together."

Not being able to look at you in the eye, she sighed, "That's what I thought, too. I guess going to the fair and dinner dates don't mean anything to guys when they truly like someone else."

The gears in your brain started working for once, realizing that Ram liked you. Not Heather, his assumed girlfriend by everyone else, and your old best friend.

"I can always beat him up for you." You offered jokingly, trying to lighten the mood. To your relief, Heather chuckled, finally looking at you.

"No, that's okay. Thank you, though." She brought her glass up to her lips once again, before a thought came to the front of her mind, "How long have you and JD been together?"

The question made you choke on your own drink, needing a couple coughs before being able to breathe, as well as talk.

"JD? We're not together. Just friends."

Heather raised her eyebrow at you, before mouthing a sarcastic 'okay' into her glass.

"What?" You laughed.

"You really don't see it?"

Shaking your head, Heather sighed, placing her hand in yours.

"Look in the mirror, you're literally wearing his jacket. And if you still don't see it, ask anybody. But better yet, go talk to him."

Standing up, you asked Heather if she'd be okay if you left her alone for a couple minutes, to which she nodded her head, telling you to take your time.

Making your way out of the bathroom and down the stairs, you excused yourself passed your drunken classmates as you looked around for JD. He wasn't in the living room, nor the kitchen. And you knew he wouldn't be caught in a locked bedroom with a faceless girl. That's just not who he was.

The only place left to check was the garden in the backyard. When you were kids, you and Heather would regularly hang out here, looking for different types of bugs, more specifically lady bugs.

Turning the corner around the rose bush, sat on the bench was JD and a couple empty beer cans.

"JD?"

He looked up, almost embarrassed that you'd caught him like this.

"I promise I'm not an alcoholic." He said defensively, putting the half empty beer can down on the bench beside him.

"I know you're not, don't worry, I'm not going to make fun of you."

"Is everything okay?" You asked, sitting down next to him.

"Not really." Not expecting such quick honesty, you placed your glass on the edge of one of the cement bush pots and sat closer to JD, showing that he had your full attention. JD noticed and sighed, looking away from you before mumbling something under his breath.

Choosing to ignore what he mumbled, you pressed him.

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

JD looked back at you, his waterline about to overflow with tears. Noticing this, you brought him into a hug which he reciprocated. You knew expressing his emotions wasn't a big thing JD was taught growing up, so even seeing him on the verge of tears was the biggest step in your friendship thus far. He had always been there for you when you were upset, now it was your turn to do the same for him.

"I didn't even get to tell you." He said holding onto you tighter than before, as if you were about to get up and leave if he said any more.

Bringing your hand up to his hair, gently playing with it, you asked, "Tell me what?"

Taken aback, JD pulled away, looking into your eyes to see if you were playing a game with him.

"Chandler literally said it to your face." He basically spat, her name in his mouth tasting bitter.

Remembering her comments in the kitchen from earlier, you put your hands in your lap.

"Yeah, I honestly don't even know what she meant by that. Like, the telling Ram thing I understand now because I talked to Heather McNamara about it because along with me and everyone else, I thought they were together, but I guess not."

"They're not?" JD asked, surprise evident in his voice. You shook your head before shrugging your shoulders, "I guess not."

"But both Heather Chandler and McNamara both said something about you and me. Like, they think we're more than friends."

JD stayed quiet, avoiding your eyes at all costs, afraid of what might come next. This was not how he expected nor wanted you to finally catch on. Of course the time you would would be at a Heathers party.

"So...you finally caught on, then?"

"Caught onto what?" You asked, confusion flooding your eyes.

"Are you serious?"

"What?" You half-laughed.

"Is it not obvious enough?" He asked.

"I'm lost."

"Can I tell you something?"

You nodded, before JD took your hands in his own making you promise him that if you didn't like what he was about to say, that you wouldn't run off, laugh at him, and even more so, stop being friends with him completely.

"Okay, now you're freaking me out. You're not like a serial killer and I'm your next victim, am I?"

JD smiled, looking down. "No, of course not. I'm just making sure you won't be upset with me after I tell you this."

You urged him to continue, to which he closed his eyes before taking a deep breath in, then out. Crickets in the garden were playing their night song, and laughter and music from inside could be heard. The moon was out, and it illuminated the both of you in a silver glow like you were actors on a stage.

"I really like you, and I have for a very long time. Ever since I came to Westerburg."

You finally got it. Every small thing he'd offer, every favour, it all made sense now. You rolled your eyes at yourself for not realizing sooner. Remembering you promised not to judge him, your eyes widened, realizing he could've taken your eye roll as something targeted to him.

"That wasn't targeted to you." You quickly explained, your heart beating quicker than ever before. But you weren't quite sure if it was because you realized your mistake or if it was because your best friend likes you.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. I just, can't believe it's taken me until now to realize that you like me."

"Is this good or bad?"

"You're asking a lot of questions."

"I'm anxious, okay? Sorry."

Silence surrounded the both of you, before a small brush of wind hit the wind chimes, but also JD, making him shiver slightly. Taking off his jacket, you handed it back to him, draping it over his shoulders.

"And for the record, JD, I like you, too. I just didn't want to misinterpret you being nice to me as a friend as you liking me in case I was wrong."

JD smiled at this, bringing his hands back into yours once more.

"Are you free next Friday?"

"Unless I'm hanging out with you, yes."