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witchywithwhiskey · 3 months ago

Note

say yes + andy barber

(for your fantastic sweethearts game!)

🩷♥️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜

the demon of your dreams

pairing: soft!dark incubus!andy barber x female reader

summary: you catch the attention of an incubus on the day before valentine's day—and it turns out your fates are more intertwined than either of you expected.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), true mates, dubcon/noncon (in this fic an incubus requires consent for certain things but it technically starts off as noncon), somnophilia, teratophilia/monsterfucking, smut, masturbation (m), fingering (f receiving), finger sucking, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, come play, cock warming, choking, breath play, biting/marking, thigh fucking, some overstimulation, dirty talk, praise kink, very brief degradation, pet names (sweet thing/sweet girl), aftercare, referenced marathon sex, happy ending

word count: 5.5k

a/n: thank you, Aspen, for letting me flail at you because i had SO many ideas for this particular character + prompt combination. what i love about Andy is that he can fit into a super fluffy or soft dark or super dark story very easily. (i mean, that's true of a lot of characters, but i feel like i usually lean one way or the other with most characters and with Andy, i'm never quite sure where i want to go.) anyway, this one might require a bit more suspension of disbelief than normal and sorry if the ending is a bit rushed, work was BRUTAL today 🫠 thank you for playing my sweethearts game, i hope you enjoy this filthy little fic!! ♡♡

sweethearts game masterlist

For an incubus like Andy Barber, Valentine’s Day was his favorite day of the year.

There was something particularly decadent about the yearning he sensed among lonely, single women on Valentine’s Day, and he always fed well in the days leading up to the actual holiday. Though the demon had to be careful not to feed too much on any one woman, he never failed to gorge himself on the offerings in the city.

But then he came across you in a coffee shop on the morning before Valentine’s Day, and he hadn’t sensed yearning quite so exquisite as yours in all his many years walking the earth. Watching you from across the shop, he knew you would make an especially delectable meal, his eyes following you closely as he sipped on his Americano.

You hid your emotions well, Andy noticed, keeping them masked beneath a friendly exterior, a welcoming smile on your pretty face while you chatted with the barista making your drink. To all the world, you looked like anyone else with a charming—if tired—disposition, but to the incubus, you were churning with all the emotions that made you a meal.

The demon could sense the sadness lurking beneath your smile from the moment you’d stepped into the establishment, and he could practically taste the desperate longing clinging to your soul like a drop of hot chocolate caught on the corner of your lip.

You wanted, more than anything, to be the object of someone’s lust, to find someone you felt safe enough with that you could be turned into the lustful creature you yearned to be. You wanted someone to lick the chocolate from your lips and sate your desire.

And Andy Barber knew he was the demon for the job.

In generations past, Andy might’ve used his magic to slip into your dreams, seducing you with images of lust until he received the acquiescence he required to join with you and feed on your soul. But, as the incubus’s years had worn on, he’d found he enjoyed a more physical approach.

There was something so much more satisfying about touching a woman with his fingers, feeling the warmth of her body and breathing in the scent of her skin. He enjoyed the feeling of a woman’s soft curves beneath his palms, groping her and learning what made her gasp gently in her sleep.

Then, the demon would use her slumberous, disoriented mind and her aching, needy body against her to get what he needed—that permission that allowed him to sink into her body and feed on her soul.

It was so much more satisfying, and so much more fun, too.

Of course, that didn’t mean Andy didn’t use his magic to get into your apartment. He unlocked your door with a wave of his fingers, closing and locking it behind him before he masked the footfalls of his shoes as he made his way to your bedroom.

There, he paused in the doorway and took a moment to look at you, appreciate you while you slept, completely unaware that there was a demon in your room.

A smile curled Andy’s mouth when he discovered that you were far from an elegant sleeper, your body sprawled across your bed beneath the blankets, one leg hiked up while the other curled around a pillow clutched close to your chest. Your face was buried in another pillow, your indelicate snores muffled by its softness.

And yet…you were cute. Precious even.

Andy felt something fluttery deep in his chest, somewhere in the vicinity of his black heart. Instead of looking too closely at the feeling, he ignored the sensation, chalking it up to the excitement he felt knowing you were going to make for a particularly delicious meal.

The demon slunk into your room, clinging to the shadows as he moved around to the side of the bed where you lay and tried to gauge whether you were a light sleeper. You didn’t stir when he deliberately stepped on a squeaky floorboard, so he decided to ease closer, his fingertips trailing up your body over the blankets piled on top of you.

When he pulled them carefully from your slumbering body, a little whimper slipped from your lips, a shiver wracking your shoulders as the cold licked against your skin. Andy quickly used his magic to warm up your room, making it a much more comfortable temperature for your nearly naked form.

He watched you settle, his eyes roving over the curves of your body. Hungrily, he took in the dip of your waist and the flare of your hips, the way your thin nightshirt had ridden up to tease a glimpse of your perfectly rounded ass. Your thighs were parted, and Andy could just glimpse a hint of your panties, hiding your pretty pussy from sight.

His cock hardened behind his zipper and he nearly groaned at the sinful way your body called to his. Even if the yearning in your soul hadn’t been so enticing, Andy knew he would’ve been drawn to you by the desire you inspired just by existing.

Once he was sure you were comfortable and had fallen back into a deep slumber, Andy finally allowed himself to touch you.

His fingers trailed gently over your arms, skimming along your skin before smoothing down your side to your hips and thighs. There, he resisted the urge to dip between your legs just yet, instead learning the curves of your calves and the delicate contours of your ankles.

All the while, Andy watched your face, monitoring your breathing to make sure you didn’t stir again.

As he observed you, he noticed you relaxing even further, as if his touch soothed you. He felt another flutter in the proximity of his black heart, and, that time, he couldn’t ignore the way it started beating slightly faster.

The organ often felt cold and dull in his chest, especially when he was in need of feeding, but it felt like it was coming to life in a way he’d never experienced before, not even after a satisfying meal. And it was all because of the way your body was instinctively relaxing into his touch.

The demon could almost pretend it was him specifically you were melting for, that even though you hadn’t woken and hadn’t seen his face, he was the only one whose touch could have that effect on your body.

Andy deliberately ignored the fact that, in all likelihood, you would’ve been soothed by a gentle touch from any man who might share your bed, because that thought inspired a concerning level of rage in him. No, he refused to think of anyone else in your bed but him. You were his.

For the night, at least, he reminded himself, pushing his possessive thoughts to the back of his mind to analyze later. He had much more important things to attend to with your warm body, which would soon be willing, splayed out in front of him like the most tempting meal.

Finally, Andy allowed his fingers to slip beneath your nightshirt, tugging off your panties and nearly groaning when your hips raised instinctively to allow him to ease them down your thighs. He pulled them off and slipped them into his pocket, thinking nothing of the fact that he’d never taken a souvenir before.

He was too busy focusing on the feel of your body beneath his fingertips. His hand slipped eagerly between your thighs, and he was surprised to find your soft pussy was already drenched. It felt fated that your body would have such a reaction to him since Andy’s cock was straining painfully against his zipper, aching to sink inside your perfect cunt.

The demon cupped your pussy in his palm, a ferocious possessiveness tearing through his chest as he felt you drip into his hand. You were his. His. His.

His heart beat harder in his chest, the feeling of yearning in his own black soul so all-consuming, he didn’t have the wherewithal to notice it was completely out of character.

After all, an incubus like Andy Barber didn’t get attached to his meals. He didn’t feel possessive or territorial over the women he fed on, like a wolf who might tear into anything that threatened to take his most precious lifeline away.

But the demon could feel himself falling willingly into an obsession with you that wouldn’t be sated from just one night. He just didn’t know it yet.

Acting on instinct more than his typical intention of easing a woman into what he had planned, Andy freed his cock from the confines of his pants, taking himself in his palm while the fingers of his other hand explored your wet, warm pussy.

You were so soft, so hot, and so responsive when Andy sank a finger into your tight hole, a breathy moan slipping from your mouth. The demon felt the newly-familiar beating of his heart in his chest, and he suddenly craved even more of your sounds of pleasure, he wanted them to fill his ears for all eternity.

Andy stroked his cock dispassionately, needing to take some of the edge off his arousal, but he made sure to squeeze the base tightly to ensure he didn’t cum too soon. All the while, he teased your body open with his deft fingers, preparing you to take his thick length.

When he slipped a second finger into your pussy and saw how easily you took him, he had to bite back a groan. His cock was leaking precum all over his fingers, as if it knew there was a warm hole to push inside and was begging Andy to finally put himself out of his misery by sinking into your sweet, pliant body.

The demon had to force himself to make sure you were ready, Andy carefully pushing a third finger into your pussy, and letting out a restrained growl at the sight of you taking three of his fingers.

His mouth filled with drool as he watched you take him, the sudden desire to feast on your pussy nearly overwhelming him. He wanted to make you cum on his tongue and mouth for being such a good girl and taking everything he gave you.

But he told himself that could come later—after he got the answer he needed to give you everything you deserved.

To tide himself over, Andy eased his fingers from your pussy and licked your juices from where they dripped down his hand, savoring the sweet taste of your arousal. You tasted so fucking good, better than anything Andy had ever tasted in his long, long life.

His groan was so loud in the quiet room that he nearly missed the little whimper of need you let out, your hips shifting like your body was seeking the intrusion that had been filling your tight hole. The sound reached Andy’s ears and his cock jumped in his hand, the amount of blood rushing to his dick nearly making him light-headed.

Finally—finally—Andy joined you in your bed, gently shifting your body into the center of the mattress so he could fit behind you. Your nightshirt was rucked up around our waist, and his cock slipped between your thighs like it was sliding home. The stiff length rubbed against your dripping slit while he pressed flush to your back, his arms gently curling around your body and pulling you into his chest.

A soft, sleepy moan spilled from your mouth and Andy wanted so badly to kiss the sound from your lips, to drink it down and feel it fill his lungs.

Soon, he told himself. Soon he could kiss the moans from your lips and devour your mouth and ravage every inch of your body until you were well and truly his. But first he needed to get your acquiescence, and he needed to be careful with you until he got it.

You’d already been laying mostly on your belly, and Andy shifted, covering your body with his own, rocking his hips gently to fuck your soft thighs. His cock dragged against your leaking slit with every smooth thrust, coating himself in your desire and making his heart beat furiously in his chest with the need to push inside your cunt, to claim you, to feed on you until he was more sated than he’d ever felt in his life.

Andy could sense the yearning in your soul deepening as your desire ratcheted up, even while you slept. Your swirling emotions thickened in the air around the bed until the demon felt nearly drunk on you.

Your yearning, your soul—you yourself—were headier than anything Andy had ever experienced and it took all his self-control not to lose himself and rut you like the beast he was.

First, he needed your permission. An incubus could only fuck and feed on a willing woman, and Andy needed you to be willing more than he’d needed anything else in his entire life.

“Give yourself to me, sweet thing,” Andy murmured in your ear, the words coming easily after so many eons as an incubus—though the pet name was new. “Let me sink inside your divine cunt and let me drink on the longing in your heart. Let me feed on the lust in your soul and I’ll reward you with pleasure beyond your imagination.”

The demon could feel you stir beneath him, and his heart thudded painfully in his chest with a desperation he couldn’t remember ever feeling before. But it only pushed him to rock his hips faster, to grip your hip possessively while he fucked between your thighs, dragging the fat length of his cock against every inch of your dripping pussy.

Because of the rules of his kind, Andy needed your permission before he could push inside your body, but he could use every trick at his disposal to tempt you into giving him your acquiescence. An incubus wasn’t above using magic or trickery and though Andy preferred to seduce you with just his touch and his words, he would resort to magic if he needed to.

But something told him he wouldn’t need to with you. Something told Andy that you were his, and he just needed to ask you sweet enough and you’d grant him the privilege of owning your body and soul for the rest of your natural life.

“Please, my sweet girl,” he rumbled in your ear, letting you hear how badly he wanted you, needed you. “Say yes.”

Thankfully for the demon, you hadn’t roused enough for your mind to wonder why there was a strange man in your bed begging to fuck you. It was clear from your soft, sleepy whimpers that you were still asleep enough to think it was simply a very real-feeling dream.

Your hand reached back clumsily, your fingers curling around the back of Andy’s neck, using your hold to arch your spine and push your ass deeper into the demon’s lap. A keening sound spilled from your lips, your pussy gushing around the thick cock wedged between your thighs, and you finally gave your answer on a drowsy moan.

“Yes.”

The word falling from your lips tipped you over the line from sleeping to waking, and you finally realized that what you were feeling wasn’t a dream. It was really happening. There was a man in your bed and, for some reason, you’d given him permission to be there.

Andy could feel the change in your body, the way your body tensed in fear and confusion. It was natural, of course, and the demon had expected it. But what surprised him were the intricacies of your reaction—the way you still instinctively pulled him closer, your nails digging into the back of his neck, your legs squeezing together and trapping his cock against your pussy with your plush thighs.

You wanted him, Andy was sure of it, even if your mind was struggling to come to the same conclusion your body had already reached. Oddly, Andy found himself wanting to soothe you, his hand skimming down your side like he was attempting to calm a wild animal.

“Shh, sweet thing, it’s alright, you’re alright,” Andy purred, feeling your muscles slowly relax beneath his hands.

Every caress of his palm and sweet stroke of his fingers had you softening further, your body surrendering to his soothing touch. Soon, you were even letting your thighs fall open again and Andy rewarded you with a pleased rumbling sound and a kiss brushed to your cheek.

He shifted his hips back, moving until the tip of his cock was pressed against your tight little hole. That made the muscles of your thighs go taut again, but the demon also heard the way your breath hitched in your throat, like you’d sucked in a gasp of anticipation, not fear.

Andy gently kneaded your hip, his mouth grazing against the shell of your ear and tickling your skin with his beard. “Let me in, my sweet girl,” he cooed, prodding at your dripping cunt with his leaking tip. “I’ll make you feel so good, pretty thing.”

The soft, whispered pleas and praise from Andy’s lips had you relaxing again, your thighs spreading and your hips lifting in wordless offering. It was too perfect—you were too perfect. The demon couldn’t wait any longer.

Andy pushed inside your wet heat, letting out a grunt of pleasure when he felt your tightness wrapping around his stiff length. You felt so good, your pussy clinging to his cock and sucking him deeper into the warm depths of your body. He slid home until he was buried to the hilt.

As soon as he was inside you, the world tipped violently on its axis, spinning around the demon in a vicious dizzying swirl that he knew was all in his head.

It lasted only a second and by the time your bedroom came back into focus, Andy instinctively recognized that his entire universe had realigned, with you—your delicate human body and your fragile beating heart and your precious glowing soul—at the center of it.

“You’re mine—mine,” Andy growled, his voice preternaturally deep and dark, his arms closing so tightly around your body that he heard the breathe exhale from your lungs and felt your heart beating against your ribcage.

A startled squeak fell from your lips and Andy suddenly realized he was holding you much too tightly, and that he was no doubt scaring you. His grip loosened, his hands moving to comfort you, kneading your soft flesh and groping your curves until you let out a soft, happy sigh.

“I’ll take such good care of you, sweet thing,” the demon vowed in a husky voice filled with warmth. He nuzzled his face into your cheek, pressing sweet kisses to your jaw and neck, listening to your breathy little giggles at the rasp of his beard. “I only want to make you feel good, I won’t ever hurt you.”

“You…” Your voice was raspy with sleep, giving out on you before you could say what you wanted to say. Andy waited patiently while you swallowed and tried again. “You promise?”

Andy could feel your pulse fluttering wildly beneath his lips and he smiled into your skin. You were human, so you hadn’t felt what Andy had when your bodies had joined, the fusing of your spirits, and if you needed reassurance with words that he would cherish you and protect you for the rest of your days, then he would happily give it to you.

“Of course, my sweet girl, I swear it.”

The last of the tension that had been lingering in your muscles finally drained out of you, and Andy’s cock pushed another inch deeper, the tip brushing against a spot inside you that had your walls clenching down hard on his length.

The demon groaned in pleasure, pulling his hips back and sliding into you again, muffling a groan into the crook of your neck when you squeezed him so exquisitely.

“You feel so good, sweet girl, so perfect,” he murmured into your skin, fucking you in short, rocking thrusts that had you gasping and whimpering softly. “You’re taking me so fucking well, such a good fucking girl.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Andy caught the pleased smile that curled the edges of your mouth at his praise. But then you were turning your face into your pillow and muffling your moans into its softness.

Andy didn’t like that one bit. He wanted to hear all of your sounds of pleasure—they were his, just like the rest of you—so he wrapped his hand around the front of your throat. Gently enough so he he didn’t hurt you, he lifted your head from the pillow, rumbling a pleased sound in his chest when he could hear every whimper and moan that fell from your lips.

“Good girl, let me hear you—let me hear how good I’m making you feel,” Andy urged, rocking his hips harder into you, his cock spearing deep into your tight cunt with every thrust.

The tips of his fingers dug a little deeper into the sides of your neck and you moaned even louder, your cunt clutching at the demon’s cock like a vise while the rest of your body melted further into his hold. It was like you’d been waiting for him to come along and take control of you, of your very breathing, and it sent Andy reeling once again.

You were perfect. Perfect. So perfect that even that word didn’t feel like enough. It felt like you’d been made for Andy, and he’d been made for you. A perfect match. A true mate.

“Oh god, wh-who are you?” you asked, your breathy, pleasure-soaked voice pulling Andy back into the moment.

The demon nearly chuckled at the question. It was a little late for you to be asking such a thing when his cock was buried to the hilt in your cunt and every thrust of his hips pushed you closer and closer to the edge of your release. But he didn’t want you to take offense, so he wracked his lust-drunk brain for an answer, finally settling on something close enough to the truth.

“I’m the demon of your dreams, sweet thing,” he rumbled in your ear, picking up the pace of his thrusts. “The one you conjured with the desperate longing in your soul—the yearning to be fucked, to be taken, to be owned, thoroughly and fully.”

“I didn’t, I didn’t conjure anything—I swear,” you babbled, but Andy’s fingers tightened around the sides of your throat, cutting off your protests. The way he choked you only made your cunt gush and flutter between your thighs, and Andy reveled in the feeling of your slick channel gripping his hard cock.

“You don’t have to pretend with me, sweetheart, I know exactly what your soul yearns for, and I’m more than happy to oblige,” Andy purred, raking his teeth down your cheek before nipping at your jaw.

He was holding onto your neck too tightly for you to make a sound, but he felt your throat work against his palm and your pussy spasm around his cock at his filthy words. He choked you a little harder and sank his teeth into your shoulder through your nightshirt, going crosseyed and nearly cumming when you clenched down hard around him.

“What your soul yearns for is a good hard fucking,” Andy rasped when he pulled his teeth away from your shoulder, moving back to murmur in your ear. “Now, take it like a good slut and I’ll let you thank me later.”

Andy picked up the pace of his hips, pounding harder into you. The demon fucked you into the mattress while he choked the breath from your lungs, giving you only enough air to remain conscious while he savaged your soft, warm cunt with his brutal cock.

It wasn’t long before he felt you reaching the edge of your release, and he dug his other hand beneath your body, pinning you to the bed with his hips while he fucked you ferociously and rubbed your clit. You were helpless when the demon demanded you give him your pleasure.

“Cum for me, my sweet thing, cum for your demon,” Andy urged.

You shattered apart on a silent scream, your mouth wide open and eyes rolling back into your head while your pleasure consumed you. Your body shook beneath Andy’s larger form, your tight pussy strangling his cock and dragging him over the edge right after you.

Andy buried his face in the curve of your neck, groaning his release loudly into your skin while his hips stuttered and finally pressed flush to your ass. He buried his cock in your pussy and spilled his cum into the depths of your womb, flooding your body with his seed while he fed on your soul.

Out of habit, he was careful not to take too much, but he could sense that there was no such thing when it came to you. That realization made him groan all over again, another spurt of cum spilling into your cunt while he gorged himself on you until he was sated, your pussy still fluttering with the aftershocks of your release.

For a long moment, the two of you caught your breath together, Andy’s hand having loosened around your neck, though he still held you with your back pinned against his chest. He almost tightened his hold again when he felt your head moving, but you only turned your head to nuzzle your face into his beard and he rumbled a pleased sound in his chest, a smile curving his mouth.

With a gentleness he’d never known himself to possess, Andy eased his softening cock from your pussy, enjoying the way your combined releases spilled across your thighs.

He paused, scooping up his cum with his fingers and pushing it back into your hole, making you shudder and whine at the overstimulation. The demon shushed you softly, pressing kisses to your cheek and the edge of your jaw until he was done.

Then, he rolled onto his back and tugged you with him, tucking you under his arm and propping his head up with the other hand. You still wore your nightshirt, and he was still clad in most of his clothes, his pants only opened enough for his cock, but he wanted to hold you a little bit longer before he forced himself to move from the bed.

You lifted your head and looked at the demon, the two of you hanging in a suspended silence while you regarded each other.

For the first time since he’d slunk into your bedroom, Andy got a good look at your face, and his heart thumped heavily in his chest at the beauty of you. The slope of your nose, the curve of your mouth, and the intelligence in your eyes—it was all gorgeous to the demon.

As he stared at you, you looked at him in return, your eyes darting over his face while you took in his features—his crystal blue eyes and straight nose and the dark beard framing his soft mouth. Your expression was unreadable, but then a small smile curved the edges of your soft mouth, and your eyes warmed. You didn’t seem to hate what you saw, at least.

“I’ll answer all your questions,” Andy promised, his gaze falling to your lips, the desire to kiss you gripping him and refusing to let go. “But first…” He trailed off, dragging you up his body while his hand cradled your head, moving you so he could slant his mouth to yours.

The incubus kissed you gently at first, with just a brush of his lips, as if he was asking for your permission all over again. When you sighed happily and melted into him, your fingers curling in the short hair at the nape of his neck, he knew you were giving yourself to him willingly, gladly, wholly.

Andy kissed you harder then, tracing his tongue along the seam of your lips and seeking entrance that you eagerly gave him. He slid into your mouth, groaning at your sweet taste, and explored you thoroughly while you clung to him and kissed him back.

When your hips began to rock greedily against Andy’s thigh, your slick pussy leaving a wet spot on his pants, he finally pulled away and gave you a wolfish grin.

“Does my sweet girl need her demon’s cock again?” he teased playfully before nipping at your lip and drinking down your moan while he soothed it with his tongue.

“Yes, please,” you murmured sweetly, making Andy chuckle.

But the demon wasn’t about to let your plea go unanswered. He rolled you onto your back and took the opportunity to kick his pants off his legs before sliding home with one thrust. The slick of your combined releases made it easy and you both groaned as he filled you up.

“Good,” he growled, clutching you tight beneath his body and encouraging your arms and legs to wrap around his broad, muscular form. “Because I need to be buried in your cunt for the rest of my fucking life.” His voice was a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine and made you clutch him tighter, meeting every thrust with your hips while he fucked you into the mattress.

It wasn’t until the sky began to lighten from a midnight blue to a softer shade of sapphire, the sun dawning on the morning of Valentine’s Day, that the two of you were finally sated enough for you to ask all the questions that had been rattling around in your head since you woke up to the demon in your bed.

Andy answered you with the truth—every bit of it—not even questioning that he didn’t have it in him to lie to you. He told you about what he was and how he’d been drawn to you from the moment he’d sensed you.

You were skeptical at first, of course, but when he flashed you a look at his true eyes—dark pools of inky blackness like the pits of hell—and showed you a glimpse of his tail, he could tell that you started to believe him. It surprised him how much he wanted you to believe him, so it was a relief when you finally did.

Then, Andy told you about the stories of an incubus’s true mate. He hadn’t believed them until he’d met you, he explained, but a true mate was the one person in all the world that an incubus could feed on and never harm. They were literally made to be together.

Gently, as if worrying that it would be the part you couldn’t accept, he told you that he believed you were his—his true mate, the one person meant for him.

It took you a long moment to process that information, but once you did, you laughed wildly, happily, and pulled him in for a kiss. You were smiling too much to deepen it, so you settled for brushing butterfly kisses all over Andy’s face, making him smile, then grin, then laugh along with you.

“Y’know, I would find out my soulmate is a demon on Valentine’s Day,” you said, giggling and falling back down against Andy’s chest. You curled into his side, pressing your face into his sternum and brushing another kiss over where his heart was beating in his chest.

Your comment reminded Andy of what day it was and he squeezed you in his arms. “Be my valentine?” he asked playfully, pressing a smile into the crown of your head. But he couldn’t wait for your answer, urging you, “Say yes, sweet girl, say yes.”

“Yes, of course, my sweet demon,” you purred, throwing a leg over Andy’s body and sliding on top of him.

Andy’s cock, which he’d thought for sure needed at least a few more hours of rest after the long night of fucking, valiantly stirred to life between your thighs. You reached between your bodies, slipping his half-hard length into your warm pussy and settling down on his chest, breathing a soft sigh of contentment.

The two of you fell asleep like that, your soft, perfect body keeping Andy’s cock warm while you held each other close. As he drifted off, the demon felt a sense of peace and satisfaction that he’d never even dreamed he could achieve in his long, long life of walking the earth.

From that day on, Andy’s life was never the same. It was happier and more fulfilling and he never wanted for anything, not while you were in his life—and in his arms and in his bed. Together, you celebrated holidays and birthdays and life achievements as you grew together, but one day was still the most special.

For an incubus like Andy Barber, Valentine’s Day was his favorite day of the year. Not because of all the lonely, single women in the world, but because it was the day he’d found his true mate, the love of his life—it was the day he’d found you.

sweethearts game masterlist

#andy barber #andy barber fanfiction #andy barber smut #andy barber x reader #andy barber x you #andy barber imagine #andy barber au #incubus andy barber #andy barber one shot #chris evans #chris evans characters #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans smut #witchywithwhiskeywork #witchywithwhiskey's sweethearts #buckets-and-trees

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cryinggirlnamedhelen · 3 months ago

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feeling a bit generous today, so for anyone who needs these, here are some tips for writing blue lock specifically (also some bonus facts at the end)

- right off the bat, don’t let popularity and likes on your posts be the only thing on your mind. when you write, make sure you’re also enjoying what you’re writing. doing this stuff only for fame and fans is a bit sad, but not only that, the quality of your work will decrease due to less passion.

- if you want it to get popular and fast, writing for rin, kaiser, or nagi is your best bet. they’re easily the most popular when it comes to this part of the fanbase, and people will eat up ANYTHING sweet when it comes to these nonchalant men.

- listening to music while you write can be helpful. i know it’s not for everyone, but listening to a playlist that matches the vibe of what im writing helps me lock in really well. here is a playlist for writing something fluffy and lovey. here is a playlist for writing something angst and made from pure sadness. here is a playlist for something obsessive and intense. here is a playlist for something that really makes you think about your life choices. (yes, i made all of these playlists, and these are the ones that i listen to)

- using the egoist bible to confirm information is immensely helpful. not only is anyone else who reads the egoist bible see those small Easter eggs, but adding those small hints about their character can also be cute and makes for better writing.

- use colored dividers. i get mine from this post (thank you to firefly graphics!!!) and this post (thank you to aquazero!!!) and make sure you use the colors in order with the characters. for example, i use teal for rin, dark blue for kaiser, and yellow for bachira.

- using song lyrics or song names as titles or inspiration is easy for ideas and for attention. many times, i will listen to a song and realize how much it matches with the blue lock boys or realize that it’ll make an incredible prompt for a drabble. for example, in no. 1 party anthem, there is the iconic “the look of love” part. for that, i made a post with the same title as the lyric and made it about how their eyes are when they are in love.

- putting 2-4 characters in a prompt drabble is the ideal amount. it gets you more popularity quicker due to more characters and more tags, but also, anyone who only started reading the prompt for a certain character can also enjoy reading about the rest of the characters.

- use as many tags as you can. if you look at the tags on my post, i use a monstrous amount.

- quality >>>>>>> quantity ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS. even a 100 word drabble can be more beautiful or impactful than a 1000 word fic if it’s worded better, has a better concept, has better character writing, and has better interactions.

- there are many tropes that work well with certain characters. for example, i always write kaiser with the childhood best friends trope, because not only does it match his character, but it also makes the best quality content. another example is karasu with academic rivals for obvious reasons, although im pretty sure we all already know that.

bonus facts!!!:

- i tend to have a hard time writing sae. he’s a difficult character to understand, which makes him all the more appealing to me but also just as annoying to write. because we have no idea what happened to him when he was in spain, he’s hard to write without being ooc or weird. before kaiser’s backstory, i also had a hard time writing for kaiser. (im an infp 4w5, if that helps)

- the only blue lock boys i can confidently say are green flags are barou, kunigami (pre-wildcard), yukimiya, and karasu. many of the others (isagi, reo, bachira, etc) are extremely close to being green flags but all have questionably toxic things that make them yellow flags.

- i wanna write for shidou so bad, but because the fandom mischaracterizes his so much, it’s hard to write for him validly without getting criticized. for example, shidou is NOT going to beat you up for no reason or be disturbing towards you for no reason. if you don’t play soccer or if you’re not particularly special, then he’s honestly just really chill. think of him like hisoka from hxh but less of a pdf file.

#blue lock #blue lock x reader #bllk #bllk x reader #blue lock x y/n #bllk x y/n #blue lock x yn #bllk x yn #michael kaiser #itoshi rin #nagi seishiro #itoshi sae #itoshi rin x reader #nagi seishiro x reader #itoshi sae x reader #sae x reader #nagi x reader

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livelaughloveluffy · 3 months ago

Text

love letter - black leg sanji

a/n: i'm starting to tackle all the requests in my inbox, so hopefully i can start posting those soon!! they definitely have not been forgotten, so do not fret if i have yet to respond to something you had sent me!!

a/n: this is a concept that has been plaguing my mind for a while now and i can't take it anymore. i was picturing a sort of long distance situation, but like honestly i just wanted to write a sickly sweet love letter. so that's what this is.

nothing but fluff here 💗

---------------------------------------------------------------------

to my dearest,

i hope this letter finds you well.

it has been far too long since i have been able to see your face. despite the many wonders i have seen on the open ocean, none of them hold a candle to your sweet soft smile.

there's not a day that goes by without you crossing my mind. in fact, you consume my every waking thought. the memory of you has been imbedded in my heart, forever and always. you have no idea how much i long for the days when you were just an arm lengths away. looking back now, i can't help but feel as if i took it for granted, letting those days passing me by, instead of soaking them up and enjoying them.

despite the vast distance and many different oceans between us, my love for you is one that has never wavered. it's only in my deepest dreams that i find you by my side yet again, but i'm still holding out hope that they will come true.

you will always have a home in me.

with much love,

forever and always,

sanji

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tags ♡: @vamphoria @chibinasuu @twiishaa @3v37773 @irethepotato @peachycat17 @dreamcastgirl99 @sanji-soup @suga-tofu @kcch-ns @hamhamhamtaro @raddelusionaldive @sparkyvibes @certain-tragedies @roronoazoroswife @teewon @all-by-myself98 @moonpri

want to join the taglist? click here!! (it's just been updated with more characters to choose from, if you've already filled it out before, feel free to submit it again if your heart desires!!)

enjoyed this fic? here's my masterlist!!

#one piece #one piece fic #one piece fanfic #one piece fanfiction #one piece fluff #one piece x reader #one piece black leg sanji #op black leg sanji #black leg sanji #one piece sanji #op sanji #sanji x reader #sanji x you #sanji fluff #one piece vinsmoke sanji #vinsmoke sanji #vinsmoke sanji x reader #fluff fic #via's fics

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ultravioletrayz · 1 year ago

Note

So my idea for degradation fic involving Miguel would be something like this- (also please keep an open mind this idea is kinda out there)

So lets say Miguel is your mentor and you are so eager to please and do good work. You have always been kinda good at everything so people complementing you and telling you how great you are is nothing new. But Miguel is different, he's hard to please. So when you do something right he's not complementing you and that is odd for you, and when you mess something up well...he's quick to criticize you. this stirs something within you.

So you keep trying to please him and he's not into it he just keeps bringing you down and reader is starting to like it, sometimes wanting messing up. So lets say reader makes a big mistake on a mission and Miguel is ready to yell and degradant them but reader is getting turned on by it and Miguel noted it so he starts to degradant them more and it starts getting into NSFW territory. while he's getting into it he's just saying filth to you. "your so such a needy slut" "look at you getting turned on while I bully you, pathetic" "you want to be a good girl? you want me to praise you? too bad...now open..." *spits in readers mouth*

then if you can end it off where reader in passed out and thats when he's sweet in the aftercare when she dosn't know. he will open up to her one day just not yet.

Not even gonna lie, if Miguel was a meanie towards me i wouldn’t know whether to cry or cum.

Pairing: miguel o’hara x f!spiderperson!reader

Warnings: 18+, degrading kink, rough sex, fingering, orgasm denial/mild edging, getting bent over miguel’s desk, marking, clit slapping (like, once), pull-out method, absolutely terrible and rushed ending, miguel being mean, horny, and ultimately just socially-awkward

Summary: you strive for perfection in all areas… until the opportunity arises where doing the opposite will give you access to the perfection inside your mean boss’s boxers.

A/N: before anyone tries to come for me for making miguel seem like an asshole in this fic, ik that this isn’t entirely true to miguel’s character. however, i’m horny and dgaf. enjoy!!

Word Count: 3K (unedited)

For as long as you could remember, people would refer to you as ‘gifted’. It was as though everything you attempted to achieve was accomplished with ease. In your world, on the days when the Society was a distant memory and you were given the opportunity to act as a true Friendly Neighbourhood Spider-Person, you practically lived in a bubble of praise. Surprisingly, the media worshipped you, recognising you as the hero you are. Locals chanted your name, asked for autographs, and even demanded you accept gifts and tokens of appreciation every time you were spotted in your costume on the streets.

Although you forced yourself to stay humble within the public eye, you would be lying if you tried to convince yourself that the compliments and special treatment didn’t make you feel good, didn’t push you to be a better superhero for the sake of the citizens who practically worship the ground you walk on.

Which is the primary reason why having to tend to work and assignments at the Spider Society caused you so much misery. When you were first recruited, a few other Spider-People had mentioned how short-tempered and cold the boss is, but you had expected to win him over with your natural, over-achieving flare. That goal was quickly crushed when you met Miguel O’Hara for the first time. He had immediately lectured you on certain habits he had observed from footage of you fighting crime at home, giving you strict instructions on how to be better at your job. From then on, you’ve tried your best to view his constant criticism as a positive and value his (poor) attempts at mentoring you.

It didn’t take long for you to realise that he wasn’t really trying to help you, and he was just a grumpy asshole as everyone had warned and wanted you to follow orders rather than going out and trying to prove yourself constantly. Lately, you’ve been slipping up, making mistakes. You had come to terms with the fact that Miguel wasn’t interested in showing you any appreciation or praise for your hard work, and it had begun to affect your performance on missions, bringing you to this point.

“What the hell was that?” Miguel snarls at you, his platform lowering as he slams his fist on his desk and glares at you, his sharp red eyes burning holes in your pretty, sad little face. You had almost let an anomaly get away, blinded by your insecurities and Miguel’s lack of interest in your skills, you would have destroyed an entire universe if it weren’t for the backup Miguel had sent you.

“Miguel, let me explain-” You start, being cut off by an angry huff from Miguel.

“I’m sick of the excuses. I don’t care about how you handle shit in your own dimension. When you come here and are trusted to keep the multiverse stable, I expect you to do as you’re told. Unless the small task of containing the minor anomalies I assign you is too much to handle?” Miguel scoffs, shaking his head as he looks you up and down.

The look of disappointment on his tan, chiselled face would usually have you on the verge of tears, but as you’ve grown accustomed to his harsh beratement, it’s begun to have a very different effect on you. You can just imagine him, brushed back curls dishevelled and clinging messily to his face as he pounds into your needy pussy, whispering absolute filth into your ear as he uses you to get off. The thought has you practically soaking through your Spider-Suit, causing you to instinctively squeeze your thighs together as you force yourself to keep your gaze from dropping to Miguel’s broad, muscular physique. As his glare intensifies and he rolls his eyes at your subtle movements, you know he’s got you figured out.

Miguel’s heightened senses pick up on your current state of arousal, the scent of your slick making him dizzy as it clouds his mind. He had always beaten himself up about how harsh he could be towards you, reflecting on his cruelty to such a pretty girl with shame and regret. But finding out that you liked being treated so poorly by him, it has him going fucking crazy.

“Por el amor de Dios,” (for fuck’s sake) Miguel hisses, taking a step towards you, looming over your smaller form with a judgemental scowl plastered on his face. “You’re pathetic. Risking everything we work for here, just so that you can imagine me yelling at you while you finger-fuck yourself at night?”

Your eyes widen, his words reigning true as they hang in the air of the room. Yet, you make a miserable attempt at denying the accusation by shaking your head softly and taking a step back. Miguel only moves closer to you, intimidating you with his mere presence as his scowl curls into a cruel smirk.

“No me mientas, hermosa,” (don’t lie to me, beautiful) He whispers, one of his large, calloused hands grabbing your face and pulling you back towards him, fingers squeezing your cheeks as his breath hits your skin, sending shivers up and down your spine. “You’re usually so eager to please me. Did you think I was stupid enough not to notice when you started messing things up?”

“Miguel-” You whine, voice muffled due to the way he squishes your cheeks together, making your pretty lips jut out in a sad little pout.

“It always annoyed me how bubbly and determined you are,” He admits bluntly, sharp red eyes scanning your face, before trailing down to watch the way your thighs rub together in a pitiful attempt to alleviate the arousal coursing through you due to his relentless disparagement. “But I didn’t think you’d resort to acting like a dirty whore just because I’m not impressed by the ‘Friendly Neighbourhood’ act.”

His free hand trails down your body, fingers gliding between the valley of your breasts, down your stomach, and stopping just above the crotch of your Spider-Suit. He chuckles lowly as he watches the way you squirm in his grasp, hips attempting to roll against his hand for any kind of friction.

If we had to be completely honest, he actually enjoyed watching you work. You really are gifted, always applying yourself to missions. When he heard you would be handling an anomaly for him, he would feel relieved, even proud. But he knew that any compliments he gave you would just be lost in the sea of praise you already received. So, in order to set himself apart, he decided he was going to be a complete dickhead to you. He figured bullying you would motivate you to seek him out in a crowd, make you strive to impress him and show off to him, and ultimately bring the two of you closer. It was shameful, how awful he is at making first impressions, that he’d rather hurt a beautiful young girl’s feelings as opposed to being a reliable boss and potential friend. But now knowing that he hadn’t completely ruined his chances at getting closer to you, he was certainly going to take full advantage of this new development.

“Now look at you, you don’t wanna be a good girl for me anymore, nena?” Miguel teases, grinning as he sees the need and innocence in your eyes as he releases your face with a harsh push. “You wanna be a dumb little slut for your fucking boss, instead?”

You want to say no, want to deny his harsh words and hopefully gain back some of the dignity he was stripping away from you, but your body yearns for Miguel’s touch, his degradation fueling your most carnal desires, and you nod your head frantically. Miguel sighs at your eagerness, tapping your cheek firmly as he wraps a hand around your throat, not applying any pressure but allowing his thumb to lazily stroke the side of your neck.

He leans in to bite your bottom lip hard, causing you to cry out in pain and open your mouth. He takes the opportunity and slams his plump lips against yours, tongue intertwining around yours inside your warm mouth as he groans into the sloppy, demanding kiss. His hand drops from your throat as his bulging arms tuck themselves underneath the fat of your ass and he lifts you up, carrying you over to his platform and dumping you on top of his desk, lips never leaving yours. Miguel’s razor-sharp claws protrude from his fingertips, slicing through the material of your Spider-Suit and prompting a startled yelp from you as he rips your clothes right off your body.

The matching set you have on underneath has his dick thrumming in his suit, and he almost loses sight of his initial plan in a desperate temptation to worship your gorgeous body and shower you with the praise that he knows you deserve. But he wants to be different, wants to hold a special place in your heart, and this was the only way to do it.

“You wore these for me, didn’t you?” He hisses flippantly against your lips, throwing the rags of your once cute little Spider-Suit across his office, before tearing your bra open from the middle with just the strength of his grip, claws retracting back into the pads of his fingers. “Puta de mierda.” (fucking whore)

Miguel flips your body over on his desk with ease, your face now pressed against the cold, hard material as Miguel leaves a trail of deep bite marks and hickeys across the exposed skin of your back, making his way down to your clothed pussy at an agonising pace, your ass wiggling enticingly to try and convince Miguel to give you what you want, what you need from him. Miguel peels your soaked panties off of you, tossing them onto his desk chair for later, as his fingers run up and down your already dripping folds, causing him to chuckle to himself.

“I never would’ve pegged you for a girl who gets off on this kind of thing,” Miguel whispers as his fingers explore your wetness, his tone much softer as his sharp, red eyes admire the way your body looks bent over his desk. He snaps himself out of his trance, opting to tap on your clit harshly with his fingers to bring himself back to a place of lust and callousness, and to tease you further.

Miguel dips his two fingers into your cunt, making you moan and cry out, your hands gripping the edge of Miguel’s desk as you push your hips back to fuck yourself on his thick fingers. He pumps his digits in and out of you at a leisurely pace, curling them to hit that sweet, gummy spot inside of you each time they delve deeper into your pussy. Miguel groans at the way you clench around his fingers as he thrusts them into you, his knuckles drenched in your arousal as he watches the way you grind against his hand when his thumb rubs your pulsing clit to stimulate you further.

You’re completely falling apart at his touch, the way his fingers deliciously stretch your hole making you see stars as you approach your climax. Just as you’re about to cum, Miguel pulls his fingers out of your cunt and gives your clit a harsh slap, making you whine as your entrance twitches at the sudden loss.

“Sluts don’t get to cum ‘til I say so, muñeca.” Miguel taunts, disabling his nano-tech suit, the holographic material dissolving and revealing his tall, tan, muscular, the mere feeling of him towering over you from behind making you moan against his desk. He holds his fat, stiff cock in one hand, dragging it between your folds and gathering the slick trickling down your thighs as he scoffs at the way you tremble and spasm at his touch. “Especially sluts like you.”

Miguel plunges his dick into your pussy aggressively, bottoming out in one harsh slam of his hips against your ass and causing you to scream, his hand coming down to cover your mouth and muffle your echoing moans as he delivers fast, disciplining thrusts into the depths of your core, tip kissing your cervix with each frenzied movement. His cock rams into you mercilessly as he digs one hand into the plush of your waist while the other holds your head up, the two fingers he was using to play with your pussy forcefully entering your mouth. On instinct, you wrap your lips around them and suck the remnants of your essence off of his skin, moaning and choking on his thick digits as Miguel’s length stretches you to the brink of what is possible for your tight little pussy to handle and his balls slap against your puffy clit.

“Pussy was fucking made for me,” He grunts, delivering a smack to your juicy ass, the sting making you whine against his fingers, saliva dribbling down your chin and saturating the desk below your face. “Squeezing me so tight. It’s a shame that this pretty cunt can’t make up for how shit you are at your job. Maybe I won’t bother assigning you missions anymore? I’ll just call you in when I need a hole to fuck.”

Wow. He really did think of you as useless. You had always considered yourself to be good at what you do. At home, you were a hero. Here, bent over your boss’s desk and being fucked so mercilessly, you felt like nothing but a whore. You cry, tears rolling down your cheeks as you moan and squeal with each thrust of Miguel’s thick cock into your hungry pussy. Despite your underlying feelings of shame for your recent failures as an employee, being fucked like a slut by the very man you’ve been fantasising about since the first time you had the displeasure of meeting was able to snap you out of your sadness and overwhelm you with passion.

Hearing you sob around his fingers fills Miguel with a sharp pang of guilt, but he brushes it off and pounds into you harder to remind himself of his end goal, breaking you down until he can make you his. If you really were as into his cruelty as you seemed, he was going to give you exactly what you so desperately needed.

“Mig-Miguel, I’m- fuck! I’m so close.” You whine, his fingers in your mouth making your voice come out as a spluttering cry.

Miguel pulls his soaked fingers out of your mouth and holds your waist with both hands, fucking his cock impossibly deeper inside of you as the sound of skin slapping against skin and both of your desperate, breathy sounds of pleasure fill the dark office.

“Beg for it, amor.” He whispers against your ear, his chest pressed flush against your back as he nibbles at the smooth skin of your neck as his dick moves in and out of you at a brutal pace, the veins of his thick length caressing the warm walls of your pussy as he smushes his tip against your sweet spot with each thrust.

“Please, Miguel! I promise I’ll do better. I won’t make another mistake again, I’m gonna be so good, I swear! Better than I’ve ever been!” Your breathless pleas make Miguel feel a conflicting surge of both guilt and power. He watches the way your back arches and your thighs shake as you try so so hard not to cum, to be a good girl for him and follow his orders. At the end of the day, you just wanted him to like you, to see how good of a hero you are, and he knew that. Which is why he’s finding it so fun to toy with you like this.

“Shh, I know. I’ll let you cum, sweetheart.” Miguel coos, tugging on your hair so that he can reach your face and plant a kiss on your tear-stained cheek, his soft, long-awaited act of reassurance contrasting the lewd sounds of squelching as he fucks you with mind-numbing intensity.

He reflects on his words as he listens to the way his unexpected words make you cry and whimper, and part of him regrets the way he approached your relationship, wishing he had just been honest with you and praised your efforts from the start, rather than being cruel and bending you over his desk to fuck you so harshly. But the way you tighten and pulse around his sensitive dick brings him back to the present, and he gives your waist an encouraging squeeze.

The tiny action of consolation has you spiralling, your vision going spotty as you squirt around Miguel’s fat cock, squeals and moans leaving your glistening lips as your whole body twitches with the all-consuming sensation of your release. Watching as you come undone, Miguel feels himself rapidly approaching his own release. He curses and pulls out of your sopping cunt, watching the way his leaky tip shines with your juices. It sends Miguel over the edge. He lets out a sharp whimper as he cums all over your round ass and your spine, thick globs of his climax staining your sweaty skin and making you exhale shakily.

The sex and your crying make you pass out on the desk, and Miguel quickly covers you up and carries you to his quarters, laying you down in his bed and tucking you in. He whispers a quick apology to you, letting his cruel persona disappear and showing you how much he actually values you as a colleague and person when he thinks you’re asleep, but you hear everything.

Maybe you didn’t really need to be praised by Miguel to know that you were good enough. And maybe he didn’t need to be so afraid of showing you that appreciation. For now, though, the angry sex would be a pleasant memory for both of you, in an odd way.

“Get some rest, cariño. You deserve it, for being such a good girl.”

I FINALLY FINISHED IT OMG. Thank you all for being so patient 💜💜

#ultravioletrayz #miguel smut #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o’hara smut #spiderman 2099 smut #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel x reader #𖤓uv-c𖤓

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eupheme · 6 months ago

Note

I wanted to stary of by saying I love your graphic blog as well, and also your writing. Top tier. I was wanting to know if you had any tips for writing smut? You do it so well, please teach me!

hi anon, you are too kind and I am so honored that you asked me! I actually have a list of resources that have helped me linked below, and then I added a couple more personal tips under the cut (and if any writer moots see this & want to add on, please do! I am always looking for tips and ideas!) 💖

— Smut Thesaurus by @/prurientpuddlejumper

A collection of words to describe body parts, sexual acts, and types of dialogue

— Writing Tips & Pointers by @/prurientpuddlejumper

Tips for choosing words and describing actions and emotions

— The Ultimate Guide to Writing Smut by QuinnAndersen

I have this bookmarked - includes an expansive list of body descriptions, actions, feelings and is so helpful!

— 6 Tips for Erotica by S.A. Crawford

Covers the basics - has some good tips about setting up scenes and descriptive writing

— Writing a Smut Scene by @/youneedsomeprompts

Great quick reference of prompts, descriptions, and words you can use to set the scene

— 10 Tips for Writing Good Smut by @/saltyshiro

Love the tip about reading other fic and writing empathetically!

— Smut Words by @/hollandsmushroom

a collection of nsfw-related words

and then some of my own thoughts are below:

For smut, I love the build-up and setting the scene - establishing where they are and how they got there, the longing, and all the emotions that come with it.

And then using that to get into the characters heads. Even when it’s pure or short pwp, knowing what kind of scene it is, how they got there (are they finally giving in after weeks of flirting? or is it a lazy, early-morning indulgence?) helps establish the mood and what sort of feelings and pacing I should be thinking about.

I feel like the “show don’t tell” advice works really well here (or, a version of it). Blend their inner thoughts and how they’re feeling with what’s physically going on - lean into the five senses.

I like adding desperation, too - gruff characters letting go when they finally can lean into their desires, that “can’t get enough” is so fun to write (while keeping in mind characterization).

Writing smut can get repetitive - to switch it up I make notes of different positions I think would be fun to try (something that’s been so fun in my poly wade/reader/logan series). You also don’t have to write out every single beat of what’s happening.

Don’t be afraid to add dirty talk - mix it in, use it as a reaction to what’s going on. And don’t be afraid to get filthy if that’s what you want to write!

If you happen to feel a little embarrassed while writing, that’s totally okay and don’t let it get to you! It’s tough to put yourself out there, but just keep putting words down! We’re all out here peddling smut and it’s nothing to be embarrassed about.

Most important is to write what you enjoy!! And what you are comfortable with - never feel like you have to include a certain kink, etc, for your writing to be enjoyable. As long as you’re having a good time writing it, then that’s really all that matters.

And when I was starting (and even now) I return to fave fics and books and see how scenes are paced and how certain acts are worded, or what made me like that moment so much (and then how I can incorporate similar vibes using my own words and writing style) 💖

I hope this helped a little bit! If there’s something specific you’d like to know or if you have more questions, my inbox is always open!

#writing tips #writing smut #anons #eupheme answers

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masterserris · 2 months ago

Text

Submas Fic: “We Will Meet Again” CH.5

My friend @eusouomar (Ingo) and I (Emmet) have been working together on an rp timeline!

This timeline is based on the concepts of Yin (Ingo) and Yang (Emmet) reincarnating through the ages, much to the surprise of the twins, and how to move forward knowing this and getting their lives back to normal after bringing Ingo home from Hisui. Shenanigans and fluff and angst ensue. Let it be known a happy ending is always the goal and the inevitable future. Enjoy!

Notes: NO SHIPPING in this fic.

General Warnings for the fic as a whole: strong language, depictions of mental illness, addiction, grief, violence/gore, character death, self harm, suicide mentions

MASTERPOST (TBD)

START

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

NEXT CHAPTER (TBD)

Happy Birthday!

Featuring art from @metrobound / @jugumpuppet !

Enjoy!

"Hmm, it's my birthday today." Ingo mused. He was doing training on another line with a depot agent.

"Aw, happy birthday Boss! You two gonna do something special?" She asked.

Ingo's heart nearly dropped in his chest. He had been in Hisui for nearly 30 years and had gotten used to spending it as a solitary person.

"You okay, Black Boss?" The depot agent asked.

"We. We have a birthday!" He pointed out.

"Um, yeah. That's generally how twins work." She replied.

"But I haven't gotten him anything! I've spent so much time in the past I forgot to buy Emmet a present!"

"Oh is that all?" She laughed, "I know what you can get him."

"Really? What?"

"You of course!"

Ingo frowned, "I am not a proper present."

"Boss, I bet you $1,000 pokedollars that White Boss has wished for you for his birthday for the last five years."

Well, she was right of course. That much was verrrrrrry obvious. But it was a special day! Finally! He was back! Thankfully Ingo was on another train so Emmet could ditch out and get some things together. Ohhhh, it was hard planning something from your other half in secret, but it was so so sooo much fun! Decorations, hmm, food, yes. Presents? I had a few ideas. He giggled to himself at one of the ideas. Oh, the machinations of his mind were an enigma to be certain.

"I have to get him something." Ingo insisted.

"WAiit. Wait. No. No, last time you left bad things happened." The depot agent pulled on his arm.

"I am in full control of my portals this time and I still have to get Emmet a present. I'd be a horrible brother if I didn't." He began to pull on his arms back.

"Let one of us get it. Just, stay here. We'll get a present, get it wrapped." She said.

Ingo shifted weight, "You can get him something tasteful?"

"Absolutely. It will be a hundred percent classy."

Ingo sighed and handed her quite a bit of money, "I expect change."

Silly Ingo. Well, Emmet had many surprises in store for Ingo later. It actually took a few hours to get everything and that was with him preordering and dashing around like a lunatic. But all the prep was done. He slipped back into Gear Station with less than an hour to spare before Ingo would get off of his training shift, so nothing looked too suspicious.

"Here it is! Even wrapped as promised!" She presented it to Ingo.

"What is it?" Ingo asked, looking at the long rectangular box. It was wrapped in white wrapping paper with a black bow on it. The depot agent, who was only 5'1" had to get up on her tiptoes to whisper it to him, "Oh! That is very thoughtful. Thank you." Ingo nodded. She gave Ingo his left-over money.

"Try to have fun, Boss!" She waved when they parted ways in Gear Station. It left Ingo confused. He was having fun. Couldn't they tell? Shrugging he headed back to the office he and Emmet shared.

“Soooo, how’d it go today?” Emmet asked cheerfully, leaning back in his chair. “You know what today is, right?”

"It went very well. It's coming back to me quickly now." Ingo nodded, "As a matter fact I do. Happy Birthday, Emmet." He presented the gift to his younger twin.

Emmet looked a little shocked, but smiled. “So you do remember!” He cheered. He looked at the gift and took it gratefully. “Thank you, Ingo. But you are already my gift. Your gift, however, is at home. Or should I say gifts?”

It was a leftover from Hisui when they had so little that made Ingo blush at the fact that Emmet had given him gifts. Plural. "Oh, no. You don't have to get me anything." He told him, waving his hands.

“Bullshit, it’s been five years, that means five times the gifts. Now let’s go home!” He threw his coat back on and ruffled Ingo’s hair and hat playfully. “This isn’t optional.”

He seemed to like ruffling his hair. Ingo returned the favor ruffling Emmet's hair and hat back.

"Birthdays were very simple in Hisui. Usually just a special meal with friends, maybe a gift of a tool or something useful. It wasn't like it is today."

“So? And?? Your point is?” Back at their condo when Emmet opened the door Ingo saw the whole place decorated. It was like a surprise party! On the table was a cake made at the best bakery in town with them and all of their Pokémon decorating it. Angel and devil food cake, of course with strawberry filling. But more than that. There were at least a dozen gift wrapped boxes all from Emmet addressed to Ingo. “Surprise!” He grinned. But that wasn’t all. Not yet at least.

"I was just trying to make conversation and point out-" Ingo wasn't physically expressive so that should emphasize how surprised he was when his mouth dropped at seeing Emmet go all out. Most of this would've been beyond the dreams of most of the Pearl Clan. Maybe in the cities or the ultra-wealthy but none of this food had anything to do with survival. It was completely decadent and so touching. Holy shit there was more?

Emmet took Ingo’s hand and pulled him to the fire escape and onto the roof where everyone was waiting. Elesa, Drayden, some older depot agents, Drayton. It had been sooo sooo long since their last double birthday. Emmet had one last special present in a plain box. “Go on, open it.” Inside was an authentic Hisuian flute. “I found yours. It’s yours. From 200 years ago.” Sure enough, it had his initials carved on the back of it. The same flute he used to call Lady Sneasler that Irida had given him.

Ingo clenched his brother's hand and followed him up onto the roof. What in the world-?

It seemed Emmet had managed to get everyone who was close to them. How long had it been? Well, it depended on who you asked. For Emmet it had been five years, for Ingo about thirty. He had almost forgotten what this felt like. Then Emmet gave him a plain box. Ingo's eyes widened as he saw the flute. No, there was no mistaking it, this was his flute. He knew every notch in it.

"How on Earth did you find this?" He asked Emmet. Even if his flute had survived, which it did, to the modern age Ingo would've sworn it would be in a museum. As for Emmet's gift that Ingo had gotten him, it contained a silver pocket watch. Part of the lid was concave so that Emmet could keep a photo in there if he wanted.

Emmet didn’t open his gift yet because he wasn’t done.

“One last gift,” he smiled. Palkia and Dialga peeled open a portal to the past. To see his old friends again one more time. So they knew he was okay. Irida waved and smiled. “So you found your man in white! I’m glad!”

Adaman smiled with his arms crossed. “We missed you, but we are glad you are back where you belong.”

It must've been quite a shock to them to see Ingo so young again. It was certainly a shock for Ingo.

"I did." He told them feeling himself tear up and gracing them with a full smile, "Thank you for understanding." Of course, he missed them but he didn't belong with them. He knew that then and he understood it now. The conductor in black turned to his twin to whisper his thanks. This might be one the best birthdays he had in a very, very long time.

“You take care of yourself, Warden Ingo. Lady Sneasler is well too. She is strong, like her old warden. And with a new litter of kittens too! In fact….” Adaman reached his arm cautiously across the space-time rift and handed Ingo an ancient pokeball. “She sends you her love.”

A baby Hisuian shiny sneasel for him to raise. They all took some photos to always remember this day forever. Emmet would take it and put it in his pocket watch in the future.

“Take care, Ingo! We love you!” Irida waved and the portal would close. Sneasel would be able to listen to the same tune and song from the same flute his mother listened to from the same Warden. It came with love. Everything stays, right where you left it. 200 years ago is now.

Ingo was still smiling when he turned to Emmet, "This is the best birthday I've ever had."

He honestly meant it. It was bittersweet but in the best possible way. "I just...I know I must have said it a million times already but thank you. I can't begin to think how I can give you back as much as you gave me."

Emmet just pulled him into a warm hug and let them savor this moment. “We love you, Ingo. You’d do the same for me.” Everyone would go back inside to have cake and to open gifts. Everyone had gifts for Ingo of course. He had missed out on five years of it! Many from Emmet of course. Lots of his old favorites that he had missed out on. Entire shows he used to like that had since been completed. Model trains to build. A Hisuian replica of a pokeball making kit. It really worked! A cookbook on old Hisuian recipes. Elesa’s albums. Season tickets for the baseball park. Just… a lot of things that everyone wanted to give him but never could. Some presents were actually years old. But they never gave up hope that he would come back. Well, mostly due to Emmet’s insistence in keeping these things for such a day, but still. He was very loved. Finally, Emmet opened his gift from Ingo and saw the silver pocket watch! Ohhh he loved it! It looked so good on him too, with the chain attaching to his belt loop! Fitting too, being a “Time Keeper” of sorts, haha. “Thank you!! I love it!”

God all of this and he only got Emmet a watch. He owed him about thirty years’ worth of presents.

"Good! Good. I can get you something else!" Ingo insisted, "Something more!"

“You are more than enough, you know.” Emmet gave him a wry smile as he cut the cake to give to everyone. He gave his brother his slice with Ingo’s own face on it. And Emmet took his. What would everyone else be doing right now?

People were talking and eating cake, enjoying themselves. It was a much better party when what had been going on for the last five years. They even managed to witness Ingo smile, a smile perceptible to the human eye which was a feat all in itself, not to mention a literal portal opening in time-space.

"I know, I should know." Ingo nodded, "It's just after thirty years. Huh, I mean...wh-what did you do for your birthday while I was gone?"

Emmet stiffened slightly, but relaxed again. “We can talk about that later, for now, we enjoy the party, okay?” All of the Pokémon were having lots of fun. Even baby sneasel, who eventually wanted uppies to sit in Ingo’s lap.

Ooof. He almost forgot but let it go. Gently Ingo picked up the little Sneasel kitten to sit on his lap and stroke her fur. It purred and snagged a piece of cake with its claw before taking a cat nap on his lap.

“I always knew you’d make a great dad someday,” Emmet teased. “But in all honesty, I’m so happy for you. So glad to be here with everyone.”

Ingo chuckled at its antics. It was going to be a handful, he could tell. "So am I. It was worth everything I've been through." He told Emmet. All the battles, and harsh cold conditions, even getting trapped in the Yin space. Hopefully it was the same for Emmet.

It most certainly was. Eventually the party had to end and they said their goodbyes to everyone, thanking them for making this day so verrrrrry special. Emmet glanced around. “Ah. Well, I suppose it’s time to clean up.”

"At least let me help you clean up. It's your birthday as much as mine." Ingo insisted.

"Sure, we can get it done double fast!" And sure enough, they tidied things up real well. "Another win for the wonder twins. Well! I dunno about you, but I'm beat. I'm glad you enjoyed today. I worked hard to make it all come together." He sat on his bed and flopped over. "Whew. Tomorrow is another day!"

"I know! You did an excellent job! Conducted with real precision." Ingo toed off his shoes before laying carefully down on his own bed.

"Do you suppose it's later enough?"

“Hm. I suppose. Though if you want to go to sleep in a happier mood, I would leave it for tomorrow. It’s alright, Ingo, it’s all in the past.”

He would be lying if he said he wasn't drowsy. Ingo nodded and climbed into some sleep clothes. Perhaps it was better just to end on a lighter note like this. He gave a yawn and curled up into his pillow, "H-Happy Birthday, Emmet." Yeah, after a full dinner and cake sleep sounded good now.

Emmet smiled to himself. Sleep was always a wise choice. Tomorrow was another day! They were 31 now!

31 although Ingo supposed he was technically 61. But it didn't matter and while he was always curious to learn more about Emmet's life without him he wouldn't push his brother to tell more than what he was comfortable with.

They would sleep soundly and the morning light was bright. Emmet got ready for the day with a happy hum, putting his new watch on his belt loop and admiring it. He loved the little ticking sound it made and the intricate gears it had. It also made him feel really official, like the original train conductors. Thank you, Ingo. For everything, he thought to himself.

Ingo had one of his little not-smiles at Emmet looking at his watch. He was glad he (well, one of the depot agents) could get something that Emmet liked in such a short time.

———————————————————————————

End of chapter 5

#ingo #emmet #kudari #nobori #subway boss emmet #subway boss ingo #elesa #drayden #irida #adaman #palkia #dialga #sneasel #Fic: We Will Meet Again!#this is not shipping!!

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bonne-chanson · 1 month ago

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a/n: first part of the stormbringer collection! <3 i’ve never published anything for verlaine despite him being my favorite (also because i just started this blog a few months ago lmao) but here he is! i hope i did him justice :> on another note, please assume that everything i write for will be gender neutral unless specified through request! this is also my first time writing a fic this long (and a first attempt at slow burn and drama…) anyway, happy birthday, paul! 🥳 here’s over thirty pages of a fanfic. oh, and another thing, this is canon-divergent! the flags are alive because of you ;>

i. mars, bringer of war

the first movement of the planets suite (masterlist).

✑ character/s: paul verlaine x reader

✑ short desc: paul verlaine has only ever known a life of violence and bloodshed. the first time he comes to know what tranquility and peace are like is through you.

✑ content includes: romance ; drama ; slight angst ; slow burn ; canon-divergent (the flags live, but for a price) ; paul verlaine needs a hug ; nsfw (MDNI!)

✑ word count: 15.4k words

Inside Paul Verlaine brewed a tumultuous storm of anger, anguish and despair — something once akin to a vicious, feral dog now turned into the likeness of barren weeping willow. In the eye of such a complex storm laid the kind of emptiness understood and able to be empathized with by no one else but himself, only adorned by a deep sense of grief and graced by a hint of envy and longing for something beyond his very existence.

Paul Verlaine was not human, no matter how much he yearned to be one. An innate sense of humanity was something he simply did not have.

At least, that was what he believed his origins dictated him to be.

Much the same way sculptures were crafted and portraits were painted, he was also born by the hand of a human being; carefully shaped with a firm idea in mind, built finely with the kind of details meant to follow a certain image in one’s head, and formed particularly to suit the desires and the planned design of the artist. Yet while the paintings of Monet and the statues of Michelangelo could be looked at by people with the kind of admiration any other human being would be able to coax out of another, however, Paul would be looked at in terror and disgust — the kind of reactions he soon grew to become more familiar with over time.

For what is a man-made being fated to become, when created with the sole purpose of destruction in joy and love’s stead?

Paul Verlaine was made to be a weapon — born through creation, ironically made to obliterate on command. A bringer of war, they said, a being made for the sake of bloodshed and demolition.

Violent. Cataclysmic. Inherently inhuman.

He had long since given up on any attempt to cope and come to terms with his inhumanity, much less make himself feel human, allowing himself to sink deeper into the only lifestyle fit for a being like him: assassination. After all, there was no point in trying to convince himself he was a part of something bigger the same way everyone else was, not when he was so alien. A God above existed, but that same God did not love him enough to give him the same sense of belonging every other human received the moment they were born — he was sure of it.

And soon after, his name would be whispered among even the strongest in his field, uttered with caution by passersby and spat with spite by the most elite of anyone he made an enemy of. Nobody in their right mind ever went up to the soulless King of Assassins to face him head-on, at the very least not willingly, not if they wanted to die with their lives lived in full.

The first time you had ever heard of the name Paul Verlaine was on the day of Chuuya’s one-year anniversary as a mafioso.

“Chuuya,” the European man before you had bent down on one knee, bowing his head towards the russet-haired boy as he would to royalty, “I have come to protect you.”

In the midst of playing a happy game of pool with your friends, the Flags, to celebrate your youngest member’s first year of survival in the mafia, chaos ensued when a brunet man had somehow managed to enter the Old World bar that the seven of you often frequented. Albatross had thrown his kukri at the foreigner first, reacting quickly before being followed by Piano Man’s strangling wires and the thrusts of Iceman’s cue stick — all of which were dodged easily by the man dressed in blue. And even when Lippmann’s gunshots were fired and Doc’s lethal injections were aimed at him, not a single scratch scathed his skin, and he had avoided each attack by a mere whisker.

“I did not come here to fight you,” he clarified, fixing his suit. “My name is Adam Frankenstein. I am a Europole detective.”

The tension in the room changed the moment he spoke.

“...You’re a cop, huh?” Piano Man smirked, fingers flexing to ready the wires twisting between them. “We seem to have come to a misunderstanding, then, Adam. It was a mistake on your part thinking that a cop could waltz in here and make it out alive.”

He then turned to Chuuya.

“Chuuya, consider this another one of your one-year anniversary presents! You’re free to break his arms and legs as you please!” he says with a hearty laugh, about to wrap another wire around his neck until—

“Wait,” you interject, preparing to reason with the rest. Though you had no ability, considered no more powerful than that of Yokohama’s average civilian, you were still their friend, and as their friend, they held a great deal of value for your opinions, too. “Let’s hear him out first.”

With a polite nod of his head, Adam momentarily looks at you. “Thank you.” He dusts away the rest of the debris tainting his well-pressed clothes before facing everyone else. “I was created by the skill user engineer Dr. Wollstonecraft. I am the first autonomous humanoid supercomputer in existence. Again, my name is Adam Frankenstein, and I have come to arrest the assassin who is after your life.”

Albatross raises both brows, picking his kukri back up to sling it over his shoulder. “An assassin?”

“That’s right,” the robot responds. “The assassin’s name is Verlaine — Paul Verlaine.”

Paul Verlaine… You allow the name to linger in your head for a little longer, ingraining itself into your thoughts.

(You have absolutely no idea just how much those thoughts would consume you later on.)

“...Verlaine?” Chuuya muttered before his gaze became fixed on Adam. “How do you know that name?”

“You know this guy, Chuuya?”

Straightening his knee, Adam stands, his posture exuding an aura of pristine perfection. “You cannot defeat Verlaine alone, Chuuya, which is why I was sent here. He is no ordinary assassin, you see,” he warns. “Paul Verlaine is known globally as the King of Assassins—”

There is a short pause, and for a moment, you would have been able to sense the hesitation in his voice (if there was any) had it not been for his mechanical intonation.

“—and your older brother.”

Chuuya can only frown in response. “That can’t be true.”

Paul Verlaine is dead.

At least, that’s what he believed.

It was what Rimbaud had told him the year before — Paul Verlaine, his long-time partner, was dead. Shot and killed after an incident that happened at the research facility located in Suribachi City. The Arahabaki Incident that occurred prior to Chuuya’s recruitment into the Port Mafia involved the betrayal of one of their sub-executives who created a god, and the root of the incident could be traced back to nine years ago at the end of the war.

Two European agents and highly adept skill users Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine both managed to steal Arahabaki from the former national defense force, whose primary focus was to research an artificial skill-derived life-form: Arahabaki itself. Verlaine, however, had other plans—

And chose to betray Rimbaud at the very site of the mission.

According to Rimbaud, his partner wanted to take Arahabaki all for himself and it eventually led to a fight that escalated into something violent. Rimbaud eventually emerged victorious for the price of having to kill Verlaine, although their battle alerted the military’s attention and their tracking unit, and due to his injuries, he had no choice but to absorb Arahabaki and use the skill as his own, losing most of his strength and his memories in the process. Thus, the Impostor Predecessor Incident was staged in an attempt to lure out the real Arahabaki — Chuuya Nakahara.

And as soon as Chuuya finishes elaborating the entire fiasco, Adam shakes his head. “No, I must correct you,” he says. “Paul Verlaine is still very much alive.”

You lean in a little more, intrigued by the statement, which seems to surprise the rest of your friends; you had always been known for your gentler personality among them, never really choosing to involve yourself in any quarrels and dangerous situations, so this came off as quite the shocker. “What evidence do you have?”

“I can prove it,” Adam replies, his tone leaning into being a little more serious, “but doing so would violate my obligation to secrecy in regard to the mission. The only individual concerned in this matter is Chuuya, ergo he is the only one authorized to learn the details.”

“Can’t we have at least some form of proof?” you argue, catching the interest of the Flags. Your enthusiasm towards the affair seems to have caught their attention as well. “We’re already involved in this, too. I mean… as much as the issue may be about Chuuya’s past, we deserve to know at least the significant details so we’re well-aware of what we may be dealing with.” There is a short pause before you add, “Chuuya is our friend, too, after all.”

(You have absolutely no idea how your interjection just saved their lives.)

As if processing your words, Adam blinks before handing you a file holder from behind his back.

“Huh? Where did he get that from?” Albatross questions, looking back and forth between you and the foreign man. “Did he just—?”

“I suppose I can provide you with some evidence without breaching the regulations assigned to me,” he says, handing you the file holder.

You thank him promptly before opening the file holder, the Flags piling up behind you to take a peek as well.

“Yoshino Ryota,” Iceman says, his tone carrying a sense of familiarity. “Wasn’t he one of the two guards at the top floor of HQ?”

Doc tugs his IV pole closer to him as he looks over the document. “If I remember correctly, the boss had the two of them replaced only recently after an incident occurred — something about one of their heads getting blown off and the other getting minced.”

“Death by implosion?” Lippmann finds himself wincing at the descriptions offered by each document. “How brutal…” he murmurs.

You hand the sheets over to Piano Man, turning to Adam yet again. “Is there anything else you could provide us with?”

“Whoa, (Y/N),” your leader snickers, a little amused by your zealous behavior. “You’re awfully fascinated by this whole ordeal. Mind sharing?”

You feel your face burn up at his sudden accusation. You? Fascinated? You were only being a good friend by taking as many precautions as possible. You couldn’t fight and neither did you have any ability to your name, but you still wanted to be as useful as possible to them in order to aid their safety.

(Again, you have absolutely no idea that what you are doing right now ends in saving their lives.)

“I’m just… trying to help,” you mutter, a little shy now. “Verlaine is the King of Assassins for a reason, after all. Better safe than sorry, you know?”

“(Y/N)’s right.” Chuuya stands in front of the closed door. “This may be my problem, but if something ever happened to any of you guys, I don’t think I could just ignore it. I’d try to help whether you liked it or not; I bet the rest of you’d feel the same way.” He looks at Adam, his gaze now stern. “That being said, detective, spit it out and tell ‘em, too, or I’m not cooperating.”

Adam nods. “I understand perfectly how you feel, Chuuya,” he replies, his voice a warm assurance. “You value your friendships and make decisions accordingly. I suppose this is what is called human nature.” And suddenly, he’s approaching the shorter boy with a graceful stride in each step. “Very well. I will give up on trying to persuade you and instead propose a different method.”

And out of Adam’s elbows shoots two anchored wires, spinning around in the air before wrapping around Chuuya. The magnets on each anchor connect, binding him in the process, leaving him confused and irritated as the brunet hoists him under his arm and leaps out of the doorway.

“My mission is the priority, and it is what you humans would call—”

He pauses, mulling the words over in his system.

“...one’s nature, I suppose. Therefore, I will be borrowing Chuuya for the next thirty minutes,” he announces, and within the next few moments, he’s off running to the next residential district with Chuuya in tow.

Awkwardly, you stare at the open door before you, pursing your lip.

“...So,” Albatross coughs, “what now?”

Iceman can only shrug, taking a cube of cue chalk from the pool table to rub at the tip of his cue stick. “All we can really do is wait.”

Everyone is quiet for a good moment, letting the awkwardness of the situation pass before Piano Man speaks up.

“Iceman’s right,” he says. “I say we have our fun while waiting.” Picking up the rack from the side, he grabs each billiard ball and places them inside, shaking the triangle for a bit to even out the spacing between each one. “How about we help ourselves to another round?”

You shrug and smile, walking towards the table to grab a cue stick of your own. “I’m down.”

No one argued against it — if anything, they were all for it. It was precisely because of that that the pool hall became full of its usual noise: the clacking of sticks against the cue ball, the combination of cheers and trash-talking, the sizzle of the alcohol being poured and the chime of the glasses clinking together. It was a scene you would never, under any circumstance, find yourself wanting to trade for anything else in the world. And why would you when you were blessed with such a closely-knit group of friends who would always be there for you during your ups and downs, your worst moments and best celebrations?

(Little did you know.)

One by one, each sphere began to fall into the pocket points, eventually only leaving one left during your turn. All eyes were on you now, and only a singular point was needed in order for you to bring home the gold.

Carefully, you aim, the chalked-up tip of your stick very breathily brushing up against the white cue ball before you as you make your attempt to center your push against the remaining red pool ball. The alcohol, however, makes it difficult for your hands to focus, quivering as they try to stabilize themselves for your point’s sake.

That’s when you feel a pair of arms slither gingerly up around your own, steadying your hands on the stick to allow you to focus better.

“Here,” a suave, familiar voice murmurs beside your ear, and for a moment, your breath hitches in your throat; you can’t tell if the warmth blooming across your cheeks is coming from the beer or the contact. “I know the booze makes it difficult for you to keep your hands in check, so aim like this.”

And then—

Clack!

Albatross’ jaw drops and he whines, stomping his foot on the ground almost childishly. “No fair, Lippmann! You can’t just leech onto (Y/N) for a point like that!”

Lippmann’s laugh is canorous. You find yourself stunned at his voice — as is the situation with everyone else in the room — when he chuckles at Albatross’ complaint, only waving a hand to dismiss the younger Flag’s protests. Staring at him was something you simply couldn’t help yourself doing, not with his unusually handsome face and sweet, attractive smile. His beauty, after all, was unrivaled; whether he decided to dress in men’s or women’s fashion, anyone would find themselves falling too easily for him.

You were no exception to the rule. Though you never looked at him in any other way than as friends, the thought of him being so beautiful that it stilled your heart every now and then would still sometimes catch you by surprise.

Smiling, your hand reaches up to squeeze his shoulder playfully. “I’m giving him half my point since he helped me gain it.”

The others groan and mutter to themselves about the entire ball game being unfair, with Piano Man even huffing about how the blond had, yet again, used his charms to work his way out of last place.

Unbeknownst to everyone else in the room, however, and including yourself, the actor’s gaze lingers upon you for a little longer than it should while you laugh, blissfully unaware of his attention. You’ve never known anything about the way his body would naturally gravitate to yours under any setting, the way he would every so often mirror your speech patterns just to keep you interested in the conversation, or the way he’d speak softer around you, his language a little more gentle than with the others. It’s why you never bothered to acknowledge it — to acknowledge him.

His thoughts, however, are cut when the ring of your phone echoes throughout the pool hall, and with a long sigh, you excuse yourself quickly to take it, only to find that you’re being summoned by your friends’ boss himself.

And so, with a brief farewell and a promise to return shortly, you leave, the sounds of laughter, alcohol glasses and billiard balls becoming more distant as you walk outside the Old World bar.

The first time you had ever heard of the name Paul Verlaine was on the day of Chuuya’s one-year anniversary as a mafioso, and the first time you see him personally is only hours after through smoke and ruin.

“Hm?” Amidst the grunts and groans of your friends and the wreckage of the place you once called your safe haven, you freeze, unable to move a limb in fear. “I don’t exactly recall seeing any record of you anywhere.” He pauses, not even turning to you to see your face. “Nor have I heard of a person like you being in Chuuya’s life before.”

There was no warning. Everything went down to hell while none other than the boss had attempted to recruit you into the Port Mafia earlier (to which you had politely turned down, saying you’ll “think about it”); Paul Verlaine had entered the Old World bar so casually — almost as if he were nothing but and under the guise of a regular customer, ready to drown himself in alcohol after a particularly overwhelming day. Not a single person in the room had assumed otherwise given his attire was that of a normal black suit and the sunglasses that all mailmen of the Port Mafia wore as their uniform, and the only addition to his ensemble was the porkpie hat similar to that of Chuuya’s. Yet before they knew it, their bodies were thrown all over the place as if they were mere ragdolls, their weapons practically comparable to toys against the only man left standing in the room.

Piano Man was bloodied up, strangled by his own wires with multiple lacerations decorating his body; Iceman had been stabbed with his own cue stick from earlier, the other half of it sunken too deep into his body for him to move; Albatross had been slashed cleanly by the kukri he frequented, his body left to lay in a pool of his own blood; Doc’s bones had been crushed enough to render him motionless, the pain so severe that he cannot even scream—

And Lippmann…

Lippmann was being held up by the throat, limp and almost breathless, his hands wrapped around the stranger’s wrist in a useless attempt to free himself. His eyes, typically a beautiful shine of earthy brown, were glazed over and wet from asphyxiation, his usually kept blond hair was a complete mess from being tossed around, and his pristine cream-colored crombie coat was dripping with red. The one who held you earlier and sobered you up during a game of pool with your friends to help earn you a point, the first one next to Piano Man who welcomed you into the Flags, the one whom you felt closest to in the group was now in the very hands of death himself.

And death, as you would have liked to call the perpetrator, only stared him down, his brown eyes so distantly cold as he watched the actor in his grasp suffocate.

“(Y– Y/N)...” your friend manages to choke out between desperate gasps, “run—!”

“How peculiar,” Verlaine murmurs aloud, using his free hand to brush away some of the stray strands of hair splayed across Lippmann’s face, getting a better view of his beaten-up complexion. “If my research tells me I’m correct, you were supposed to be the most difficult one to kill.”

You can only stand there, completely still in terror, your legs aching to do as Lippmann says and bolt out of there as fast as you can, yet they shake so uncontrollably that you would have thought you’d collapse by now. Rapid thumping beats against your ribcage as your mouth goes dry, and you find that your hands and feet have quite literally gone cold, numbing themselves to any form of escape as if they had suddenly shut themselves down on instinct.

“Well,” the breathiness — disappointment — in his voice snaps you back out of being in your own head, “you didn’t exactly put up much of a fight, now did you?”

It was almost as if you weren’t even there. Your presence was barely acknowledged by him, and though you suppose that may be quite the plus when it comes to your survival, your friends were all barely being grazed on the cheek by death’s fingertips and all you could do was stand there with the thought of being next.

Verlaine sighs in mock compassion. “Pity… I’d say this is the most awful way for you to go out, no? What, with you born with such luck, after all — blessed with such a beautiful face…”

The hand formerly tucking away Lippmann’s hair behind his ear grabs him by the face.

“A career in which your hands are able to remain clean…”

The assassin’s fingers press against your friend’s throat a little tighter, leading him to start choking on his own saliva.

“People who adore you endlessly…”

His lips begin to turn blue from the lack of air, and Verlaine can only smirk.

“Friends who love you to death...” He watches Lippmann’s eyes roll back, hands wrapped around his wrist in a desperate attempt to flee slowly going limp. “Don’t worry, I’m not so merciless. I’ll grant you the favor of eternal sleep first.”

And then he smiles so kindly that it almost confuses you.

“That way, you can end your perfect life without having to see the rest of your loved ones suffer.”

“No, don’t!”

Verlaine blinks.

His head snaps over to look at you, and much like a deer caught in the headlights, you stay put.

“…Oh, goodness, what’s this?” he adds, a small smirk gracing his features as he glances back at Lippmann. “You truly are quite the blessed one, aren’t you? A pretty face, a good career, loving friends… and a darling partner to boot.”

Lippmann tries his best to turn his gaze at you, drool seeping from the corner of his lip and down his chin at the lack of air. Even at the touch of death, he still thinks of you.

“(Y/N)—“ he squeaks, coughing and gasping, “don’t—!”

“(Y/N), hm…? Come now, let them speak,” Verlaine coos, tightening his grasp on the blond’s neck, blooming purples and blues across the expanse of his throat.

Your breath gets caught in your lungs as all sorts of possibilities race through your head at the same time, all of which ending in a single outcome: he’d make a quick kill out of you, regardless of it being by crushing your head into a pulp or by making your heart implode. You had easily come to the conclusion that Paul Verlaine was too talented of a killer to be stopped by a mere civilian like you; if he had managed to take down five of the most skilled and feared members of the Port Mafia by himself without so much as breaking a sweat, then what could you do?

A weak cough interrupts your train of thought as your eyes follow the sound, leading you to a bloodied Albatross with a large gash across his chest, gushing red.

“...(Y/N),” he chokes weakly, “run…”

Yet with a trembling lip and glossy eyes, you stand your ground, looking up at the dangerous man before you again, trying your best to brave yourself.

You allow yourself the luxury of ingraining his appearance in your head first, however, even if not willingly—

And there is no denial that the assassin in front of you is a beautiful being.

He stands so elegantly, his posture balanced and effortless even as he holds another man by the throat so violently — a stark contrast to the air of poise he radiates. Blond hair perfectly frames his face in a relaxed flow of waves, the right side of his face obscured by his bangs and the left decorated by a small braid that blends well into the rest of his long, tied hair. Rich brown eyes bore into yours with the kind of intensity swirling in them that would have left you breathless had it not already been for the anxiety swallowing you whole, and even the way he dresses is sleek, not a wrinkle in his suit to be seen. The general atmosphere around him emits a kind of finesse and grace you would only be able to find in a fairy tale’s Prince Charming with the complexion of an ancient Nordic god, and, if you were bold enough to think of it, the tempting prowess of the devil himself.

Paul Verlaine is a handsome man, almost irritatingly so.

“You aren’t supposed to be here.” He tilts his head to the side and his voice almost comforts you, snapping you out of being stuck in your own head completely. “I had planned to make this quick.”

The dryness of your lips prevents you from responding as urgently as you would have liked to, and you find yourself tripping over your own words. “I… please, don’t…”

“Don’t what?"

You wince, your knees locking while his sharp words cut through you like a knife.

“Don’t— don’t kill them,” you sputter, breaths uneven and stance unsteady.

Entertained, he loosens his grip on Lippmann’s neck, and a sense of hope washes over your entire being at the action. It’s not nearly enough to keep him alive, but the chances of you doing something — anything — to help keep them alive and breathing were still there.

“Why?”

Your hands go cold yet again and you feel that familiar twist in your stomach make a knot. One excuse runs after the other in your head in a pathetic attempt to conjure up a justification good enough for him to let your friends go and to leave all of you alone, yet you know well enough that for a man only concerned with his kill, much the same as a predator ready to pounce on prey, no reason nor rebuttal will be adequate enough to make sense for him. It won’t matter at all. If anything, you find that you are approaching the situation blindly; you have absolutely no idea what you are doing, only that you are doing it simply because you have to and you are left without a choice if you want your friends to see the next day.

Swallowing hard, you release a shaky exhale of your breath. “I just… I don’t want them to die. It’s not something they deserve.”

He hums.

“Mm. And do you think that matters?”

Your heart nearly stops beating, but you continue anyway. “It… it should, because it does.”

“Hm.”

The relief you feel is incomparable to anything else in the world when he drops Lippmann’s weak body to the ground. It’s harsh, and you can’t do anything but stand there if you want to keep yourself breathing, but it’s a step forward in the direction you want the situation to progress in.

“...How interesting,” he murmurs under his breath, approaching you. With every footstep, you shrink further into yourself, afraid of the things he’s capable of doing to you. “Both your reasoning and your eyes.”

…What?

Now confused, you open your mouth to ask him what he means by that. It makes no sense, but perhaps it’s his way of returning the response you had given him only moments prior. He seems half-amused and half-bored, but an incomprehensible emotion lingers in his gaze the longer you two stare into each other’s souls, searching for something—

…But what are you searching for, anyway?

“I’m feeling merciful today, and so I’ll leave them alive, as you wish,” he speaks, taking a step back. “I’ve spent far too much time here than I’ve intended.”

And before you know it, he is gone.

“(Y/N)!”

The shrill voice of a young boy pulls you out of your thoughts and you turn around to find none other than Chuuya run up to you, his feet clumsy and in a rush as he treads down the hospital’s hallway. Behind him, Adam follows, his footsteps wide yet perfectly measured as always, and he quickly manages to catch up to Chuuya with ease.

For a good while, the russet-haired mafioso is stunned, looking at you with an expression that can only be described as relief. His eyes were sunken, dark circles accentuating his brown hues, and his skin was deathly pale — both a result of his anxieties and stresses for the past week or so.

“You… you’re okay,” he breathes out, reaching out to check. “You’re not hurt or anything, are you?”

Immediately, you shake your head no, placing your hands on his shoulders with a small smile. “I’m alright, Chuuya. He left me unharmed. Didn’t even lay a finger on me.”

He sighs and smiles at you, reaching up to squeeze your hands in his own while you turn your gaze over to Adam.

“Are you two alright? Did anything happen while we weren’t with you?”

Adam nods, briefing you on the situation on their end quickly. “That’s very kind of you to ask, Mx. (Y/N). Quite a lot occurred in your absence.”

Verlaine had apparently come to fetch Chuuya dressed in his mailman attire while you were busy calling for help for the Flags. You didn’t understand most of what happened with his ability during the fiasco that transpired, only that it must have caused him a great deal of pain when Verlaine had opened up his Gate before Dazai had come in to salvage him using his anti-skill ability.

Yet even amidst his own suffering, his first thought was of his friends.

“Are the others alright?” Chuuya places your hands down gently, still squeezing them, hoping for a good answer. “Piano Man, Lippmann, Iceman, Doc, Albatross — are they…?”

You give him another reassuring smile, squeezing his hands back.

“They’re alive.” The breath he’d been holding released itself at your words. “Not… not particularly in the best condition, but they’re alive.” You gesture towards the door to the emergency room, entering with both Chuuya and Adam, and inside you find your beloved friends.

All of them seemed to be in critical condition. Piano Man had multiple bandages wrapped around his body, particularly around his neck where he’d been strangled by his own wires; Iceman seemed stable enough, and he almost looked as if he were only asleep, but the IV bags full of blood and the lack of color on his face were enough to say that he was still in a severe state; the same could be said for Albatross, who, although was in a rather wonky sleeping position, had multiple dressings and blood bags used to aid his rather serious condition; Doc was decorated in plaster casts and splints in order to realign most of his broken bones and immobilize his movements for healing, though surgery could definitely be seen in the long run—

And Lippmann, the only one you caught barely conscious at the time of your unexpected encounter with Verlaine, was now fully unconscious, bandages wrapped around his throat, dressed in a hospital gown instead of his typical suit and crombie coat.

“I… Your boss — Dr. Mori — said they should fully heal in a few months or so. Their injuries were indeed life-threatening, but nothing that your organization’s doctors couldn’t handle.” You take a deep breath and place a hand on Chuuya’s head, stroking it affectionately. “They’ll be okay. Promise.”

“...That’s all I needed to hear,” he responds, and you can almost hear his voice tremble when he speaks.

You only nod, turning your full body to face both Adam and Chuuya.

“I should get going now… I’ve been here all day and I do need to run errands back at home,” you explain. “The nurses told me to tell you to feel free to stay as long as you need.” A glance at your friends tells both the android and the gravity manipulator all they need to know. “They’ll need as much support as they can get, after all.”

Chuuya reaches up to squeeze your shoulder as he nods. “Right, take care, (Y/N).”

Again, you nod, but before you’re able to take your leave—

“Oh, and one more thing—”

You blink.

“What is it?”

He pauses for a good moment, running the words through his head first before saying them aloud. “Stay away from Verlaine at all costs. I don’t know the full details of what happened, and he may have been lenient with you considering you were in the same situation as the rest of ‘em—” he gestures to the Flags, “—but there’s no telling whether or not he’ll be merciful with you the next time anything happens.”

His lips press themselves into a thin line as he looks down, avoiding your gaze.

“I nearly lost all of you only around a week ago… I can’t afford to let something like that happen again.”

You don’t say anything in return, but the nod of your head is enough to tell him that you’ve acknowledged his simple request — to avoid Verlaine at all costs.

(That chance encounter you had with him earlier was only the first of many to come.)

Soon after, you find yourself back at your apartment; it’s a small, humble place with just enough living space for yourself. There isn’t much to it other than the essentials and a few decorations you find enhances your home, but it’s cozy enough for yourself. There’s nothing extravagant nor overtly special about it, but there’s no need for it to be — it’s comfortably lived in, snugly shaped to fit its sole inhabitant’s needs, carrying with it a certain intimacy meant to cater to you and you alone.

Per usual, you go about your nightly routine, something you had perfected over time to soothe you after a particularly long and stressful day. The monotonous practice of taking a bath and changing into your pajamas before eating a warm meal seems to pacify any feelings of worry and stress you’d been holding onto earlier, and not long after, you are in the comfort of your own bedroom, the balcony left open to allow the gentle night breeze to caress your skin.

The thought of the events that occurred three weeks ago haunt you, however, and a single question lingers in your mind:

Why did he spare me?

It bothered you, and it had been almost a week.

(You don’t know it yet, but he’s found himself quite preoccupied with the thought of you.)

Almost a week since you met death face-to-face; almost a week since you stood in front of him as life itself; almost a week since you had spoken words that should not have made sense, yet mattered enough when it came to saving the Flags’ lives; and almost a week since Verlaine had gazed upon you, not as something of a nuisance, but as something to be considered.

Every so often within the small time frame between what happened and the now, you find yourself wondering how things would have ended had he decided to put you in the same condition as the rest of the Flags. He spared you, after all; there was a look in his eye that was unreadable during the life-saving conversation you had with him — something that could only be described as… fascination? Interest? Captivation?

You were never the strong type, neither did you wield a special ability that even made you worth considering in the eyes of an assassin like him. There was no power in your veins, nor did you have anything he wanted when it came to his issue involving Chuuya. In fact, you had absolutely no business standing there when it all happened, yet you chose to remain anyway, both because you had a moral obligation to your friends and because of fear.

Paul Verlaine is a bearer of destruction, after all — someone more than capable of bringing wreckage and ruin everywhere he goes. That natural talent of his does not rage through him in the same manner as a devastating storm, however, and it instead is as eerie and as still as its eye. He is chaos within the serenity that houses demolition, embellished by a deception of peace, similar to that of the false clarity the clearness of the sky brings in the middle of such a calamity.

"How interesting. Both your reasoning and your eyes."

If anything, his potential fascination in you scared you more than it should. And with him still being on the loose…

"I’m feeling merciful today, and so I’ll leave them alive, as you wish."

There was no telling what he would do next.

You sigh, trying to brush your thoughts off, dismissing them as you smoothen out your nightwear in the small, cozy space you called your own.

Only this time, you are not alone.

The moment you turn to the mirror in the room, your heart plummets to your stomach.

Paul Verlaine.

Immediately, you turn to face him, but your step backward creates a stutter in the rhythm of your heartbeat as he follows, taking a step forth, mimicking your movement.

You didn’t even so much as hear him. His movements were so quiet and precise that it completely slipped your mind how easily he was able to enter your home without making the slightest indication that he was there.

“…If you have any plans to kill me, please—“ you gulp, the air around you suddenly tasting so thick and unbearable, “just… just make it quick and painless. I won’t ask for anything more.”

But he says nothing in response to your request.

It irks you at first, the stress pulsing through your veins the longer he stares at you. Your heart is screaming, eating at itself alive because of how agonizing the fear of being right in front of him is becoming, yet he makes no move to snap your neck or crush your bones—

And instead, he reaches a gloved hand up to your face.

You can’t feel the warmth that radiates from his skin. His gloves hide the dirt and blood that stain his entire being, and that barrier is something he’d rather keep when touching you — you, who knows nothing of the anguish he grew up experiencing; you, whose only worries of every day life are your schedules and mundane tasks; you, who are clueless to the kind of bloodshed and violence only he is capable of drawing out from his own palms. His fingers grace your cheek so gingerly, and had you braved yourself enough to look at his hand, you would have caught a glimpse of him trembling, almost as if he were afraid, feeling unworthy of tracing the softest patterns on your skin.

He knows he doesn’t deserve a moment with you like this, that even God himself above would frown in disapproval at the sight of an inhuman being indulging in the presence of someone like you. But God almighty be damned, because that same divinity abandoned him the moment his existence was manifested in that laboratory, leaving his entire existence to spiral down to hell, and the last thing he wanted now was to let such a cruel deity take away what little innocence he had left to keep — the small piece of heaven, of innocence he seems to have found in another person that is you.

He doesn’t speak, and neither do you move, your breaths shallow and quivering, halting entirely when he takes your chin in his hand, thumb brushing along the seam of your lips so tenderly.

Paul Verlaine is a man of violence and a man who knows nothing but war, both of internal conflict and between people, and yet you, without a sliver of knowledge about anything beyond the boundaries of your own comfort, somehow manage to tame that beast of a man every single time you come into his view.

(Unbeknownst to you, however.)

“…What are you doing?”

You choke on a whimper, trying to keep your terror at bay while he stares, holding you. You are afraid, deathly so — with a swift movement of your hand, he could easily twist your head to the side more than it is capable of taking, and your life would be over in seconds.

But he never takes the chance, no.

The longer you look up at him, the more you notice the way his eyes begin to grow so soft — they glisten in the light of the moon with the kind of fondness you would only be able to see from an artist drawn to his muse, a knight during a rendezvous with his noble sweetheart, a poet obsessively writing sonnets for his beloved.

That dollop of fondness for you only continued to swell in the weeks following your first encounter.

(He simply couldn’t get you out of his head.)

His lips press themselves into a thin line before he speaks.

“Do yourself a favor—“ for me, “—and stay out of trouble for now, alright?”

The voice that exits his lips is far more gentle now, hushed and almost affectionate. It’s a stark contrast to the way he’d threatened you and the Flags earlier in the Old World bar.

Slowly, he lets go of your cheek, taking a few steps back toward the balcony.

“Wait,” you surprise yourself, reaching a hand out to him, and he pauses in his tracks, his attention solely on you. “Will I see you again?”

(A part of you still want answers, after all.)

“...That depends,” he answers. “Will you let me?”

Taken aback by his question, you are unable to answer, and so he continues.

“I’ll see you again soon.”

There was no underlying threat behind his voice. Just a promise made certain.

And before you can ask about anything else, he is gone.

Not a moment during the few milliseconds that you blink is wasted — only the swishing of your cotton curtains with the gust of a breeze is visible before you, and before you know it, the King of Assassins has taken his leave as quickly and as quietly he had arrived.

This wouldn’t be the first instance in which you’d meet with him.

“…Psst— Earth to (Y/N)? Hello?”

The fog in your head immediately clears at the sound of Albatross’ voice.

“Huh?”

“What were you daydreamin’ about?” he asks, a cheeky grin decorating his face. “You’ve been pretty out of it lately, what, with the way you look and all—“

Bump!

“Ow!”

A quiet sigh escapes from Iceman’s lips as he takes the cigarette away from his mouth, having elbowed the blond a little too harshly. “Knock it off.” He seems to have sensed your current state of confusion, not about what Albatross said, but of the events that have occurred lately in your life.

(Not a single one of them knows about the fact that you’ve secretly been seeing the King of Assassins behind their backs.)

“I was just mentioning it out of concern, honest!” Albatross whines, rubbing his side.

You chuckle and ruffle his hair affectionately. “It’s alright, ‘Tross. I’m fine.”

“You sure?” This time, it’s Lippmann who asks. “You seem like you’ve been in your own head a lot as of late.”

Shaking your head, you smile.

“I’m fine, really.”

The evening hums with the typical clinking of glasses, alcohol buzzing through your veins as your friends fill the pool hall with their usual chatter. It had already been three months or so since the incident, and they seemed to be recovering quite well. Save for their major injuries, they seem to be back to normal, with Piano Man and Doc sharing a few drinks and Iceman and Albatross playing another round of billiards. Next to you is Lippmann, swirling around his whiskey in his glass before he turns to you with a small smile gracing his perfect lips.

“Hey,” he murmurs, squeezing your hand softly. “Walk with me for a moment? You look like you could use some fresh air.”

“...Okay.”

Not another word was shared between the both of you as you excuse yourselves from the rest of the group to exit the Old World bar, making your way to the entrance before walking down the streets with him. Shared laughter and stories echo throughout the quiet night, the streetlamps above you both casting shadows along the tranquil residential areas, stretching the peaceful atmosphere between you both. And after a while of talking to one another, which, admittedly helped calm your nerves a little from all the unease you’d been feeling lately—

“(Y/N)...?”

“Yeah?”

He chuckles to himself rather awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “This is really awkward… I mean, I had this whole thing planned out, and, well…” Lippmann faces you with a small smile — something so genuine that it couldn’t be mistaken for anything else. “I’d like to ask if you’d be willing to go out with me sometime…?”

…Oh.

Oh.

So now everything about the way he approached you made sense.

It was so obvious in the way he talked to you, so much more gentle in his words and mannerisms as opposed to when he was interacting with the rest of the Flags; obvious in the way he always offered to give you a ride home just to see you off safely; obvious in the way his gaze would direct itself to you first before anyone else in the group whenever he told stories or made jokes; obvious in the way he always took the seat next to yours, the way he would order the same drink as your own, how he never failed to smile whenever you did—

“Lippmann…” you begin slowly, “I… I’m sorry.”

That itself is enough to tell him everything he needed to know.

There’s nothing about him worthy of rejection — everything about him is perfect. But human feelings simply didn’t work that way, and reciprocation is always a gamble.

Ever the actor, he only smiles back at you. You can’t tell just how much he’s hiding behind it.

“It’s alright,” he says with a small nod. “Don’t be sorry. I’m just glad I finally have that out of my system.”

You smile back, bittersweet. “I hope this doesn’t change anything between us.”

He shakes his head and waves his hand, dismissing the thought immediately. “It won’t, I assure you. Though, I must ask… is there already someone?”

You find yourself a little taken aback by his question.

(Does the King of Assassins count?)

And then you shake your head no.

“...I see.”

An awkward silence befalls the both of you before he gestures to the way you both came from.

“Let’s head back, shall we?”

The rest of the night goes on as it usually would, and the weight of Lippmann’s confession from earlier doesn’t seem to lie heavy on either of you. If anything, he takes it better than most men would take it, and remains the same respectful friend toward you as the hours of darkness outside deepen.

You’re more than grateful to have a friend like him. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Your time together eventually ends, and before you know it, the cool air of the night brushes against your skin while you’re stepping away from the bar, bidding your friends farewell with a wave, letting your glance linger a little longer on Lippmann after what happened. They had insisted on walking you back home to your apartment, only for you to kindly turn them down, knowing that their tipsy selves would very likely argue over something trivial on the way back (not that you would have minded, though — any banter they had with one another was always light-hearted and never serious).

Now, with only the quiet rhythm of your footsteps, you allow yourself to get lost in your own thoughts once more.

The confession plays over and over again in your head. You grimace at the memory of it, silently wishing to yourself to never have to go through anything like that ever again.

It wasn’t that you didn’t care much for Lippmann at all. In fact, it was precisely because you care that you turned him down. You didn’t feel anything for him beyond the friendship you enjoyed with him, and there were never any romantic undertones or hints to the gestures and words you had directed at him. There was no use in forcing anything either — you didn’t want to hurt one of your dear friends, and the sting aches, not of regret but of knowing that he definitely deserved better than being rejected on what was supposed to be a happy Friday night for all of you. Lippmann deserves something real for someone as flawless as him, after all, and you didn’t want to selfishly take him for yourself without being able to give him that.

(You have no idea of it at the moment, and a life spent with Lippmann sounds pleasant to the ear, but the tug on your heart was being pulled by another already, even if not strong yet.)

Not long after, you are in your apartment again—

…only to find that a familiar blond is sitting on your couch.

And it isn’t the blond that had just confessed to you earlier that night.

“You’re back,” you state simply, your shoulders a little more relaxed now compared to when he first arrived on the railings of your balcony.

His footsteps were deadly silent entering your home, his general presence even quieter, and he sits with the grace and confidence of a polished killer even while he's only reading, but you no longer shake in his presence.

You’ve begun to look forward to his visits for some reason.

You don’t really understand why, but you choose not to at the same time.

“I am,” he responds, his eyes never leaving the small book of poetry in his hands.

Cautiously, you circle around him, trying to put some distance between you both before heading over to your kitchen to make yourself a cup of tea.

(How strange; you are making two.)

Your mind wanders yet again.

It’s officially been three months since the incident occurred, and here the King of Assassins was, lounging around in your living room as if he, too, lived in your space, visiting you almost every night for your company. The Flags had survived, and though you find yourself thankful for whatever miracle took place during the time of their supposed massacre, you still feel a sense of unease around the man in your room knowing that both you and your friends are supposed to be dead. After all, Paul Verlaine meant to erase you and the Flags from existence with the experience of a killer, cold and efficient, who never knew hesitation.

His words ring in your head again and again:

"I’m feeling merciful today, and so I’ll leave them alive, as you wish."

(Unbeknownst to you, that had been the first time he’d ever hesitated.)

Verlaine sits on your couch with his ankle atop his knee, cheek resting on his fist with his elbow supporting the weight on the arm of the couch. His eyes rove over the words in the book — your poetry book, one of the few that you keep on the coffee table — as you continue preparing some drinks for yourselves. If such a situation were under different circumstances in a different setting, the sight of it may have even been domestic, the room warm and bathed in the soft glow of your night lamps, garnished by the scent of fresh linen and the steam coming from brewing tea, and the atmosphere quiet with only the gentle breeze and the occasional chirps of the crickets outside to make for some late night ambience.

It doesn’t take long before your refreshments are ready, and your cold hands grasp one of the mugs tightly to try and soothe yourself for a moment.

And then he speaks up.

“You look well,” he muses aloud, and the observation somehow sends something of a cold shiver up your spine.

You hum, taking both mugs, trying to steady your hold as you place one in front of him and sit next to him on the couch, albeit putting some distance between you two.

“I could say the same about you.”

He hums, taking the mug and blowing on the steaming liquid for a moment before taking the first sip, savoring the calming taste and scent of your brewed chamomile.

The air between you two remains thin, and for a long time, not a single word is uttered between you both. For some reason, the silence helps your nerves ease up a little more before you gather the courage to speak.

“...Adam told me a little more about you.”

“Did he now?” There’s a slight edge to his voice that you choose to ignore. “What did the android tell you?”

Your lips press themselves into a thin line before you answer. “I… Well, he told me quite a bit about your targets — particularly the one back in the U.K.”

“Hm?” He raises a brow. “Ah, the one involving the queen?”

He’d said it so casually, too. There was an incident not too long ago at the coronation chamber in one of England’s cathedrals involving the assassination of three highly skilled and trained imperial guards, all of whom had their bones crushed and died of severe internal injuries shortly after. Like the documents you had read from before, there was no struggle seen from the victims — only that they were dealt with quickly. Not too long after came the assassination of the queen’s body double followed her ceremony, the event of the murder as swiftly as the manner in which the crown was placed on her head.

To think that both the British royal family and the Order of the Clocktower were both known to be impenetrable forces, and yet someone like him managed to sneak in and even kill people; it was befitting of his title as the King of Assassins.

You nod in response. “Yes, that one.”

“Don’t think much of it,” he coos at you, almost lullaby-like in tone. “That has nothing to do with you.”

Again, it goes quiet. And again, had the events from three months ago never occurred, you would have found your current situation with the assassin quite domestic.

“You haven’t asked me why yet.”

His words break the silence between you both.

You blink at him.

“Huh? Asked you what?”

“Why I didn’t take the chance,” Verlaine clarifies. “Why I let you live.”

Rendered speechless at him asking you why you have yet to ask him of what happened back then, you stare at your tea, slowly growing colder by the minute.

“...I figured somewhere down the line that I shouldn’t question good luck.”

He nods, placing the book of poetry down on the table.

“I see.”

After taking another sip of your drink, you set the mug down on the table and place your hands on your lap before looking up at him. If you’d been paying attention earlier, you would have been able to catch the slightest hint of a smirk playing on his lips, disappearing as fast as it had first etched itself onto his face.

Your curiosity gnaws at you the more you bite back at it to hold yourself from asking any more than necessary.

“...If I asked you now, would you still answer?”

Yet your curiosity, as always, remains stubborn in its endeavor.

He chuckles — the sound is melodic, but his timbre is empty. For a faint second, you find yourself captivated by his short-lived laugh, appropriate to his handsome face. Then, he turns to face you with a much gentler version of that expression he first looked at you with. If he was considering your existence during the first meeting, now he was leaning into appreciating it a little more.

Not to your knowledge, however.

“Sweet thing,” he murmurs into his mug, drinking his tea before setting it down. “Does it really matter now? Would you rather I have made quick work of you and your friends?”

“I’d at least like to know the reason behind why you spared me entirely.”

Verlaine tilts his head, resting his arm on top of the couch’s headrest. ��Curious little one, aren’t you?”

You gulp and look down, unsure of how to respond.

“I… well… I just want to know, is all.” You fiddle with the hem of your shirt, feeling small under his gaze. “And to answer both your questions: no and no, but I would rather try to understand. You keep coming back here, and I’ve eventually welcomed you into my home for the past few months of your returns. I just want to put a reason behind your actions to put myself at peace.”

That, you think, and I want to get to know you beyond your name on newspapers and wanted lists.

His brows furrow. “Don’t you think your friends would be upset if they knew about how you’re willingly trying to come closer to me?”

“Then why do you visit me every night?”

Suddenly, he is rendered silent. What answer does he have to a question he’s never thought of entertaining?

Truthfully, it was because of the innocent look your expression had that day that he lost all will to commit the massacre then and there. How interesting it was to him, both your reasoning and your eyes, able to cease an act of violence completely.

“...Would you like me to stop?”

The conversation is in circles — no questions are answered, only rebuttals are offered.

Thus, you decide to end that.

“...No,” you whisper, a little timidly now. “I must admit, I’ve learned to expect your presence every night when I come back home. It almost feels empty without you in it… Like I’ve learned to look forward to your visits.”

His heart stutters at your words. What?

“Are you hearing yourself right now?” he scoffs, looking down at you despite you never returning his gaze.

Slowly, you reach your hand out to his own, taking his gloved one in yours. His gloves are a pristine hue of white, not a stain or a single inkling of discoloration present, and your fingers brush over his covered knuckles so gingerly, much the same way his fingers had brushed themselves along your cheek the night he first met you by your bedroom balcony. It’s a tender, almost intimate gesture coming from you — the kind of gentleness he never thought he was deserving of nor something he’d be able to experience from a human being.

“...You’re not afraid,” he mutters.

“Not as much as I was when I first met you.”

Little by little, your palm meets his, and the size difference between your hands nearly makes him want to squeeze yours. It’s softer, far more delicate, and much more innocent compared to his own. How ironic that the hand that has taken the lives of many, waged destruction and ruin across multiple organizations and different people, is now so tenderly pressed against yours.

And with a bold move, you slot your fingers between his longer ones, your palm fully fitted to his.

His breath hitches in his throat at your actions.

For a moment, he considers doing the same, and you can see the way his fingers twitch, knuckles bending ever so slightly in order to mirror your movements—

Then he stops.

And he pulls his hand away.

No. He can’t let this continue. An inhuman being cannot find something as human as love in another person.

Paul Verlaine is a murderer, after all — a monster whose only purpose to serve in life is to take and take. Inside him brews a storm that he realizes is far too tumultuous for anyone to subdue, and such an innocent soul as yourself is deserving of something worthy of your fondness and endearment, of your love. After all, no matter how much he yearns for a sense of humanity, he will never receive it, and a beast such as himself will never be deserving of a beauty such as you.

He has nothing to his name — no friendships or family held any value to him because he had none; the only names he had learned to familiarize himself with belonged to the lives he had taken, and even then, they were only for the briefest periods of time, used as information to make the kill; his hands were tainted in blood due to his life as an assassin; and he knew, deep down he knew of no one who would be willing to share their love with him in the same way others — human beings — would receive it.

Someone— rather something made to kill is not worthy of your attention, much less your affections.

He knows he’ll never be able to measure up to the other blond you call your friend. Fate was cruel enough to allow their paths to align, even if violently by his own hand, because in him, he saw the reflection of someone he could never be for you.

“Paul…?” you call, and goodness, it’s the first time he’s ever heard his name on your tongue. You call him so sweetly, it almost makes him forget about the way his name would be uttered with malice and spite by the vast majority of people he’s come across in his life.

“Paul,” you call again, a little more worried now that he isn’t as responsive as he usually is. “What’s wrong?”

He stays silent for a good moment before answering.

“It seems I’ve made quite the grave mistake.” He chuckles bitterly. “It isn’t a good idea for us to continue.”

You retract your hand, hesitant to ask, but you do so anyway. “What do you mean…?”

“(Y/N),” he breathes out your name, speaking it in an almost hazy manner, “you shouldn’t keep letting me in like this.”

A frown makes its way to your features. “Why is that?”

Abruptly, he stands.

“You wouldn’t understand.” You nearly wince at how sharp his tone had become once more. “You… a human being like you shouldn’t keep having to entertain a non-human like myself.”

Panic begins to pool in your chest, the weight of his words lingering heavily in the air. “What are you talking about?” And then you freeze. “Is… is this about that again…?”

That.

He’d opened up to you only recently about his origins — where he came from, how he came to be, what he was made for — and you came to accept him wholeheartedly still. To you, his past didn’t matter. Never did, never will. You’ve become aware of his internal struggles, of coming to terms with accepting that he was fundamentally not like everyone else around him, that even if he was created to be strong and physically perfect, he would still forever be incompetent and hollow inside, a mere shell housing no soul.

A bringer of war he was born, and a bringer of war he will always be. And a bringer of war had no business trying to earn your love.

“Paul,” you begin slowly, taking his hand in yours and squeezing it tightly. “You know I don’t care for any of that—”

His voice comes out as an aggravated hiss and he glares at you — something he’s never done before, not even during your first meeting when he had every intent (rather, almost every intent) to kill you.

"Don’t."

Your shoulders drop and the expression on your face nearly weakens his resolve.

“...Paul?” you call one last time, shakier now. God, the things he’d do to keep hearing you say his name like that, but he’s well-aware of the fact that his name does not deserve to have a place on your tongue. “Paul, wait, don’t go.”

Yet before you are able to stop him, he leaves the same way he had first entered your abode all those months ago — through the bedroom balcony.

You aren’t sure if he’s ever going to come back, and there is a painful stab to your chest as you realize that.

That ache in your heart never fully goes away, even months after Paul’s disappearance. It dulls itself every now and then, usually quieting down into a throb, but the pain of him leaving you ironically never leaves.

Your home isn’t the same anymore after he’s vanished — you’d become so used to his presence that your space now feels much closer to being the apartment it was when you’d first moved in: empty and somber. Every night, not to the knowledge of the Flags, you’d take a stroll around Yokohama in a desperate attempt to search for him despite being well-aware of the fact that both your friends and the man you’d been having secret rendezvous with have become sworn enemies over half a year ago due to the incident that occurred.

It hurts, the constant “what-if”s plaguing your mind and having been left in the dark by Paul, whom you’d grown so unusually close to in the times you’d spent together.

“(Y/N)?” This time, it’s Iceman’s voice that breaks you out of your own head. “Are you alright?”

You remain quiet for a while, mulling over your own thoughts until—

“Maybe they just had too many drinks tonight— ow!”

Cue Doc poking Albatross’ side with the needle of his medical syringe.

“I’m alright,” you murmur before deciding to change the topic. “You’re always asking about me, though… How about all of you? How have you guys been? Y’know, since…”

There is no mention of what you are referencing, but they all know.

“The boss said our injuries have already long since healed,” Lippmann answers with a smile. “Everything’s been alright on our end, but…”

“But…?”

Piano Man shares a glance with everyone else, then looks at you. The air in the bar becomes heavier than usual, and even with the soft hum of jazz music in the background, the tension only gets thicker by the second.

“...We were planning to start looking for him. For our sake and everyone else’s safety.”

“Him?”

“Paul Verlaine.” An uncomfortable silence befalls your group. “If we don’t start looking for him now, he might just come back for us.”

You don’t even realize you’re gripping the glass in your hand tight until the condensation slips between your fingers. You’ll admit that in over the half-year that passed since you’d first had your secret meetings with Paul, you eventually came to forget the fact that he and your friends had bad blood going on with each other.

The plan was to keep it a secret for as long as possible, after all. It was a selfish, selfish wish, but you couldn’t help it—

Not when you’d also found yourself falling for him in the shared, and especially intimate times you’d spent together.

“...Maybe we should just leave him alone,” you respond, trying to keep it as casual as possible. “He did spare our lives, after all.”

Albatross cackles, pausing mid-sip. "You serious, (Y/N)? Leave him alone?"

“He let us live,” you argue, but your attempt to not sound as defensive slowly begins to falter under your temper, built up from the lack of Paul’s presence over the past few months that followed since his disappearance from your life. “He hasn’t done anything to any of since, including Chuuya. Maybe he’s left us alone. That’s already more than what everyone else got.”

“You think that means we’re still safe?” Doc retorts, standing up from where he was initially seated.

No. No, it didn’t mean all of you were safe, but you — you were confident that you were. It was all because Paul had always come back to you. Time and time again, night after night, before the next day would rise, he would always come back to you. Not them. You.

A slow exhale leaves your lips and you sigh. “I just don’t think chasing after him would be a good idea.”

Maybe, just maybe, if he came back, you could convince him to—

“What are you saying, (Y/N)?” Piano Man frowns, clearly in disapproval of what you are suggesting.

“I’m saying we shouldn’t have to go after him considering what happened to all of you. He let us go, didn’t he?” you finally argue, pushing your glass away from yourself.

Lippmann holds your shoulder in an attempt to calm you down, but the same frown on Piano Man’s face is mirrored in his own expression. “That doesn’t sound like you, (Y/N). Where is this coming from?”

You shrug your shoulders, mainly to shove his hand off with how unnecessarily irritated you were becoming, but also to force the nonchalance you were fighting so hard to keep. “I don’t know.” You pause. “Listen, I care about all of you, alright? But I’m also tired of going after the things that shouldn’t concern us anymore—”

"Shouldn’t concern us?" Piano Man scoffs, the look on his face now darkening. “(Y/N), he tried to kill us—”

“But he didn’t, did he?”

The tension between all of you swells into something so thick that, for the first few moments, nobody in the room dares to make a move.

Lippmann, however, is the first to cut it.

“You’re acting like you know something we don’t.”

You stiffen before standing up from your seat and leaving a few bills on the table for the drinks you had earlier. “...I just don’t want to start a fight we have almost no chances of winning right now. Neither do I want you to gamble away your lives for a single person.” There is a pause in your statement before you continue, sincerity lacing your words this time. “I can’t handle being like this anymore — having to chase after a life lived so… so dangerously.”

And just like that, as the night wears on, you begin to feel the unbearable crack in the trust you’d always shared with them.

They’d understand someday, you hope to yourself. Perhaps not now, but when things have settled down and when you are ready.

(It’s the last time you’ll ever see them again. For now, at least.)

“...I didn’t think you would return.”

Your voice cracks as you speak, and tears blur your vision as you race towards him. There was no silence held between the both of you, no moment of reflection before you rushed into his arms. Instinctively, he holds himself out for you and lets you crash into him, your face nuzzling the crook of his neck, your body relishing in his warmth as he wraps himself around you for a tight embrace. In the process, he takes off his hat, his eyes shutting closed as he nuzzles his nose into the crown of your head.

“Shh, shh…” he whispers, hushing and cooing at you softly to soothe your sobs. “I’m here.”

Not once in his life had he ever felt this wanted before. He had always known he was replaceable, maybe not easily so, but he was, and yet here you were, crying like a child who had lost and found their precious stuffed toy because you had no idea whether or not he would come back to you.

“I thought… I thought you weren’t—” you hiccup, pulling your head away as you look up at him, the moonlight accentuating the gloss of your eyes.

Ever so tenderly, he holds your face in his hands, wiping your tears away with his thumbs before pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose — the both of you are well-aware that the action comes off as unexpected and completely new, but it isn’t unwelcome, and it comes as it is so naturally that it doesn’t feel unusual. So, he carries on, pressing kisses all over your face, murmuring whispers of sweet nothing in the process while peppering you in his affections.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into your forehead, pressing one last kiss there, letting his lips linger a little longer. “I’m sorry… I was wrong to run from it all — from you. It’ll never happen again, I promise.”

“...I don’t think my heart would be able to take it if it does.”

His own heart aches at your response.

And when you finally, finally lean up to kiss him, his brain goes haywire, unable to process anything. Your soft palms cup his face so lovingly and your lips feel so mellow against his own, he finds his vision going hazy and his heart thumping quicker than he’s ever remembered it to be capable of.

(The last time his heart beat this quickly was when he made his first kill — even then, he no longer remembers anything of it, except that whatever this is he is experiencing with you is far more pleasant.)

He’s stiff at first, even when you move your lips to guide him, one of your hands leading his own to hold you, allowing and giving him the freedom to react as he pleases. He could take the opportunity to crush your ribs at an instant, make things quick for you by letting you enjoy the moment as you do whatever you desire to distract you, but he can’t bring himself to, not when he wants to enjoy it with you, too.

(And certainly not when he wants to keep you all to himself.)

When you pull apart for a brief moment to allow yourselves to catch your breaths, your fingers slip beneath the fabric of his gloved hand—

“What are you doing?” he hisses, pulling back slightly when he senses you trying to take them off.

He doesn’t mean for it to come off that way, but really, you don’t deserve to have his tainted hands touch you — not without at least a layer of a barrier between his skin and your own.

“Huh?” You blink. “What’s wrong…?”

The question sounds so innocent, and he nearly melts on the spot when it is accompanied by the curious tilt of your head. He can’t find it in himself to tell you.

So, when he doesn’t answer, you continue with languid movements, slipping his gloves off of his hands, setting them aside on the bedside table. His hands are warm and oh-so soft — you would think that an assassin like him would have hands as calloused as the bark of a tree from the amount of lives he’s taken, but his ability gave him the title of a king for a reason, and for that same reason, his hands remain as pristine as they are.

“…Here.”

And when you bring his palm up to your neck, he’s done for. You’re far too trusting, letting a man like him hold you this way, in such a vulnerable position, but goodness, he can’t help the way his breath stutters at the sight when he sees you look up at him as if you were offering him your own life.

Hell, if you really were, he was going to take it.

And you let him.

Not a moment is wasted when he leans down to press his lips to your own, a breathy sigh coupled with a heady moan escaping his lips as he savors the feel of your skin beneath his touch during the kiss. Astonishment is present on your expression for just a brief second before you melt into him with the sweetest whine, your arms finding purchase on his broad shoulders, wrapping themselves around his neck while he pushes himself against you because it’s not enough for him — he finds himself wanting more.

“Paul,” you mewl, his fingers slowly trailing up your cheeks. He doesn’t let up — he is far too consumed by a hunger that can only be satiated by you.

Slowly, your knees buckle. His stronger arms wrap themselves around you to keep you upright while your hands grasp onto the soft locks of his hair, and in the process, you find your bodies pressed together so intimately that he can’t help but growl at the feeling because you’re just so damn soft compared to himself.

And then you stumble, the back of your knees hitting the edge of your bed, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t dare pull away, slowly guiding you to sit down and urging you to move back on the mattress, giving him the space to crawl and take his place on top, and oh, letting his hand dwarf your own when he holds one of them in his hair, your grip tight and needy, bringing him down over and over again to meet his lips with yours.

When you whimper, lips swollen and pursed as you gaze at him with glossy eyes, glazed over with a sheen of the same kind of yearning he has for you, he nearly snaps.

It takes everything in him to be gentle — to hold back in fear of hurting you because you tempt him so.

“It’s okay,” you coo, his hands trembling as they hold you.

He can only sigh and bury his nose into the side of your neck, nuzzling you there with the softest kiss. “You were supposed to be afraid of me.”

You stifle a giggle, sitting up to cup his face in your hands again.

“How can I be,” your tone is as soft as the sheets beneath you, “when you hold me with the kind of gentleness I’ve yet to see from another man?”

Something in his chest clenches at your words. The way you talk about him so endearingly, almost lovestruck and in a daze (and you are), has him dizzy with the most amorous haze. You speak of him as if he were the most deserving being of your love when he himself knows that every single moment he has with you is out of his own selfish desire to have you all to himself.

You think he deserves it anyway. The same can be said for you as well, after all.

He holds your hands in his own, kissing your knuckles fondly before you intertwine your fingers with his. The atmosphere becomes a little more playful when you try to flip your position, your gesture affectionate and skittish.

But he’s stronger — and he uses that strength of his to grab you by your waist, positioning himself beneath you, sitting against the headboard while he settles you onto his lap, your legs parted to accommodate his thighs. Sensing your hesitation, he grunts and brings you down onto him, and you stiffen at the sensation for a moment when he presses his hand against the small of your back.

To have the King of Assassins himself be the very throne you sit upon was quite the statement on its own.

He wastes no time and effort, capturing your lips in his own again with the kind of greed you’ve never experienced before, him gripping your hips to keep you in place, and—

“Paul—!” you whimper, and his hands rough as they guide you to roll yourself against him, the heat of his body radiating to match your own. He sighs yet again, his kisses fervent as he grinds you on his lap, the world around him fading away as the haze of the moment begins to sit and linger, dizzying him.

The air around you grows hot and heavy, and you make an attempt to put some space between you both, only for that same attempt to be refuted, shot down quicker than you are able to proceed with the act.

“Don’t you dare,” he groans with a guttural undertone — a warning to keep you still. Immediately, his voice pushes you deep into compliance, rendering you malleable and submissive. You’ve gone too far into your shared bliss with him to even consider moving away from such an intimate position, and upon realizing such, his need to fan the fire teasing both him and yourself dwindles down into something so much more gentle. “Please…” A breathy sigh follows, and he finds himself embracing you close to press your chest against his own.

And when your hands move up to grip his hair once more, supporting yourself as he moves beneath you so desperately, rutting up against you like he’s been starved of human touch for the longest time (and he has), the world around you two burns away. Flames lap at the pit of your stomach when his right hand moves beneath your pajamas, pressing his warm palm against the soft area of your belly, right where that oh-so delicious feeling is licking at your insides as you both give in to the friction.

How ironic that his hands, made solely to kill, were now so gingerly holding you like this, embracing, squeezing and fondling every part of you like a man having his final night with his beloved.

(You both know this won’t be your last.)

Your toes curl and you wrap your thighs around his waist, encouraging him to go further by rocking your hips in tandem with his own as a response, lips caught in an eager lock. One of your hands finds its way down the expanse of his chest, and the other follows. The heat has become too much for you to bear — you want his tie out of the way (you convince yourself and say that he needs to breathe a little more, after all), maybe pop open a few buttons (the atmosphere has become too difficult to soak in with so many layers in the way), slide his waistcoat off (perhaps his belt as well)—

But he stops you.

He holds your wandering hand in his own, looking down at you with his face so close to yours, your breaths mingling.

His expression says enough — he isn’t worthy of this, of having you.

Yet you think he deserving, and that is all that matters.

So, you decide to take it slow instead. Languid kisses with whispers of the sweetest nothings in between, pulling his ribbon out of his hair and undoing his braid to allow his pale blonde waves to cascade down his back and shoulders. It’s an intimate gesture; you undo him so lovingly, and in turn, he allows himself to be undone for you.

His lips continue to chase yours, desperate, barely letting you breathe when you pull away every other moment for some air, but he holds onto you like he’s afraid you’ll leave. You don’t say anything about it — you only indulge in his desperation, soothing that turmoil boiling inside him that he himself cannot tame.

He doesn’t understand anything, doesn’t understand the kind of yearning he feels to have you in the most primal way possible, but he gives in anyway. For all the struggles he’s had with his own humanity, you sharing your own with him is something he will gladly take and take so as long as you are always willing to give.

(He thinks he has learned to love you. Has he really?)

And slowly, almost agonizingly so, he guides you onto your back, propping your head onto the softest pillow there is, gently leading your thighs to wrap around his waist as he continues to roll his hips against yours. You can’t help the little whines he swallows, his hair tickling your nose when he trails his kisses down to your chin, then your throat, nipping at your skin before nuzzling at your chest so affectionately, almost as if he were asking for your permission. His arousal is present — you can feel his longing and ache as much as you feel your own, and you allow him to take control, giving him the freedom to yield to perhaps the most vulnerable, most humane way to express himself right now.

Paul Verlaine was never a stranger to bedding anyone, and whenever he did, it was always first and foremost to take something for his gain — an exchange of information, important valuables for a mission, a person’s life. His body was a tool, and such a tool, as he was taught, was always useful in his line of work as an assassin, a pretender of pleasure and promises, but a harbinger of death and destruction.

You, however… you were the exception.

With you, he simply wanted to give.

And if he were to take (like he is now), it would only be because you’d be the first to give.

Either way, both would be solely for the self-centered reason that he wanted you for you – not for any sort of intel, not to take your life, God no, but because he simply wanted you.

Wordlessly, you say yes, pressing a kiss to his scalp.

When his mouth goes lower and lower, removing each article of clothing from you so delicately, casting them aside and onto the floor, he nuzzles at your abdomen next, pressing another heated kiss right below your navel.

“If you’ll let me have you…” he breathes, looking up at you with the faint glow of the moon illuminating the beautiful brown hues of his eyes. “May I…?”

You say nothing, not wanting to ruin the moment. Instead, give your answer by raising your hips, and his fingers immediately tug at the waistband of your bottoms to tug it down, starved and eager. He kisses the damp patch on the only piece of clothing left to cover whatever modesty you have left, whispering an amorous “thank you”, and before you know it, his arm is draped over your stomach, keeping you down, and your grip on his hair is tight. He keeps your lower half pinned to the bed coupled with an obnoxious slurp every now and then, rasping declarations of his affections towards you right there between your legs, his hair a mess as you thrash your feet around and his mouth glossed in your essence—

Only for him to use his ability to keep you down.

“Shh,” he murmurs between your legs, pressing an open-mouthed kiss right where your slick spills just to taste you, “there you go, there you go…”

A short-lived cry of his name comes messily from your lips as you clutch onto his soft hair, head digging into the pillows from being thrown back while you squirm (or, at least try to). “I— I can’t—“

“Mon cœur, stay,” he begs yet again, his voice simmering into the softest growl; he found more pleasure in devouring you, after all — to have your taste on his tongue is something only he is so fortunate to have. “I'll never leave again, I promise; I’d sooner stop the beating of my own heart than have the heart in front of me move away.”

Somehow, you have a feeling that there’s more to his words than he means, that he isn’t just speaking from the place between your legs, but from the very depths of the darkest parts of his soul — a place where no one else would be capable of reaching but you.

He feels (and is) inhuman enough as is. To have his heart be ripped from his grasp would make him cease to find reason in continuing to exist. After all, what purpose would there be for a man like him, born without a soul, if his heart were to be taken from his hands?

(Born without a soul… and yet, with the way he kisses you so fervently and worships each curve of your body, he has done nothing but convince you otherwise.)

In response, you can only whine and whimper, grabbing onto his locks tight, earning a quiet moan from his lips as he continues to enjoy himself, loving on you in every way he can.

The rest of the hours that follow are hours full of bliss — one movement blurs into the next and the sounds you both make are shameless, breaths mingling and voices calling out for each other. All you can recall clearly are the moments in which your legs wrap around him tight, his fingers intertwining with your own as he presses you deep into the sheets, and the shared, delicious warmth that blooms into the fiery pits of your stomach after.

Even then, he doesn’t stop. He pants your name into your ear like it’s the only thing he can say, and he says it so fondly and so lovingly, it could almost be mistaken for a prayer.

At this point, heaven may as well know your name.

When he finishes, his tongue lathering itself along your most sensitive parts, he gives you one last feverish kiss right where he’d finished his meal before claiming his position atop you once more. Paul nudges at your throat with his nose, sighing shakily as you hold him and slowly undo the belt keeping his pants up, deft fingers ginger with their movements, a reflection of the way you feel for the man above you.

“...Run away with me.”

You blink and tilt your head as he lifts his own to meet your confused gaze.

“Paul…”

“Won’t you run away with me?” he asks, his voice dwindling into a passionate whisper as his lips meet yours for the briefest moment, short but tender. “We can live together, you and I, off to somewhere kinder… perhaps in a small place of our own in the French countryside where no one else can bother us, where you’ll be free to do as you please. Our lives could have another fresh start and you won’t have to worry about the rest of the world anymore — not while I’m here.” He pauses, brushing his knuckles along the soft apple of your cheek. “I’ll protect you and take care of you… I swear…”

Having his entire existence founded upon being born essentially as a laboratory experiment, the only purpose he knew of growing up was for anything other than himself — to be an assassin, a killer, a rabid dog, a weapon of war, and to never experience the kind of autonomy that every other human being was born with, all because he was created with 2,383 lines of code, and not a soul (still, you are not convinced, not with the way he makes love to you that very same night). That being said, for once, Paul Verlaine decides that he’s had enough. He will continue to exist as he knows, for the sake of anything other than himself as he believes it to be, but this time around, it will be because he has learned to love you, and he will live with the purpose of dedicating himself to you wholly.

(He will soon come to accept his autonomy because of you.)

You don’t give him any words in response, simply pulling him down by the collar with the sweetest moan, gripping his hair as your breaths mingle together and your bodies bridge themselves together in the most humane way you both know how. He has his answer.

Paul Verlaine loves you so.

He knows he’ll wage war and conflict with him wherever he goes — born of violence, rooted in hatred, and alive by spite. But all of that changes every single time your lips part to whisper the softest phrases in his ear or when your fingers hold his face like he’s the most delicate being in the world, because amidst the heaviness of all that innate hostility he carries, there is you, and he doesn’t know it yet, but you’ll always be there to soothe him and bring him the tranquility he’s been craving his whole life.

You make him feel more than what he was created to be, and he allows himself to linger in your humanity which you share with him no matter how many times he tries to reject it. He’ll feel undeserving, incompatible, yet he’ll melt into it anyway, utterly and stupidly smitten by you.

A bringer of war he may be, but that long-held burden dissipates in your presence because you never fail to bring his restless mind and heavy heart a sense of peace.

a/n: i imagine verlaine would want to be with someone who exudes warmth in any way possible, but also a part of me thinks that he’d lean towards being a protector of sorts (given his character in stormbringer), so that desire borders on wanting someone who exhibits some kind of innocence or naiveté — someone who can ground him when he’s too far off into his own head every now and then (can you guys tell how much i love verlaine yet?) but yeah, this was a very experimental work for me with a lot of firsts, so i’m a bit nervous as to how this one will be received (though it’s def my favorite one i’ve written so far!)

anyway, again, happy birthday, paul! 🥳 i hope all of you enjoyed reading this one shot as much as i enjoyed writing it!

#bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs #bsd #port mafia #stormbringer #bsd stormbringer #bsd verlaine #bsd paul verlaine #paul verlaine #verlaine x reader #anime #manga #anime and manga

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shurup-overt · 3 months ago

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don't ever let go of what's beloved

these bastards made me cry! THRICE!!

@mari-lair I wanna thank you from the bottom of my heart, also this will be LONG. I'm sorry skdjkls

SPOILERS UP TO CH27 BELOW

(not super detailed but still can ruin the experience)

I'VE FINALLY read ycit after half a year of putting it off it just because I "didn't like the idea of akane being dead&doomed" skslsks I was wayy too superstitious. anyway I'm glad I stopped being stubborn

IT WAS HELL OF A RIDE (positive) and I finished it (27 chapters at that moment) looking like nene in ch107

I'm not even joking

where do I even begin.

the amount of research and thought and love poured into the fic is INSANE. it's always so nice to feel the author's passion through the work and this one overflows with it.

am I being too sappy? I dunno, I speak what's on my mind lol!!

as I said, it's noticeable that it's written with so so much love to the characters and this love is INFECTIOUS!! I didn't know I'd get attached to aka, so fast too. it's like my thought process was almost the same as teru's all the way through chapters 0-20 lmaoo

a small digression from the main topic - the thing is, what I wait for the most in tbhk is a flashback about terukane's first meeting & how the glasses were made. ofc there's always a possibility they were made by teru just for fun and as a way to make akane owe him (although this might be ooc) but the possibility of it is thankfully really really small because teru looks at them and handles the topic very gently. too gently for it to be just a forced prank. also akane has been keeping them with him on his bead near his head while sleeping (not even the bedside table or smth! who the hell keeps their glasses with them on the bed at night?? <- comes from a glasses person)

so, especially because of teru's wording ("he said he wanted to live his life like he used to"), I've been STRESSING over the possibility of akane BEGGING teru for help there, like what if he was struggling with switching forms at first and hence wasn't seen by students? what if the clock keepers didn't explain him almost anything about the supernatural world and so he was scared and confused? what if teru cornered him there and he had to prove he's human? (by the warmth of a touch?) what if he cried? what if teru comforted him? (or tried to lol) what if there were more struggles??

and so I was soo glad to see this topic being expanded!! I know it's an au and all (and the contract's gone worse here) but what I mean is, I'm glad I'm not the only one who thinks about it!! reading akane's backstory was Painful As Heck but really Good.

my godd I wish the boy had some comfort. I can't look at ycit akane because I start tearing up immediately.

"I hope akane managed to use the bill" "I hope the seals helped at least a bit" I HOPE SO TOO. JESUS. THE POOR BOY WAS LEFT ALL ALONE WITH A TERRIFYING KNOWLEDGE AND THE TWO DIDN'T EVEN SAY GOODBYE TO EACH OTHER PROPERLY

and his backstory hasn't even been fully revealed yet. I feel like I'll die when that time comes. shaking

alright I don't wanna whine here too much now moving on-

this idiot. /affectionate

the attention to the smallest details!!!!

the amount of canon things implemented?? HELLO? I mean it's natural to expect a canon character act according to canon but it's the first time (I think??) I've noticed SO MUCH small facts THOUGHT THROUGH and carefully weaven into the fic to fit the narrative perfectly. sometimes they're really small and almost insignificant but it's like finding easter eggs!!! it fills me with so much joy to feel the love to the kids through the writing (I repeat it again ahahaha). teru's complicated (VERY MUCH SO) feelings towards his father, akane liking raspberry sweets, akane (and aka) liking when pride of a certain someone ( ^^ ) shatters in front of them and their facade falls, teru itching to jump headfirst into research as soon as there's a reason to mess with exorcist tools and invent something (oh I so adore this in canon I can probably ramble about this a lot), teru being eager to play in the snow, teru covering his face when he cries!!!! and that's just the things I remember right now THERE WAS A LOT MORE

it all makes me point at the screen with an "AH!!" expression and think "YES THAT'S MY BOY/GIRL!!"

YAKO AND TSUCHIGOMORI TOO!! I was so glad to see yako being involved so much and her character handled perfectly with all her traits and quirks and sillyness /affectionate hehe I love her so much and although tsuchigomori hasn't showed up as much, reading the scenes with him was a delight as well

also when I said about the passion, I meant not only the love to the fic's main cast, but also the passion to analyze the og medium itself as a whole. (am I making sense? I don't want to sound too creepy) explaining myself: take aka: his character, his quirks, his abilities, his drama, worries and experiences - for it all to be as deep and believable ( = excellent) as it is, it was necessary to take all the smallest bits about ghosts' and supernaturals' mindset we have in canon, be it hanako or sousuke or mitsuba etc, analyze it, and make aka one of their kind but still very much unique and closer to akane than to them, even though he doesn't remember being him. even if you didn't do what I said entirely on purpose, I'm just amazed by how aka is written. it's awesome

squeezes him.

thank you for being the extremely stubborn "leech" you are. mwah

aidairo sadly have given us very little info about exorcism and supernaturals in general (I'm biting the table as we speak) and the way you still took the crumbs, thought them through, added bits here and there, and made it all work perfectly is just amazing. I was overjoyed to read about mimics, other kinds of supernaturals, how spiritual energy feels, how touching a ghost feels in detail, weakening seals, blood pacts, boundaries, etc etc. it's like it's all canon, it doesn't make the reader question it whatsoever, so well-made. I'm clapping.

the description says you've never written a teru pov before and I'd say you nailed it from the very beginning!! you understand his mindset so deeply, reading your works is the best experience. the picky bitch in my ear never goes "he would not say that" and instead is just as amazed as I am

the first chapters before the bonding are HEAVY as heck. they're extremely hard to binge read but I mean this as a good thing. they're extremely painful by just how realistically they are written, so good you can't help but sync with teru and feel the same emotions as he does. And his life is SHIT at that moment so I was SUFFERING with him both the first and the second going through the chapters :'D again though, it's not bad, it's the opposite - it makes the happy moments thrice as good and the overall bonding brings A LOT of warmth. I feel like it healed me in a way after punching me in the stomach 10 chapters in a row

also I love it so much just how much the fic focuses on teru's everyday life before the manga's main plot. I mean, well yeah, it's a 14-15yo teru pov, but still. so detailed, filled me with warmth.

*slaps roof of ycit* this bad boy can fit SO MANY fun ideas and good concepts in it

seriously, the range is insane. a questionnaire, a quarrel (multiple), siblings talk, beach episode, dancing, hugging, both crying, possession?? hello?? BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE! summer festival, sleeping on the other, fighting for the other, fighting together, even working in food service together (aka the thing I'd expect out of a trkn fic the least lol). the list goes on. and despite how bizarre and random it sounds out of context, nothing from it feels like a filler, everything fits into the plot perfectly. I have no words mari how are you doing that

ever since I've read the bloodpact chapter, I was worried about how encounters with mimics will go from now on because now aka can go anywhere and, how it was stated before, aka's and a mimic's energy feel the same… the boys will need to come up with a strategy of some sort (which is tricky if mimics learn from the memories) ourghh makes my head hurt! but in a good way. or will mimics struggle picking a target between aka and teru now? what if they're weaker when faced by multiple opponents because of that? that would be fortunate. anyway! mimics leap at the target eventually, so that eases the task. and whether the boys encounter them or not, they will have each other's backs, and it warms my heart.

I've wanderend off the main topic again, oops. as you see, the fic made me think of all sorts of things lol and it's an incredibly good sign.

what if teru did take a picture of the swing set in ch13…..... ourghh I don't even know if it'd be better or worse...... it's over now though, so I'm glad either way

and ch27 has destroyed and rebuilt me several times I think .

I drew this before ch28 but then it came out and oh boy. I don't even know what to say. Good for them. so proud of them

I HAD SEVERAL SONGS FOR THIS but I don't want to make this too overwhelming so I've tried to pick the faves among faves (still kind of failed so . no pressure)

Bullet by Saint Motel (lyrics) for teruaka

The Song with Five Names a.k.a. Soapbox Tao a.k.a. Checkmate Atheists! a.k.a. Neospace Government (A.K.A. You Can Never Know) by Will Wood and the Tapeworms (lyrics) for aka - this one may be too extreme. it kinda clicked for me but I might be delusional

quiet room by ewe (has eng subtitles) for teruaka - makes me feel things similar to the ones 'therefore you and me' does

Yakusoku no Overture by Toki Shunichi (akane's VA hehe) - I haven't found a full version of this arrangement on youtube but it should be on spotify? or other streaming platforms I'm pretty sure? sadly, I've only found a russian translation (as unusual as it is lol) so I've tried to adapt it in english here, hope it looks right!

I might be delusional here sdslkds but what's certain is that I enjoyed the fic all the way from the start. thank you for creating this, truly

p.s.: please let me know if I made you in any way uncomfortable. I myself didn't expect to write so much; I only wanted to express my gratitude but this might be overwhelming. (I'm a very anxious person so I felt like I needed to say this sdskldj) you aren't obliged to respond in any way and this isn't me asking you to continue working on the fic. just saying thank you for the things you've made

that's it! wishing you a great day :)

#THIS DECEMBER I'LL REMEMBER WANT YOU TO SEE IT WHEN I DO UUUOURGHRHR #ok I'm normal #consider this an ao3 comment but uhh with pictures #jshk #tbhk #terukane #minamoto teru #aoi akane #go read ycit if you haven't #shurup scribbles

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 9 months ago

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Office Space 3

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: you’re an assistant to private and corporate investigator, Nick Fowler, and find yourself brought into the fold of his shady professional life.

Characters: Nick Fowler, Jonathan Pine, this reader is known as Elfie.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼

Girls’ night leaves you wanting. The single appletini has you less than content but you know better than to push your limit. Not when you have to face work the next day. You’re even more put off by the man who sent the complementary drinks; Dizzie’s boss.

It feels like he’s trespassing, even if he keeps his distance. You are all well aware of the presence of him and his colleagues. Rosie is flustered and Billie is further demotivated by the looming shadow of the workplace she sought to forget. A grey cloud dampens the long-awaited get together. Maybe next time you’ll try somewhere new.

You leave at a reasonable time, just after Georgie’s early departure. You feel lame for it. Even if you’re not due at the office until noon, the impromptu shift throws off your whole schedule. Your errands will have to be done around Mr. Fowler’s schedule.

You have breakfast, get your laundry through the cycle, do half the dishes, then get ready for work. You put on a collared-wrap blouse and some peach-coloured slacks. It won’t hurt to bring a bit of colour to the gray office.

As you come in sight of the office, another approaches from the next corner. You slow as you recognise the man’s lithe strides and his blonde hair. His stature puts him above the other pedestrians as he meets you at the door.

Mr. Pine smiles as he greets you, “Elfie, fine timing.”

“Sir? I didn’t know you were expected,” you poke around in your purse in search of the keys.

“No? I’m fairly certain Fowler should be awaiting me, no?” He reaches for the door and opens it. Ah, your boss must already be in office, “after you, darling.”

You look up at the pet name but don’t comment on it. You’ve been called worse. He’s only being nice. You step in ahead of him and stop just beside your desk as you glance back. The door closes heavily at Pine’s back as he follows you in.

“Tea,” you reach into your bag and pull out the little canister you plucked from your cupboards last night, “I’m afraid I only have Earl Gray.”

“Well, I do appreciate the thought,” he says, “if you wouldn’t mind, a cup would be in order. Thank you, Elfie.”

It’s as if he makes a point of calling you by name. It does sound rather delicious on his tongue. He doesn’t hesitate to knock on Fowler’s door.

“Nicholas,” he calls over the rap of his knuckles.

You enter the break room and put the kettle to boil as you start on Fowler’s usual. His mug is waiting dirty beside the machine. That’s his demand. He often tells you what to do in gestures rather than words.

You wash out his mug and drop a bag of Earl Gray in yours. You let the tea steep as the nespresso grinds loudly. You come out with both cups and find the office empty. Fowler’s door is open. You sweep around and approach cautiously.

“Excuse me,” you use your toe to tap on the door frame.

Fowler nods as he continues his diatribe to the other man. As your boss sits in behind his desk, Pine paces and flutters his longer fingers along his lapel. He stops as you enter and accepts his cup from you with a murmured thank you. You retreat as he tugs on the string of the bag and dunks it over and over.

You leave them and shut the door. You return to your desk and finally get yourself situated. You put your purse in your drawer and stretch out your fingers before you set to your digital cataloguing. The click and scroll of your mouse fills the void as you sort yesterday’s work into tidy folders and subfolders.

Fowler’s door opens and you pause your task. You look up expectantly as Mr. Pine emerges. To your surprise, he nears your desk.

“I must praise you on your immaculate work, darling,” he says, “the tea as well,” he places the empty cup on the corner of your desk, “but I did appreciate the level of organization.”

“Sir?” You prompt.

“Fowler says you did much of the archiving around here. He is ever thorough but I know he cannot do it on his own,” he purrs, “I’ve a mind to snatch you away. I’ve been well in need of a decent assistant.”

“She’s taken,” Fowler startles you as he looms in his office door. Pine’s lips slant and he angles towards the other man.

“Of course, it is a spot of humour, chap,” Pine insists, “I have, however, bartered us a partnership. I have a project in need of doing and you’ve a shining reference and rather benevolent boss.”

“Elf,” Fowler marches to your desk, standing next to Pine, “my colleague with be taking over the floating office for the next few weeks. He will forward his files. You know what to do.”

“Oh, yes, sir,” you affirm, “of course.”

“Your usual tasks remain in place,” Fowler girds, “I know you can handle it.”

“Um, yes, Mr. Fowler,” you stand and clasp your hands behind you, “should I open the floating office now?”

Fowler nods curtly and spins on his heel. He strides back to his office and leaves the door open. You smile at Pine and point him past the doorway, “just down there.” You come around the desk with your keys, “used to be a storage room but Mr. Fowler doesn’t like clutter. Converted it to a workspace after there was a leak in his...” you stop at the door and unlock it, “I’m sure you don’t care about all that.”

“Mm, it is a charming little place,” he remarks as you step back and he enters the barren office.

“Dusty,” you tut, “I’ll grab some lysol wipes and get it cleaned up.”

“I might do that myself, darling, you’ve enough on your plate,” he insists, “but bring me the supplies and I will get all in order.” He turns to face you and casually slides his hands into his pocket. The light blue of his suit compliments his eyes perfectly, “and I dare say I owe you for that tea. You should have to let me return the favour some time.”

“Oh, you don’t have to, sir, that’s very kind of you though,” you say.

“Ah, but where I come from, tea is a very serious matter. I’m obliged,” he sets his feet flat and his shoulders wide.

“Some time,” you agree vaguely, “I’ll go get those wipes.”

You turn and come down the short hall. Fowler clears his throat as you pass and you slow, peeking inside, “sir?”

He doesn’t look up, merely clinking his metal pen on his mug. You dip inside and take the half-finished coffee. It’s cold. You quickly retreat to make him a new one, reminding yourself about the wipes. You’re going to have to work on your multitasking.

#nick fowler #jonathan pine #dark nick fowler #dark jonathan pine #dark!nick fowler #dark!jonathan pine #nick fowler x reader #jonathan pine x reader #series #drabble #au #office space #bad bosses #the night manager #the 355

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thebunnednun · 2 months ago

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MHA Guidance Counselor AU Masterlist

Did you ever have a fuck ass guidance counselor or therapist that didn't do shit for you?

Don't worry, we're gonna fic that.

With your favorite mha characters!!

(Puns, but in all seriousness, I am sorry about what you went through and hope that you get the help you deserve. I can't 'fix' things but a silly little fic does wonders.)

What’s this about Angie?

You’ve been dealing with enough stress—academics, family expectations, shitty job, maybe a chaotic personal life—and you need help. A guidance counselor or therapist sounds like the right answer, but we’re not exactly talking about your typical "supportive and competent" staff here.

In this world, you’re dealing with a range of questionable advice, from well-meaning to completely off-base guidance, and advice that might just make you want to scream into a pillow.

At least you're not alone...sort of.

How It Works:

Each guidance counselor or therapist here takes a different approach to “helping.”

Some might be sarcastic, others way too eager, and a few might just be downright unqualified but somehow...well, still helpful? It’s a rollercoaster of chaos and sometimes even a bit of healing, if you can trust the process.

You’ll get to see the types of support each offers (or doesn’t), and maybe, just maybe, you’ll walk away with some real insight. If you’re lucky.

Rules:

You get to choose which counselor you want to go to. It's like a buffet of options! Every counselor has their own style—be prepared for anything.

Feel free to request a specific counselor or approach. Want a very professional, no-nonsense counselor? Or maybe one who's way too into "mindfulness" and could you please just leave me alone? Let me know. All characters are on the table.

No one is perfect. The counselors might mess up. A lot. But the key is they try, and sometimes that’s what counts. Also as your author I myself am only human so please have grace with me.

This is your fic. Your rules. You can ask for any vibe you need, comfort, angst, but we also lean into the humor. After all, we’re in control here... aren't we?

All my readers are gender neutral, but again, if you request something specific I can change that. Fresh soup.

While I don't find myself writing smut I do consider this blog to be 18+ because of the story themes. I do not want minors on my posts because I care about your mental health and sometimes reading certain fics can be damaging and permanently alter you. I don't want that. Your brain chemistry is important. YOU ARE IMPORTANT. So you have been warned. No ageless blogs!

Okay so the fic's are going to start as goes:

Midnight

30 Minutes --- Nemuris only got 30 minutes to work with her favorite stinker, and she's gonna make them count. You just wish you could stop thinking of her as a mom.

Aizawa

In their shoes --- Aizawa's best and brightest troublemaker by far. The only difference is that you don't talk. Ever. Getting you to open up is like trying to bring back the dead. So what can he do?

Take you on a walk outside. Maybe you'll talk, maybe you won't. But he's going to try and make you feel better by the end of it. Even if it's just a tiny bit.

Yamada

Stuck on Mute ---- Mic's gotta figure out how to get his soft spoken new assignment to open up in spite of his loud nature. And it does work! After a near death incident...

Enji

Family Jewels --- Enji comes across a student that's much more like himself than they initially let on. Maybe he's right for the job after all.

Fat Gum

Knock out --- Taishiro swaps assignments with Rumi and finds himself at odds with a student that has anger issues.

Mirko

Respawn? --- Rumi fucked up with her first student and now has a... very shy, kiddo to put it nicely. No idea how to communicate with them. So she hands up her gym bag and picks up a controller.

Hawks

Nap time --- Keigo can't get his new unimpressed spooky student with PTSD to open up after their recent villian attack until he gets personal.

All Might

NOT MY GRANPA --- Yagi finds himself assigned to a student that is every old mans worst fear: A modern trendy alternative teenager. But PLOT TWIST, you have social anxiety. Just like him. Good news, you and Toshinori click instantly and he adores you. You love time with your grandpa figure!

Bad news, you're a fighter and get into a bad situation after a nasty brawl...

More to come soon.

I've got some fic's in the workshop but please request some. If you do request please see my rules page or just DM me and ask.

Overall, this should be a safe space for everyone to enjoy and have fun while reading.

I also have a ko-fi now if you'd like to support me. :3 Not mandatory but always appreciated.

Pssst, my ao3 is alive and open for all readers.

See you soon!

-Angie

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osxmui · 3 months ago

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‘ life can be cruel , if you’re not a dreamer . ’

summary : you start your first day at the cafe, and learn of a certain bandaged barista, unknowingly kidnap his cat, but it was somewhat worth it when he and another barista come over to the cafe the next day searching for his ‘beloved’ cat and thinks that one of your friends stole it as revenge.

AUTHORS NOTE : hai !! first chapter is done, and i had so much fun writing this. unfortunately, i did struggle at some parts, like the rent thing and had no idea what to do for the plot😭 so, let’s all just act like its a good excuse and its just for the plot !! and characters might be ooc, and unfortunately for everyone, i highkey dgaf and this is for fun so if u come in my ask box to say “omg this is so ooc!!” YES I KNOW GET OUT OF MY ASKS I KNOW anyway if u do wanna be tagged in future updates, just lmk i will gladly tag you :3

GENERAL WARNINGS : reader is afab / fem, she/her pronouns will be used when needed. cussing (obviously), sometimes i will specify outfits but you can just imagine your outfit any other time lol , college stuff, substance abuse mention in other chapters, self harm mentions at times (dazai), dazais siblings r elise and yumeno, and oda, mori his dad.. the slowest slow burn of all of the slow burns, rare sex jokes because i can not resist, and just typical dazai behavior .. also, it has been awhile since i have written like this, so i might be bad at first so. um. ignore that.. + some time skips so we can get to the good part :) tried to speed this chapter up so we can get to the better part of the fic ! anyway, have fun reading!

you had set a routine for yourself once you left the comfort of your home for college; sleep, wake up at 5am to get ready, go to class at 6:30am, study after class, go to more classes, go back to your shared apartment around 4:30pm, relax a bit until 10:45, sleep, and repeat. you were not planning on changing that at all, until your landlord decided to up your rent, and you were forced to work with your friend, chuuya, who was working at a local cafe. originally, he had been paying the rent, and you paid the bills with money your parents gave to you as a little startup, and you could not pay rent with the money, and did bills until now.

you had felt bad for him once the rent raised, especially since the rent was now almost 1,950?? you possibly couldn’t let him pay by himself! so, you got a job at the cafe he worked at with your friend group.

and, you seriously regretted that after seeing how chaotic it was..

⌢ time : 4:30 pm . ⌣

you and chuuya were walking to the cafe after class. the heels of both of your shoes clicked against the pavement of the sidewalk, the sound of your voices quietly echoed through the air of the already loudness of the campus, other students chatting away and the sound of the occasional laugh registered in your mind.

“you’ll be fine, the cafe is a really nice place. you’ll do great, i’m sure.” chuuyas voice suddenly came through, breaking the momentarily silence you two shared for a bit.

you never really worked in a cafe. a fast food place? sure. but a cafe was new, but you knew everything since your mother owned a cafe, and you sometimes came over and watched her work. but this was new, you are ACTUALLY working at one, and doing all the things you saw your mother do.

“i know i’ll do fine, it’s just new, y’know?” you reply to him, but you were grateful for his assurances either way. a small hum left him after you spoke, and you could feel him offer you a small look. “just don’t stress about it, yeah? if you need anything, i can help you.”

after alot of talking, you two had started walking out of campus grounds and walked down the sidewalk towards the cafe, and you could see the little building in the distance after a few minutes of walking.

⌢ time : 5:39 pm . ⌣

luckily, there weren’t any customers since apparently, customers rarely came in at this time unless it was game day for the college, and then the cafe was packed since it did have a tv where they could watch the game.

but that wasn’t all that important, you were just glad that you didn’t need to deal with ‘bitchy’ customers. chuuyas words, not yours.

you were in the middle of putting on your apron as your friends spoke, their voices overlapping the faint sound of music playing from the speakers.

“god, i hate those people. they constantly try to one-up us with their deals and purposefully got a bigger tv for game day. you know, one of those days, i’ll break that tv in front of them..” chuuya grumbled, his narrowed eyes focused on the cafe that was actually across the road. if it was not obvious that he hated the cafe across the street, then the look in his eyes was definitely an obvious sign.

“oh, calm down. it’s not like they do it on purpose.” higuchi spoke, rolling her eyes at his complaint while she wrote on some of the paper cups, something their cafe made them do to show that it was a welcoming spot or whatever the manger said. “oh, they definitely do it on purpose. have you seen how smug they looked when they got that tv? what bitches.” tachihara spoke up, standing next to chuuya as they both glared at the cafe across the street.

“aren’t you all being dramatic? it surely can’t be that bad.” you eventually spoke after getting your apron on and went to help higuchi, who gave a grateful look and continued. “she’s right, it’s not that bad, you’re all being dramatic.” higuchi agreed.

chuuya and tachihara glared at you and higuchi in sync, the two boys clearly judging you both. “you two have no idea what those idiots are like. even in class, they’re so bitchy. i am unfortunately cursed and have a class with the freaky bandaged one.” chuuya sighed, looking back at the cafe across the street.

you sighed, shaking your head at your best friends words. “you say that like it’s a bad thing, he might be nicer than you think.” you reply, trying to be optimistic since chuuya did have the habit of being a little dramatic with his opinions of people. “chuuyas right, the bandaged one or whatever his name is, is weird. dude looks like a mummy of sorts.” tachihara had spoken up, also looking back at the cafe.

chuuya immediately scowled once he saw some of the workers from the cafe across the street walking up to their own cafe, a few of them in a group as they started opening up their cafe.

you looked up and watched, examining the small group of people who seemed to go at the same college. there was a blonde man, a woman with dark hair that had her hair in a messy bob of sorts, a younger guy who looked to be a first year with white hair, one with brown hair and glasses, and another guy with brown hair that had bandages around him.

“what are their names?” you whisper to higuchi, not wanting to interrupt chuuya and tachiharas glaring. “hm? oh, the blonde is kunikida, the woman is yosano, the one with white hair is atsushi, the one with brown hair and glasses is ranpo, and the bandaged one that chuuya hates is dazai.” the blonde woman whispered back, to which you nodded in response.

“they seem nice, why is that they’re hated?” you ask again. you were confused, the group seemed genuinely nice, so you had no idea why most of your friends seemed to hate the cafe. “oh, chuuya got into a fight with dazai a few weeks ago and their cafe and ours seemed to have a war of sorts ever since.” she had whispered back, shrugging as she continued to write on cups.

ah, you had heard about that. chuuya had come back in the evening one night, and said he got into a fight with some ‘idiot from class that looks like hes cosplaying a mummy.’ .. you didn’t know why you didn’t realize that until now, but it made sense since chuuya had an obvious grudge.

⌢ time : 8:27 pm . ⌣

you and chuuya were now walking home after work, it had been a nice day, the cafe wasn’t that busy, and it was a good first day. now, you were walking home.

but, you stumbled upon a pretty, somewhat fluffy black cat, who seemed to be freezing in the low temperatures of the night. you were immediately going to help it as chuuya followed.

you looked back at chuuya as you sat on the pavement of the sidewalk, then at the cat and quickly took your jacket off. “what are you doing?” chuuya quickly asked as you slowly approached the cat, smiling at how the cat was snuggling up to your hand. “i’m not letting a cat freeze up in the cold. i would feel horrible if i left this poor thing in the cold.” you reply to him, slowly getting the cat to come closer.

the cat was the sweetest thing ever, you could hear small purrs come from it as you gently pet it, but you quickly wrapped it in your jacket and slowly picked it up, smiling at how it easily allowed it. the cat was obviously accustomed to humans, and trusted them easily, so it was pretty easy to pick it up.

“come on, we’re going to the store first and buying it some food until we figure out what to do with it.” you suddenly announced, already walking in the direction of the local store. chuuya sighed, already knowing he couldn’t stop you when you were determined and simply followed. “you’re insane. what are we going to do with a cat we found on the street? we can’t keep it!” he spoke, crossing his arms as he walked next to you.

“well, we’re not keeping it forever, dumbass! just until we figure out what to do with it or some missing pet poster pops up.” you remark back, a small huffy sigh left you as you continued your walk, and eventually made it to the store.

the two of you walked into the store, both of you offering polite smiles to the workers who greeted you both. you and chuuya walked to the pet aisle, and went to the shelf of cat food as you held the purring cat in your arms.

“do we get it wet food or?” chuuya whispered to you, you shrugged and just decided to go with wet food and dry food. you were sure wet food was the answer, but you wanted to be safe and not buy something the cat wouldn’t eat. “get both, just in case, y’know?”

chuuya hummed in response, grabbing a small can of wet food and a small bag of dry food before you two walked to the shelf checkout area. you watched how he scanned the items and put them into a plastic bag, and then decided to spare him of trying to find his card and offered to pay (more like forced..). “grab my card from my bag, it’s in the second pocket.” you spoke to him, smiling at the sigh he gave and went to your crossbody bag.

he went through the pockets, looking for the card in the pocket you said it would be in, and after a few moments, he eventually found it and grabbed it, and went to pay. and after a few seconds, he returned the card and closed your bag, then went to grab the plastic bag with the cat food.

after a few minutes, you two were now walking home with the cat and the cat food. you ignored the cold air biting at your hands, and you were suddenly grateful that you were wearing a warm, long sleeved shirt since you definitely didn’t want to get sick from this. but the cat definitely seemed warm.. lucky.

“what are we going to do with the cat when we go to work?” you suddenly ask chuuya, remembering that you actually had to work tomorrow and you didn’t necessarily trust a cat you picked up from the street to be alone in your house. “we can give it to koyou? she’s not busy and can watch the cat while we work.” he suggested with a shrug, knowing that his older sister, koyou, could probably help.

you nodded in agreement, knowing koyou could be trusted rather than all of your other friends. “yeah, we can go to koyous house before class, and after work, we can pick up the cat.” you agree.

⌢ time : 6:15 am . ⌣

you and chuuya were currently walking down the hallway of a familiar apartment building, walking to a door that had the number ‘629’ , the same apartment that chuuyas older sister lived in. as you held the cat with one arm, your free hand went to the door, giving a few knocks.

after a few moments, you and chuuya could hear the door lock unlocking, and the door opened to show a woman with redish hair, and was still wearing her home clothes. “oh, hello. did you two need something?” she spoke up softly, giving a polite smile, and a curious look.

you both immediately smiled back at the woman before you. “hey, koyou. we’re wondering if you can watch this cat for the day, and we’ll pick it up after work?” you ask her, seeing how she immediately nodded in agreement and you handed the cat over. “sure, i can watch it for the day. just get to all of your classes, yes?”

you mentally sighed in relief, mostly because you weren’t really expecting her to be that nice, and she seemed to be in a good mood. “thank you, koyou.” chuuya spoke before you, giving his sister a grateful smile before she nodded and closed the door with the cat in her hold.

well, at least you got that out of the way..

⌢ time : 5:08 pm . ⌣

you and all of your friends were at work, you and chuuya had arrived first, then tachihara, then higuchi. all of your other friends were busy with night classes, so they worked the morning shift, while you and the others worked the late afternoon to night shift.

anyways. you and chuuya were in the back, simply talking while chuuya got a smoke break, but then, you two heard yelling from the front. you immediately went inside while chuuya shortly followed after taking a big hit of his cigarette before putting it out, and quickly followed after you.

the moment you walked in, you were witnessing the weirdest scene ever. dazai and yosano were at the counter, talking to tachihara.

“i already told you, i didn’t see your stupid cat nor did i take it!” tachihara yelled back at dazai, who was looking at tachihara as if he killed his whole family. “bullshit, i know one of you took it as revenge!” dazai replied quickly, clearly unhappy and was certain one of you took it.

you and chuuya walked up to the counter, and chuuya crossed his arms as he interrupted. “what’s wrong now, dazai? why the hell are you yelling at my coworkers?” chuuya spoke, glaring at dazai, who focused his attention to you and chuuya as yosano sighed quietly and just watched.

“i know one of you took my cat, there’s nobody else who would steal it but you and your idiotic friends.” he easily replied to chuuya. the brunette took out a paper and waved it in chuuyas face, showing a missing poster of a fluffy, black cat. the same black cat you saved from the cold so it didn’t freeze to death.

well, fuck. you didn’t really mean to steal this guys cat, and the cat didn’t have a collar, so you just sort of assumed it was a stray.

you and chuuya immediately shared a look, before chuuya gave a cocky smile, and before you could speak and admit you had the cat, chuuya cut in and looked back at dazai. “nah, didn’t see your stupid cat anywhere. but i did see another cafe down the road take in a cat that sort of looks like that inside.” chuuya lied through his teeth, shrugging as if it was nothing.

dazai narrowed his eyes, shoving the paper back in his pocket, keeping eye contact the whole time. “osamu, if they said they didn’t take the cat, then they didn’t. no need to be this protective over it.” yosano suddenly spoke, then dazai sighed and softened, realizing he was being dramatic, but he couldn’t help it. the cat was the only thing making him survive the hell that was college.

“fine, if you say that you don’t have it, then you don’t. but if i find out that you or any of your friends stole it and you’re lying to my face, i will—” he spoke, but you quickly cut him off, and decided to just go with chuuyas lie since you two were way too deep into this now. “is it really necessary to threaten? how about this; if we ever see the cat, then we can come find it and give it to you, personally.” you had cut in with a polite smile, noticing how he looked at you, his mood changing immediately as he saw an opportunity to be playful with someone.

dazai smiled, suddenly perking up and becoming all nice. “is that so? personally? how sweet.” he replied with a hint of playfulness. chuuya immediately looked at dazai with a narrowed gaze, wondering how the fuck dazais mood changed.

you, tachihara and chuuya were both confused on how dazais mood quickly changed, how it was like he changed in a blink of an eye. first, he was all stressed and frustrated, then, he was suddenly cheerful and playful? what the fuck?

“yes, personally. now, if you and your friend don’t mind, we actually want to work.” chuuya scoffed, rolling his eyes, and dazai looked back at chuuya, seemingly calmed down and shrugged. “fine, then. enjoy your 4 customers.” he said with a mocking grin, then turned around, grabbed yosano and dragged her out the cafe.

tachihara watched the two leave the cafe in disdain, before the bell atop the door rang, signaling the door being opened and closed. “god, what a fucking mood swing that was.. jesus, that guy needs to get checked out and put on some pills.” tachihara mumbled, before going back to setting the coffee machine up.

chuuya was happily smiling once dazai and yosano left, clearly glad that dazai was finally out the shop. that was something he was grateful for. “we are not giving him back that cat until the end of the month, i must drag out his misery.” chuuya whispered to you with a happy sounding sigh, finally finding something to hold over dazai.

you sighed quietly, realizing that you couldn’t do anything since you just lied to that guys face about his cat, and was now holding the thing hostage. “we are so fucked.” you mumbled quietly under your breath.

you had no idea how you will keep your mouth shut about it, but it was too late now to go back..

small authors note : sneaking in my hc of dazai having very, very sudden mood swings hehe.. Though, i do apologize for how rushed this chapter was! just trying to get to the good part quicker ^_^ + reblogs, likes and comments are appreciated <3

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