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butchizuku · 4 months ago

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Limerence ᥫ᭡; Midoriya Izuku + Bakugō Katsuki

ᨳ Synop. Getting hit by some hentai-esque wasn't on your thursday afternoon agenda but fate had a cruel, yet funny way of working. Finding yourself the damsel to two heroes, you struggle between giving into want and remaining level headed.

໋𓈒 Details. 18+ minors dni, gn afab, they/them pronouns used to refer to reader,extremely dubious consent, sex pollen quirk,threesomes, love confessions, oral (reader/katsuki receiving), fingering, anal (izuku), unprotected sex, creampies, no lube, no prep, unrealistic sex implied past relationship between izuku and katsuki, post manga timeskip, izuku is a teacher, katsui is a pro-hero, mild manga spoilers run time; 7.2k ৎ

(՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞) Director's Note. This spiralled into something even I couldn't fathom but please, enjoy <3

Every Thursday, Izuku walks you to the train station. The two of you work late most days but on Thursday you find yourself staying until the custodians shooed you out of the building with a mildly annoyed look. It was his first year teaching and your first year teaching at a hero school. U.A, was unprecedented in its unconventionality and unique approach, it left you and Izuku constantly crushed beneath a mountain of half graded homework and lesson plans neither of you had time for.

It surprised you more than it probably should have, that Izuku was struggling. He was an alumni, he knew exactly how the system operated at a far deeper level than you did, but he was drowning. He wore a smile on his face nonetheless, he may have been drowning but he was doing it happily. You weren't sure if it was for his students sake or for his own, you’d assume it was the latter. Everyone needs something to keep themselves tethered and sewed together. You didn’t judge. There was something to knowing that a great hero like Izuku needed something to keep himself a float.

That’s why you stayed late every day after work to lend him a helping hand. The first years could use all the extra help they could get and so could he. Their English grades had been abysmal, apparently the worst Principal Nezu had seen in years. As their homeroom teacher, it was Izuku’s job to get to the bottom of things. That leads him to you, again and again. In search of an answer, you weren’t sure but you didn’t mind shouldering the burden. You learned in the first few years of your career, much of teaching meant relying on those around you for support. You leant on your mentor teacher and shared resources with the other newbies who filled the staff room early in the mornings. Izuku didn’t like to lean, he’d shoulder it all alone if he could help it. That’s how hero training shaped him, you think, you couldn’t be too sure.

“I appreciate the company,” you say, finally cutting the silence that sat in the air between you, “But, I don’t want to inconvenience you since you live on campus.”

The slowly setting sun rays prick at your irises forcing you to squint as you peered at Izuku over your shoulder. His neatly styled suit that he wore to work everyday was half crumpled, missing his blazer and bright red tie. They were slung over the back of his chair in his office, never lasting more than half the work day.

Izuku’s lips quirk up slightly, the glint in his eyes is the same one he uses to teases his childhood friends who stop by U.A, “Haven’t I told enough you that you’re never an inconvenience to me,” he grins, slinging his arm around your shoulders. He’s a few inches shorter than you, even shorter when you wear your platform oxfords, he has to stretch himself to reach your height, “Besides, it isn’t safe for you to walk home this late in the day.”

You roll your eyes, your face warm. It was one stop to the studio apartment you were renting in the heart of Musutafu. You were certain if he didn’t have to check up on the students in their dorms he’d likely walk all the way home with you. But, as a homeroom teacher, it was his job to ensure class 1.A didn’t burn down the dormitories before the tenth anniversary of them being added to the campus.

“Still, you have enough work on your plate, I don’t want to add to it.”

Stuttering out the last few words made the very tips of your pointed ears burn. Under the warm, golden glow that bathed the city sky, you hoped your blush wasn’t too apparent to the naked eye. Something akin to butterflies fluttered in and out of your ribcage, tickling your chest until you were squirming for reprieve. Though he was now quirkless, Izuku was still as strong as he was during the war. He easily kept you pinned against his side as the two of you strolled down the sidewalk.

“Walks are good for the body and soul!” He chirps, chuckling at your petulant frown, “If anything, I should be thanking you for letting me accompany you.”

Squinting at him, you heave a sigh, “So if I said no, you wouldn’t walk me to the station?”

Izuku paused for a moment as though he were thinking before a sheepish expression bled onto features. Colour filled his round, freckled cheeks as he chuckled.

“Well, no!”

The exasperated breath of air that passed your lips was melodramatic and half dramatized as if to cover your tracks. But, you liked this cat and mouse game that you and he played each time he walked you home. You liked him.

You weren’t supposed to like him, not in the way you currently did but your heart was weak to his kind eyes and the soft way he regarded you and his students.

“See! So, why would I even bother,” you murmur, turning your face away to hide the growing smile that played at your lips, “I know you, Izuku and I know how persistent you are!”

“I’m just trying to do my civic duty and keep you safe.”

You aren’t a hero, the words almost rolled off your tongue. As if the crushing reminder of all that was lost to him was some playful foible for you to tease out when the mood was right.

“I can keep myself safe just as well,” you say instead, “And, I carry that taser I confiscated from one of Gang Orca’s students at lunch.”

Izuku stares at you, long and hard. You wonder what he’s thinking about, if your lack of quirk or desire to be a hero worries him. Most had pipe dreams of the glory that came with the title hero. There were fewer people who didn’t care for heroics than those who were quirkless.

“Really?”

His eyebrows dart into his hairline as he openly gapes at you, shock marring his features.

“You know those are illegal, right?” He asks, his tone climbing higher and higher, “Isn’t that why you confiscated it in the first place?”

Letting out a nervous chuckle you blanched, “It is?” You question, biting the corner of your lip, “I confiscated it because it’s dangerous for kids to be in possession of, even when they’re super powered heroes in training.”

“Yes!”

The two of you pause in front of the subway station, silence washing over you for a moment.

“Why don’t I stop by your place and pick it up,” Izuku offers, his calloused fingertips brushing your elbow, “I can take it off your hands and get rid of it, no one has to know that you kept it.”

His hands are scarred, much more than yours could ever be. It’s a sobering reminder of the life he used to have, the life he could one day have. The two of you were so different, sometimes it was easy to forget that. You and he wanted different things, and your commonalities could one day disappear. The thought made your stomach churn in discomfort.

You liked his presence and his friendship. But, you knew if he still had his quirk he wouldn’t be teaching. It was a hard pill to swallow.

“Yeah, alright,” you mutter, forcing a smile to your lips, “If you’re coming all this way then at least let me treat you to dinner.”

Scratching the back of his neck, Izuku turns a deep shade of red, “No, it’s alright, I want to help you out!”

Before you’re able to protest, the air is stolen from your lungs as a stranger's body barrels into yours and you’re knocked to the ground. Your palms are skinned from the pavement, blood blotting along the surface as you groan in pain. A strange scent fills the air, it's nauseatingly sweet and forces a choked gasp from your lungs.

“Are you alright?” Izuku coughs, crouching down to help you off the ground, “Did you hit your head?”

You shake your head, lips tightly pursed as your face scrunches up. Warmth melts through your body, every hair standing on end as a shiver trickles down your spine. Try as you might, no words can pass through your lips. They get stuck somewhere in the back of your throat, leaving only the slightest of whimpers to slip through. Your cheeks burn even hotter with embarrassment as Izuku helps you to your feet, but you can hardly stand. Your knees threaten to buckle and your thighs shake.

“Let me… Let me call someone,” Izuku stutters, his body flush against yours.

You can feel his heart racing and the muscles in his arms trembling as he holds you. He was so strong. His muscles practically bulge out of his crisp white button up shirt.

“I feel fine,” you murmur, blinking nervously, “Just let me go home, Izuku.”

Your ribs rattle out a wheeze as you press your fingers into the meat of his well toned shoulders. Izuku smells good, really good. The hint of cologne that's melted into his skin and mingled with his sweat and musk lights your body aflame with desire. The urge to reach out and lick the throbbing vein on the side of his neck, getting a closer taste of him and his sweat crosses your mind. It’s frightening how commonplace it feels within your discombobulated thoughts, as if it were meant to be there.

“You’re burning up.”

Whatever else Izuku might have said falls on deaf ears as your brain zeroes in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. Your lashes flutter and your nails dig into his flesh as you will yourself to calm down. But, he’s hot, dangerously so. Izuku worsens the heat that laps at your belly and your cheeks. You feel as though you cannot breathe, each breath heavy and ragged as he speaks to some far away person over the phone.

“Izuku,” you whine, whatever was to come next spills off of your tongue in a needy little whimper as he presses the palm of his hand to your forehead.

Smoothing his rough hand over the curve of your cheek, he shushes you like a mother does a child, “Shh, you’re alright,” he coos, offering you a soothing caress, “Just remember to breathe, okay?”

Your eyes grow lidded as you lean into his touch. Each soft coo sends your mind deeper and deeper into the hole it's fallen in. The feel of him against you is almost too much for your quickly fading willpower. If not for the tiny, logical voice in the back of your skull screaming to remind you that the two of you were in public, you might’ve reached out to take a bite.

“Okay.”

You can’t remember what you were agreeing to, but the sigh of relief Izuku heaved made the pleasure centre of your brain light up in delight. It’s that measly, weak willed part of your brain that keeps you preoccupied with fantasies as heroes move all around you. Some of their voices are familiar, you think they must have stopped by to speak with your students but they’re not speaking to you. Everything is directed to Izuku who speaks in a harried manner, the worry evident in his tone. It doesn’t match the way he paws at your body or that thing poking at your thighs.

But, it’s his touch that grounds you and keeps you from losing it completely as the two of you are shoved in the back of an ambulance. The blaring sirens do little to keep this situation discreet, like you heard one of the heroes had requested. They’re sitting in the bay with you, their body a sea of orange, black, and green. Their rough, scraggly voice barks out frustrations to Izuku, to the paramedic, to the distant voice who rambles over speakerphone.

You squint at them and their jagged, pointy attire in vague recognition. They must have visited U.A. at some point, heroes were always brought in for some lesson or another.

“Kacchan, I’m fine!” Izuku’s voice squeals, you crane your neck just in time to catch him slapping the hero's hand away, “Their quirk didn’t hit me.”

“You know that's not how emitter quirks work, Deku,” ‘Kacchan’ gruffly barks out, “You’re getting looked at when we get to the hospital, end of discussion.”

“But-”

“End of discussion.”

Izuku wears a sheepish expression, his wide green eyes darting between you and the hero, “I was going to say, they’re quirkless and a civilian,” he says, “I’m worried.”

‘Kacchan’ barks out a laugh, “So are you, Deku.”

“It’s different.”

“Right you’re a special little boy, I forgot,” he sarcastically mutters, “Who somehow is immune to others' quirks, I almost forgot.”

You don’t have to look at Izuku to know he’s rolling his eyes, you could tell by the tone of his voice and the small huff that passes his lips. When his students asked for extensions an hour before the assignment was due, he’d roll his eyes and huff, but he always said yes.

“Yup, that's totally what I meant,” Izuku snips with a frown.

Your languid gaze settles onto his pink, freckled cheeks. His eyes are pointedly fixed to his shoes, shirking away from ‘Kacchan’s’ intense stare. The oxygen mask pinches uncomfortably at the bridge of your nose but your arm is strapped to the gurney, keeping you firmly in place. Izuku spares a quick flit of his eyes over your body before he returns to his avoidance. ‘Kacchan’ leers almost menacingly.

“Stop bein’ such a damn brat,” he barks, gripping Izuku by the chin, “Your face is all red and you’re sweating, this isn’t normal.”

Izuku’s cheeks are a ruddy red and puffed into a pout. His freckles spill out from between the other man's rough, calloused hands. A beat of silence passes between the two of them. It’s suffocating, the tensed air that fills the cramped ambulance bay. You should look away from them but they’re so wrapped up in this silent exchange that they wouldn’t even notice your intrusion. They weren’t noticing your long, tiresome stare or your wide eyes that flit between them.

“Fine.”

Izuku concedes surprisingly quickly.

He squirms in his seat, he must be embarrassed to be bossed around like that. You miss the quiver of his upper lip and the nervous sweat that breaks out on his brow. A low whisper is hissed between the two men, your hazed mind can’t even begin to make out what might’ve been said but it stirs a whimper like sound from your colleague. Wrenching the heroes hand from his face, Izuku sulks with a flush melting down his neck. The other man wears a smug, satisfied smirk— one where the corners of his lips curl upwards

The ambulance halts to a stop, hardly jostling them but it sends your head spinning. You have to squish your eyes shut to keep the ringing in your ears at bay. Somewhere between being pulled into the emergency room and being rushed into a private room, your consciousness fades. When it returns to you, you’re not in the sterile hospital room you imagined you’d be in.

You’re splayed across a plush couch, there’s a chunky knit throw wrapped around your legs and tucked up beneath your chin. The air is musky, filled with something warm and welcoming. It worsens the burn that itches your skin.

“Where am-”

“You’re awake, good,” a familiar voice chirps.

Izuku’s freckled face fills your vision, he wears a strained smile. His cheeks are ruddy and his skin is glistening with sweat. Perching himself on the arm of the sofa, he reaches forward to rest his hand on your ankle. His hand is scarred with rough skin that trailed up to his elbow, a memory of a past lifetime sealed within the confines of his youth. The feel of his skin against yours makes you jolt, skittering away from the explosion of heat that travels up your calf and snakes its way up your thigh.

“Izuku,” you pant, blinking at him as if he were some mirage that might soon disappear, “What happened? Where are we? Why aren’t we at the hospital, I remember being in an ambulance.”

Slinking into the plush cushion beside you, Izuku raises a hand, “Woah, slow down, I can explain.”

“The two of you got hit with a sex pollen quirk,” a gruff voice chimes in, heavy footfalls accompanying them, “End of story.”

“What?”

The hero from before materializes behind Izuku, no longer clad in his hero suit but instead a pair of soft grey sweatpants and a thin black muscle tank top. It’s a stark contrast to the messy suit that hangs off Izuku’s frame and the rumpled sundress you excitedly picked out to wear this morning. The spiked blonde hair and sharp, ruby eyes lined in smudged black were familiar but you couldn’t quite place where you knew him from.

“Kacchan do you always have to be so crass?” Izuku shrieks, “This is why you’re number fifteen because you refuse to use any of the media training we did in school!”

“Is that why I feel so … Funny?”

Your face burns with shame and embarrassment. While ‘Kacchan’ was reticent, the picture of nonchalance as he leaned against the sofa, his chest flush to Izuku’s spine.

“But, why are we here? Why aren’t we at the hospital?”

“There’s nothing they could do to reverse the effect of the quirks,” Izuku murmurs, gently caressing your ankle, “Kacchan offered a private place for us to wait it out.”

“I figured if you were going to fuck to get it out of your system, here was better than your lodgings at U.A.”

A shiver trickles down your spine, forcing you to curl into the corner of the sofa as confusion muddied your mind. ‘Kacchan’ snorted a laugh as you stared off in a mix of horror and confusion, “A sex pollen quirk?” You echoed, speaking to no one but yourself, “I thought those were just a trope in those bodice rippers to sell to lonely moms.”

“Apparently not,” Izuku winced, lightly elbowing his friend, “So now we’re here.”

“We’re here.”

You look around the room like a trapped animal in need of an escape.

“Sorry but, what is your name?” You question, your lips dipping into a frown, “If I’m going to be staying in your home until the quirk wears off, I should know your name.”

“If it wears off,” he mutters, eliciting another elbow to the gut and a shrill call of his name, “Whatever, the name’s Bakugō Katsuki or as you may know me, Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight.”

You nod to show you’ve retained what he just said but the ripple of his muscles as he leaned over to shake your hand distracted you. Izuku bounces anxiously between you, chewing on his lip until the skin cracks and ichor tinges his tongue. The urge to lap it up swirls in your belly and you find yourself reaching forward and grasping at his slacks.

“Get it out of our systems,” you whisper, your mind stuck on Bakugō’s earlier words.

That damned smug smirk creeps onto his face once more, almost as if he was pleased by the situation before him. You had heard in passing of heroes wearing righteousness as a facade and enjoyed certain unsavory situations and chaos just as much as some villains did. You didn't think Izuke would have remained with someone who had such little honour but you could feel the smug satisfaction roll off Bakugō in waves. It was as though he wanted this to happen.

“Mhm,” Izuku all but purred as he leaned closer to you.

Bakugō knotted his fingers into Izuku’s sweat dabbled, unruly curls pushing his head closer to yours until you felt his warm breath fanning across your lips. The hair on the back of your neck stands and your breathing grows laboured. All you could think about since joining the faculty back in April was him, what his tongue may taste like, and if he would moan in your mouth like he did in your dreams. It was wrong of you to want him so bad but your wanton, lust filled mind was begging you to take this chance to have him with no repercussions, and no regrets.

Your rumination came to an end as Bakugō pressed Izuku’s mouth to yours. A puppeteer relishing in his work, he snorts as you eagerly lap at Izuku’s mouth, pawing at his torso with wanton lust. His fingers are quick to tangle in your hair and grip the back of your neck. The feel of his rough, scarred skin against your tender, flush neck makes your body burst out into goosebumps which drives you closer to him in search of warmth in spite of the burning balm that’s settled over you.

Lucidity melts your mind further. The longer you’re awake, shaking off the fog and allowing the adrenaline to settle in, the more your desire grows. It’s spiralled out of control and your body acts without your mind's permission.

“Izuku,” you whimper into his lips, wrinkling his dress shirt between your fists, “Please… Give me more.”

Bakugō roughly pats your head, tussling your hair around as if he were trying to give you a noogie, “Don’t you worry, Deku here is a good boy, he’ll give you what you need.”

Izuku moans into your mouth, his body reacting to his friend's words. His hands tremble as they curl into the nape of your neck. You take the opportunity to slip your tongue into his mouth, lapping at his molars and gums to memorize every inch of his kiss and the way he tastes, if gum or some other thing might cling to his teeth.

“Oh that’s it, atta boy,” Bakugō barks, his rough fingers tug at the roots of your hair as if to guide your tongue further into Izuku’s mouth.

Your eyes flit open on their own accord, perhaps to peer into Bakugō’s. They’re a dark shade of red, his pupils large and imposing as they peer, fixated on the sloppy slip and slide of your tongue against Izuku’s. They press close soon after they meet Bakugō’s for but a moment, forced by the nervous thrum of your heart that rises when he notices your staring.

Izuku notices the stall in your movements and the sloppy slip of your tongue, “Hey,” he coos against your lips, “Are you okay?”

You nod a bit, not minding the way your head knocks into his. You’re all but about to crawl out of your skin. Discomfort and discontent with being watched like a bug pinned beneath a microscope, sharp and calculating eyes dissecting your every move as if they determine your worthiness for his best friend. Oh, but the haze that clouded your mind and soaked through your panties kept you glued to the soft sofa and Izuku’s warm embrace, searching for something to quell the overwhelming, wanton need that choked your delicate throat.

Izuku tosses a spare glance over his shoulder to Bakugō, calculating and sizing the man up, “Kacchan do you mind?” He murmurs, it's less of a request and more of a statement but you’re unsure what it’s meant to mean.

Their eyes catch for a moment, a million words silently pass between them. They speak a language you can’t understand but the incessant throbbing in your cunt keeps the insecurity from eating away at you.

“He can stay if you want,” you whisper, your voice a stranger to your ears.

“Kacchan’s gonna leave,” Izuku’s voice is clipped as his emerald green eyes slide back to gaze into yours, “Isn’t that right?”

The two pause for a moment, a beat passing between them. The weight of their history is heavy in the air, tension palpable. You attempt to squirm away, to put some space between you and Izuku but his calloused hands keep you pinned firmly between him and the sofa. Your clit throbs with need, no amount of discomfort could cloud the fact that you found his strength immensely attractive.

“I was?”

The heat that emanates from between their exchanges burns you. Lapping at the tops of your thighs and licking your belly. You feel it deep within you, the staunch, growing need that’s driving you half mad. Whatever history laid between them, however complicated and rich, mattered not. How could it, when heady desire so thick laid itself over your feeble body?

“You wanna kiss him?” You murmur to neither man in particular, squishing your thighs together to quell the throb.

“No, angel,” Bakugō says, shoving his face over Izuku’s shoulder, “I want to kiss you, to know what you taste like.”

He leers at you in spite of the nervous glance his friend gives him but you pay it no mind. Your ego triples in its size, as does your fervent lust. You may not have cared enough to pay attention to the current hero ranks or the thriving celebrity culture, but you knew well enough to be flattered. Not just because anyone would want to be vied after by an affluent pro hero, but because Bakugō was stunning in his own right. Somewhere in the back of your mind, exists the pieces of him you’ve come across. Though mystified and shrouded by confusion, somewhere, he existed beyond the stretch of this one meeting.

“I know all about Izuku already.”

“Me?” You dumbly point to yourself, as if there were a fourth person in the room that he might have been conversing with.

He nods his head and the glint in his eyes feels predatory. You wither under his stare, fawning to him like a prey animal.

“Okay.”

The word is whispered and you have a feeling no matter what you said in that moment, it’d end with your mouth on his.

Bakugō’s body all but engulf’s Izuku’s frame. You had thought before that Izuku was large with well cared for muscles and thigh shoulders but his friend made him look small in comparison. With only a few extra inches of height to his name, Bakugō was big and burly, with muscles that tapered off into a surprisingly trim waist.

Izuku pouted as he was pressed in between the two of you, his neck bared as he cocked his head to the side to allow Bakugō some room, “Don’t be like that Deku,” he rasps against the shell of his ear, “You knew how I felt about them.”

The confession hangs heavily in the air but it doesn’t linger long. Bakugō presses a balmy, open mouthed kiss to Izuku’s jugular, the light highlighting the glint of his teeth as the nip at his freckled skin. A moan melts off Izuku’s tongue and that seems to satisfy both men. Bakugō crowds into your space, his nudge nudging yours.

You languidly blink at him, waiting for him to take what he wants. His rough, calloused fingers grasp the tip of your chin, his warm breath fanning across your lips. You find yourself leaning in, your lips brushing his, a small coquettish whimper sticking to the back of your throat.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to know what you taste like,” his voice is surprisingly soft, it makes your heart skip a beat.

Bakugō takes his time with kissing you, as if he knows the moment this quirk wears off the only pieces of you he’d get to have are short glimpses in the halls of U.A. He smells of sweat and ash, tastes like a hot cinnamon heart candy. That must have been the flavour of gum he was chewing on in the ambulance. His tongue laps at your gums and flick over your molars as if searching for all the hidden pieces of yourself. If intimacy lay in the knowledge of one's body, Bakugō was skipping all the pretext that comes before such closeness. He kissed you like the two of you had been simmering on low for years, a shared heat enveloping you. Maybe those months felt like years for him as you only had eyes for Izuku.

You’re unsure who you touch as your hands explore the expanse of clothed shoulders and biceps. The tickle of hair brushes your skin but the dizzying warmth shrouds your ability to discern the who and the wear. Both men were all over you, all at once. Izuku, nuzzling himself into you, sweet kisses pressed to your collarbones and sternum. He stroked the side of your abdomen, sneaking his fingers beneath your dress shirt. This morning, you had woken up extra early to iron your shirt in the hopes of looking nice. The fabric was now crumpled and soaked with sweat, the cuffs dabbled with blood from when you fell.

Bakugō’s lips are red and kiss bitten when he pulls away, swiping his thumb along the length of his bottom lip, he grins at you, satisfied with himself.

With a whine, you roll your hips against Izuku, searching for stimulation.

“What’s wrong?” He coos, his brow furrowed as he cups his cheek.

A haggard breath leaves your chest, “I’m so hot,” you all but squeal, “And needy it, I need you Izuku please.”

“You heard them, they need you, Deku.”

Izuku freeze’s for a moment, his face flush and hot. If he had some sort of emitter quirk you’re sure he’d be spitting flames from his cheeks, “Need me where, sweetheart?”

Cupping his hand with your own, you guide it between your legs. The thick tweed fabric of your slacks is uncomfortably wet with your arousal. The press of his hand to your cunt feels near euphoric, you can’t help the wanton moan you release. Izuku needs no further instruction as he flicks open the top button of your pants and begins to peel them down your hips. Your underwear is pulled down your thighs and bunched up, tossed somewhere in the living room with your socks and shoes.

Izuku moans when your spread your legs to give him space, his bottom lip squished between his teeth, “Fuck, your so…” He trails off, blinking a bit.

“Your cunt is perfect,” Bakugō finishes for him, sprawling across Izuku’s shoulders.

Bakugō roughly gropes Izuku’s erection through his dress pants, his free hand threads itself in his unruly green hair and pushes his head towards your throbbing cunt. Your eyes roll into your skull when the tip of his nose brushes against your aching clit. Your fingers tangle with Bakugō’s as you grip the roots of Izuku’s hair.

“Please,” you beg, twitching your hips upwards, “Lick my pussy, please Izu’.”

Izuku makes for an obedient puppy. In another life, one without such ambition, he might’ve made a good soldier with how well he took orders from you. His tongue lolled out to kitten lick your cunt, his green eyes peering up at you in concern. They shut quickly as he loses himself in your taste, groaning into you as he slurps up every last drop of your thick, sticky arousal that gushes from your cunt.

Bakugō wastes no time in unbuckling Izuku’s belt, pushing his pants and briefs down his thigh. Your mouth grows dry at the sight of his cock, heavy, hairy, and twitching with need. Precum drips from the ruddy tip onto the fuzzy carpet but neither man pays no mind. His wrist snaps as he gives Izuku’s cock a languid stroke. The groans of pleasure are swallowed up by your pussy, the vibrations from his vocal chords making your head spin. The muscles in your tummy are pulled taunt as they’re wound up. The tension that settles in your shoulders threatens to tear you apart.

Your orgasm washes over you with a startling quickness but it isn’t enough. Your nails dig into Izuku’s scalp as you keep his mouth pressed to your cunt even if he’s choking on your squirt. It drips down the leather cushions of the sofa and it squeaks obnoxiously as your skin slides against it. Bakugō pulls Izuku closer to him by the hips, bringing you with him. His sweatpants are bunched around his hips, pulled down just enough for dick to sit over the waist band. Unlike Izuku’s thick, curly bush and freckled pelvis, Bakugō’s pale blond pubes blend in with his skin but you can tell that he’s kept it trim. Trickling from beneath his belly button, his sparse happy trail guides your eyes to his cock. It’s thin and long with a bruised bulbous tip that leaks when he gives it a firm squeeze at the base.

With lidded eyes, you watch with intrigue when Bakugō spits on Izuku’s ass, rubbing it around his asshole with his thumb.

“Katsuki…” Izuku murmurs from between your thighs, “Are you gonna…?”

Bakugō silences him by pushing his mouth back into your cunt and like the obedient little runt he is, he latches his lips to your clit. Pressing the tip of his dick to Izuku’s eager hole, Bakugō stifles a grunt behind a wicked grin. It’s difficult to focus on one thing and how can you, when Izuku’s thick fingers prod at your weeping hole and he’s moaning like a whore with tears in his eyes as Bakugō splits him in half with not a moment of reprieve. It's sloppy, the way Izuku fingers your cunt, slick and squirt squelching loudly like an erotic symphony.

“Come on now, don’t slow down now” Bakugō chides, the hem of his muscle tank inching up his stomach as he snaps his hips into Izuku, “Be good now and put your mouth to use.”

Somewhere in the alphabet soup of your pleasure addled mind, you manage to string together a sentence, “You’re so mean to him,” you whine, writhing in Izuku’s hold, “Izu is so nice an’ he smells like sage.”

“He likes it,” he chuckles, leaning over Izuku’s back to peck your lips, “Would you rather I be mean to you?”

You try to shake your head but another orgasm hits you and you’re forced to gulp down a few breaths before you can attempt to speak. The two men call your name in synchronized echoes like hymns of worship bouncing off stone temple walls.

“No, just play nice with us.”

Izuku’s nails bite into the fat of your hips as he uses you for stability, his head bobbing like he’s brainless, “Shh, it’s okay sweetheart,” he murmurs, resting his cheek on your hip, “Kacchan is all bark.”

His chin is shiny with your spend, it’s dripped down his neck to soak into the collar of his shirt. Your body prickles with shame but it’s nothing in comparison to the snarly beast of want that claws at your chest, begging for more than just fingers and tongue.

“I wish he’d bite me instead.”

The two laugh, there’s a knowing look again, that look in the eye that makes your eyes flit away from the intensity, “I do if asked nicely.”

Blood prickles at the surface of your skin when Bakugō picks up the pace, roughly slamming his cock into Izuku’s poor battered hole. You’re almost mesmerized how his cock flops uselessly against his tummy with each deep thrust. His nails leave raised streaks in your skin that stirs something exciting in your chest. Your name is said like a prayer as Izuku cums, his cock twitching as his cum pools atop the carpet.

Somehow, Izuku’s cock becomes even stiffer, standing to attention in search of the warmth of human touch. Bakugō kisses the nape of his neck, whispering something to Izuku as he buries his cock into his ass.

“Sweetheart, can I…. I want to… no,” Izuku starts and stops himself like he’s talking to his boss. Beating around the push, unsure of how to make his request palatable, “Can I please fuck you?”

The soft, nervous lilt of his voice makes your cunt throb, you nod before you can choke out a “Yes,” breathed and painted with excitement, “Yes please, please I need you inside of me.”

Untangling himself from Bakugō’s reach, Izuku pushes you deep into the plush of the sofa. He wears a timid smile that threatens on wild. The apples of his cheeks are flush, you can’t help but reach up to pinch them, your thumb smoothing along his scar dappled skin. Pushing some of your sweat damp hair away from your forehead, Izuku settles between your thighs.

“You’re so pretty, sweetheart,” he whispers to you like he’s confessing a secret, giddy and drunk off the feeling, “How are you so pretty, so perfect?”

His question goes unanswered because he presses the slick tip of his cock to your cunt, sliding it between your sticky folds, “Hurry up!” You bark, simpering when you realize the tone of your voice is scarily demanding and petulant, “I can’t wait any longer, please.”

Caressing the side of your face, Izuku coos at you a soft apology with a kiss to placate your nerves. He’s far slower than Bakugō, who paid no mind to taking his time in stretching Izuku out. The fat head of his cock presses inside your pulsing hole and sits there for a moment as your chest heaves from the mind numbing stretch. Bakugō saunters around the other side of the sofa standing where your head hangs off the arm. His dick stares directly at you, a taunting treat that is just begging for you to take a bite.

Your jaw falls slack and your tongue follows suit. Izuku takes it as an invitation to kiss you, clumsily like it was his first. He’s eager and all over you, the snap of his hips jaggad and haggard.

“So pretty,” he whispers into your waiting lips, “I can’t believe I get to fuck you, I like you so much.”

You think you hear Bakugō chuckle. If he does, it's hidden but the wet squelch of his cock as he fists it over your faces. Either way, you’re too distracted by the operative word Izuku uses, “like”, you wanted it to be love. It’d only been a few months since you met him but you think you might’ve loved him the moment you laid eyes on him. You wanted him to love you too, to want more than just fevered kisses in the midst of an aphrodisiac fueled bacchanal. But that was asking too much, you wanted too much. You were greedy and wrought with selfish desire. And you couldn’t breathe.

Pulling at the buttons of your dress shirt, your pluck at the fabric until it gives way. The tepid air feels heavenly on your sweat slick skin for but a moment before you’re shrouded by the heat of two bodies. Bakugō slots his cock between your two open mouths and you suckle on the long throbbing vein to pacify your bleeding heart. Izuku’s tongue slides against yours, laving over Bakugō’s length as he pumps into you.

Warmth spreads in your abdomen and spills down your thighs. It bites at the edge of your vision, stars and bits of black swimming along until your consciousness fades. Sleep greets you like an old friend. It cradles your head and swaddles you in a cocoon of comfort. Your anxieties and that horrid pit in your stomach fade away with the sweet dreams that visit you.

You’re unsure how long you slumbered for but when you awake, the room was bathed in the golden glow of morning. There’s a grey duvet tucked up to your chin, it smells of laundry detergent and musk. Your bare body is battered, sore to the bone with bruises littering your thighs and hips. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes you survey the room. It’s barren and hardly lived in, if it weren’t for the pile of clothes hanging off the wicker basket hamper in the corner of the room.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Izuku’s cheerful voice rings out, he peers around the doorway with a tray of food, “How are you feeling?”

Your throat is dry, the words stick to the sides of your esophagus, “I feel…” You rasp, shaking your head, “Fine, how are you?”

Izuku offers you a smile, “I’m alright,” he offers you the tray, there’s a glass of water and a bottle of Advil, “Here, you should drink up.”

When you make no movement to grab the glass, Izuku plucks two pills from the bottle and brings the water towards your lips. Pressing the medication to your mouth, you swallow it down with his quiet instruction. He coos small praises into your ear, the way he does with his students. Your stomach flips with nerves as flashes of yesterday come rushing back.

Before you can speak the ensuite door flies open, a plume of steam coming with it. Bakugō stands in the doorway in nothing but a pair of loose gym shorts, toweling off his short spiky hair.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“Kacchan!”

Silence fills the space uncomfortably.

“Did you tell them yet?” Bakugō says, nodding towards you.

“Tell me what?” Your kiss bitten lips ache but you chew on them anyways.

Izuku shakes his head, “No,” he mutters, “They just woke up.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

Bakugō huffs through his nose, his gaze cutting through you as he pins down Izuku with his eyes,“They deserve to know.”

“To know what?” Anxiety bubbles in your belly. The pills that sit at the back of your throat threaten to make a reappearance. Blood coats your tongue as you split the skin of your lips. You think you know what they might say. It was all a mistake, likened to a drunken affair between a married man and a spring flower, decades younger, still in bloom.

“That we both have feelings for you.”

Oh.

And suddenly, those pesky wants of yours didn’t feel so far away. You didn’t feel so hard to love or desire. But, the thought of it stole your breath. It prickled you with anxiety and fears akin to not enough.

All you could say was, “Oh.”

Because whatever you felt for Izuku had no name and if it did, you weren’t sure such a word existed in Japanese nor English. And Bakugō, the guilt crept up for all the things you didn’t feel or couldn’t. Maybe you did feel something, not flattery but something concrete that pushed its way through the thick heat of desire that made you act so foolishly. You thought maybe he was just stroking your ego, that wanton lust to know the taste if another could be just that, lust. No feelings that were any deeper than a kiddy pool.

One of them calls your name, but it all sounds like static.

“And here I thought it was all in my head.”

And maybe it was. Maybe you were still dreaming.

You think that might be it until Izuku surges forward to kiss you long and hard. Your head is filled with the same intoxicating rush. The quirk must not have been as strong as you thought after all.

#bnha smut #izuku x reader #bakugou x reader #izuku smut #bakugo smut #bnha x reader #mha x reader #mha smut #izuku midoria x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #᭄᭡⠀written word

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mimiii-3 · 5 months ago

Text

Saboteur

Yandere Platonic Batfam x GN Neglected Reader

Notes: typical yandere themes, darling is gn too

Imagine being a batsib but not the family’s platonic darling…

🦇 - Bruce rescues some poor, defenseless young adult during an armed robbery

🦇 - Bruce and the rest of the batfam become obsessed and begin their relentless pursuit of the darling

🦇 - You have no clue why they’re so obsessed with this person but you’re desperate for validation & attention so you join in

🦇 - After several months of recon and stalking, they kidnap the darling and bring them home

🦇 - Cue the usual yandere shenanigans where the batfam is desperate for the darling’s love and for them to willingly join the family

🦇 - The darling can’t help but gravitate towards you, the outcast and most calm one of the group

🦇 - You begin a tentative friendship with the newcomer despite your burning jealousy

🦇 - One day you notice the darling sneakily grab a kitchen knife and stuff it in their pocket

🦇 - You go to Bruce and tell him about the knife

🦇 - Bruce pats you on the head and tells you “good job” before running off to find the darling

🦇 - You feel your chest puff, beaming with pride at your father’s approval

🦇 - This is what starts the new toxic push and pull between you and the darling

🦇 - Every time the darling breaks one of Bruce’s rules, you are the first to go and snitch

🦇 - All while maintaining your friendship with the darling

🦇 - The darling’s escape attempts die down as they get caught over and over again

🦇 - You, desperate for even more of your father’s affection, begin to set up the darling

🦇 - You leave a rogue nail under their mattress or remove one of Tim’s trackers from their room

🦇 - Anything that you can get the darling in trouble for

…

The darling sits at the head of the table, hand lightly shaking as they quickly down the hearty meal. The atmosphere is tense and you can’t help but slip your hand over your mouth, suppressing a giddy smile.

Bruce sits on the other side of the table. His tense shoulders give away the storm brewing inside. He’s angry and no one knows why. No one but you.

Just before dinner you had revealed to Bruce that darling was harboring a sewing needle. Claiming that they must have taken it from Alfred’s kit.

Bruce nodded solemnly before giving your shoulder as small squeeze. Bruce let out a pointed sigh, “Thanks for keeping an eye out kiddo.”

You respond with a quick “Yessir” and make your way to the dining room.

…

Bruce suddenly breaks his silence at the table and throws the sewing needle in the center of the table.

The darling inhales sharply and casts their gaze down onto their meal. Praying that he wouldn’t interrogate them again.

Their eyes begin to dart up and down between their food and you. They give you a desperate, pleading look in hopes that you would back the up.

You press your lips together and shake your head. You try to look as upset as them, like the whole thing makes you sick.

You can practically see the darling’s stomach drop as Bruce clears his throat, “We need to talk.”

Extra notes: I love shady, desperate reader😈 Hmmm but what if Bruce and co. suddenly realize they’re yandere for reader too

#dc x reader #dcu #batfam x reader #platonic batfam #yandere x reader #platonic yandere #platonic yandere x reader #yandere batfam #yandere batfam x reader #platonic yandere batfam #yandere platonic batfamily x reader #gn reader #sibling reader #batsiblings #batsib!reader

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zorosangell · 6 months ago

Text

⛥ﾟ・。 jug

synopsis: after going out to search for luffy, you and zoro stumble upon a bottle of pink sake. zoro drinks it without question, but lives to regret it, as you have to deal with the consequences... physically

cw: nsfw (nothing too crazy), fluff, angst if you really squint, aphrodisiacs, reader is down bad for zoro, and vice versa, whiny-ish zoro (he's in pain give him a break)

a/n: thought of the song heart of a woman while writing this

"Luffyyy!" you called, hands raised to the sides of your mouth as you glanced around. "Luffyyy! Where are you?!"

The swordsman bristled, pinching the bridge of his nose with an annoyed look.

"C'mon, Luffy, it's freezing out here! Hurry up!" he groaned, breath disappearing into the cool air.

Of all the nights your captain chose to disappear, it had to be the coldest of the week...

"For all we know, he can't even hear us," you sighed, tucking your hands in your pockets. "We might have more luck tomorrow... y'know, when it's not twenty below freezing."

"We already came all this way, we might as well bring him back," he grumbled, sharply, pressing forward with a taut look. "Christ, why is it so fuckin' cold..."

His tone came as barely a shock, your eyes unable to stave off their eyes roll.

'Someone's cranky...'

The crew hat been docked on a fall island for a little under a week, waiting for the log pose to set, but it was clear that the crew was already starting to go a little stir crazy.

Some more than others...

But, after a day of exploring and forest shenanigans, Luffy had yet to come back, and both you and Zoro were sent as his search party—the swordsman having been woken up from his pre-night watch nap.

Which would explain why he was acting so grouchy.

Or... grouchier than usual.

"C'mon, Zoro, we've been searching for an hour... How about we give it a rest?" you suggested, sincerely. "From what I can tell, this place is inhabited by nothing but deer, rabbits, and squirrels. I'm sure Luffy can survive the night."

The swordsman kept his gaze forward, not slowing down at all.

"It's dark, and this island is full of frozen lakes," he stated, matter-of-factly. "If that idiot manages to find some way to fall into one, he's done for."

Slightly, you deflated, looking off to the side.

You hadn't thought of that...

Cheeks puffed, you hugged your arms a little closer to your body, attempting to close out the chill of embarrassment.

You knew Zoro didn't mean anything by it—seeing as he talked like that to everyone—but you couldn't help but suddenly feel annoying, your excuses probably the last thing he wanted to hear after being dragged out of bed.

'Dammit, (y/n)... always whining about something...'

This was an insecurity that plagued you constantly.

When you first joined the Strawhats, it was blindingly clear that you were nowhere near the strongest of the bunch.

You weren't fast like Brook.

Or powerful like Luffy

Or even smart like Robin.

You were just... (y/n).

Average, human (y/n).

The only thing particularly unique about you was your skill with a needle and thread.

You were the ship's seamstress, and the clothes you created for the crew were all exquisitely crafted and perfectly tailored to their needs.

It didn't matter how much thread you had, how much fabric you were given, or even how bad the damage was.

You could easily turn it into something both stylish and practical, your craftsmanship that of a seasoned pro, someone who had been honing their trade for decades upon decades.

But you were only twenty.

And while the rest of the crew saw this incredible talent, and often sang your praises for it, you couldn't help but feel useless.

How the hell was sewing supposed to help you win a fight?

You couldn't feather stitch an enemy into submission.

Day in and day out, you trained, hoping to build your strength enough to run with the big dogs.

Even during the crew's two year break, you hadn't laid a finger on your sewing machine, focusing solely on your fighting prowess.

But when you came back, utterly elated by your newfound brawn, you were quick to realize that the monsters had gotten stronger, too.

And you were right back where you started.

"SHI—!"

Your little, mental pity party was interrupted as you tripped over a tree root, feet stuck and body flying forward toward the ground.

Luckily, a pair of strong arms caught you with a death grip, forcing a gasp out your lips as your hands shot up to cling to his broad shoulders, your face smashing into his muscular chest.

'I think I'll go die now...'

Deathly embarrassed, you quickly pulled your head up, stomach lurching and heart stuttering as you caught sight of his face.

"I'm sorry..." you muttered, meekly, eyes slightly wide and completely entranced.

He had a hardened face, with dark eyes and a dark aura—not at all like the men that typically hit on you (not that you thought he was hitting on you now)—and surprisingly soft looking lips.

It was common knowledge that Zoro was anything but ugly, but just seeing his features up close...

He was such a pretty man.

"You good?" Zoro asked, raising a brow.

Clearing your throat, you nodded, allowing him to stand you back upright, and allowing yourself the chance to reign yourself back in.

Your "little" crush on the swordsman was something that plagued you from the moment you joined the crew... and if we're being honest, who could blame you?

Not only was he incredibly attractive, but he had morals; honor; and most importantly, chivalry.

Which, in your private opinion, far surpassed Sanji's.

But, it was beyond obvious that the man was completely out of your league, and you preferred keeping your feelings bottled up and saving yourself the embarrassment rather than getting rejected by a crewmate.

You'd seen the caliber of women that had come onto him in the past.

Powerful, female enemies...

High ranking Navy officials...

A fucking princess...

How could you hold a candle to that?

Though, little did you know, he thought the exact opposite.

While Zoro was a man who prided himself of self-restraint and respect, he couldn't help but let his eyes rake over you as your arms came up to cross over your chest.

Smooth, tanned skin accentuated under the complementary white of your cropped parka, your jeans just loose enough to run, and just tight enough to make your ass look fantastic.

Your lipgloss made your plump lips look so soft and inviting, and your eyes were so warm he felt like they heated him from the inside out.

And don't get him started on your sexy-ass voice—

"What did you trip over?" he quickly blurted out, glancing down at the ground to fight off the impure thoughts.

"It looks like a handle," you remarked, squatting down to take a closer look. "And I think there's a square outline in the ground."

Slowly, you looped your manicured fingers around the tree root, getting ready to pull.

"Careful..." Zoro warned, swords at the ready.

You nodded, and with a harsh tug, the door lifted, revealing a small compartment with a large jug inside.

Grabbing it by the neck, you pulled it out, dusting off its label to see what it was.

"It's sake... from over twenty years ago."

Instantly, a grin stretched across Zoro's face, the man gratefully taking the bottle as you handed it to him.

"Now we're talkin'," he smirked, popping the cork with his teeth and swiping the bits of dirt off the mouth. "Just what I needed."

"Are you sure you wanna drink that?" you asked, warily, as you stared at the bottle's contents. "I've never seen pink sake before..."

The man shrugged, his good eye taking a quick glance at it before he tossed back a large gulp, licking the remnants off his lips when he was finished.

"Eh, it's probably native to this island or somethin'," he waved off, turning around to continue the search. "It's strong... tastes like strawberries."

With a sigh, you stood to follow him, brows flattening as you watched him pound back another huge swig.

'I'll have Chopper check him out when we get back...'

It wasn't long after that you guys found Luffy.

He had been napping in a tree the whole time, and after you and Zoro gave him a serious scolding for worrying everyone, you dragged him back to the ship, you practically slumping against your door once you made it back into your work room.

Your day had been a whirlwind, to say the least, and your body wanted absolutely nothing more than to sprawl out on bed and catch some Zs.

But, even with the late, or rather, early hour—two to be exact—you didn't allow it.

First, you changed into some more comfortable clothes—some pajama shorts and a flimsy tank top—before straightening up the mess you had made in an attempt to make everyone new winter coats.

Once all that was done, you finally sat down at your desk, opening up your sketchbook and pulling out a pen to draw with.

'Alright, Nami said she wanted a new party dress...'

But before you could even draw the first line, someone frantically knocked on your door.

"For fuck's sake..." you sighed, throwing your head back in anguish.

You had half the mind to ignore it.

And, honestly, you did, returning to your book and pretending to be asleep.

But it wasn't long before the frantic rap turned into a distressed bang, completely disrupting your flow.

"Fine! I'm coming!" you caved, roughly pushing your chair back and storming toward the door.

If Kaido himself wasn't burning down the ship, heads were going to roll.

"Usopp, I swear to God, if this is some kind of jo—"

Swinging the door open, you never in a million years would have expected to see Roronoa Zoro on the other side.

Especially not looking like that.

"Shit," he panted, breathless, as he clutched his stomach, leaning against the door frame for support.

Of course it led him to you...

"Can I... mph! ...Can I come in?"

In front of you stood the first mate of Luffy's crew, his most trusted companion, his most loyal friend.

And the hands-down hottest man you had ever seen.

He was in nothing but some black sweats, his muscular arms and abs on perfect display.

His face was flushed, cheeks puffed with his hair tousled, and chest heaving like he'd just run a marathon.

Without thinking, you stepped to the side, allowing him in, now incredibly thankful that you'd tidied up beforehand.

Can't have the place looking like a pig sty...

Feeling something burning into the side of your head, you shut the door, turning around to see that he was staring at you intensely.

His eyes, once a beautiful steel gray, mimicking that of the swords he cherished so dearly, now resembled that of storm clouds, dark with something you couldn't place your finger on.

Yet something that worried you nonetheless.

"Are you okay?" you asked, raising a brow, not daring to touch him as he leaned against the wall, his legs having a slight tremble.

"No," he replied, his voice a half-whine, half-growl, the sound sending shivers down your spine. "Something's... something's wrong... and... fuck! Everything hurts!"

"Hurts?" you parroted, now even more confused.

If he was in pain, why would he come to you?

You were just the seamstress, someone with little to no medical knowledge.

Why not go to Chopper?

Hell, why not go to Robin?

He let out another pained groan, sending a small, sharp pang to your heart.

'Questions are for later.'

Swiftly, you approached, only stopping when you were about a foot in front of him.

Leaning forward, your eyes scanned over his body, checking to see what you could deduce off looks alone.

"What hurts?"

Before he could answer, his eyes trailed down to your chest, the cut of your tank top and the angle you were leaning giving him a perfect view of your tits.

'Fuck me...'

Embarrassed, he avoided eye contact with you, his gaze flicking down to his crotch before zooming off to a far away window.

Still thoroughly confused, your eyes followed his path, only to find that he was hard, and it looked almost painfully so.

'Oh, shit...'

Your face burned, and you quickly snatched your eyes away from the sight.

"What happened?" you squeaked.

"I don't know," Zoro rasped, his entire body shuddering with arousal, heat pulsing through his body so intensely it hurt. "I woke up in my room an hour ago, and... well."

He gestured to his hard-on, the message clear.

"I tried to rub one off but... fuck... nothing worked. And then it got worse... and then—"

Red-faced, he glanced away from you, nostrils flaring.

Why couldn't shit like this happen to the damn cook?

"I...fuck...I smelled something...shit...something that just made it even worse, so I went to find it..." Zoro swallowed thickly, "and it lead me here."

Here?

HERE?

'HERE?!'

Why would, what was obviously some sort of lust sickness, lead him to you?

And why would your scent make it even worse?

Sure, you thought the man was stunningly handsome, and the mysterious, stone-cold air about him intrigued you to no end... but this was too much.

It had to be a dream.

Right?

Suddenly, Zoro crumpled to the floor, breathing heavily in short pants, eyes glassy and cheeks flushed.

"Zoro!" you gasped, worried, rushing over to him.

"Look... I don't know how or why this... whatever it is...led me to you by your fuckin' scent or somethin'," he shuddered, the room somehow filled with your damn smell.

The shampoo you used.

The body wash.

The perfume.

Hell, the goddamn candles.

Everything just set something off inside of him—something that wanted to ravish you until you couldn't speak, trapped under his body helpless and needy.

Just like he was for you.

God, you were his fucking crewmate.

"Look, I wouldn't ask this of you, (y/n), if there was any other choice..." he rasped, your name on his tongue sending another shiver down your spine.

'Get a hold of yourself...'

"But you're the only one that caught this thing's attention. I don't think think this'll go away normalLY!"

His word extended as pain thrummed through his body, starting at his pelvis and sparking up his back.

God, it hurt so fucking bad.

But as the body cramp passed, he looked up at you with glassy eyes.

"(y/n), please. I'll...fuck! ...I'll fuckin' get you something nice at the next island..." he shuddered again. "Just help me..."

You stared at him for a long moment, struggling to process what was happening.

This had to be some sort of freaky dream.

You'd probably passed out from exhaustion at your desk, and were now face first in your sketchbook.

But looking down at him, so helpless, trembling like an injured deer, it felt oddly real.

...

'Nahhh...'

With a heavy sigh, you moved closer, until you stood over him, his breathing becoming rapid and uneven.

You smelled so fucking good.

He just wanted to have you, to keep you.

To devour you.

You knelt in front of him, tilting your head and lifting him just enough, giving him a warm nod of approval.

That was all he needed.

In an instant, Zoro surged forward, his impossibly soft lips capturing yours in a breath-stealing kiss, granting him a faint pang of relief.

If this was a dream, then it was the most vivid one you'd ever hand.

His lips felt so real, pressing a searing kiss into yours, all the pain and arousal he had been feeling clear as day.

Smoothly, his nimble hand curled around your waist, the other cupping the back of your head.

"Fuck, you're so soft... You smell so good," he muttered into your mouth, his hands wandering all over your body.

You took in a shuddering breath when Zoro pulled away, giving you a small chance to regain your senses as his lips traveled down your jaw and to your neck, his teeth scraping your sensitive skin.

You sighed, the feeling alien.

Sure, you weren't a prude—you'd frenched a guy or two from your village in your teen years—but never had you done something so... intense.

"Zoro!" you gasped as he suddenly shoved you to the floor, his pupils dilated beyond relief.

"I'm givin' you an out right now," he warned, leaning down so close to you, you could count his eyelashes. "One word... and I'll leave.

God, his eyes were so pretty.

You could stare into them for hours, getting lost in their cloudy grey.

'Wait... what did he say?'

Zoro pressed his forehead against yours, his breath ghosting across your lips, "Last chance."

He almost sounded nervous.

He wasn't at all experienced in the world of sex.

And, yes, he was a pirate who often cared little about the feelings of others.

But he wasn't a monster.

Nothing further was going to happen without your say so.

With a shy smile, you leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss on his lips.

'Thank God.'

With that out the way, his hips pressed into yours, and you let out a shocked moan into his lips, feeling his hardened dick throb with each throb of his heart.

God, he felt big.

A small pit of nervousness settled in your stomach, but you pushed it away, following instinct by lifting your hips, helping Zoro get some relief from the pain as you carefully rubbed your pulsing core against him.

And it felt fantastic.

Zoro let out a shuddering sigh, pulling away from the kiss and looking down between you both, his hips already meeting yours in a rhythm.

"Fuck—" he groaned, almost flopping completely on top of you, his large arms enveloping your body as he ground against you.

"Fuck fuck fuck, dammit, you already feel too fuckin' good," he kissed your neck, scraping his teeth against your skin as he dry humped you. "Thankyouthankyouthankyou."

You let out mousy responses to his thanks, rutting back into his hips until it wasn't enough for him anymore.

He sat up abruptly, scooping you up as if you weighed nothing and standing up on wobbly legs, walking over to your bed and setting you down less than gently.

(Franky had installed a bed in your workshop after the fiftieth time you'd fallen asleep at your desk. Yes, he counted)

You bounced as you landed, almost squeaking as Zoro's rough hands explored your body once again, tugging off your sleep clothes in a fumbling, desperate manner.

You sat up to help him slide off your shirt, his eyes catching on the soft curves of your shoulders and waist, studying the way your stomach smoothed out into your hips and thighs, your skin so soft under his touch.

He leaned down, trailing his lips against your hips and stomach, his tongue licking up your waist until it reached your breast, his mouth latching onto your hardened nipple as you shivered at the pleasurable feeling.

He whispered your name against your skin like a prayer to the gods, and you took in a sudden, deep breath.

You'd never imagined your name sounding so sexy.

'This has to be a fucking dream, it has to be...'

Something like this would never actually happen to you—so you decided to just enjoy it.

Soon, your pants followed your shirt, landing on the floor behind Zoro.

He stood, staring down at you with dark eyes, his chest heaving, you almost matching him with how hard you were breathing.

Suddenly, he pulled your underwear off, exposing your soaked core to the freezing air of your workshop.

"Wait, Zoro, I've never—"

You couldn't even finish your sentence, his mouth already meeting your core, his tongue driving into you while his thumb circled your clit.

"Zoro!" you cried out, your hand reaching down to grab his soft hair, bucking your hips against his mouth.

It felt better than anything you could've ever imagined.

But just as quick as it came, his tongue left you, your whine not even making it halfway before your back was arching, all three of his fingers shoved into you.

The mix of pain and pleasure was delicious, and you almost instantly understood why some peple were addicted to it.

His mouth replaced his thumb on your clit, his diits unraveling you so easy.

You moaned his name like a broken record, the heat in your face reaching down your entire body, sighing as he pulled his fingers out.

You watched, intently, as Zoro tugged off his pants, his boxers going with his clothes, landing right next to yours.

He was gorgeous.

Years of hard, grueling training left him toned, every bit of him defined and carved by the gods.

He stroked his cock, and something churned in your stomah at the sight of it.

It as really big—if this was real, then you'd be sore beyond belief.

You swallowed, letting Zoro maneuver your body and legs as he lined himself up, rubbing the pink-tipped head of his dick against your folds.

He looked into your eyes, and smirked, before pushing in with one motion, his eyes snapping shut at the feeling of your hot, soft walls.

In an instant, his body cooled down, allowing a moment of relief before it came back twice as painful.

Meanwhile, you had breathed yourself through it quite well, the painful sting already beginning to disappear.

Suddenly, he let out a pained, lustful moan, slowly pulling out before thrusting back in.

It as simple at first, a novice pace, the sound of your wet cunt suctioning around him echoing throughout the room.

Your breath was suddenly stolen as Zoro pressed down into you, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist as his hands pinned your wrists to the bed.

"Fuck fuck fuck," he growled.

He sounded like an animal in heat, his hips hammering into yours, the sound of your cunt being abused growing louder.

"Ah...ah...aah!" you panted, drool leaking down the side of your mouth as Zoro fucked you hard, his hips slapping against your thighs and ass, the sound only turning you on even more.

And it seemed to be doing the same to Zoro.

He bit your shoulder, moaning so loud you were sure the entire ship would've had complaints.

If this wasn't a dream, of course—which you were positive it was.

Your first orgasm came fast and hard, fireworks exploding in your vision as the coil wound in your gut snapped.

Zoro let out a tutered groan, frantically pulling his dick out and coming all over your stomach, the amount a concerning one.

But he was still unsatisfied.

With a grunt, he clutched his side, another cramp rushing through his body and forcing him to flip you over, pulling up your hips.

Your face burned as he ignored your sputtering words, sliding back into you, his breath hitching as you clenched down on him yet again.

Using his strength, he practically overtook you with his body, arms wrapped around your waist and hips pistoning as he hammered you like there was no tomorrow.

You couldn't even breath, each thrust knocking the wind out of you.

Fixing his position, Zoro shifted his hips ever so slightly, sitting up on his knees, forcing you to see stars.

Ecstasy flooded through your body as your front half went completely limp, panting moans pushing from your chest with each slap of Zoro's hips against your ass.

It wasn't long before your second orgasm came crashing through you—not as intense as the first but ust as hard.

Feeling himself right on the edge, he quickly pulled away, letting out a brathy whisperof your name as he pumped himself, releasing all over your back.

It continued like this for a while, the pain only disappearing after two more rounds.

And once it did, he carefully let go of your hips, them dropping like dead weight as all of your strength was completely sapped away.

Zoro was utterly exhausted, panting and aching everywhere, but he could only imagine how you felt.

He himself had never made it past first base with a woman before—he'd never had time for relationships, sexual or romantic—but he wasn't stupid.

He'd heard many a tale about the soreness that exists after sex for women.

And you had done him a serious solid.

So he forced himself to stand up, pulling on some pants before walking to the bathroom on tired legs and grabbing a few wash rags.

He got you cleaned up with the warm, damp ones, before using a cold one to cool the rest of your body.

But once that was done, he had no energy to do anything else, allowing himself to fall back against the pillows, breathing heavily.

Though, he didn't waste any time in wrapping his arms around you, pulling your back flush against his chest.

He couldn't just leave you after what he did...and if he was being honest, he didn't want to.

Watching your sleeping form, snoring softly and snuggled under the sheets, brought a certain warmness to his heart he had never felt before.

He didn't know what tomorrow would bring, but the least he could do was hold you in his arms while he had the chance.

Maybe, one day, this could be real.

BONUS !!

The shouts of your captain snatched you from your death-like sleep, waking you with a groan as your eyes fluttered open, only to be blinded by the golden rays of morning light seeping through the window.

You let out a tired whine, covering your head with your pillow.

'I knew I should've got those curtains...'

Sitting up, sluggishly, you almost immediately regretted it when a jolt of pain shot through your core, the following soreness and aching rippling throughout the rest of your body.

"The hell?" you winced at the pulse between your legs.

It practically hurt to breathe.

And you had no idea why.

Confused, you lifted the blanket to check what was wrong, only to find that you were completely naked.

'Oh, shit... oh shit, oh shit, OH SHIT!'

You whipped your head around, looking for any sign of the handsome pirate, only to find him snoring soundly right next to you, one of his arms haphazardly strewn around your waist.

Going off his positioning, it looked like you two were tangled in the sheets, his arms holding you protectively for most of the night.

"Last night was real..." you muttered, wincing again, your voice nearly gone.

A raspy tone only acquired after screaming nearly all night long

'Oh, shit! Fuck! The others! I was so loud!'

Frantic, you didn't realize how close you were to the edge, your lips letting a yelp slip as you fell over.

Instantly, you hit the floor with a harsh thud, letting out a string of curses as another jolt of pain coursed through your legs and hips.

"Fuck..." Zoro groaned as he patted the space next to him, attempting to feel for you as he stirred awake from the noise. "Where the hell did she—oh, shit, (y/n)!"

Realizing you were on the ground, his eye shot wide, and he quickly scrambled to the edge of the bed, wrapping his arm around your waist and effortlessly hoisting you into his lap.

"Crap, (y/n), are you alright?! Are you hurt?!" he asked, frazzled, and still trying to wake up. "Shit, (y/n), I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for all this to happen. I shoulda listened to you and left the damn sake alone."

To say he felt ashamed was an understatement.

He was absolutely mortified.

The events of last night began coming back to him in flashes, the pit of guilt in his stomach sinking deeper with each one.

Where he dragged his tongue against your skin...

Every hickey and bite mark he left behind...

The feeling of your gummy walls squeezing against him...

That's not how he wanted your first time together to be.

He wanted it to be something slow and special, something a woman like you deserved.

But instead it was fast and in the spur of the moment, all because he was stupid enough to guzzle some mystery drink and fall under the effects of a lust spell.

"I—"

Raising your finger to his lips, you silenced him, eyes suddenly lidded as you leaned forward, forcing the two of you to lay back down, much to his confusion.

"Talk later," you mumbled, sleepily, nuzzling into his side as you pulled up the covers. "Sleep now."

Allowing your eyes to flutter shut, you let out a smooth, content sigh, slowly drifting back into slumber.

Incredulous, Zoro let out a small chuckle, but complied anyway, his arms snaking around your waist once more, pulling you further into him with a slight smirk.

Maybe he had that jug to thank after all...

#zorosangell #one piece #one piece x reader #roronoa #roronoa x reader #roronoa zoro x reader #roronoa zoro #zoro #zoro x reader #op

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asthronauta · 7 months ago

Text

BEST FRIENDS FUCK EACH OTHER│Barty Crouch Jr × Male Reader [NSFW].

Summary: [Y/N] always wanted to fuck his best friend. And Barty wouldn't shut up. He had to do something about it.

Warnings: Sex with no plot, basically. Ftm (trans) male reader, use of words like pussy, clit, pussy lips and basically shameless talking about it. Unprotected sex, Blow job, Fingering, Pussy eating, Cum in mouth, Cum in pussy, Dirty talk, Begging to be filled, Use of the words good boy & bitch, Public kind of thing? Enjoy 😋

Also, [N/N] means nickname. It can be the shorter version of your name or wtv you want.

Btw, english is not my first language so there might be some errors in my writing. I'm still learning!

Barty was so fucking annoying.

Look, Hogwarts was beautiful and magical and huge but the exams were actually terrifying. You did not want to fail an exam. That's why [Y/N] found the most sought-after corner of the library to study. Which was, in fact, the place he always used to pick. A hidden table in the back plus the late hours of the night that occurred were the perfect combination to study without interruptions. Or, that's how it was supposed to be. But Barty fucking Crouch chased him. Which was actually shit because now his secret place wasn't secret anymore and now he'll have to find a new place where he could find some peace and some quiet.

Bartemius Crouch Junior. The most annoying person [Y/N] ever met and also his best friend. Yeah, that's how things worked. In first year Barty used to chase him everywhere and [Y/N] used to hide from him. Well, some things never change. — It was probably three in the morning and [Y/N] was actually worried about his exam, but Barty just wouldn't shut his mouth. It was nothing new but [Y/N] really needed for him to shut the fuck up.

Barty Junior created his own fame. - He knew perfectly well the image people had of him and he revelled in it. He knew the effect he had on people and it inflated his ego in a way he adored. No one escaped it; not even the teachers. Not even [Y/N]. — At first they were children; of course they had no feelings for each other, but as the years went by, the sexual tension grew. Because Barty fucking Crouch was just too hot and the worst thing was that he knew it perfectly well. It was fucking annoying. So [Y/N] really meant it when he blurted-

“If I suck your cock you'll shut the fuck up?”

It was the kind of proposal that if you didn't accept; it was just a joke, but if you did accept..

Barty was sitting in front of him and [Y/N] saw the look on his face when his brain registered what he said. There was a second of silence where Barty looked at him with genuine surprise. Searching in [Y/N] for a trace of it being a lie and when he didn't find it a smirk began to grow on his stupid face. And that was when [Y/N] realized everything went to hell because he was fucking serious and Barty too.

“Is that a bribe?”

The words slipped from his mouth with an air of amusement. [Y/N] had no idea why every word that came out of Barty's mouth made him utterly mad. I mean, they were supposed to be best friends. But every sound Barty made was a reason why [Y/N] wanted to sew his lips together, and that's been happening more often lately. Maybe because Barty was hooking up with more and more people and [Y/N] couldn't stand to have him around anymore. And maybe a 'please shut up' would have worked just right but [Y/N] already walked into the lion's den and oh, Barty wasn't going to let him go.

“Take it as you wish” There was no way [Y/N] was turning back now. Barty would tease him for life if he did. - He was already at the dance; now he had to dance.

Barty looked at him. Smirking. Smirking at [Y/N]'s face cause he knew he already won. “Do it, and I'll stay quiet.”

Yeah, fuck.

•

[Y/N] wasn't an angel; but he never thought he'd fuck his best friend. I mean, not that it would ever really happen. Because fuck he'd fantasized about that thousand of times. - He was always curious. Can you blame him? He was surrounded by hot people. Anyone in his place would speculate about how his classmates' dicks were like. And Barty dripped with sexual energy. And [Y/N] was just a boy.

Barty was no longer sitting but standing, leaning on the table, looking down at [Y/N] who was kneeling on the library floor. Fuck, what the hell was he doing? he was on his knees about to suck his best friend's cock and he was getting so wet already. And Barty still had all his clothes on. He was literally salivating as he undid Barty's belt - he didn't know he wanted this that much.

Barty didn't say a word. Finally what [Y/N] wanted but fuck he was so nervous he needed Barty to say something stupid. - He had no idea what was going through Bartemius' mind and his own kept going at the speed of light as he undid the zip of Barty's pants, finally catching a glimpse of his underwear. — He was avoiding Barty's eyes but he could tell he was looking at him. At his every move. And he thought he saw a slight, almost invisible blush on the other boy's cheeks.

He was nervous as fuck but Barty didn't have to know that. So when his pants were off [Y/N] was quick to pull down Barty's underwear in one go. And Jesus Christ Barty was big. And hard. So hard it was already standing in front of his face as if his cock was fucking pointing at him. — Fuck, he has a good one [Y/N] bit his lip to prevent that unforgivable phrase from leaving his mouth. - His pussy soaked, staining his underwear. He could feel the wetness between his pressed together thighs. As if his body knew that maybe that thing would enter him soon and that made him blush so damn much because fuck he wanted that thing in his pussy

He took it in his hand, first. He heard the way Barty gasped and how his body tensed and it sent a shiver down his spine. He began to stroke. Up and down. From the tip to the base. His eyes trailing over the tattoo on Barty's hip that ran down to his cock; a snake. Feeling the soft skin on his palm and the veins. Squeezing. Feeling how hard the muscle was. “Yes, just like that” Barty muttered and [Y/N] swallowed the saliva that was gathering in his mouth. He never heard that tone in Barty's voice before and it was doing things to him. — Eventually Barty began to buck his hips against [Y/N]'s hand, fucking that tight, warm grip around his length. [Y/N] was having trouble since he was mesmerized by the scene in front of him so Barty reached down, encircling [Y/N]'s wrist with his hand and keeping his grip still as he fucked it. Barty groaned. [Y/N] could feel the way the muscle tensed and the veins stood out. “Fuck... That's it.. you're good with that little hand of yours” [Y/N] almost groaned at that.

“Barty, fuck” he moaned. Almost pitifully. Because he couldn't believe his best friend was saying those nasty things to him. And he was being a slut for it. There was no words to describe it just fuck. It felt so fucking wrong but also so damn good. — Barty began to move faster. His breathing quickening. As if he wanted to cum. His grip on [Y/N]'s wrist tightened and [Y/N] didn't care to tell him to stop. Because fuck he didn't want him to stop. “Ah, yes, fuck... You're gonna make me cum soon” Barty gasped. [Y/N] sighed. Tempted to rub himself against something because his already soaked pussy was crying out for some attention. He could feel how damn sensitive his clit got.

Barty was close. That thought gave him chills because he could see it. Right in front of him. And it was him who was giving Barty that pleasure. It was him that Barty was so eager for. [Y/N] could see how Barty's swollen, red cocktip bobbed in and out of his fist. Moving tantalizingly closer and then away from his face. He had a close-up of how the tip became wetter and wetter, leaking with precum that eventually ran down to his hand and then to the floor. “Wait” he gasped. Fuck. It must be salty, he thought. He didn't give a fuck. He couldn't let Barty's cum on the floor. It was his; he was causing it. He couldn't let it on the damn floor. “I want it in my mouth”

“Atta boy” Barty growled and [Y/N] almost came. He leaned down, closing his eyes dreamily before taking the wet tip into his mouth. “Ah, fuck” Barty hissed, feeling every swirl and suck as [Y/N] lapped his precum. One of his hands held tight on the edge of the table while the other found its way to [Y/N]'s hair. Squeezing the strands between his fingers. Getting a proper grip that left the other boy's head immobile; just so Barty could move freely. - He pushed the rest of his cock into that eager mouth. Well-, half. Cause Barty didn't get to sink completely when he felt his cockhead hit the back of [Y/N]'s throat. “Oh yes fuck” Barty gasped, looking down to find [Y/N]'s eyes looking up at him. “Mhm.. this is what you wanted, right?” He hummed as he began to move slowly. Tentatively bumping against the back of [Y/N]'s throat, gradually sinking deeper. “Fuck [N/N], I can't believe I'm fucking your mouth” [Y/N] sighed on Barty's cock at that. The fact that Barty was using his nickname only made him feel guiltier and hornier.

He was trying; relaxing his throat, letting Barty dictate the pace. He didn't want to disappoint him. That morning they were having breakfast with Reg and Evan; as they had been doing for years. Who would have thought that by the end of the day Barty would be fucking his mouth. — [Y/N] closed his eyes; and Barty saw it as a sign to let go. He began to fuck his mouth properly; urging, pushing [Y/N]'s head closer as his hips moved in and out of that wet mouth. “Fuck yes, take it” he hissed, pressing his lips together. Frowning as he felt himself getting closer to cumming in his best friend's mouth. “Fuck [N/N], you're making me fucking close for you, fuck... ” he was trying to keep his voice down; although the library was empty the place echoed and maybe a fucking prefect would come to spoil his little fun here. “Yes.. you like that, don't you? Having me deep into that pretty little mouth of yours,” He looked down, only to chuckle when he saw [Y/N]'s helpless face as he choked on his cock. “Fuck, look at you... I didn't know you were such a slut for my cock, [N/N].”

He began to pound, holding [Y/N]'s head with both hands as he hit the back of his throat over and over. His balls hitting [Y/N]'s chin every time. “Fuck [N/N] I'm cumming inside your mouth-” Barty cried before he came. Moaning as he pressed [Y/N]'s head hard against his pelvis. Squeezing his locks as he began to feel the spurts coming out, hitting the back of [Y/N]'s throat as he filled his mouth up. “Oh yes oh fuck” he cried as he stayed still. Letting every drop out deep into [N/N]'s mouth.

Barty's cock slipped out [Y/N]'s soaked, swollen lips only when he made sure [Y/N] swallowed it all. [N/N] coughed, gasping for air. Drool dripping down his chin. Eyes tearing and the messiest Barty had ever seen him. Barty came in his mouth. Barty came in his mouth and he swallowed it all as the slut he was for his cock. He couldn't believe he just did that. He couldn't believe he let things go to hell like that. What the fuck did he just do? There was no turning back after this. His friendship with Barty would never be the same again.

“Fucking hell [N/N]” Barty chuckled. Triumphant smile on his face. As if he didn't give a damn about what just happened. “I didn't know you had such a dirty little mouth there, fuck.. I came so hard for you” he grabbed his spend cock shamelessly. Stroking it lazily as he stared at [Y/N]'s helpless form. Trying to catch his breath. A sticky mess between his legs. Barty's smile grew bigger. “Now what's up, [N/N]? Did the mice eat your tongue? It was me the one supposed to keep quiet”

“Shut up Barty”

“That's my boy” Barty approved as he watched [Y/N] stand back up, Barty quickly wrapping an arm around his lower back and pulling him into a hungry kiss. Saliva, tongue, teeth and the salty taste of Barty's cum in between. Muffled moans from both of them and Barty's thick snake pressing against [Y/N]. “Barty” [Y/N] moaned against his mouth. Not stopping kissing for a second. His arms wrapped helplessly around Barty's neck while his were wrapped around [Y/N] as well. “Ah- Barty-” He gasped his name like a mantra. Unable to believe what that name meant now; the name of the man he was so eager for. The man he needed so bad. No longer the name of his best friend but the name of the person he wanted to be pounded dumb by on the library table. “Barty please-”

“What do you want baby?” Barty muttered against his mouth. Tight grip on the other boy's waist. “Tell me what you want and I'll give it to you”

“Want you-” He gasped. Barty's mouth was too good to let go. “Want you in my pussy Barty please fuck me.”

[Y/N] felt the vibration against his mouth as Barty groaned deeply. As if those words awakened something wild in him. “You want that?” He tested, speaking between kisses. Catching the other's lip between his teeth. “Mhmm, I can do that for you, baby, but you have to promise me something” He pulled away to look at him. Green eyes dark, deep. He cupped [Y/N]'s face with one hand; it wasn't tender, it was rather possessive. Firm. Squeezing his cheeks. “Once I get into that tight little pussy of yours, there won't be turning back, baby” he said, shaking his head as he spoke “I won't stop 'til I cum deep inside. Nowhere else, yeah? Just deep inside your pussy. Is that alright? Are you okay with that?”

And how could he refuse such a generous offer?

He nodded. Heart eyes on Barty. “That's a good boy” he said, letting go of him “Now be a sweetheart and bent over on the table for me. I want to pound that slutty pussy from behind” [N/N] did. Because at this point he would do anything for Barty. — Barty pushed his pants down carelessly. Baring [Y/N]'s ass and needy pussy to the air. “Oh, look at that” Barty mockered, [Y/N]'s face turned red. “You're leaking wet for me [N/N]” Barty's hand shamelessly wandered down there and tested the slit, his fingertips gliding easily over the lubricated area. [Y/N]'s whole body trembled. Letting out a shaky, needy gasp. Barty didn't stop. Tracing up and down until suddenly pushing one finger inside. “Holly shit” Barty cursed over [Y/N]'s moan because he took that finger way too fucking good. Sliding in easily like a wet, slick little mouth - his cock spasmed with interest. “Fucking shit [N/N] you took that finger so fucking good baby” he praised, feeling how [N/N] throbbed and squeezed around his finger “You're a wet little bitch, aren't you?” he purred. Biting his lip as he moved his finger in and out, watching as [Y/N]'s wetness soaked his ring. Getting out of him those tiny little moans he liked. He slipped out; sucking his finger clean. “Mhm, that cherry tastes good” he hummed. So damn naughty. [Y/N]'s face was bright red and he couldn't do anything but let Barty use his body. “Need to have a taste of that before going in, don't you think?”

[Y/N] could hear the smirk on Barty's face; he didn't need to see him. He was about to turn to look as him but he didn't manage to when he felt Barty's face buried deep in his ass. Tongue lapping at his pussy juices. He moaned, a moan that echoed in the empty library and stirred the candlelight. “Barty-!” his gasp died in a shaky cry, feeling how Barty fucking Crouch caught his pussy lips between his lips. Sucking them. Gently biting them— He was in heaven, with the stars and the moon. Barty was eating him like he meant it. Tongue moving everywhere. Lapping at his sloppy hole, guitar-playing with his clit. He could fucking feel the metal of Barty's tongue piercing on his pussy and he was about to-

Barty pulled away. [Y/N] almost cried at that. He was about to protest when he suddenly felt Barty's thick, wet tip resting against his hole. “Barty-” he gasped. Okay, this was really happening. “I'm going to fuck you” Barty groaned. An statement; not a question. [Y/N] sighed almost in fear. Barty was there; just one move away from penetrating him and fucking him bareback. Of crossing a line from which they couldn’t return. — Barty was holding his heavy cock aligned with [Y/N]'s helpless pussy hole. Stroking it. His other hand teasing his balls lightly. He was fully hard again already. Leaking. [Y/N] could feel the swollen tip pressing just a tiny bit in. He fucking mewled. Barty's leaking cockhead was splitting his tender lips apart. He needed him inside.

“Barty- Barty please, you're killing–”

The words choked in his throat as Barty plunged his cock all the way in.

“Fucking take it” [Y/N] let out a pitiful moan. Almost a whimper. As Barty took a hold of his hips. Starting to roll his almost desperately from the start. “Oh you fucking tight bitch you're squeezing me like crazy” Barty groaned, pounding. His balls slapping against [Y/N]'s untouched clit. [Y/N] was speechless. Not even moaning at first as he felt the slight burn and huge presence of Barty in his pussy. His legs were weak - it was thick. So thick. He could feel it stretching him so much he couldn't help but clench around it. Barty was being so damn rough; no mercy for his tender pussy that was taking him so deep. “Yes-” [Y/N]'s little moan went unnoticed under the thuds that echoed through the place.

“You're not letting me go, are you? Fuck, you're slick as hell baby-” Barty moaned. Biting his lip as he threw his head back. Closing his eyes and enjoying the feeling of fucking that small, slippery pussy for a second. Barty knew he was big but [Y/N] was fucking tight. Squeezing his cock like he wanted to fucking suffocate him. A tiny, slippery tunnel that Barty was ravaging. “Fuck, look at us” he said, looking back down to see how [N/N]’s pussy hole was stretched open around his cock. Swallowing it all like the good boy he was. Letting Barty go balls deep with every plunge. “You’re taking me so good baby fuck you were made for me [N/N]” He licked his lips, saliva filling his mouth. His eyes locked on their union. On the way his cock moved in and out of that welcoming cunt. “Fuck, I can’t believe I’m fucking your pussy” he shivered, thrusts getting messier. “Fuck [N/N] I’m fucking fucking you- fuck-” Barty leaned down. Pressing his chest on [Y/N]'s back as he pounded deeper. One hand palm open on the table and the other holding tightly to [Y/N]'s hip. Keeping him in place. - His lips searched for [Y/N]'s lips with closed eyes and found them. Tongues dancing as Barty didn't stop his rhythm.

“So good” Barty gasped “Fuck, so good. Your pussys so good” he hummed against [Y/N]'s ear, pounding impossibly deep and hard. Getting little 'ah, ah, ah's out of [Y/N] with every thrust. “Barty-” “[N/N]” Barty moaned back as he pounded against [Y/N]'s arched back. Holding him impossibly close. “Beg for me baby, beg for my cock” he moaned helplessly, leaning down to nip and suck at [Y/N]'s neck as he relentlessly pounded into him.

“Barty please” He blurted messily. Feeling like his clit rubbed against the edge of the table. Swollen and unattended. But he wasn't going to touch it. His clit was burning with need but he wanted to cum just from Barty's cock alone. And he was close already. He could feel it. And he could also feel Barty's cock throbbing and leaking inside. He was going to come. “Please- Inside. Not pulling out, fuck, Barty. Please fill me up-”

Barty let out a low, dark chuckle from the back of his throat against the skin of [Y/N]'s neck. Pulling away. Standing again as he looked down at him. “You want every last bit of me inside that cute little hungry pussy of yours, don't you?” he asked with a low, dangerous tone. Hands gripping [Y/N]'s waist almost painfully as he began to hammer again. “You'll have it.. mhmm fuck yes I'm cumming inside you”

“Oh god fucking thank you,” [Y/N] cried. Legs shaking as he was so damn close.

“Oh yes that's a good boy, you like having your best friend's cock pounding your pussy don't you? Fuck I'm coming-” Barty gasped. He was a mess. He could feel his swollen tip hitting the bottom of [Y/N]'s insides and it was just too much. He squeezed [Y/N] tight as he began to pound fucking deep. The table shaking. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, baby, baby I'm coming- oh, oh fuck, fuck fuck fuck-” Barty moaned pitifully before burying himself all the way in. As deep as he could go. His body pressed against [Y/N]'s. “Inside-” he managed to cry as he began to unload. Thick, heavy spurts of creamy babies began to shoot out with each spasm of his cock, deep inside that pussy. “Oh shit” he whimpered as if he was in pain; body tense and stiff as his thick load was planted. Letting out a muffled moan the moment he felt [Y/N] cumming just as his cum began to fill him. Milking him.

The moment Barty finished unloading his body fell exhausted on top of [Y/N]. Breathing hard against the skin of his back. Where he planted a kiss when he finally caught his breath. “...Fuck”

“Fuck indeed” [Y/N] sighed. Finally regaining his voice after a while. Both their chests rose and fell, having exhausted all their stamina. Especially Barty who could feel himself getting flaccid inside [Y/N]'s slippery hole.

“I came... so fucking hard” Barty mumbled. Hands still on [Y/N]'s waist. Holding him firmly close. As if he wanted to cuddle. He was a big baby. [Y/N] rolled his eyes.

“Me too” he shifted a little. Feeling all the stuffing that Barty just pumped into him.

“We should do this every day, [N/N]” Barty chuckled a little. Humming after. His cock tender and soft now. Letting the liquid drip down his balls and [Y/N]'s thighs. Cheek still pressed against [Y/N]'s back. “...I think I may love you”

“Fuck... shut up, Barty.” Barty pouted.

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mayakern · 1 month ago

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is there any chance that you will make your skirts in a more durable fabric than polyester? i bought one many years ago and it became pilly and uncomfortable pretty quickly. i would be willing to pay more for a skirt that i know would last a lifetime, or at least 5-10 years. cotton or rayon both have longer lifespans.

i’m sorry you had that experience! i know many of our customers have skirts from us that have lasted them quite a few years. unfortunately, if you got a skirt many years ago, then that was actually from our old manufacturer, which had some quality and consistency issues that started out small and irregular and then snowballed into the reason why we changed factories. our new factory is much more consistent and delivers higher quality sewing using higher quality materials than our previous factory did.

we only started producing thru them in 2022, so i don’t have 10 years worth of history with them to report on, but i do have multiple garments from them that i wear consistently that have worn very well.

also, as for the longevity of a garment—polyester actually lasts considerably longer than cotton or rayon. the reason shein clothing falls apart quickly (or in this case, the reason the specific skirt you got from us pilled so fast 🥲) isn’t because it’s made of polyester, it’s because that specific polyester fabric had low structural integrity, likely due to having lower thread count, meaning there is more space between the individual threads for them to get snagged on things out in the world or in the wash (and older washing machines are particularly bad for this, as agitators cause a lot of friction that destroys clothing).

our new skirts use a much higher threadcount polyester that is not likely to suffer the same fate as that other skirt. similarly, when you go thrifting, you’ll see that a lot of polyester garments from the 80s have survived and done quite well because a good quality poly can basically last forever, but a lot of places these days use the cheapest possible fabric regardless of what type of fabric they’re using which is why clothing falls apart so fast now.

OK but onto the cotton/rayon/etc question for our printed skirts—i actually have an update on this past what is in our FAQ. i would really like to be able to make some printed cotton or viscose skirts and we are trying to work out a way to make this feasible, but there are two main problems: one, the fabric would have to be roll printed, which means either only printing repeating patterns (so no hem design patterns, which are our most popular ones) or switching to rectangle skirts instead of circle skirts (which still may not solve the hem design problem but is a thing we’re looking into; this would also mean the skirts would look different and wouldn’t spin well, but they would still be cute) and two, pricing.

the first issue is really just about problem solving and customer education for us. the second issue is, up to this point, we have had a lot of difficulty trying to sell printed designs on natural fibers because it is unfortunately out of most of our customers’ budgets. because our clothing is made with certified ethical labor, our garments will always cost more than most others, even when we are using polyester instead of natural fibers. and so far we’ve been able to survive that, if only narrowly, because we have wonderful people who love our clothing and can afford the occasional $60 skirt. i don’t know if that will still be true for something more expensive and that’s really scary.

#ask #store #sorry this was so long there was a lot to explain

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thewitchblue · 2 months ago

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"Stop raising the dead for money."

Bruce said, exasperated and way over his head in this. You are already a millionaire with your own businesses, but Bruce would be happy to make you a billionaire if it means you'd stop this chaos. You raised your eyebrows as if you couldn't believe Bruce wouldn't do the same thing. Seriously? He wouldn't "abuse" his hypothetical powers in the name of justice? He absolutely would, and it's not like you'll turn into a supervillain.

There are millions of corpses Gotham has to offer, and suddenly, YOU are the problem? Nuh-uh. He has some audacity to imply that you are abusing your powers when it's simply using them. So what if your powers are considered creepy? It's not your fault you can raise the dead. The city is built on bones and blood. You asked him once you composed yourself enough to speak,

"Would you not raise the dead temporarily if it meant giving their families closure and justice? I can make sure the criminals stay locked up instead of an innocent person!"

And they thought Jason was a headache. You run your own law firm and live a dual life within your firm. You have your civilian self and your superhero self as lawyers. Most murder cases land on your superhero's lap, and you give a cheeky grin every time.

"I raise the victim."

You had said and brought in the undead body. The victim took one look at the guy who was being tried and said immediate with a scrunched up face,

"My killer is my sister. Let the man go."

The accused cried happy tears, but the audience shifted uncomfortably. Can they trust the living corpse? What else could the judge do except believe the victim? It was easier to stomach your powers when you were simply using animated skeletons to fight for you, but it feels weird now that you use your powers to bring justice to the dead and closure for the families affected.

That had been the start of your lawyer business as a superhero, and you made so much more money ever since.

"Bitchman is just upset you are making money instead of going to him. He still hadn't left me and Dick alone."

Bruce weakly glared at Jason, who rolled his eyes and bumped off the wall he was leaning on to leave. He was only here because his motorcycle needed fixing, and he was missing the part needed to fix it at home. Tim chimed in while you took a victory sip of your drink,

"It was pretty badass that you raised the victim like that, though. I was in the jury."

Bruce rubbed his face with his hands. What can he say when all the kids seem to love what you did? He can't punish everybody, but he also can't condone this behaviour for what you did.

You always were creative when you needed to weasel your way out of something. It's what makes you a good lawyer in the first place. In fact, he should be surprised it took you as long as it did for you to use your powers in your lawyer business.

"It's not smart to flaunt your powers unnecessarily. What if people start looking for trouble within your firm?"

Bruce said with a disapproving sigh. He doesn't think he should have to explain to you how dangerous it is to show your powers. It's honestly ridiculous, and he's upset about how successful the business is as a result. You needed to employ more lawyers with all the cases thrown at your firm.

"I'm saving time and effort."

You said casually while looking over a murder trial you felt would be particularly interesting. The other lawyer actually laughed when the victim showed up. What else could she do? She couldn't argue the murder victim's testimony. It was a lost cause the second you showed up in your mask with their bones.

Damian and Dick tried not to show that they were listening in and failed miserably. Dick was supposedly "sewing his Nightwing suit" while poking himself constantly, and Damian was fake reading a case. How could they not listen in when the argument is this good? Why hadn't they thought about that possibility?

You feel as if you were in the right. You didn't have to be a vigilante to make a massive difference, but it was almost as if you were making sure you were right when you handed them over to the police. Yes, you saw the crime scene, and you were 99% sure, but it could never hurt to be thorough and reaffirm that you make a good difference versus simply washing your hands clean of the incidents.

"You can't possible think this is a good idea."

Bruce said in sheer disbelief. You shrugged. You can't see any issues. You screen your employees extensively, so you see no real harm. It's not illegal to use the dead as a witness, and you don't foresee the laws changing in a world of superheroes. The crooked cops who try to imprison the innocent can now be faced with the consequences of their corruption. It's perfect, in your opinion.

"I do. You always hated my powers, but I'm using them for the side of good instead of sending out an undead army to take over the city. There are a lot of angry spirits who would happily take on Batman now that they have nothing to lose."

Bruce looked stunned. Is he not making a positive impact in the eyes of the public? Is he too intimidating?

"What if somebody follows you home?"

Bruce asked with crossed arms. He tried to keep a scowl on his face, but he was starting to spiral in the background of his mind. You glance up at him and smiled with a soft expression. You noticed, and you didn't want him to get lost in his head.

"You trained me. Maybe it's time you trust your training."

You said gently. He needs to know he isn't going to lose his kid to just anybody. His training is extensive. It's brutal because Gotham is brutal. You aren't going to go down without a fight, and the result of kidnapping you would mean all the Bats going on a warpath to get to you. That's just how the family works.

You finished reading over the case you plan to take. There is something weird about the case. You'll have to question the victim to get the timelines and answer any questions. The dead can't always be trusted because the stories get scrambled, especially if it involved bullets to the head like this case, but you weren't too worried about his memory being skewed. He is too fresh to get the details wrong. It can't hurt to do your own investigation of the scene beforehand.

You placed a hand on Bruce's shoulder as you left the cave without a punishment. He can't bench you without an injury, and he can't ground you because you don't live with him anymore. He holds no power over you now, and he has no choice but to accept that his little kids aren't little anymore.

#gn reader #batfam x reader #vigilante reader #x reader #batsibling reader

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luveline · 1 year ago

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i would absolutely love a Hotch and stripper reader, him taking care of her after some kind of incident at her club or something? maybe a bit of angry hotch at the beginning, some angst? 💗💗💗

Your throat burns by the time his car pulls up.

You take the butt of the cigarette from between your lips and ash it next to the first. Your hand is sore between the index finger and thumb from a bad stretch, aching as you press into your pocket for your stolen box of Marlboro golds. You’ll apologise for taking them some other time.

You press the third between your lips and flick the lighter. You’re not good at lighting them, worse at the first inhale, your throat an agony that rivals the sting of your battered cheek.

Shoes on the sidewalk, a scratch of loose gravel. Your eyes well with another line of tears that you work hard to hold in, taking another quick, cruel drag. They don’t make cigarettes long enough, in your opinion. They don’t last.

He stops in front of you. Quiet, Agent Hotchner looks down at you where you’re sitting on the low wall, expression as steely as ever. You meet his eyes, worried your wobbly lip is giving you away, not sure calling him was the right thing to do after all.

When he raises his hand to the cigarette you let him take it. His fingers wrap carefully around the butt of it, the side of his thumb brushing your lips.

He flicks it to the ground and steps on it flat.

You don’t say hello. It’s obvious you’ll cry, he can tell too, and he doesn’t make you. You wince as he raises his hand again, your eyes squinting closed, but he isn’t going to hurt you. His palm is warm where it cups your cheek, turning your face to the light emanating off of the club neons.

“Do you know his name?” he asks.

“No.”

He raises your chin higher still. His frown turns to a glare, the brunt of which is directed elsewhere but intimidating all the same. His touching is gentle at least.

“What happened?”

“I told him no.”

His jaw ticks. “Can I take you home?”

You sniffle, turning your face out of his hand and down to your lap. He’s kissed you, he’s done more than that, but he knows you’d felt like you had no choice and so he’s giving it to you now. It’s exactly why you’d called him. It’s the man he is, and he should never have ended up looking after you.

“Sorry I called you,” you say, hiding your face in one hand. Pain flickers behind your eyes as tears mount for the tenth time tonight.

Hotch gives a sigh, sitting on the wall beside you. He wraps his arm behind your back and with a familiarity you need desperately. You press yourself into his side, sew your arm hesitantly over his stomach, the starch of a pressed shirt crisp on your clammy skin.

“It’s cold out here,” he murmurs, bringing both hands to your arm, one to hold you tight, the other to rub your cool skin.

“I think I want to quit.”

He nods into the side of your head. “I think you should,” he says, “if that’s what you want… honey, you can do whatever you want.”

“I don’t think I can. I’m trapped and it’s my fault.”

“It’s not your fault.” He encourages your head under his, your face to his neck. When he talks, it’s a quiet, lulling promise. “You’re not trapped. I’ll do anything you need me to do. If you want an apartment, I’ll get it for you. If you want to shut this place down, I will. The last thing either of us want is for you to work here when you don’t want to.”

“You don’t have to say work here like I’m not a glorified prostitute,” you say hotly, anger turned in rather than out.

“You don’t really think that.”

Being a sex worker is complicated. You don’t know how you feel about it, and you can’t ever understand why Hotch would bother with you. You’d worried at first that your vulnerability is what attracted him, like a kid with a broken bird, but he’s proved a hundred times that your job is pretty much separate from why he likes you. He thinks you're pretty. He loves your voice. You make each other laugh, and somehow inexplicably he’s the first person you call when things go wrong.

“Quit your job,” he says. “Even if it’s just to dance somewhere else.”

“You can say strip.”

He nods. “You shouldn’t have to worry whether your ‘no’ will be met with a backhand. You know that breaks my heart?”

You blink and pull away from him. He isn’t unemotional, but it’s a surprise nonetheless to hear him talk like this. “Aaron–”

“Please,” he says. “I shouldn’t ask you to. But there are better places for you. You deserve more.”

If it were anyone else you might get defensive. Only people who do your job could understand why you do it, it’s a hundred different things to you, but you do deserve more. You’re sick of leery men, sick of wolf whistles and bad tips and other people's hands. Hotch has never asked you to stop, but now he is, it’s to keep you safe.

You can’t begrudge him.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“No.” He rubs your arm. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. And I’ll make it right.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I’ll make it right,” he promises. “No matter what. No one gets to hurt you.”

You could quit. You want to. Even if it’s just for a couple of weeks, just so you don’t have to pretend you know what you’re doing. You’ll think about it in the morning. “Could I stay with you for a bit?” you whisper. “Just tonight. Please.”

Hotch taps your back for you to stand. He stands with you, brushing down your coat, his eyes impassive where they look over your face, your purpling bruise.

“You can wait in the car,” he says quietly. “I’m going to ask a few questions inside before we leave.”

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner drabble #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotch x reader #hotch #hotch x you #hotch blurb #hotch drabble

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 18 days ago

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Affinity 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, power imbalance, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Prince!Loki (Medieval AU)

A Knights, Kings, and Knaves Story

Summary: you are sent to attend the royal wardrobe on an important diplomatic journey but find more to worry for than split seams.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

"Is it better, your highness?" You ask as you try to tug on the taut fabric over the king's stomach. He growls as his belly strains the fabric. "I added a panel."

"Hmph," he glances at the woman sitting patiently and quietly on a stool in the corner of the tent. It isn't hard to guess who she is. Everyone knows the king's lascivious reputation and you've seen her with him throughout the first week of the journey. "I did not realise..." he tugs at the tails of the tunic. "Sitting a horse has made things more obvious."

"I can add another, your highness?" You suggest.

"Oh, lady, we've enough to worry for on this trek than the king's belly. I will persevere through pinching of my seams," he king chortles. "I am certain you are eager to rest."

"Your highness, it is never a task."

"Hm, yes, mother always prefers you. Simple to know why," he remarks. "Go, if I must ride with my guts out, so be it."

You give a bow and obey. You take your wooden chest with you, hooking the strap on your shoulder, and set off to find a place to sleep. You've been nestling into the wagons with the other castle servants. Your work with a needle does not save you the low regard of commonry.

"How fares my brother?" The prince startles you. He is always watching.

"He seems of better spirits, your grace. I see he has been riding. He was only seeking to have his riding clothes seen to," you explain.

"Ah, yes," Prince Loki tuts. "I witnessed it too. The way he tests a horse's back."

You do not comment. The king is a big man naturally. His middle might be thicker than once it was but he is not your concern or your place to judge. The prince judges all.

"Did you require anything, your grace?" You wonder.

He huffs. "Must I require your needle to have a conversation with a castle seamstress?"

"I only meant, your grace, to assist. As is my duty."

"I know your duty. As I know every person's duty within this camp." He struts on beside you. "Do you think my brother knows? It is I who makes certain we are not stuck in the mud. That we follow the mop not the king's fancy."

"Yes, my grace."

"And what do you know but how to make a stitch?" He scoffs.

You're silent. The prince is a man of moods. You've witnessed it many time as he burst in to rant at his mother. Without her there to temper him, he is particularly venomous.

There's a lull between you. His boots kick pebbles across the ground as you wonder why he's not tramped away to his tent. He sighs.

"Does the ride wear you down?" He asks suddenly. At that, you could flinch. The shift in his tone, in his words, is like a pendulum.

"As it wears us all down, your grace. The storm particularly."

"Ah, yes, it soaked me through," he sneers.

"I've made certain the royal luggage was untouched by the rain," you assure him. "And the piece you requested is nearly done, though the cart does not make for easy sewing."

"Hm, yes. The Wakandan sun will have us melting in your Asgardian layer. My brother is a fool, he will be sweating like a river," he snickers. "I am too clever for that. He has never thought ahead. He never had to. He has others to do his thinking for him."

Again, you are quiet. You learned from the dowager, Frigga, to let her sons speak more than you do. Let them be out with their discontent and a few words often consoles. As a servant, is it best you listen and speak only of your duty.

"He tires me more than this trek." The prince derides. "Wine. Bring it to my tent."

With that, he turns sharply and marches away. You watch him as soldiers gesture to him in deference. You bite your cheek. Likely, he sends you on a task meant for another to make his point. He is still the prince and you are still but a servant in his family's employ.

You set off. You ask a few skullery maids where you can find a bottle or cask. You retrieve a dark bottle and retrace your steps.

You approach the prince's tent. You clear your throat as thoughts of sleep drift into the deepening eve. "My prince, your wine."

"Come." He calls from within.

You enter and nearly stumble back through the draped canvas. The prince is in his undershirt and breeches, his tunic cast aside. He tugs at a tangle in his hair.

"I need a looking glass," he mutters. You put the bottle near him. His green eyes flick to it. "A cup?"

"I will find one," you affirm.

"Never bother," he waves his fingers dismissively. "I've need of your eyes."

"My... eyes?"

"Mmhmm, argh," he tosses back the tangle in frustration and sits up. "My brother. He has that woman with him."

"I believe I saw a woman."

He snorts, "no need to be covert. I could ask any guard. Besides, I am his brother. I needs know so that when we arrive, the king does not put us to shame before the three others convened. He thinks this will be fun. That he will drink and be merry. This is a matter of politick."

"Yes, your grace, the woman was there," you repeat.

"And?"

"She was sitting in the corner, prince."

"Undressed?" He wonders.

"Clothed," you assure him. "The king was more concerned with his tunic."

"Hmm," he exhales, disappointment in his breath. "I cannot figure... he has chosen to ride again. Do you know what effort I put forth to have that litter arranged? My brother is demanding, as any king may be, but he is particularly churlish."

You are quiet again. He snatches the wine bottle and uncorks it. He swigs and swishes it before swallowing.

"Vinegar," he snarls.

"My grace, apologies, I was told it was--"

"It's wine. Only not very good." He sniffs. "If you hear or see any more of this woman, you will let me know."

"As you wish."

"Yes, it is certainly as I wish," he huffs. "Go."

You bow, "your grace." You back out of the tent and let the canvas fall into place. You look up at the sky. Why did the queen mother send you along?

#loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #series #drabble #affinity #thor #avengers #marvel #mcu #medieval au

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a-suspicious-number-of-ducks · 1 year ago

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Hermit-a-Day May, day 18: JoeHills. Today's style/medium is puppet-making! Or mostly sewing with a few other things thrown in. I had a ton of fun with this one, even though it took...so much time to make. I usually explain why I chose a certain medium but this one is...pretty self-explanatory, I think. If you have any Joe clips you want to see a puppet show of, send them my way! Details, materials, and a couple more pictures under the read more.

Materials: this pattern by Abby Glassenberg and all of its required components (minus the eyes), googly safety eyes from Amazon, baby clothes from a local thrift store, and white fabric paint.

I was originally going to try to get doll clothes to dress the Juppet in, since I didn't want to sew the outfit from scratch, but couldn't find any that were quite right. After a couple unfruitful trips into stores, I stopped by a local children's thrift store and poked around their newborn and preemie section until I found an orange onesie and gray jacket/cardigan that were close enough to the right colors. I know the jacket on Joe's skin is probably a hoodie, given the pocket placement, but surprisingly, few people seem to be manufacturing hoodies for newborn babies. Once I got home, I hacked off the bottom of the orange onesie, hemmed it, and painted the at symbol on the back with fabric paint. The front (now back) still says "daddy's mighty guy" with a picture of two dinosaurs on it and that amuses me greatly.

The puppet pattern itself was a little tricky, and there were a couple spots that I think could have used some more explanation, but I made it through. In hindsight, I wish I'd used bigger eyes, but I couldn't find safety eyes (the kind that pokes through the fabric and gets secured with a washer) in a larger size and the style I wanted, and I didn't want to just glue regular googly eyes on because I was worried it wouldn't be sturdy enough (and the edges might look messy). I ended up having to hot glue the felt pieces to the inside of the mouth, even though the pattern recommended normal craft glue for that part, because it would not stick no matter what I did. If I were to make the pattern again, I'd probably try to sew the roof of the mouth and tongue pieces onto the pink felt before attaching it to the head, rather than gluing them on after.

Honestly, there are a lot of things I would do differently if I were to make another puppet, but I'm pretty proud of how this one turned out, especially for my first time doing something like this! I just. have a Juppet in my house now. I don't know how to feel about this. I know this is a pretty complicated piece, so if you have any additional questions, feel free to message me (or send an ask, or reply to this post, or send the message by carrier pigeon--whatever floats your boat).

#hermitaday #hermit a day may #hermitcraft #hermitcraft fanart #joe hills #joe hills fanart #joehills #joehills fanart #I know it's not technically art but what else am I supposed to call it #my art

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jtargaryen18 · 2 months ago

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The Arrangement ~ Chapter 5

Series Masterlist

Words: 8.2k

Pairing: Thomas Shelby (Peaky Blinders) x Reader F

Warnings: References to physical violence, planning physical violence

You learn your mother's whereabouts (sort of) but can't help feeling information is being kept from you by the Shelbys. Arthur gets some things off his chest. Tommy confronts Rory and begins to understand his plan may cost him the one thing he wanted most.

Disclaimer: The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and darker themes. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site.

For once, Tommy had woken up warm. Not from the whiskey. Not from the fire dying in the fireplace. But from her.

The soft rise and fall of her breath as she slept kept him calm, and if he focused on it, he could keep most of his troubles at bay. At least until dawn. Her arm draped over his chest, light and unknowing, but real. He liked the idea that she needed to know he was there by her side in sleep. Lying in wasn’t a thing he allowed himself often. Moments like that didn’t belong to men like him. And maybe that’s why he hadn’t moved. Tommy just laid there for a few extra minutes, watching the early light spill across the ceiling, listening to the quiet rhythm of her breathing.

It was a rare glimpse of normalcy, of stolen peaceful. But peace came with a clock ticking beside it. And somewhere deep down, he knew it couldn’t last.

But he wanted it to. God help him, he wanted it. What would he give for a thousand mornings like this one. Waking up with her next to him, the world outside their room unable to reach them.

He wanted to see her face when Polly showed her the sewing machine, see the way her eyes lit up when she realized it was hers to use, not just something borrowed. He wanted to ask her what she was making, watch her learn the machine and marvel at its convenience. He could sit in silence while her hands moved with purpose. Listen to her hum a song, or curse softly when a stitch went wrong. He wanted to come home every day and find her there in his home. He wanted to have her waiting in his bed each night.

He would never get last night out of his head if he lived to be a hundred. He could tell himself that she offered herself up so sweetly for sewing needles and something to do. Any other women, he would have flatly believed that. But he already told her she could have what she wanted -- as if he'd ever be able to say no to her. Tommy had no expectations. Would he have tried to seduce her? Yes. But she came at him first, shy but willing with those innocent eyes and that siren's smile. No agenda, no artifice. Everything else was forgotten. The scars the war left on his body and mind. The fact that he was the most ruthless man in Birmingham, and all the sins that bloodied his hands and blackened his heart. She'd just wanted him.

Tommy wanted so many impossible things, and that scared him. Because wanting was dangerous, leading to weakness and mistakes.

To pain.

But still… He wanted it all the same.

It took real effort on his part to leave the bed but he managed, peeling himself away like a man trying not to wake up from a dream. He washed up, dressed in silence, every movement mechanical, but slower than usual. Like part of him wanted to stretch the morning out just a little longer.

And just as he reached the door, he glanced back. She had shifted in her sleep, rolling toward where he’d been, now curled into the hollow his body had left behind, like she’d trapped his warmth for herself. In moments like this, there was no anxiety in her face. No worry creasing her brow. No guarded tension in her shoulders. Just peace. The kind he’d spent his life chasing and but had never quite caught. And for a brief second, he let himself imagine a world where he could give that to her—where it was his name, not his silence, that made her feel safe.

But the world didn’t work like that. So he turned, and walked out, already bracing for whatever the day held. He didn't have to wait long.

Tommy stood by the hearth, one hand resting on the mantle, the other adjusting his cufflink with deliberate calm. The cigarette between his fingers was half-burned and almost forgotten with the weight of everything preying on his mind.

He heard Polly before he saw her. She moved with purpose and when she stepped into the sitting room, he didn’t look at her right away. If she was here this early, it wasn’t for pleasantries.

“I’ve heard from Maeve March," she said.

Tommy didn’t move. Just waited. He could already feel the conversation sharpening like a blade. “And?”

Polly’s voice cut through the silence, sharper than it had any right to be at this hour. “Her mother’s not just in bed from worry, Tommy. She’s been beaten within an inch of her life.”

Tommy stilled, halfway through adjusting his cufflink, the weight of the words settling like stone in his chest.

Polly didn’t stop there. “Bruises, Tommy. Arms. Ribs. Face. One of her legs is broken. She hasn’t been seen in days because she can’t be. Maeve said she heard this from the doctor’s wife and he’s been out to the house twice. Said it looked like someone tied her to the bumper of their motorcar and dragged her for miles.” Her tone had shifted, less anger now, more concern. “And we both know who did it.”

Tommy exhaled, his fingers stilled, cufflink forgotten as he turned toward the window.

Polly stepped closer, her voice lower now. “This is what comes of your game, Thomas. You didn’t just humiliate him—you cornered him. And cowards like Sean O’Grady? They only know how to fight down.” She let him think about her words for a moment. “He couldn’t get to the girl and apparently the doctor's been out there to see her a time or two for the same thing. He turned to the only other woman who couldn’t fight back.”

And the silence that followed said everything Tommy didn’t. His jaw flexed. His cigarette burned to ash between his fingers, forgotten.

All this time, he thought his girl was just a victim of circumstance. Of bad men making worse choices. Of a wager no one should’ve accepted. But now? Now he knew the truth. The bruises hadn’t started with the coin toss. Sean had been laying hands on her and her mother long before that. And no one had been able to stop him. Rory’s rage now made perfect sense. It wasn’t reckless, it was inherited, sharpened by years of silence and the sick knowing that no one had ever come to save them.

Until now. Tommy didn’t care what it took or what names he had to bury along the way. He wasn’t just going to silence Sean O’Grady. He was going to make sure his girl never had to look over her shoulder again.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

“No. That’s why I’m going.”

He nodded. If it was true—if Sean had really laid hands on his wife—then it wasn’t just a rumor anymore. It was action. And desperate men did stupid things.

But before he could respond, Polly kept going. “You think you’re still in control of this. But you’re not. It’s slipping.”

Control. That word again. That damn word everyone liked to throw at him when they didn’t understand the stakes. “She’s safe here.”

“Physically, yes. But emotionally? Mentally?” Polly’s voice sharpened. “She doesn’t know what you did to get her here. That it was you who set all of this in motion.”

Tommy took a drag from his cigarette, inhaled, letting the smoke curl in his lungs before answering. “What I did was necessary.” But even to him, the words rang hollow.

Polly didn’t back down. She never did. “What you did was selfish.”

His pulse kicked up at that. Her words struck deeper than he’d admit. Because he knew it was true. He’d told himself the wager was about teaching Small Heath a lesson. About punishing the men who treated women like they were worth less than the coins in their pockets. But the truth? The truth was that he’d seen her—really seen her—and wanted her. And he’d orchestrated everything else to make that want seem righteous.

Polly stepped closer, her voice lower now. Not angry. Just disappointed. “She doesn’t know you planted the wager in the first place. And everything that's happened since is a result of that. Her mother could have died. Her brother? I hope he's not planning to do something stupid.”

Tommy exhaled slowly. That old ache began to stir in his chest again—the one he ignored, the one he doused with whiskey and war stories and work. “She’ll know when I decide it’s time.”

When I can frame it right. When she’s too close to leave.

“And what if that time comes too late?” Polly asked.

Tommy looked at her, finally. Really looked and saw the warning in her eyes. Because Polly had seen it all before. She’d watched him build things out of strategy—empires, alliances, illusions. And she’d watched him destroy them just as fast when emotion crept in.

“If I tell her now, I lose her,” he admitted. It came out quieter than he meant it to. But it was the truth. The raw, ugly center of all of it.

Polly didn’t gloat, but she didn’t soften either. “If you don’t, you'll lose her anyway. But next time, it’ll be because she ran. And you’ll deserve it.”

With that said, she made her way out of the room. Coat over her arm, heels clicking softly against the wood floors.

Tommy didn’t call after her. Just stood there, the silence thick around him, smoke curling from his cigarette, his thoughts loud and dark.

***

The sewing machine was beautiful. When Tommy mentioned his family had one, you didn't picture anything that fancy. It was older but clean, polished like someone had taken care to bring it back to life. All you could do was stare at it, waiting in the sitting room like it had always belonged there, a small pile of fabric, a couple of white shirts, and an open tin filled with needles, thread, and dull metal thimbles were placed neatly beside it. A quiet invitation.

“Polly?” you asked, voice soft.

She turned from the shelf she’d been rearranging, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Thought you might like to have a go,” she said. “Tommy said to get you whatever you needed.”

That part still made your chest tighten. He’d said that. He wanted you to have this. You ran your fingers over the machine’s edge, still unsure you were allowed to want anything. “Thank you,” you whispered.

Polly didn’t rush you. She just moved to the chair next to you, lowering herself with a soft grunt, her sharp eyes taking you in like she was trying to read the spaces between your words. "You'll learn it,” she said. “I was never any good at sewing anything but even I figured it out... You and your mother brought in money with your mending. You're not afraid of work.”

You gave a small smile. “Never had the choice.”

That earned a slow nod. “Tell me about your family,” she said gently. “Before all this.”

You hesitated. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to talk—it was that you didn’t know where to begin.

“My mother,” you said finally, voice small, “she’s kind. Quiet. She used to hum to herself while she worked. Always trying to keep the peace. But… she doesn’t speak up much anymore.”

Polly nodded, saying nothing, letting you go on.

“Rory… he’s younger than me, but always acted older. Always trying to be the man of the house, even when we both knew the one already there wouldn’t let him.” You didn’t say his name.

Polly’s voice softened. “Your stepfather?”

Your hands froze where they’d been sorting the many items in the tin. You shook your head. “He's not a nice man. He drinks and gambles. There have been many a night when there was nothing to eat because of it. He has fits of rage. Mostly at my mother, even though she's done nothing wrong. Sometimes he'd go after Rory, when he spoke out. He doesn't liked being challenged. And he hated being reminded that he wasn't our real father.”

You felt Polly watching you. Not with pity. With something stronger. “Did he ever raise a hand to you?” she asked carefully.

You swallowed. Eyes on the machine. “Not often. He knew how to get his point across without leaving marks.”

Polly reached out then, her hand resting over yours. “You’re not there anymore, love.”

You nodded, though your throat was tight.

“And neither is your mother.”

Your gaze met hers. What?

“She’s safe,” Polly said gently. “We got her out of that house this morning to a place that's safe and guarded. She's out of your stepfather's reach.”

Your breath caught as you tried to wrap your mind about what this really meant. “She’s safe?”

“She is.” But something flickered in Polly’s eyes. Just for a split second. Something that didn’t match the reassurance in her voice.

You saw it in the way she looked past you instead of at you. There was something she wasn't saying. And just like that, the warm relief that had just started to settle in your chest evaporated. Why had they moved your mother now instead of when this started? And if she needed to be kept safe, why couldn't she be with you?

Oh, you knew as well as anyone that your stepfather wouldn't have allowed her to do anything, much less try to find you. But you'd hoped for something. Even a message slipped to you through the staff. And suddenly— suddenly —they decided to move her?

You didn't think Polly wasn't lying. But she wasn’t telling the whole truth either. Something had happened. You just didn’t know what.

"Can I go see her?" you had to ask. "Is she alright?"

Polly paused, but only for a second. There was a slight shift in her eyes. The faintest pause between syllables.The way her gaze darted, like someone avoiding a detail they didn’t want to give voice to. The smile she flashed you was gentle, but composed.

“She’s safe. And that’s what matters most.” Another beat. “You’ll see her. Just… not yet. Not until Tommy finally puts an end to all this.”

You nodded slowly, but your heart sank because you knew there was more to the story. Polly Gray wasn’t a liar. But she was loyal to her family first just as you were. And if she wasn’t telling you everything…It meant the rest was something you weren’t ready to hear. Or worse, something you weren’t meant to know at all.

Polly gave your hand a gentle squeeze before leaning back in her chair, settling like she wasn’t in a hurry. “Your father,” she said after a quiet moment, her voice softer now, thoughtful. “Malachy Flynn. I remember him.”

You knew it was a jump to another topic but you still wanted to hear what she had to say. “You do?”

Polly nodded. “He used to come by the Garrison sometimes. Before it was ours. Kept to himself. Brave man, from what I heard. What I remember was that he was unfailingly kind.”

It was rare that anyone talked about him these days. Tommy mentioned knowing him from the war. Rarer still that anyone remembered him as kind.

“Life was different before he died,” you said quietly. “Calmer. We didn’t have much, but… there was laughter.”

Polly’s eyes darkened just slightly, gaze drifting for a moment to something far away.

“That war took too much from all of us,” she murmured. “Our sons, our husbands, our homes. It didn’t stop at the trenches. It came back with the ones who survived.” Her voice turned heavier now. Measured. “It turned my nephews into ghosts for a while. John buried it under jokes. Arthur drowned it in drink and fists. And Tommy…” She paused, studying you closely now. “Well, Tommy learned to keep breathing while everything inside him was already dead.”

Your breath caught at that. You didn’t mean to, but you leaned in a little, as if her words might bring him into sharper focus.

Polly noticed. “He’s different with you,” she said, just a touch of warmth threading her voice. “It’s not a thing he’d say, not aloud. But I know what I see.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. All you knew was that the mention of your father had brought something back. Something you hadn’t felt in a long time. And now, the idea that someone like Tommy Shelby might have once been broken, and was somehow trying to come back from it, that settled into your chest like hope.

He’s different with you.

You didn’t reply. You couldn’t. Because what were you supposed to say to that? That it shouldn't matter? That it didn’t? That it couldn’t? What did Polly think this was? Some slow, unlikely romance where the broken soldier finds solace in the girl he stole from her life? You weren’t a story. You were cargo from a bet. Collateral in a lesson that had nothing to do with you until Tommy Shelby made it so.

And yet…

He’d spoken to Rory. Rather your brother had sought him out, confronting a man that terrified most of Birmingham. Your brother was still breathing and unbruised, and somehow that had meant more than you let on. Now your mother had been moved, tucked away somewhere safe by the very people who had upended your life. That kind of protection didn’t come cheap. Or without purpose.

Why? Why were they still shielding you like you were precious, like you mattered? Why was Polly sitting here, placing sewing kits in your hands like you belonged here?

Yes, you knew Tommy had interfered the moment you tried to flee that night and you found yourself caught in his snare. But back then you assumed he was just protecting what he’d taken. You still assumed that. Didn’t you? You were meant to stay until the storm passed. Until whatever lesson he was teaching Small Heath had sunk in. Then you'd be released—damaged, maybe, but still walking. That was the plan. Wasn’t it?

You glanced down at your hands, resting in your lap. They were steady now. Stronger than when you'd first arrived. It scared you. Because if you were being made whole again, it meant something in this place was stitching you back together. And if you started to want it… Well, you weren’t sure you’d survive being sent home.

Polly just watched you, calm and quiet, letting the silence stretch. She always seemed to know when to push and when to let something sink in. But after a moment, she shifted slightly in her chair, hands folded in her lap, her voice softer than before. “I don’t know what he told you,” she said, eyes still on you. “Or what you’ve let yourself believe.”

Your gaze lifted, cautious.

“But I’ve lived with those boys long enough to know the difference between when they want something… and when they mean it.”

“What is it you think Tommy means?” you asked, surprising yourself with how small your voice sounded.

Polly didn’t answer right away. She just studyied you like she was trying to decide what you could handle. “I think he’s still figuring that out for himself,” she said. “And that’s the part that worries me.”

Holding your breath, you waited for her to explain.

“Because if he gets it wrong?" Polly gave a small, sad smile. “Then you’ll be the one who pays for it.”

And just like that, she stood. No dramatic exit. No final remark to twist the knife. She simply touched your shoulder in passing—warm, steady, like a thread pulling you back from unraveling—then left the room with her usual grace.

Polly’s footsteps faded down the hall, but her words didn’t. You sat there, motionless, her touch still warm on your shoulder. And that question kept echoing: What does it mean to pay for it? Did it mean being cast out once his point had been made? Forgotten the moment he tired of the game? Or worse, kept close, like a favorite possession, never quite free again? You weren’t sure which outcome scared you more.

You sat there long after she was gone, the sewing machine quiet beside you, the only sound in the room the soft ticking of the grandfather clock. Your fingers rested on the fabric in your lap. Still, like they’d forgotten what they were supposed to be doing. You weren’t even thinking about sewing.

Because now, your mind wasn’t just circling around what had happened. It was inching toward what might come next.

It wasn’t just the secrets still hanging in the air, or the careful way Polly had chosen her words. The ground beneath your feet didn’t feel as solid as it had the day before—if it ever had at all. You felt it in the silence, in Tommy’s absence. In the look Polly flashed you before quickly taking it back. Something underneath everything was building. And for the first time, you weren’t sure if you were ready for it. Would you be able to handle answers, consequences, or whatever version of truth might finally arrive?

The sewing machine was all but forgotten next to you, its silent presence now feeling more like a question than a gift. You reached for the thread, but before you could start, you heard footsteps. They were heavier and uneven in pace. He was someone who never moved quietly. When his shadow filled the doorway, you froze.

Arthur Shelby.

He paused when he saw you, mouth tightening, like he’d expected someone else. Or maybe no one at all.

You stood slowly, out of instinct. Out of respect.

He waved a hand. “Don’t—don’t get up. Just…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

You sat again, cautiously.

He lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, and for a moment, you thought he’d leave without saying anything else.

“You any good at that?” he nodded toward the machine.

“I’ve never tried before. I usually do all the sewing by hand.”

“Guess that’s good then,” he muttered, scratching at his jaw. “Means Tommy’s shirts’ll be fixed for free.”

It took you a second to realize he was joking. Was he offering a truce?

You smiled. “If I am, I'll be fixing your shirts for free too.”

A smile played about Arthur's lips, stepping into the room with slow, deliberate movements like he was trying not to scare you. He sat down in the chair across from you, and close up, he looked older, tired. At least he wasn't angry like before. You were grateful for that.

“Listen,” he said after a moment, “about before...”

You didn’t say anything, but the memory still lingered in the back of your mind. His voice, his fury, the look in his eyes when he’d cornered you in the foyer. The blame you hadn’t earned.

“I was wrong,” he muttered, staring at a spot on the floor. “I was drunk and dumb. Blamed you for something you didn’t do. Wasn’t fair.” He shifted in the chair, clearly uncomfortable. It was the kind of apology that came with splinters—halting, awkward, like every word scraped its way up from somewhere he didn’t like to go.

“Whole bloody ordeal,” he added after a moment, with a short shake of his head. He looked up at you, for just a moment. Some emotion flash in his eyes but it was gone before you could make it out. Regret, maybe. “Not makin’ excuses,” he added quickly. “Just sayin’… it was a mess. And I was part of it.” He rubbed his hands together like he was trying to scrub the guilt off. “Should’ve known better. Should’ve put an end to it.”

You sat frozen, listening, unsure how to respond. The hurt was still there, but it was softer now, wrapped in the rough edges of his humility.

Arthur leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I know how it looks. Like we’re just… monsters. Men with power, doing whatever the fuck we want. But it’s not always like that.”

Was he trying to defend what happened or just looking for a way to make sense of it?

“What happened to you,” he continued, more gently than before, “it shouldn’t’ve happened. Not to you. Not to anyone. Tommy's putting that to rights. It's the least he can do.” He looked up then, met your eyes properly for the first time. “I’m sorry. Truly am.”

It wasn’t polished or elegant, but it was genuine. And for a man like Arthur Shelby, who so rarely admitted fault or failure, that meant something to you. He blew out a breath, like he’d been holding it the whole time.

You nodded slowly, your throat tight. “Thank you. Takes a lot to admit that."

He snorted. “You don’t know the half of it.” Then, after a beat, he offered a half-smile and said, “Still don’t know why you’re fixin’ shirts for free. Must be mad.” And just like that, the tension broke, replaced by something lighter. A fragile kind of peace. And maybe, if only in small pieces, a bit of healing.

You looked at him, surprised. "He hasn't actually asked me to fix them yet. There's a couple here but I don't know who they belong to. I guess this will come in handy."

That had you both smiling, the tension easing. There was a long pause between you, but not a heavy one. A careful kind of quiet.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he leaned back and added, “He’s gone soft, you know.”

That got your attention, your gaze meeting his.

“Tommy.” Arthur gestured vaguely, like the word alone held too much to unpack. “Would’ve never done half of this for anyone else. Not unless there was a deal at the end of it. Some gain. But you?” He shook his head slowly. “You’re not a play. You’re not leverage. If you were, I’d have seen it by now.”

Your heart squeezed in your chest. You looked down at your hands, unsure what to say. You thought there was a reason. His lesson for Small Heath. What was Arthur trying to say?

“Not sayin’ he’s easy. My brother is anything but that. Or good at this sort of thing. He’s fuckin' not.” Arthur gave a quiet, tired laugh. “Hell, he’s more likely to set fire to his own happiness than admit he wants any.” He stood, brushing his palms down his trousers, like shaking off something heavy. “But whatever else this started as… it’s different now. And if I can see it? Maybe you will too. Take care of yourself, yeah?"

Then he gave a short nod, more to himself than to you, and left you there, surrounded by quiet and questions, with one more layer of Tommy Shelby to unravel.

***

Tommy was in his office at the betting shop, bent over the day’s ledger, though he hadn’t turned a page in nearly half an hour. The silence around him was heavy, weighted by everything he hadn’t said, everything he’d done, and knowing that it was all catching up with him.

The door opened without a knock. Only one man entered like that. Arthur.

Tommy didn’t look up at first. He knew this was coming. Had felt it building in the quiet glares and the unspoken tension since the day after the wager. Since Arthur had looked at him like a stranger in their own house. So when Arthur stepped into the room and let the silence sit between them like a weight, Tommy didn’t bother filling it. Because whatever Arthur had to say, he’d earned the right to say it.

Arthur stood on the other side of the desk, the intensity Tommy expected to see in his face. “I saw her today. Spoke to her.”

Tommy looked up slowly. Not defensive or braced for a fight. Because that was the thing about Arthur, when he wasn’t angry, when he was honest, it cut far deeper than a bullet.

“I treated her like shite because I thought she was part of all this.” His voice cracked slightly. “Turns out she was just caught in it. I thought you flashed me those drawers as part of your theatrics. But...”

Tommy closed the ledger gently. “You were angry. I let you be. I had my reasons.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched. “Yeah, well. I’m your brother, not your pawn. And now people are fuckin' talkin’. O’Grady’s got folks whispering my name in alleyways like I’m the one who stole her. Like I—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. “Do you know what that feels like?”

Tommy stood, slowly. Walked around the desk. Not threatening, but direct.

Arthur looked at him. Hard. "Why’d you do it, Tom? Was it about the girl... or the message?”

Tommy didn’t speak for a long moment. Then he looked away, toward the window. “Started with her.”

Arthur absorbed that in silence. "She's different and you know it. She's no whore. She'll make some lucky bastard a good wife... And you still used her.”

It was a truth Tommy couldn’t argue with. Because he had. He’d maneuvered her like a piece on a board. Now, hearing it out loud, from his own brother, no less, felt like a blade slipping past his ribs.

“I protected her.” But the words sounded hollow even as Tommy said them.

“From what? Us?”

Tommy stepped in closer. “From him.”

Arthur stared at him. And slowly, the fight bled out of his shoulders. “You should’ve told me,” he said.

Tommy nodded once. “I know.”

Arthur broke eye contact then, just for a second. Just long enough for Tommy to see it wasn’t anger fueling him, it was guilt. Shame.

“I saw her first, remember?” Arthur said, quieter now. “Told you to take the fuckin' coat for her to fix. Thought maybe… Maybe I liked her.” He laughed once, bitter and short.“Then I made them hand her over. Like she was nothing. And you let me.”

“I did,” Tommy said quietly. “I didn't know her before I took the coat for mending. But the moment I saw her... I knew.” He met Arthur’s gaze, steady. “I thought I could make her part of the game, then protect her from it.” A breath... "Didn't stop me from making her mine before I ever had the right to.”

Arthur stared at him for a long moment. His shoulders didn’t rise, his fists didn’t clench. It might’ve been the most honest thing he'd ever said to his older brother. And that made it worse somehow.

Dropping his gaze, Arthur gave a short, bitter laugh.“Well, fuck me, Tom. That’s what this is, then. You thought you'd cash in that wager and you fuckin' fell for her. I fuckin' knew it. You’ve gone soft.”

Tommy didn’t answer right away. Just let the silence answer for him.

“Should’ve seen it earlier.” Arthur shook his head, brow furrowing.“You’ve been off lately. Head not in the game like it usually is. Always rushing off somewhere.”

Tommy said nothing, let him get it all out.

“You really pissed me off, y’know. Put me through it. Let me think I’d done something that I didn't want to live with. Let me stew in it while you sat on the truth.” Arthur glanced over, not looking for an apology, just recognition. “Even got my name dragged through the muck... But at the end of this game, I come out of this in better shape than you, brother.”

Tommy had been the one to orchestrate the wager. And now? Now he was the one who stood to lose the most. He'd be left with the ashes of the life he’d tried to build on a lie. And the worst part was…he’d known from the start. He just thought he could outpace the damage. Like always.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Arthur moved toward the door. “You planning to marry her?”

Tommy's his voice was soft. “If she’ll have me.”

"You'd fuckin' better." Arthur let out a breath and half-smirked, though there was no amusement in it. “She fixes my shirts for free now, you know.”

Tommy watched as Arthur stepped out the door.

“Don’t cock this up, Tom.”

***

The light was bleeding out of the sky when Liam found him. Tommy was in the garden, cigarette tucked between his lips. His coat draped over his shoulders, boots planted in the damp earth. The air smelled like soil and cooling stone. It was one of those rare, still moments that felt suspended in time. He'd been speaking with the men he had guarding his house, cautioning them to be on high alert as the situation with Sean O'Grady continued to escalate.

He heard Liam’s boots on the gravel before the man in front of him could answer. Tommy knew by the pace it wasn’t good news. Walking towards Liam, his man he'd been speaking with knew to walk away, to give them privacy.

“He’s getting ready,” Liam said without preamble. “Didn’t go to work today. I've seen him everywhere O'Grady has been. One hand always near his pocket.”

Tommy didn’t need to ask who. “Rory.”

Liam nodded once. “Looks like he's meaning to finish something.”

Tommy took a slow drag, exhaled. His mind began pulling threads, tying them together with practiced ease. O'Grady. The bruised mother. The quiet rage he'd seen in the boy. It was all coming to a head now.

He flicked the cigarette into the grass and turned. “I’ll handle it.”

The streets were quiet, but not silent as the night dropped its dark veil over Small Heath. Distant voices drifted from open pub doors, muffled by the fog curling low along the cobblestones. Gas lamps burned soft and yellow, casting long shadows through alleyways that had seen too much and forgotten nothing.

Tommy moved with purpose, his coat collar up, steps soundless beneath him. He knew these streets better than he knew most people. Knew the corners where boys became men too fast. Knew the alleys where secrets were buried beneath the weight of silence and soot. Tonight, he knew exactly where to look.

What Polly said about the mother’s injuries was true and she’d moved the woman to a safehouse while O’Grady was at work, no questions asked. Rory had to be on the edge of his sanity right now. He’d lived under the shadow of a man like Sean O’Grady. A man who punished weakness and hit women, and still dared to look himself in the mirror.

Rory knew what bruises meant, what silence meant, just like he knew what it felt like to be powerless against it. Of course he was going to snap. Tommy wasn’t going to let the boy do something that would cost him everything. Not when he’d come this far and still had something to save.

He spotted Rory just before the lad noticed him. His back was pressed to the brick wall behind the narrow side alley. The rundown pub he watched that was the Garrison's biggest competition. According to Liam, it was where O'Grady spent significant time. But his stepson was coiled tight as a spring, watching as people came and went. His chest rose fast, like he’d been running even though he hadn’t moved an inch. One hand was tucked deep into his coat pocket.

Tommy didn’t have to guess what was in there. A knife, maybe. A revolver. Something that made him feel stronger than he was.

Tommy stepped out of the shadows, not caring that the gravel crunched beneath his boots. No need to sneak up on someone ready to explode.

“Revenge looks different in your head than it does after.” Tommy’s voice came low from the shadows, calm but heavy.

Rory flinched, spinning on his heel to face him, his hand twitching in his pocket. But he managed to stop himself. He recognized Tommy's voice. Just maybe he even expected to hear it.

“Mr. Shelby?” the boy snapped, his voice sharp, defensive. “You followed me?”

“Didn’t have to.” Tommy stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “Word is you didn’t show at the factory today."

Rory didn’t answer right away, but the set of his jaw spoke loud enough.

“Your mother’s safe,” Tommy added quietly. “He’ll come home to an empty house and no one left to scream at. Things will get worse before they get better."

The boy’s eyes flicked away, not in fear, but in barely restrained fury. “Then maybe it’s time someone made him afraid,” Rory muttered.

Tommy studied him for abeat, watching the way those words shook in the boy’s chest—less bravado, more truth. A quiet kind of desperation that came from years of being unable to fight back. And now the leash was off.

“He beat her.” His voice cracked on the words, just slightly. “Again. My mum. Our mum. She can't even walk. She can't draw a breath without it hurtin'. And you’re still letting him walk around like nothing happened.”

Tommy said nothing. Just watched. Measured the fear and fury in Rory’s voice, the way he stood—not broken, but right on the edge. And to his credit, Rory hadn't said a word to anyone. Tommy would have known if he had.

“You moved my mum like you moved my sister? And Mum wasn’t the only one he laid hands on,” Rory added, louder now. “And I’m sick of it. I’m sick of sitting around waiting for someone else to fix it.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched.There it was. Confirmation of what he’d suspected. Proof. Not just bruises passed off in silence or pain hidden behind quiet eyes.O’Grady had hurt her. The girl he held at night like a promise he hadn’t made yet. And for one blistering second, all Tommy wanted was to rip through the dark and put a bullet between the bastard’s eyes.

But not yet. That was anger talking, and he couldn’t afford to act on fury. Not when Rory was hanging on the edge, and the next move needed to be precise. So he pushed it down. Buried it. For now.

But the rage stayed lit, banked like a fire he fully intended to let burn.

“So you thought you’d do it yourself?” Tommy asked, tilting his head slightly. “Just wait for him to walk out and put him in the ground?”

“If I have to.”

“And then what, Rory?” he asked, keeping his voice low and even. “Let's say you get your vengeance. Think you get to go home after that?”

Rory’s lip curled, but his eyes flickered.

“You think your mother will be better off?" Tommy went on. What would it do to her to bury her husband and her son in the same week? She wouldn’t mourn him,” Tommy muttered. “But she’d still lose.”

Realization struck the lad then, Tommy recognized it. Because he knew that feeling all too well, had carried it for years. That sharp, breathless knowledge that the people you love…they don’t survive your choices. Even if they live, they don’t survive them. Tommy saw a younger version of himself in Rory. He saw the hero he'd desperately wanted to be before France, the smoke and medals and blood. Rory was who he'd been before he learned what it meant to lose everything in the name of doing what felt right.

And in that moment, Tommy didn’t see a threat. He saw someone worth saving. “Alright,” he said quietly. “So let’s make sure you don’t lose anything tonight.”

Rory met his gaze, startled. Not because he didn’t want to believe it, but because part of him hadn’t expected anyone to offer him another way.

Tommy stepped closer, his tone shifting just slightly, less steel now, more weight. “There are other ways to fight men like him. Smarter ways. You’ve got more in you than swinging a blade in the dark and hoping for the best.” He paused, watching the boy take it in. “You want to protect your mother?” he asked. “Protect your sister?”

Rory’s nod was immediate. Fierce.

“Then be something more than his murderer,” Tommy said. “Be useful to me.” The words weren’t a threat. They were a door and one not offered lightly. “You’re sharp. Loyal. And you’ve seen enough of this world to understand what it takes to survive it.”

Rory hesitated. “Doing what?”

“You’ll learn.” He didn’t need to say more.

Rory understood what the offer was. It was a bargain with the devil, but still a chance. For someone like him, it could be everything. Or it could be the beginning of the end for him.

“I’m not like him,” the boy said hoarsely.

Tommy’s tone softened, just slightly. “Then prove it.”

Rory didn’t answer right away. But Tommy saw the shift in him. In the way his shoulders eased, the way his hand drifted just slightly from the pocket where the knife or gun was hidden. He didn’t say yes. But he wasn’t saying no either. And that was enough for now.

Tommy turned slightly and gestured down the street. Reaching out, he rested a firm hand on his shoulder. “Come on. I’ll walk you back.”

They fell into step side by side, and it was quiet except for the steady sound of boots against wet stone. The night pressed in around them, thick and damp with smoke and fog, but it didn’t feel as heavy now. Tommy lit a cigarette, taking a drag and exhaling smoke slowly into the cold. Rory’s steps were heavier now, the weight of what he almost did hanging off his shoulders like a soaked coat.

They reached the block where Rory lived. It was one of those narrow, leaning rows near the canal with chipped stone steps and windows that always seemed dim, even in the light of day.

Rory stopped at the foot of the stairs. He stared at the door like it might open on an answer he didn’t have. “My mum and my sister…” he said after a long pause. “They’re all I’ve got left, Mr. Shelby.”

Tommy just listened.

“And I don’t even know if they’re safe.” Rory blew out an exhale. He finally looked over, meeting Tommy’s eyes head-on. “I’m trusting you. But I don’t know what that buys me or them.”

Rory’s hand hovered at the doorknob, the light from inside spilling just enough to catch the tension still coiled in his shoulders.

“Think about what I said,” Tommy told him, voice low.“This part’s almost over. After that… you’ll have a choice.”

Rory nodded once, then slipped inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet click that felt heavier than it should’ve.

It buys you me, Rory. That’s the trade.

Turning to walk back up the mist-soaked street, Tommy's thoughts grew darker. The part of his plan that was almost done? That was for Rory. For his mother who Sean O’Grady had broken. For his sister who now slept in Tommy’s bed.

For Tommy, it was just the beginning. He’d waited long enough. And now, he was going to deal with Sean O’Grady in a way that didn’t just end the problem, but satisfied the quiet, cold part of him that still wanted everything.

But as he walked deeper into the fog, doubt stalked him like a shadow he couldn’t shake.

His girl was going to find out what he'd done. And when she did, it wouldn’t matter how gentle he’d been after. Wouldn’t matter that he’d kept her close, or tried to make it right. She’d remember how it started. She’d remember the price her mother paid for his plans.

Revenge was simple, easy. The truth was messy, sharp, and inevitable. And when it finally surfaced, that’s when the real war would begin.

***

The house was mostly dark when Tommy returned. No lamps burned in the hallway except for the one flickering low in the sitting room. Somewhere upstairs, doors were shut, people asleep.

But she was still awake. He heard the rhythmic clatter of the sewing machine before he saw her, a soft, steady sound like a heartbeat echoing in the quiet.

Tommy stepped into the doorway of the sitting room and stopped. There she was, seated near the window with its curtains drawn, working in the low golden light of the lamp. Her brow was slightly furrowed in concentration, lower lip caught gently between her teeth, fingers guiding fabric with care. A man’s shirt lay across her lap.

“Still at it?” he asked, voice rougher than he intended.

She looked up, smiling when she saw him. “Fixing the cuffs on Arthur’s shirts,” she said lightly. “Only now I’m doing it for free.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, a breath of something like laughter caught in his throat. “Did he mention that?”

She nodded, returning to her stitching for a moment before adding, “Said it like I’d lost my mind. ‘Still don’t know why you’re fixin’ shirts for free. Must be mad,’ I think were his exact words.”

Her imitation of Arthur was surprisingly good. It had just enough gruffness to earn a real smirk from Tommy. He leaned against the doorframe, watching her with a softened gaze. “He’s not wrong.”

She glanced up again, brow raised, just slightly teasing. “And yet here I am.”

Tommy’s chest pulled tight—not from guilt this time, but something quieter. The fact that she was here, doing something kind for Arthur of all people, after everything… It told him more about her than she probably meant to reveal. It told him she still had kindness left in her.

He took a step forward, his voice low now. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Her shoulders lifted in a small shrug, but there was a tenderness in her voice when she replied, “Didn’t have to. I wanted to. He apologized.”

Tommy nodded, slowly. That settled something in his chest. Not everything, but something. Arthur had tried. And she’d let him. That was a kind of peace Tommy hadn’t expected. And it made him even more certain that she was worth the risk.

His coat was still buttoned, gloves tucked into one pocket. He hadn’t taken a breath all evening that didn’t taste like smoke and tension.

“Have you eaten?” she asked gently.

He shook his head. “Not hungry.”

His mind wouldn’t slow. Wouldn’t let him sit still long enough to want anything. Too many things were moving beneath the surface. O'Grady. Rory. Her. Always her.

Should he tell her tonight? Would it shatter the fragile thing they’d built in the quiet hours between regret and routine? Would it break everything, the trust, the comfort, the softness she’d started to show him in slivers, even if she didn’t mean to? Or was it better to let her believe she was just drifting here, a passenger in a storm she never agreed to ride out?

The truth was coming, and when it did, it wouldn’t just knock. It would rip the bloody fucking doors off their hinges. Would she still be standing with him when the dust settled?

"That’s enough for tonight,” he said, the words quiet but firm.

She didn't hesitate. She nodded before carefully folding the shirt, setting it aside. Rising from her seat, she stretched and her neck and back had to be aching from sitting there for hours. As he watched, she walked past him without flinching, with no fear. That quiet trust gutted him.

Upstairs, the room they shared was dim but warm. She moved with gentle familiarity now. She wasn't claiming the space, but no longer afraid of it either. She peeled off her day dress, still one of Ada's, and changed into her nightclothes in silence, her back to him. Not hiding, not flaunting. She was just existing.

He removed his coat, tossed it over the chair. His tie. His waistcoat and shirt. Even so, he still felt heavy.

She climbed into the bed and pulled the blankets up, lying on her back. She looked tired, probably at that machine most of the day. But it was different. The shadows behind her eyes had faded. She had something in her day to help her hold her fears and worries at bay. He envied her that.

Tommy sat on the edge of the mattress, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. He didn’t want her tonight—not in the way men wanted women. He just wanted her close. Because something in his gut said this wouldn’t last. That a reckoning was coming. And when it did, he didn’t know if she’d stay.

He pulled off his boots, then slid beneath the covers. She didn’t move away. Tommy reached for her, one arm looping around her waist, pulling her into him. She tucked herself close, her back to his chest, her hand over his. She was warm and soft. Real. Tommy pressed his face into her hair and closed his eyes. Just a moment, he let himself pretend she was his without condition. That there was no plan. No lies. No secrets.

Just her.

Tommy held her tighter until her breathing evened out into the cadence of sleep. Because he didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to.

@outlanderuniverse @alyssajunelle @gothic-chinadoll @sparda1234 @mrsnms @alexakeyloveloki @theinheriteddutchess @wiseyouthingluencer @lovinglimerence

#The Arrangement #Peaky Blinders #Thomas Shelby #Tommy Shelby #Cillian Murphy #Arthur Shelby #Polly Gray

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