#tw underground fighting

[void-bitten-ghost]

Modern Mizu hears you like a bit of 'danger and excitement' from one of your friends, so she takes you to an underground fighting ring for like, your fifth date. This is after the gun range fiasco, so you've already seen a side of Mizu that not many have been allowed to see.

When she mentions this idea you're like, so fucking excited but still kinda like??? There's one of these here????? Nearby????? Holy shit yes???? Please?????? That's so cool?????

She specifically avoids answering how she knows it exists. This isn't about her. This is about sharing an experience she loves and you've shown interest in.

She picks you up on her bike (because Of Course she would have a motorbike that's like either this hand-me-down or a fixer-upper she restored) and you go. It's exactly what you thought it would be, off vibes and dodgy people, but being with Mizu somehow makes you feel safe because she's confident. But it's not an arrogant kind of confidence, it's a steady, assured sort of confidence that puts you right at ease as she takes your hand and leads you through the crowd.

Now, something you don't know is this is not Mizu's stomping grounds. Not even close. But she knew it by name and reputation and it was close enough you could both make a night out of it rather than three. Although... she wouldn't mind if that were to happen--

She snaps back to reality when you step forward and holler out encouragement to the scrawnier one of the two currently in the ring. The corner of her mouth quirks at your enthusiasm, a brow lifting and a hip popping as she crosses her arms to just. Watch you. As you lose yourself to the energy of the room.

The match ends with the scrawny one getting his ass handed to him by the dude built like a brick shit-house. She expected as much. It takes a certain amount of skill to be able to take a mountain of a man like that down while having such a slight build. She'd know, after all.

Anyway. Everything is going swimmingly until some prick pushes his luck trying to get your attention. You very bluntly tell him he's barking up the wrong tree and he does not take the rejection well. Mizu tries to not intervene directly with your battles too often. You're a capable person, it's one of the things she lov- likes. Likes about you.

But then the burly fuck reaches for you. You smack his hand away and go to headbutt him. She grabs you by the waist before you could start the climb to reach and if you weren't so riled up you might have short circuited at the feel of her calloused hand on your skin.

"This bitch yours, mutt?" He grunts to Mizu, and you see fucking red.

"You fucking dare call her a mutt you jumped up little cun--"

"Yes," she says over you, calm as a still lake, and you do actually short circuit at Mizu calling you 'hers'. The heat of anger in you switches gears to something far sweeter, but no less scalding.

"And I would appreciate it if you didn't upset her," Mizu says, her fingers trailing to your hip and gripping a belt loop possessively. You can suddenly feel every point of contact. Hip, arm, chest...

That's when the man looks at Mizu. Really looks at her with a lean forward and squinted eyes, looking over her tinted shades.

"Onryo," he breathes, and you feel Mizu tense behind you. She hadn't heard that name for a good long while. It was a name from her troubled youth. One she thought was long behind her since going legit.

"You're a long way from home, demon."

"What of it?"

You could sense something was happening as the two spoke in what you thought was an amicable tone, but then Mizu is pulling you behind her and shedding her jacket. You take hold of it instinctively as she went to drop it on the ground and she finally turns your way.

"Everything is fine," she tells you in that same confident tone, but she must see your confusion and anxiety written on your face because she takes your chin in her hand and gives you a quick peck on the lips. You stand there with a stupid, dumbstruck look she grins at as she--

She's heading to the ring. She's heading to the middle of the ring and she's shedding another layer as she climbs over the freshold oh dear gods you don't know what to do. What to think. Holy fucking shit she's right there in a sports bra and baggy pants while wrapping her knuckles-- where did she get wrappings from?????

You're more than short circuiting at this point. You need a soft reboot. Maybe a full reboot at this rate since she's sliding off those tinted glasses and-- oh.

You see her eyes.

You've seen them before, of course. But not like this. Not with this intensity behind them. Like she's looking right through her opponent to predict every single movement his future self might consider making. That indomitable focus had you flushing with heat from head to toe as you watched, mouth parted, breaths quickening.

She floors a man twice her size and three times the bredth and your knees might give out. Are you swooning? You might just be fucking swooning holy fuck--

But then she gets gut punched and then tackled by a secret second opponent and you snap back into the whole situation.

You scream out encouragement to Mizu until your lungs feel dry, and then you scream some more. You want to be the loudest. You want Mizu to hear you and know you're rooting for her while she wipes the floor with these cheating bastards.

There's four of the fuckers now. Four all dressed in similar... you hesitate to call them uniforms. More like they all shopped at the same tec-wear store at the same time. But shit are they fast. You have the slightest moment of worry when you see the glint of metal fly past in one of their fists--

Mizu breaks thier arm with a sickening twist and a wet 'crack', and you think you might never have been so turned on in your entire fucking life.

(And also you might need to address and analyse some things about yourself later...)

The metal drops to the floor with an audible clang and a loud noise goes off somewhere. You're going to be honest, you're not really paying attention to anything else other than how Mizu moves around her opponents. Even outnumbered she holds her own, muscles coiled and yet her movements are smooth like flowing water. You can't help but think of the type that wears away cliffsides and cracks apart mountains, because that's what she's doing. She's fighting smart where they're fighting with force, and she is kicking their fucking asses--

Others converge on the ring, the crowd flooding in to hold them all down and you can't help but notice it takes five fully stacked men to hold Mizu down. And even then that only lasts about seven seconds before she breaks free, methodically picking them all off one by one before she launches herself into the now turbulent crowd.

That's when you panic, shouting for her while elbows and shoulders send you this way and that. You narrowly dodge a fist to the face before a hand grabs yours. You're ready to swing right back when you lock eyes with those sharp blues you so adore.

You both book it out, avoiding flailing limbs and thrown table legs. You've somehow still got Mizu's jacket in the crook of your arm when you both make it outside and keep running, only stopping when the sound of sirens was long, long off in the distance.

You're both curled over in a dark, dank alleyway, breaths haggard and coming out as clouds in the crisp night air.

You look up from your knees, ass pressed against the brick wall to support your wobbly legs, and you can't help but crack a grin when you see Mizu in a similar state, only just realising what the fuck just happened.

The grin breaks into a laugh when Mizu looks to you with a bright smile of her own, it's a wheezing thing at first, but then it becomes a full belly laugh when she joins you. And oh, is that such a rare sight. Mizu losing herself in a laugh and then looking at you with the most beautiful full face smile you've ever seen in your life.

Your giggles die in the face of that smile, replaced with a quiet awe and probably the dumbest looking lovesick stare--

Steps. Multiple steps approach the alley and Mizu's first and only instinct is to hide and protect you, pressing you back against the wall and covering your mouth with her hand, catching your yelp of surprise before it could really become an external sound.

And ohhhhh, what a predicament you find yourself in. Pinned to a wall by this very strong and capable and, evidentally, dangerous woman who took you out tonight to a place you would only dream of going to and protected you the entire time and then caused a room wide fight to break out that she was, up until that point, winning--

Ohhhh my phone is currently dying a death imma have to post and carry on later because my brain is a bastard that way 🙃

[fcdcdmcmories]

EVERY SINGLE NIGHT WAS THE SAME. lynn was there every single time and there were guards on each exit. it was impossible to go anywhere and so, the only thing that he could do was what they said. whenever he was on the ring? he had to admit that he felt better and.. letting his anger out on questionable guys was just the way to make that happen. it wasn't as if he had a choice but to attempt to win EVERY single fight, even when his knuckles were past the point of turning red. when he heard someone else approach, he had been in a little break between two fights. no, he wasn't stupid enough to think that they were here to help or that he'd know them, so.. he didn't even look up. this was also the time where he let himself think about his family. WERE THEY OKAY? WERE THEY LOOKING FOR HIM? THEY HAD TO BE? "enjoyed the show that much, eh? heard you'll get a better one out there, so.. why are you wasting your time here? I DON'T REALLY DO AUTOGRAPHS." a joke, so maybe.. there was still some of the old him left.

@walstarterblog

[spotaus]

The Judgement Hall

A semi-awaited drabble about Doppletale's Sans and Asgore! (Specifically about Sans becoming the Royal Judge!)

Word Count: 2,663

Tw: Death, Cannibalism(kinda? eating humans)

No revisions, I die with my typos 🫡

(aaaaand @oodlesndoodles and @mylackofgrammaristerrifying because it's not Oc lore but it's Dopple-stuff lol!)

(It's under the Cut for viewing convenience ♡)

   The day was different.

    Not like any others.

   It'd been a week since Gaster's death. A week since Sans had had the hard talk with Alphys about quitting his work at the lab. It'd been a week since he'd moved as far away as possible, all the way to Snowdin to the vacant house at the edge of town.

   Now he found himself in the Capital.

   He'd gotten a letter asking him to come visit. King Asgore wanted to see him. To have some tea and chat.

   Part of him worried the King was going to convince him back to the Lab. The CORE was structurally sound, but Gaster's research went unfinished and now was left entirely to Alphys. He knew one scientist couldn't handle it alone, but he couldn't bare to be in that place anymore.

   Maybe Asgore would reprimand him for moving so far off. Away from the Capital where the King said his door was always open. Sans knew, but it hurt to think of taking up residence in the castle while other monsters were starving.

   He worried on these thoughts as he walked down the streets. The buildings here stood tall and crooked, white stone buildings having been shoddily constructed when Monsters finally arrived here. The Capital held most monsters, but the numbers were dwindling.

   Even now as his boots clicked against the white stone street, very few monsters were out and about. He thought he spotted Madjick entering a shop, two whimsum further down the street sat with eachother on the front steps of a building. It was barren compared to the lively and exciting streets he'd used to shy away from in the past.

   It was a ghost town.

   The castle that always loomed tall over the white stone city was closer now. He could see a few of the remaining Royal Guard stationed outside at the top of the steps. The doors were wide open. They were never closed, just as Asgore always promised.

   Sans hardly acknowledged the Royal Guard when he passed by them. He doubted they'd even recognize him if he did say hello. The skeleton-look was new. Without his lab coat, his glasses were the only defining feature of his that was truly left.

   It didn't matter. He clearly wasn't human, so they let him pass uncontested.

   The halls were just as he remembered, if not a bit more dusty. White brick that was painstakingly chisled and pieced together. A far cry from the messy work outside. The walls, the floor, all flawless. The floors had long purple carpets running along them, and the walls were covered in tapestries, each one painstakingly woven before their imprisonment, and a few more that were made after.

   One, at the very end of the hall, sat unfinished. Sans wondered if the one who'd been weaving it was taking a water break, or if they were long gone. He didn't bother to look for dust.

   And soon enough? There stood the hall he knew well.

   He entered, and he thought about just how much had happened here. The white pillars spanning up and far above his head into a ridiculously tall ceiling. It was completely consumed by shadow, but he could see the twinkling of crystals they'd had moved from Waterfall. He'd been the third to see it finished after all the construction. They still glimmers brilliantly like stars.

   The windows were all stained glass, seemingly untouched by the years. Blue and purple glass, all of it picturing different monsters of glory from their past. Each one portraying them as they heroes they were. Sans knew no more would be added, but he humored hinself to think that a few monsters he knew deserved a glass pane of their own.

   He remembered the coronation. The day the monsters big and small, disguised and not, gathered here in this hall as King Asgore and Queen Toriel introduced their children as their royal heirs. Asriel and Chara. They'd appeared in their disguises at the time, and they'd been the most precious little creatures. The underground had partied for a week straight.

   No one regretted wasting those precious meals, it was worthy of celebration, but the memories were bittersweet now that both heirs were dead.

   Sans sighed gently, dragging himself away from memory lane. The door at the end of the hall was still shut tight, but he knew it wasn't locked. It never was.

   So, he pressed his palms against the heavy wood, the wood that had been stripped white with water damage, and pushed.

   The hinges didn't squeak. The rush of hair that flew past was nice. Asgore's throne room had always doubled as his and Toriel's garden. A safe-space for them, so close to the barrier that sunlight could leak through the windows and allow sunlight to reach the plants. The burst of wind once smelled like a forest, earthy with a tinge of dew. Now it smelled of sickly sweet perfume. The plots that once held different types of plants only held buttercup flowers, the golden yellow blooms constantly swaying in an unseen breeze.

   He missed that old smell, but he knew, at least, that the scent of Buttercups would always alert him to the King's presence. He hardly ever left this room anymore, as far as he'd heard.

   At the thought, his eyes skimmed past the flowers and to the throne.

   Empty.

   He tried again. To the left, closer to him.

   There.

   Asgore was stood with his back to the door, leaned slightly over a small table that made Sans' soul squeeze with nostalgia. He hadn't seen that table since before Gaster's condition turned for the worst. Asgore had started bringing Tea to the lab instead of meeting here.

   The king himself was just as Sans remembered. He was a perfect replica of a human. He was tall for a human, maybe 6'4" with his boots on. His shoulders were broad, and while he was a walking wall of muscle, his flesh was soft and jiggled when he laughed. His blonde hair was a bit messy, long enough to barely fall over his shoulders, and his beard was fuzzy and rough.

   The king stood upright, and shifted a bit. His head turned, and from the few meters away that they stood, Sans could see his confusion turn quickly into a soft smile as the King recognized him.

   "Sans, my old friend." His voice was deep and held authority, but his tone was perfect. Gentle lilts at the end of his commands that made them feel more like suggestion. "Come, sit."

   Asgore gestured to the table, one arm escaping the confines of his heavy blue cloak. In the shadow, Sans could see the familiar galaxy mist that swirled purple. The truth behind the king's facade. Though as he started moving wordlessly, he couldn't help but notice how Asgore's hands were calloused and wrinkled with age, scars along his fingers that told the story of a kindly, aging king. One whose people were unjustly locked away.

   Sans let the king leave his vision as he rounded to the opposite side of the table. A familiar tea pot sat in the center, two cups sat ready to be used, one where Sans sat, one where Asgore was moving to sit himself.

   The king gazed at him, and Sans stared back. It was only a second to two, but it was enough for Sans to really take it in. Asgore's tanned skin had just the right wrinkles draped around his face. His eyes were soft and a bit sad. Disarming. The folds of his skin were largely laugh-lines, things you'd expect to see from a kindly older man whose spent most of his life laughing.

   Hid eyes were a deep brown, almost black. His pupils were perfectly round. A few stray strands of his blonde hair fell infront of his face, his crown displacing the strands with its weight.

   "It's been some time since we last spoke outside of our duties," Asgore supplied warmly to the silence, "How are you faring, old friend?" He knew the answer to that. Sans knew he did.

   He answered anyways.

    "I've been better." He supplied, "Losing G has been hard." It was obviously what Asgore wanted to bring up. He'd just get it out of the way.

   Asgore nodded sadly. Knowingly. His movement was perfectly natural.

   "I see that you've taken on a new shape. How long have you held your old one?" Asgore questioned gently. Curiously.

   Sans thought for a moment. "Must've been 200 years or so." Being underground had gotten rid of the need to constantly make new disguises. He'd been content with his latest one.

   Asgore took that with a grain of salt. Pretender kept an unconscious notice of how often Asgore blinked as the silence dragged on.

   "Sans, I heard that you left the Lab. Alphys says you have no intention of returning, either." Asgore cut to the chase. His brows furrowed. He wasn't mad. The wrinkles on his forehead were still too undefined to imply he was mad.

   Sans agreed. He really did have no plans of going back. He couldn't stand another second in there after what his team had done.

   "Very well." Asgore said, then. "I will respect your wishes. Though, I do not want to let your kindness and talent go to waste. Your grief should not consume you." Many monsters had fallen down after the loss of loved ones. Asgore had seen some of the worst here in the Capital. One monster dusted, and entire families fell into despair and couldn't recover.

   He thought the same would happen to Sans.

   The skeleton said nothing, but Asgore didn't hear a refusal yet. He pressed on. "Old friend, our people are dwindling. Many of them have never hunted, those who knew how are losing themselves." He informed. The grim truth was just that: Even if they could escape, how would they survive? "I know you've always dedicated yourself to the survival of our people. I want to ask a favor of you once more." Asgore's voice was growing soft.

   Sans couldn't help but be a tinge worried.

   He'd met Asgore for the first time when the underground was first their prison. Sans had a surplus of supplies, as he was well-liked by his local humans and they'd escorted him to the entrance to the mountain without taking his things. Asgore and Toriel had been hard-pressed to provide for their people, and had asked Sans for assistance. He'd given all he had. It was for the greater good.

   After that, he'd been the royals go-to for problems they just couldn't solve. Sans wasn't often called upon, but when he was he was efficient and smart with his solutions. That was how he'd met Gaster and joined the team working on the CORE.

   Now Asgore wanted more?

   "I have an offer for you, Sans."

   The skeleton let one of his sockets fall closed as he tiredly tilted his head. "You stopped blinking." He said casually.

   The grin grew on his face as Asgore jolted a bit and raised a hand towards his face. He rapidly blinked, seemingly startled that the skeleton had replied with such an absurd statement.

   Then he laughed.

   It was a hearty and playful laugh, one that held no malice or grudges. One that shook the tea cups on the table. Asgore was smiling wide. Pleased.

   "You had me worried." Asgore chimed when he finished his laugh.

   Sans shrugged slightly, "Have ta keep you on your toes, old man. How else are we gonna escape?" He teased right back, voice calm and drawling. "Now, what's this offer?"

   Asgore, a lot less tense than before, smiled at Sans. His eyes squinted so much that Sans could hardly see his eyes past his eyelashes.

   "That keen skill of observation. I'd like to offer you the position of my Royal Judge." He announced pleasantly. "Someone to keep myself, and the Royal Guard, in top shape. To help settle disputes. To tell us if a human has entered the underground and guide the Guard in how to properly hunt it." The ball was dropped. Asgore had outlined a job that Sans knew had been vacant for a long time now.

   Gerson, he remembered. A turtle-monster who rarely looked human. He'd been through the ringer, but had an extremely strong moral code. He'd been the one to suggest that the Dreemurs keep Chara alive. He'd starved pretty early on, passing his lessons onto his apprentice...

   "Isn't Undyne training the guard?" He voiced without thinking on it. Undyne was Gerson's pride and joy, abd Asgore had taken over training her when Gerson passed. Besides Asgore, she was the most human-like monster he knew.

   Asgore's shoulders raised a bit as he tilted his head slightly. "She... is a skilled warrior, and is sure to train her men in combat, but she lacks the knowledge of what a human is meant to look like if it does not look like myself or her. The disguises beneath their armor are very... messy." He admitted wearily.

   That would explain why the guard outside had their armor on. Monsters who'd not eaten or seen humans alive had a much harder time understanding how they worked. Had a harder time imitating them.

   "Your disguise is like your very own skin, Sans. You know well what makes humans trust you. What's normal and what is not. Our people need that." He explained.

   It was true.

   Sans was friendly. He spent most of his life on the surface learning what drove humans. What their system of customs and morals were. Not because he cared, but because it made things easier for him. No one was suspicious when he had just the right amount of flaws, or threw an awkward laugh into the mix of his words. People never asked about his staring problem when he learned to seem hurt by it and explained his vision problems.

   Every muscle twitch and hand motion meant something for humans, and he'd studied all of it for hundreds of years.

   He'd also taken the time to hand-pick what humans he killed. That was something monsters couldn't afford to do anymore. He'd seen it time and time again, but did his best to work through it. He was lucky those he'd encountered in the past gave him bad vibes. He'd felt justified killing them.

   He wondered how hard it would be to teach his fellow monsters human morals. He wondered if Asgore or Undyne would respect a judgement if he found it unreasonable to kill someone. Maybe they'd ignore him. Would he have any authority?

   But then again. Humans weren't worth dying over. They'd trapped them down here. The humans were starving his people. He could teach the Guard how to survive this. He could kill again. Humans were food, and as much as he could delude himself into thinking otherwise, even the ones he liked were glorified animals. Things to let live because they behaved. Underground was different, and he couldn't afford that luxury.

   "I'll do it."

   His voice was still calm and confident. It didn't betray his racing mind. The idea that maybe if he'd given up these fake morals a bit sooner then he could've gotten more meat for the Lab crew. Maybe this would make up for it.

   Asgore smiled at him, and Sans smiled back easily.

   Sans was given his uniform, a heavy set of robes and sashes and belts. A hood could be pulled up to cover his face, and he realized it brought him a bit of comfort.

   Every week he'd visit Asgore and the Guard. Every week he had tea. Every week he'd have a training session that could last 3 hours just to help the guard hone their disguises.

   Every other day, he stayed at his home in Snowdin and patrolled. Every other day he walked the sane exact route.

   Every day was the same.

[dark-twist-fairytales]

Honestly: Let Kai and a few Serpentine be placed in a pit together with some random and someone scream out "Dirty Rules!" And watch those fucks go feral to protect their folks.

Dirty Rules is a term that I've used commonly for underground/illegal fighting, being the most illegal, as it's the highest betting. What are Dirty Rules? Anything short of death.

Let these five team up together with a firey passion to protect and watch them all get bloodied and bruised, but coming out victorious. Apart, they're possibly beatable. Together? They're unstoppable.

[shouyuus]

very 18+, vi-shaped, modern underground fighter!au tw: in which vi uses a vibrating strap d1ldo and also fucks ur throat

popular underground fighter vi! x reader in which vi "soft launches" your relationship with this photo posted on instagram with clear red nail marks down her back and just the caption "post fight ritual 💋" and it's obvious that her knuckles are still bruised, but someone else made those marks on her back and they're definitely not from any fight she's ever been in.

and it's not like she's a stranger to people thirsting over her posts -- she kinda knows she's hot. or at least, she's been told enough times to know it empirically, but it still stuns her a little when she catches you staring, or when she sees the way your pupils literally dilate in her presence; it's not something that she grew up hearing, always being told that she's too tomboy or that she's not feminine enough, even though her own family never cared, and they've always supported her no matter how she wanted to dress or what she wanted to do.

you, though. she doesn't know how she got so lucky with you.

she might call it a chance meeting, but later on, you'd admit that you'd had your eye on her for weeks, thought she was so, so pretty, even with all her black eyeliner and her choppily cut hair (she does it herself; oh, you could tell? why? what gave it away? the weirdly uneven buzz or the fact that she totally missed a patch at the back of her head?), and you'd put yourself squarely in the line of her sight and hoped (prayed, really) that she'd notice you.

and notice you she did.

wearing that pretty little sundress of yours, leaning up against the bar of her favorite lesbian haunt, the one she goes to nine times outta ten after her fights, the adrenaline's still high, eating through her veins, the tattoo of her pulse pressing against her ribcage.

she'd pushed off the far wall and caged you in against the dark wood of the bar, turning her charm up to eleven and hoping against hope that she wasn't just imagining things when she saw your gaze run up and down the length of her body (she wasn't).

"hey pretty. thought you might wanna take a closer look."

you'd grinned then, caught someplace between bashful and triumphant.

"but... it's so dark and so... loud," you say, letting your hand linger on her shoulder even as you put up the very convincing front of uncertainty, the blatant tease of your words the only thing cueing her off that you were picking up what she was putting down.

"yeah? then... wanna go somewhere quiet where you can... take a better look in peace?"

vi's apartment, despite all the winnings from her fights, was a modest place, a small studio in the heart of the city, though the floor the ceiling windows are really what caught your eye that first time she brought you over.

that, and the giant mirror that covered the length of an entire wall opposite the windows.

"so i can check my form," vi says when you ask, running a tall glass under the tap water, holding it out to you afterwards.

and she'd be lying if she said she hadn't been expecting a hookup. and honestly, so had you. but somehow, the pair of you had just ended up curled on the couch, sitting face to face, sharing stories and laughing. the next you looked up, the pink of dawn was teasing across the far skyline and vi was frowning at the dying phone in her hand, her eyebrows hitched.

"holy shit... it's 6am."

you bury your face in the cushions of the couch, your hands still wrapped around a half-empty cup of spiked apple cider (a bottle of martinelli's at the back of her fridge, along with a half-empty thing of grey goose she'd found, tugging the cap out with her teeth), feeling the tiredness drag at your eyelids.

"oops... sorry," you grin sheepishly at her, "usually, when i keep people up all night, it's not like this."

vi laughs at your tired little innuendo, but her eyes soften when she catches you watching her. and for some stupid, unfathomable reason, she feels her cheeks heating up.

"yeah peaches. i figured. but... i don't mind being kept up like this."

your brows furrow even as a grin threatens your lips as she nudges you with her hand. you shift back, making room for her as she sits down in front of you, close enough for you to feel the heat rolling off her skin.

beyond the windows, a brilliant sunrise is peering out over the city, and the sharp, shard-drawn light of it pierces vi's studio as she reaches out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, her thumb and forefinger trailing the line of your cheek till she's coaxing your chin up towards her.

"peaches?" you ask, your breath a bit short.

"yeah," her eyes flicker towards the tiny little stud earrings you'd put in, truly miniscule peach-emojis that you'd picked to match the shade of your dress. and you laugh, the tiredness making the air around you both effervescent.

and that was the first of many nights you'd proceed to spend at vi's, though eventually, she does drag you forward to kiss you, her lips insistent against yours, with you pulling back to gasp -- "took you long enough --" against her only for her to sink her teeth into the bared skin of your neck, letting her fingers curl around the delicate pulse-point nestled there as she says --

"they say good things come to those who wait."

neither of you can truly pinpoint the moment where this... thing became something more. something that neither of you had the words or will to deny any longer.

it might've come up the first time vi pressed three fingers into your sopping cunt, her eyes fixed on the way your expression goes slack, how your hips kicked up at every curl of her expert fingers. or perhaps the first time you'd pushed her back and kissed a line down her front, lavished her body with your lips, teasing and nipping at her tits before making your slow, arduous way down to her clenching cunt, licking up the wet slit before latching your mouth around her clit and sucking hard enough for her eyes to roll out of her eye-sockets.

or maybe the first time she'd pulled out her bright pink strap, the base equipped with a vibrating function and an opposing dildo that hooked into vi's pussy as she rucked her hips into yours, fucking into you so hard that tears had creased in your lashes after she was done with you.

"fuck peaches -- you just look so good cumming on my cock, don't you?"

and that's all it takes these days, a smirk, a slap on the ass, and her voice saying peaches for you to feel your body clench over nothing, for your stomach to curl with heat, even if she's just coming over to press a kiss to your cheek or murmur against your skin, asking how your day went, though sometimes, you'd get shy and your voice would get a bit too quiet.

"c'mon, speak up, doll. and look at me when i'm talking to you, yeah?"

her fingers squeezing your jaw, just tight enough to make you gasp.

and no one questions it; bc why would they? her coach is ecstatic -- not like vi's ever been an unfocused fighter, but these days, she's in such tip-top form that he's not got much feedback for her after her long training sessions.

"whoever she is," vander says, grinning even as vi flushes and sighs (she knows it's useless to lie, vander's known her for way, way too long), "she's good for you."

he presses a hand to her shoulder, shaking her slightly, "and my advice? when you find a girl like that -- you grab on with both hands and you don't let go."

so that's what she does, and what she's still doing now. it's been months -- almost a full year since you've made it all "official", though neither of you have posted much about it online (her fans have been speculating for a while though, specially the hardcore ones, the ones who have been with her long enough to know her, to spot how she scans the crowd before and after every right, how her smile's just a bit different these days, how there seems to be one particular girl she's always winking at, always hidden in the shadows but she's always swiveling around the first thing after a fight, win or lose).

"f-fuck -- that's a good girl --" vi groans, her hips jerking against yours as she fucks you through your third orgasm of the night (she'd wone her fight that night -- as she does most nights -- and you'd come over to celebrate), your nails biting into the skin of her back, dragging down the expansive tattoo there.

she feels the burn in her own thighs, her arms flexing, the veins popping blue as she drags you down the length of the bed by your hips, fucking into you, her eyes trained on the sticky white ring at the base of her pink strap, the sight in and of itself enough to send her over the edge.

"c'mere -- open your mouth, peaches," she says, guiding you towards her even as she pulls out of you, a thick string of cum slicking off the head of her strap as she inches up the bed to position herself over your chest and shoulders.

you let your jaw fall slack, moaning thick as she presses the tip of her strap to your tongue. you blink up at her, lashes fluttering as she sinks her fingers into your hair, hissing out a long breath as you swallow around her length.

"sweet fuck that's hot..."

she pulls you over her cock in shallow thrusts, her breath growing quick as she watches the way you eagerly clean your own cum off of her with your tongue, the completely fucked out, blissed out look in your eyes as you look up at her, so utterly besotted and at her mercy.

her feels the coils twist in her gut seconds before she shoves you down over her, the combined sound of your gagging and the pinpoint vibrations of the dildo sending her right over the edge.

"shit, shit -- shit oh -- fuck... mm..."

her fingers fist in your hair as she jerks around the dildo end of the strap, tugging out of your mouth with a lazy, lopsided smile.

"such a good girl for me, hm?" she says, tugging you up for an open-mouthed kiss. you mewl against her lips, so soft, absolutely melting into her arms as she shifts the both of you into the center of the bed.

it's not till she goes to shower later, with you sound asleep in her mussed up blankets, that she sees the marks -- red and raised on her back, scratched over her tattoo. a soft smile lifts her lips as she stares at her own reflection in the mirror, her neck twisting over her shoulder to get a good look.

and before she knows it, she's grabbing her phone and turning around to snap a pic, with the full intent of keeping it just to show you in the morning but... well, she thinks as she stares down at the photo with a dopey sort of grin, her heart thudding dangerously close to her mouth.

maybe the best gift she could give you on your one-year anniversary is this -- telling the world that she's yours.

[bunni-v1]

Lighter NSFW Headcannons

🍓Hello lovelies! I managed to get this done. I do apologize if it feels rushed or anything near the end. It was getting so long, and I didn't want to write so much I had nothing else to talk about. I hope you enjoy it regardless! Love you all <3

TW: Nsfw (duh); Rough sex (alluded to)

Info: Lighter x Reader; NSFW

-There’s a lot of contention on whether or not Lighter is a virgin, and as much as I love the idea of sloppy awkward virgin Lighter… there’s just no fucking way. Look at him.

-He fucked around a lot when he was younger, it just kind of lines up with that cocky, overconfident leader vibe he alludes to a lot. Sure, he’s more responsible than most others, but I can’t imagine a world in which he hadn’t messed around at least a little.

-All that to say, he hasn’t had sex in a really long time. Like, the last time he was with anyone was before entering the underground fighting ring. It's been a minute for our poor old sap.

-It’s not like he really has much want for sex either. After joining the Sons of Calydon he didn’t trust anyone enough to handle him in such a vulnerable state, and there’s not anyone he’d want to sleep with around anyway. (Certainly not any of the girls, they’re too much like family for that.)

-He isn’t one for one-night stands much, they make him feel like he’s nothing more than his body. If he’s going to share such vulnerable parts of himself, he’d like to have some kind of emotional connection. Friends with benefits are better, but he also doesn’t like complicating his personal relationships like that, so he just doesn’t have sex.

-He masturbates plenty for sure though, usually to some kind of low-budget porno. If he’s feeling pent up and he can’t take it out in the ring, he’ll just use his hands a different way to help himself out.

-And then there was you.

-Sweet little you, who Lighter just couldn’t get out of his head. He hated how much his mind would drift to you when he was just trying to relieve himself. 

-He tried so hard to focus on the shitty porno he was running, something about step-siblings – he wasn’t really thinking too hard about it. But then, the image of you and him pops into his head. It’s innocent to start, just thinking about your pretty lips and that damned smile, but his mind just keeps drifting.

-What noises would you make? Would you be quiet or loud? He’d like it if you were loud. Can you even bend like that? Would you try for him? What would you look like sucking his dick? Could you take all of him in one go, or would he have to slip it in inch by inch while you adjust?

-It’s like a parasite he can’t quite get out of his head, whispering all the horribly indecent thoughts about you, making him so desperate for your touch all the time.

-That’s before you’re even together, it only gets worse after you finally make things official with him. 

-Before he felt shameful, you were just a friend and he was totally disrespecting you, but now that you’re together? Now that he’s allowed to find you attractive, now that he knows how you feel in his hands and how you taste on his lips he’s done for.

-He’s awful respectful of you and your space, and he really does want to take things slow, but Christ you don’t know what you do to him. Or maybe you do, and you’re torturing him on purpose because you like to see him squirm when you jut your little lip out in a pout.

-Your first time with him is sloppy, as most first times are. He just can’t contain himself.

-You’re sitting on his lap, shirt, and pants long since forgotten in some corner of the room, working your sinful little mouth over his. He can’t help but grab at the fat of your hips, dragging you over his painfully hard erection. 

-The feeling is way better than he’d ever imagined, much nicer than his hand, and way better than those stupid pornos – had sex always felt this good, or are you some kind of secret god? It doesn’t occur to him that, maybe, going so hard might be enough to make him cum until it’s way too late.

-He creams his pants about five minutes into your little grind session.

-It’s so, so embarrassing for him. He’s usually so well-composed, and it’s not like he didn’t have the stamina. It was just… overwhelming to finally get to have you exactly how he wanted to have you for so long. And… he totally ruined it.

-He looks like a kicked puppy. He’s not saying anything but you can tell he’s beating himself up over it, so you have to hold his face in your hands and coo at him and assure him that everything is okay. That it’s a compliment, that you love him. 

-He has a hard time believing it until you slide down and help him clean up, and suddenly it's not so bad anymore – not with the way your mouth is working around him with such ease.

-So, sure, your first time together doesn’t exactly go as planned, but that’s just one time. What else does Lighter have in store for you?

-Firstly, Lighter is definitely a switch, though he heavily prefers topping. Specifically, he’s a service top. Everything he does is to make you feel good, even when he’s being rough and brutal, it’s because that’s what you want from him. 

-He likes to take his time with you, to really feel you beneath him. His hands are calloused and big and they trace over your flesh like they’re worshipping you. Committing every inch they can reach to memory, like if he doesn’t he will forget the feeling.

-It’s damn near overstimulating with how much he drags those rough fingers along your ribcage, but it’s so incredibly heavenly as well. 

-His lips always follow in his finger's wake, pressing across each mapped inch like markers for when he wants to come back up. 

-He mumbles sweet praises into every single curve and divot, “Beautiful,” “Perfect,” “Mine.” Like a man possessed, he nearly forgets that other goals must be achieved, right up until he’s just above your most sensitive parts.

-When he gets there he breathes in, deeply, and then he plunges right in, and dear god he’s amazing with his mouth. His fingers too.

-It feels like he’s trying to consume you, the way his lips cup around you – sucking as if his life depended on it. His fingers will happily busy themselves by playing with whatever part of you isn’t already in his mouth, occasionally swapping the two to keep you on your toes.

-If you think that’s nice, you should also know that he keeps his eyes on you the whole time he’s doing it too and just watching your expressions, enjoying having all of his senses filled with nothing but you. 

-You have to cum with his mouth or fingers (or both) at least once. Not because of his ego (though it definitely grows when he feels you clenching around his annoyingly deft tongue), but because he is big and no matter how many times you take him, there is always quite the stretch. 

-Speaking of how big he is, he’s certainly much larger than average. I’m thinking much closer to seven and a half inches, with a similar girth fully erect. He’s a grower, not a shower.

-And goodness is it nice to look at. There are two prominent veins, one running along the bottom of his shaft and another on the side that stops about halfway up. The tip is always blushed and angry red, and the shaft itself is slightly darker than the rest of his skin, but it’s awful pretty.

-He keeps himself pretty well groomed, though there is hair there, it won’t irritate you when you’re giving him head. It’s just something so that he doesn’t feel bald down there.

-He prefers it when you give rather than receive, though he enjoys taking care of you like that very much. It’s just that you look so cute trying to swallow down all of him. You can never quite get him down, he’s just way too big even with plenty of training, but you always try so hard. The tears pricking your lashes and the redness of your cheeks are intoxicating.

-He’ll give you the sweetest smile as he watches you struggle to swallow him down, hands wound in your hair guiding you to take just a little more. “You can do it, baby. Go on, just a little more… good job.”

-Unfortunately, he isn’t much of a noisemaker, though he’ll give you more than a few groans when you do something particularly nice. He’s more of a talker.

-He loves to just talk you through what you’re doing, praises and hums of approval rumbling out of his chest. His voice is much deeper and more gruff than you’re used to, but it's heavenly hearing him mutter out a deep “Oh fuck,” when you run your tongue right along that vein.

-Once both of you are nice and ready, you all loosened up for him, and he’s got the condom and the lube applied he finally lines himself up. 

-He teases you with the swollen head of his dick a few times, rubbing it around the rim of your desperate little home, then finally he pushes himself in. Just the tip, because even that is such a stretch for your poor little hole.

-It’s not so bad with the way his calloused fingers play with the sensitive skin right above where you’re connected. It’s like a reward for taking him so well, even though it hurts. 

-Again, he purrs out his praise, “Good job, baby. You’re taking me so well, just a little more… that's it. Keep sucking me in like that.”

-He inches himself so nice and slow, giving you all the time in the world to adjust. His hands soothing over your thighs until you’ve finally swallowed him whole. Then, he leans down, intertwining your fingers with his, and carefully pulls himself out.

-He’ll always start slow unless he’s feeling jealous or neglected, and he always holds your hand. He wants you to know that he still loves you, even in such an intimate moment where he could easily lose himself, he reminds you that you are his everything.

-He isn’t always soft, though. He wants to be soft and loving and gentle, but Lighter is very easy to rile up if you know what you’re doing.

-As I mentioned, jealous and needy sex happens, and it’s rough. He’s staking his claim on you, making sure to leave bruises and bites that will last the rest of the week. If you’re not giving him the attention he feels he needs, he’ll pull you aside and make you give it to him.

-When he’s feeling like that, he loves to hear you moan, and he’ll outright tell you to do so. If you don’t he will shove his fingers in your mouth and force you to make them.

-Something else that’ll really get him going is roughhousing. Regardless of if you’re legitimately boxing with him or if it’s just playful stuff on the couch, it really gets him fired up. 

-As shameful as it is he loves putting you in your place. Something about the way you desperately hit at him, the way your skin gets sweaty and flushed, it all just does something to his brain. You always end up with your legs tossed over his shoulders.

-He likes knowing how much stronger he is than you, not that it isn’t obvious. So he loves to manhandle you whenever he gets the chance. The way you give him all the power in the world to move you around is heaven to him.

-Ah, but his favorite sex is the kind you have on his bike. He loves to see you in nothing but his jacket and his scarf bent over the seat of his bike, just waiting for him to take advantage of you.

-He’ll drive you out to some quiet corner of the outback and absolutely fuck your brains out. 

-Maybe this one is a bit odd, but he likes to have you sit on his bike in just your underwear and rev the engine just to see you squirm. It’s never enough to make you cum, but it sure does feel fantastic, especially with how he presses himself up behind you and purrs praise in your ears.

-To him, it really is all about how you’re feeling. He’s happy so long as you cum, and if you want to help him along, even better.

-Help him if you ever suggest letting him cum inside, it might actually make his head explode. It’s not like he has a breeding kink or anything, but it’s the fact that you’d trust him enough to do something like that.

-To be real about it, that’s what sex is about to him. Trust. It’s a symbol of all the love and admiration you have for each other. It’s so intimate and such a difficult thing to share with you, so despite all the rough treatment and kinks and everything in between, sex is just another way that Lighter shows you he loves you.

[yowumi]

underground boxer katsuki bakugou x nurse f! reader [ modern au ] TW. angst & smut

Underground boxer Katsuki Bakugou x Nurse F! Reader

Summary. Underground boxer Katsuki Bakugou who grew up watching his father fight in the ring, seeing the way men get knocked down just from the strikes of his fathers fist made his heart pump, he wanted to feel that adrenaline rush. Since then his father has passed and he fought his way into the life of a boxer. He wasn’t raised to be cared for or enjoy relying on other people, so why is it that he can’t wait for you to patch him up?

.

.

.

Warnings. Fighting, Violence, Slight gore (nothing too serious), Angst (not as much as i thought there would be) Crying, Smut, Masterbation, Obsession, Bakugou has lowkey never felt the touch of a woman, etc. (Not too much smut really)

DISCLAIMER: Characters belong to Kohei Horikoshi.

A/N. this won the vote, i hope you guys enjoy (I love angsty shit) there’s implied smut and masterbation althought it isn’t very heavy. Ive been recovering from the hurricane that has been passing so I kinda brainstormed this and quick wrote in in 3 days, I hope you guys enjoy and stay safe with all the crazy weather happening <3

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

One hit to the left, another to the right, 3 hits to the left and STRIKE. A man down.

Katsuki can feel the man get back up in hesitation, seeing his legs threatening to fall yet katsuki was untouched having the man on defense the whole round. What a sad component and this is supposed to be one of the best?

What a joke.

Taking katsuki lost in pride for granted, the man strikes him with a punch straight to the jaw, katsuki laughs already drunk of the adrenaline of such an unexpected move from someone as pathetic as him.

“atta girl, you’ve finally put your big girl pants on, i see” he teased the man, only making his rage stronger.

the guy comes charging at him in full rage, giving katsuki the advantage and knocking the man straight out leaving the man to hit the floor in a thump.

“yeah katsuki, you get his ass!” Kirishima cheers on from the bleachers knowing he’s up next.

Kirishima throws him his towel, “you make it hard for me to top that” and Katsuki gives a small glance of acknowledgment.

Katsuki wasn’t very talkative or perhaps he was talkative, but not very friendly. Although, Kirishima was someone he respected, he had known him since middle school so he’s friendly in his own way.

As Katsuki chugs down his water, some spilling on his chin, As stain begins to walk around the court, coming closer to Katsuki. Stain was known for his intense boxing skills, leaving some of them with eternal injuries that were fatal for many.

But Katsuki couldn’t give one shit. He had never met nor cared enough to listen to who he was, he hated the way he walked in like he owned the place, with that smug grin of his. God, he just wanted to punch that stupid look off his face.

“Who the hell is that runt” Katsuki orders answers from Kirishima, feeling the adrenaline rush comeback to him.

Kirishima gives off a small laugh, He wondered how Katsuki really didn’t know who he was, the guy was basically famous in the underground world.

“That’s Stain, he’s one of the best” Kirishima starts standing up knowing Katsuki’s temper might get the best of him, “He’s one of the guys you might not want to mess with in here, heard he’s killed a few.” He warned.

Stain notices the angry blonde haired man staring at him with hatred, in fact, Stain noticed from the second he walked in. He’s heard a lot about this new upcoming boxer ‘bakugou’, Katsuki being known for his punches being referred to as a ‘bomb’ or ‘explosion’, knocking his opponent’s out in one blow.

“Yeah, well it seems that bitch has a staring problem, he’s been staring at me like he wants my ass ever since he’s walked in.”

Katsuki begins to make his way over to Stain with nails in his fists as he hears Kirishima chase after him, “Hey katsuki wait- hold on now, you aren’t thinking man!”

“I’m just gonna put it out straight, I don’t like you or the way you walk around like you own everyone, so quit staring at me, will you!” Katsuki yells out at him with his usual annoyed aggression.

“Ah Bakugou, it’s nice to finally meet you, I’ve heard plenty, nice to finally meet you” Stain says giving a nonchalant and unreadable expression on him.

“I don’t care, i’ll care enough to know who you are if you can beat me in the ring.”

Stain thinks about his offer, “Hm, I guess we should settle this in the ring then Mr. Bakugou” He says giving one of his smirks that ticks Katsuki off.

“Yeah whatever, when I win, you’ll have to take your old ass away from here, maybe take yourself to a nursing home while you’re at it, grandma!” Katsuki yells at the man.

“And if I win?” Stain raises a brow. Kirishima sends a worried expression towards Bakugou, In which he ignores.

“You can take my spot in the ring for good or my ass, I don’t care, it’s not like I’ll lose anyways,” Katsuki says over confidently.

“If I win, you Katsuki Bakugou, will have to retire early.”

“Bet that.”

“I’ll see you in 7 months.” And like that it was settled.

They shake on it and go their separate ways.

Kirishima and Katsuki walk out into the dark alley in their usual comfortable silence before Kirishima finally breaks it,

“I don’t have a good feelings about this Katsuki, the guys dangerous and you both are putting your lives on the line” He expresses his concern.

“Every time we step into that ring we put our life on the line, this is no different, he is nothing special, quit worrying about it already.” Katsuki brushes him off.

Kirishima stares away as if he’s biting his tongue trying not to say what’s on his mind, Katsuki notices.

“If it’s bothering you that much, just come out and say it already, jeez” Katsuki says annoyed putting his hands in his pockets and stops walking.

“Well…maybe it isn’t a bad idea for you to retire early, you’re an amazing fighter, i’m not saying this because i think you aren’t good but because you have potential to get out of this place, you aren’t too deep in yet, you can still have a way out and live a good life, I don’t want you dying in here.” Kirishima feels relived finally getting that off his chest.

“Fighting is all I know, there’s nothing else for me, that’s just stupid, why the hell would i quit for a simple life like that when i could be rocking people’s shit and ego’s to the ground and you have a baby on the way with your girl, if anything you should be taking your own advice.”

Kirishima goes quiet, he knows he isn’t the person to be speaking about that subject when he knows Katsuki is right. They both needed help. Though they would never admit that.

With that they say their goodbyes to each other waving each other off as they go their separate ways.

Katsuki walks his way home on his usual route before he sees the same white van pass by him 3 times now, which stands out in the darkness of the night. He stares it down annoyed by it already before the van stops.

Katsuki takes his hands out of his pockets getting ready to take on whoever the hell is in that van.

Before he could react a guy comes up from behind him pressing a knife slashing against his rib leaving a huge scar of blood across his stomach. “Fuck! Come here, I’ll fucking kill you bitch!”

The man who stabbed him was covered in all black, jumping his way into the van before it drives off in a rush, Katsuki holds his wound with little complaints: to be fair, it isn’t the first time he’s been stabbed.

He walks his way home holding a hand against his stomach, figuring he will fix it up once he gets home with some alcohol and gauze.

Before he could reach his block he starts to feel his vision blur and the world starts spinning, before he hits the ground harshly, bleeding out onto the floor.

and just like that, he’s out.

“Oh my! Don’t worry sir, I’ll call an ambulance right now! They are on their way!” Katsuki heard an elderly woman’s voice say in a panic as he blacked out, barely remaining conscious.

He woke up in the hospital.

He hates hospitals, he hated the sounds of the beeping, he hated the pathetic ass nightgowns, he hated the nurses that think they can fix everything, he hated being taken care of.

It was pathetic, he thought.

He gets up to walk out the room, taking out the shit the doctors have injected in him with no reaction. Before he reaches the door handle a young women opens the door.

You smile at him, “Oh it seems you’re awake Mr. Bakugou, how are you feeling?”, sending him a comforting arm around his waist, directing him back towards his bed with a light expression.

Katsuki doesn’t move your hand, he just sits back down. What drugs did they give him, holy shit.

“Don’t worry, the slash in your rib wasn’t too deep and was an easy stitch, you will only be left with a scar. It seems you were already bleeding and bruised all over your body before you were cut, can you explain what happened last night for me sir?” you look up at him from your stool.

You looked like an angel, he thought maybe he died.

What the hell, why is he thinking these things?

“Got stabbed that’s all, can i get out of here now” He says looking away, deciding your eyes on him we’re making him not think properly.

How long has it been since a woman was nice to him? or looked at him like that? Had a woman ever shown concern for him before?

You let out a soft laugh at his desperation to get out, “Don’t worry, it shouldn’t be long sir, I would just like to hold you here a bit longer to ask you some questions and make sure you heal properly!”

“Okay” He lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding, your laugh was mesmerizing. He didn’t know what was wrong with him.

As the days go by, you helped him change his bandages, watched over him, helped him get up, even though the feeling of your touch on his bare chest made him see stars.

In this time he also learned about you, how they were the same age, how you became a doctor because of your mother who was sick and noticed how your coffee was always cold.

On the fourth and final day you were changing his bandages once again, “Mr. Bakugou” You say grabbing his attention.

“You can call me Katsuki, don’t like being called that.” he stated out, he wasn’t in his annoyed state as often when he was with you.

“Okay, Katsuki…May I ask what you do for a living, I know you said you didn’t want to talk about it but you’re bruised and cut everywhere and some look old and others look recent, all look different from one another, I’m concerned.” you say while running your fingers around the bruises and cuts examining them with your eyes.

“Why?” He asks

“Why what?” You ask, confused.

“Why are you concerned?” He was genuinely confused, Why were you so careful and concerned about him? Why did you take care of him like this?

“Because I’m your nurse, Katsuki, it’s my job” you say not thinking of anything of it, you were his nurse. Of course you noticed how beautiful he was, and how you found it cute when he looked down like a kid in trouble when he would slightly raise his tone at you, and maybe you did like his company a bit but you were his nurse, right? you had only know him for a few days, it’s just part of the job, right?

Katsuki looks away.

How could be so stupid.

It was your job, there was no reason behind any of it or feelings, you’re a nurse, he is your patient. Why did he feel so disappointed in your answer? Why was he expecting more from you, what was wrong with him.

You notice the change in expression as you finish wrapping him up,

“Did i say something wrong or accidentally hurt you? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t go prying like that, your business is your business Mr. Bakugou.”

“You are fine, think i’m ready to be let out though.” He says not maintaining eye contact as he puts his shirt on getting ready to leave.

“Oh, I understand. You are already signed for release but I will walk you out!” you offer with a smile hoping to cheer him up.

“I’m good, I’ve got it.” He says while walking out.

And just like that, you were gone.

But you weren’t, not from his mind. For the 3 weeks he would think about you constantly, craving the way you held his waist and body like a fragile piece of glass, missing your sweet laugh and comforting smile, the thought of you lingered inside his mind and soul, leaving him distracted constantly. Which was new for Katsuki.

He got in the ring, yet his mind felt so far away from it. Your face in his head, playing back the few days you spent together, as your patient. He needed to take a few shots before the round, just to get his mind off you.

He didn’t want that to be the last time he felt your warmth and hospitality. He wanted more, he wanted to be embraced in it.

Just like that he sent a striking punch to his opponent, another easy day, although he had some blood on his hands.

He never went to the hospital, he hates hospitals.

He can take care of himself, and it was a small bleeding and the usual fracture and pain of getting hurt out there.

So why did he drive his way to the hospital and specifically request that only you could check to see if his hand was broken?

When he saw your face he immediately felt the warmth in his chests, like a hole had been filled in it. Like it wasn’t empty anymore.

The way your hands felt examining his hands, tracing your fingers all over his big veiny hands.

In which you noticed, you had never noticed his hands before, how much bigger they were than yours or how much taller he was than you that you suddenly started to realize.

Or the way he looked at you like you were an angel sent down just for him.

Suddenly you felt suffocated and trapped by his stare, feelings nervous, why did you feel nervous with a patient?

“Come with me, Mr. Bakugou, I’ll get you examined right away” You say looking into his eyes

He nods and follows you to a room where he sits down and watches you as you examine his hands, not taking his eyes off you, feeling like the world has paused now that he’s with you again.

Like nothing else matters.

Is this what Kirishima was talking about?

Is this the simple life, simple needs, he needed you, but he loved that he needed you? He wanted more, more, more.

Maybe it was the alcohol talking, right?

“did you get bangs?” he asked now noticing the change of appearance, it looked good on her.

You blushed, surprised that he would notice something like that. “I did, im surprised you noticed.” Why did you feel so jittery all of a sudden?

“I like them.” He compliments you.

“Thank you, Mr. Bakugou.” You respond slightly losing composure as your face turns a light red at his compliments.

“Makes you look more mature, it’s sexy” He says without thinking, it was like he couldn’t control his thoughts today.

You wonder if you heard him right, his face showed no expression so you figured you misheard. “What happened to your hand today?” You ask taking advantage of how talkative he is today compared to the last time you talked.

“It’s nothing you need to worry your pretty little head about” He looks down at you, his heart felt heavy, he wanted to kiss you so bad.

He wanted you to take care of him in all the places he needed you.

He wanted you to touch him more, he needed it.

Before thinking he leaned down to press his lips against yours in the dark room.

And you let him. For a few seconds, you wanted to enjoy it, entranced in the moment.

You let his tongue enter your mouth and hold your cheek, letting him enter your mouth before coming back to reality, you were at work. Anyone could walk in.

And then you taste it.

The alcohol on his breath wasn’t something you could ignore.

No.

This was wrong on so many levels, he is your patient. you shouldn’t take advantage on him.

you push him off.

After you allow yourself to catch your breathe and see bakugou wait for you to say something, did he do something wrong?

“I think you should be assigned a new nurse.” you say. “I’ll have nurse jenna come and check you out, I don’t feel this is an appointment thing to do as your nurse.”

“Wait- what? I don’t want a new nurse, I requested you.” He said in slight sadness in his eyes, he had came here for you.

“I am sorry, Mr. Bakugou.” You say walking out.

He had no interest being in this hospital any longer if you weren’t taking care of him, he walked out back to his home.

His home that he lived alone in.

He sat in his bed still a bit tipsy, he fucked everything up didn’t he? He scared you off just because he couldn’t keep his thoughts to himself.

And yet he can’t feel sorry he did it.

He would do it again.

He would do anything to feel your lips against his again, he took the bottle of liquor near his bed and pressed it to his lips.

He wanted to taste you again.

And just like that Katsuki slid a hand down his chest, the same way you would, trying to mimic the way you did.

He let himself do that, not rushing, doing it slowly just how you would. He closes his eyes, imagining it was you.

Before he slides his hand down to his lower stomach, going even slower, hesitating.

This was so wrong.

But it felt so fucking good.

He pressed his palm over his sweatpants, rubbing the bulge in his pants to ease it some.

Before he slowly slid his hands in his pants, the same hands you touched.

He stroked himself over his boxers. feeling the precum already start to leak from him.

He felt so overstimulated.

He just needed you.

Just let him have tonight to think of you this way, it will be the last time, he promises.

…

1 Month Later.

Match after Match.

It was all he could do to get his mind away from you, before it was you taking his mind away from the matches.

One punch after another, he couldn’t stop fighting, He needed to keep fighting.

He found himself becoming even more aggressive, even shutting out Kirishima completely, as Kirishima became more concerned coming closer by the day to retiring.

He also found himself drinking more.

He never really was a drinker, he just wanted to numb the thoughts of you.

“Get me my usual” he demands the bartender as he slides some cash across the table.

“Alright sir, i’m just gonna need some Identification to confirm your over the age of 21.”

“You guys don’t usually ask for that, You’ve known me long enough to know i’m of age, now just get me it, i’m not in the mood” He says growing irritated.

“I’m sorry sir, but our new policy requires us to check everytime.”

“Well I don’t have my ID on me so can’t you just take a rain check or something.” Katsuki says growing even more annoyed by the second.

“I’m afraid I cannot sell you any alcohol until I see some ID, i’m going to need you to leave” The bartender slides him back his cash.

This ticks Katsuki off and he loses it. He randomly punches a guy who was walking in the bar as he starts to head out.

The guy turns towards him in anger, much bigger than katsuki

“What are you looking at big guy, you want a kiss or something, fuck off” He says now yelling.

The guys says to take this outside and little did Katsuki know that the man had a gun on him.

BOW!

one shot barely grazing his skin near the left side of his stomach and the pressure of the bullet sends Katsuki stepping back before the man comes at him with full force, bruising him.

Next thing he knows he’s in a corner of an alley beaten up half to death before he sees a familiar face.

He sees you.

He must have died.

How are you here?

“Katsuki! Is that you? What happened, It’s okay, I’ll take of you now just stay conscious for me please! your badly injured!” You say as you try to keep your composure but tears end up spilling out anyways. You try and pick up his body weight as he slouches against you as you take him to your apartment.

You lay him down on your couch carefully, thankfully he was only grazed so it wasn’t anything too major but he was still beaten up pretty badly.

You take care of him, you both don’t look nor say anything to each other. Before Katsuki stops your movements, placing a soft hand on your wrists.

“I’m so sorry.” he says looking you now in the eye with something you’ve never seen before. Not that angry or annoyed look, he seemed hurt, genuine, desperate.

It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t like you weren’t thinking of him too, it isn’t like you disliked the shared kiss between the two of you. It wasn’t like you weren’t waiting on him, as well.

maybe you needed him just as much as he needed you.

You were so lost in your thoughts you didn’t even realize Bakugou was now crying against your chest softly and quietly, holding onto your waist.

You held him.

Before you could think anymore, you pressed soft kisses against his forehead and ran your hands through his hair.

He looked up with you with teary eyes, “I get so angry constantly, I don’t even mean it, I never think before i do anything, please tell me if i’m doing this wrong. Don’t act accordingly, I don’t want to be your patient.”

“You aren’t my patient, Katsuki. I want you.” you say trying to reassure him as you cup his face, and he gives you a boyish expression as if he’s relieved by your answer.

“Please let me take care of you.” You look down at him desperately wanting to tend to his wounds, his hand is twitching.

Little does she knows it’s because he is nervous, not injured.

he nods and lets you.

You trace your fingers around his hands, this time more carefully, you kiss his fingers after wrapping his hands as he watches, never taking his eyes off you.

You’re kissing the same hands he used to jerk off to you.

He finds himself growing aroused at the thought, you were on top of him, he tried his best to contain his dick and not be such a guy.

Before you could think twice, you looked hard at his fingers before taking two in your mouth, kissing his finger tips as you stare at him.

You knew what it was doing to him.

You felt Katsuki grow under you, he felt big. You could feel him twitch as you took 2 fingers into your mouth, softly sucking.

You slowly begin to grind against the bulge under you as he grabs your hips holding you against him as he struggles not to let his eyes fall to the back of his head.

You begin to crouch over to him getting ready to take his pants off before he stops you.

“No” He says bluntly.

“Wha-“ you didn’t finish your sentence before he flipped you over with no effort, hovering over you now.

“I want to be the one to take care of you now.” He says looking down at your body like it was the most beautiful thing in the world.

He placed a soft peck kiss on your lips, “You’re beautiful, Y/n.” He says softly moaning against the skin of your neck before softly kissing the skin.

You blush under him and look away, he turns your face towards him. “Please don’t look away from me, want to look at your face while i take care of you, angel”

You nod in obedience and open your arms away from your chest to give him room to work his way down.

He kisses the softness of your collar bones, he thinks he’s never been this gentle in his life, it felt so easy being gentle with you, like he didn’t have to hold up his rude boy attitude with you.

He looked up for you to search for any discomfort, making sure you were perfectly comfortable as he did this. He took a hand to your chest and laid a soft firm grab, unbuttoning your shirt.

He leaves your bra on as he places his mouth over the soft plush skin of your breasts, playing with your nipples giving it a gentle twists loving the way your arch against him and let out a small whine when he touches you.

He loved that he was calling you pleasure, not harm.

“Katsuki, I need you.” The way you moaned out his name had him struggling to keep himself calm.

He wanted to hear more of it, just like that.

“i know, baby” He says while taking all your clothes off before removing his own as well.

That night he took care of you, in every way you needed. He wanted to return the favor you gave to him so many times. He would do it over and over again, He felt like a dog, loyal to you in every way.

…

The day of the Fight.

5 months later.

Stain enters the ring confidently as fans cheered loudly ranting on, some even making bets on who would die in the ring tonight.

Katsuki walks out onto the ring, blocking out all noises around him, his mind only on his fiancé (you) at home thinking he was asleep.

God, she would kill me if she found out, he thought to himself.

He hasn’t been in this ring since the day you’ve made love, he decided to completely devote himself to be a better man for you.

He just couldn’t miss this fight, and honestly if he did he probably would’ve been killed for it or worst they would’ve hurt you considering the fact that Stain was most likely the one who sent that man to stab him that day.

“You ready to get your ass beat, kid” Stain said spitting on the ground they walked on.

“Give me all you’ve got, old man”

And like that the match started, blow after blow, both stain and Katsuki going at each others throats, not backing down on anything, fighting for dominance in the ring.

Before Katsuki takes the high ground now finding a weak spot, landing a sharp punch sending a shock to Stain, earning a cocky chuckle from him

“Not bad, kid”

Katsuki takes this chance to come at full power, not giving Stain time to get up or reclaim his place, he knocks him down to the ground.

RIGHT.

LEFT.

He cockily laughs feeling himself getting cocky and drunk over the adrenaline of this before his mind runs back to you, a home to go back to.

He has a home to go back to.

He wants to come home to you, safe and sound, he doesn’t want you to cry or see him hurt, He wanted to be the one to take care of you.

Stain took Katsukis distraction to his advantage before pinning him to the ground harshly, making Katsuki groan. That’s gonna leave a bruise on his back.

Stain gets up and hangs on the ring.

No more.

He hears your voice, your sweet gentle voice.

Enough.

Katsuki could have easily gotten up. He easily could have dodged Stain. He easily could have beat him, claiming the title of number one.

BANG.

Stain jumped on top of Katsuki’s body landing a finishing fist on Katsuki’s chest before it hits the ground next to him, almost grazing him.

He missed.

He missed?

Why didn’t he hit him?

“What the hell” Katsuki yells out in confusion.

“I’m not gonna kill ya, kid. Your friend over there saved your ass, You both got something to go home to, don’t die here.”

Kirishima.

That little bastard saved his ass.

And just like that the match was over, Katsuki let Stain win.

This would be Katsuki’s last match.

Stain was right.

He had something to go home to, a beautiful woman who cared about him and that he was crazy about. He had a life ahead of him.

No title is worth more than that.

You were his home.

…

.

.

.

A/N. Apologies for the rushed and corny ending lowkey 😭 I have my mind set on a gojo fic at the moment that i am trying to work up the courage to write so i’ve been preoccupied, reblogs and notes are appreciated !! This isn’t proof read so srry if there’s any mistakes

[rorylovesangst]

A Burning Hill

construction worker/underground fighter simon riley x waitress

mood board

song of the chapter is Motion Sickness by Phoebe Bridgers

tws: trauma, child abuse, blue getting tipsy

previous chapter → chapter 6

word count: 6.4k

You’re already late to Friendsgiving.

The stuffing burned. You’d been in the shower, washing away the sweat and things you wish to forget, the scalding water pelting the burn on your chest. It had started to look better—less red, less bitter. It had begun to forgive you—but it still throbbed, a dull ache that flared with every fiery drop and unpredicted movement. The acrid smell of smoke didn’t hit you until it clawed its way under the bathroom door.

Dripping wet and wrapped in a threadbare towel, you bolted to the kitchen, your feet thwacking against the floor. Smoke slithered from the oven’s withered edges, curling upward with a mind of its own, eager to consume everything in its path.

It wasn’t the first time smoke had chased you.

Once, when you were young, your father burned a pizza in the oven. He’d left you alone in the house, small and helpless, while he wandered off somewhere. When the smoke crept through the screen door, you stumbled outside, coughing, your tiny lungs unable to fight the gray fingers curling through the trees and clinging to the sky. You called for him, begged him to save you with fragmented warbles and a quivering chin.

When he found you, grimy and gasping, he didn’t hold you or brush the soot from your cheeks. He smacked you. Open-palmed. Swift. Stinging.

You wanted to cry then, to let the tears fall so maybe he’d feel guilty, maybe he’d see you as something fragile and worth protecting. But you couldn’t. You didn’t. And he didn’t.

He waved at the smoke pouring from the house and made you sleep outside that night, the sky vast and cold above you, its stars nothing but indifferent pinpricks in the dark. You tried praying to a God above, looking up at the stars with whispers you hoped would travel far enough to reach someone, something. No answer.

Now, standing in front of your smoking oven, it’s hard to tell if the smell filling your nose is coming from the burning food or memories that are embedded in your bones, licking at the marrow and sucking off the meat. The darkness of that smoke feels like it never really let go. It's stuck in your hair and the creases of your palms, stuck in your throat and everywhere you’ve tried to belong.

You yank open the oven door, coughing as the heat prickles your face, and pull the tray out with jittery hands. The stuffing is ruined, blackened and crumbled. Its harsh scent stings your eyes.

So, you start over.

By the time the stuffing is in the oven again, you’re in front of your bathroom mirror, your chest heaving from the effort. The burn on your chest screams at you with every breath, though it’s quieter now than it was. It looks less like a wound and more like a reminder, its edges faded but still aching.

Your neck, however, refuses to be quiet, refuses to let you forget it's there. Deep bruises bloom across your skin, sickly hues of green and purple that bleed through makeup no matter how many layers you cake on. Each attempt to cover them is a losing battle that leaves you frustrated. Finally, you give up and scrub your neck clean, throwing the foundation-streaked cloth into the sink.

You dig through your drawer, pulling out an old, itchy turtleneck. It’s a hay-colored sweater, rough and coarse against your skin. The threads scratch at the raw patches on your chest and cling to your neck You pull at the collar, desperate for it to give you some air. It doesn’t help. It never does.

Now, you’re at Olive’s door. Voices hum through the walls, muffled but warm, and her laugh rings out above them. Lively. Ludic. Your stomach churns, nerves buzzing as your fingers twitch in your mittens. A tic builds in your throat—a compulsive hum you can’t quite swallow. Your head jerks slightly to the left, the movement sending a sharp sting through your chest and neck. It almost makes you whine, but you press your lips together and try to push the pain somewhere else.

“Shit,” you whisper, pressing a hand against the sweater’s collar, the coarse fabric adding insult to injury. The tic comes again, this time with a sharp hum that escapes your lips. You glance down at the tray balancing precariously in your other hand and force yourself to breathe.

The burn on your chest throbs. Your head jerks again. You knock twice, sharp and quick, before you can change your mind.

The door swings open almost immediately, the warmth of the room spilling out into the gelid night. It's so warm that you feel like you are glowing, incandescent and hot to the touch. Olive stands there, her hair lit like a halo by the soft light of her home.

“Finally!” she sighs, her voice dreamy. Effortless. She takes one look at you and snatches the tray from your hands before you can even open your mouth. The sweat pooling in your palms is luckily shielded by your mittens, stopping the tray from slipping from your hands.

“Hi. Sorry I’m late—I burned the stuffing, and then I had to—”

“It’s fine.” She cuts you off with an airy laugh, waving away your words. You can see them dissipating in the air with your foggy breath. “You’re here now, and that’s what matters.”

Her hand lands on your shoulder as she guides you inside, the gesture so casual and warm that it catches you off guard. The room is small but alive, people cramp themselves onto the couch, elbow to elbow, knee to knee. Glasses clink, laughter spills over the hum of conversation, and the air smells of rosemary and wine. Price is wrapped in Olives checkered apron, bent halfway in the oven with a baster in hand. He peeks over his shoulder and smiles. It’s cheeky, glinting against the darkness of his bushy mutton chops.  

“Hey Blue,” He says, head back in the oven, Sylvia Plath style. That wouldn’t work though, his shoulders are too big to fit into the small thing.

The word "Hi" spills from your lips like syrup—thick, sticky, and sluggish, clinging to the air before it dissipates into the space between you and the world you’ve never quite felt part of. The house around you pulses with an unfamiliar energy, like the hum of a broken lightbulb flickering in the corner of a room that is too full of ghosts. Olive’s decorations are too much, and yet not enough, a glittering cascade of beauty that threatens to swallow you whole. Golden garlands twinkle across the dining room ceiling, casting delicate shadows that dance like ghosts on the walls, frozen sunlight trapped in a world that has already moved on.

You shrug off your coat and drape it over the hook by the door, fingers brushing the fabric as though it were a lifeline. You fold your arms around yourself, a reflex, like gathering the shards of something you didn’t know had cracked. It’s not to shield yourself from Olive or Price—they are familiar, constants in a place that doesn’t belong to you. No, it’s the strangers that linger, their laughter spilling like wine into a glass already full, unfamiliar faces that hang in the air like fog, dense and suffocating, threatening to smother you in their warmth.

Across the room, Johnny catches your eye. His mohawk juts up like a beacon, daring the world to notice. His body sprawls across the leather couch, limbs loose and easy, the fabric creaking under him like an old door about to fall off its hinges. And then, just like that, his gaze locks with yours, sharp and unrelenting, and you feel it—the weight of him—like a stone dropped into the depths of an otherwise still pond. A grin splits his face, jagged and crooked, a flash of something dark and teasing. The leather groans beneath him, and your nerves tighten, an invisible string pulling taut in your chest. You turn away, seeking refuge in the warm familiarity of Olive’s face, her smile a flicker of light in the haze of strangers.

Olive notices, of course, her eyes finding yours as she slices through the conversation like a breath of fresh air. "Okay, Blue," she says, her voice soft but firm, cutting through the knot in your throat. "You’re helping me with the mac and cheese."

You exhale, a sigh that feels like a storm passing. You nod, grateful for the distraction, the simple task of grating cheese a small act of survival, of doing something normal in a room full of things that make you feel like you don’t belong. Your hand aches with the motion, but it’s a welcome pain, the rhythm of it grounding you in a way that nothing else can.

"Doesn’t he look so snazzy in my apron?" Olive teases, and you glance up just in time to see Price flitting around the kitchen, his movements fluid, almost unrecognizable in the apron that clings to him like a strange second skin.

A laugh slips out of you, jagged and raw, a sound that feels foreign in your throat. It cracks as it leaves your lips, a brief, fragile thing that vanishes before it can settle. You hate how it sounds—forced, brittle—but it’s all you can offer.

Price grins, his deep, rumbling laugh shaking the walls, filling the room with its warmth. "It’s making me a better cook than you."

"Oh, you wish," Olive retorts, her voice light, teasing, but there’s a softness there too, a warmth that clings to her words like the memory of summer rain. As she leans past him to stir the pot, Price brushes a hand over her shoulder, a touch that is almost absent, but meaningful nonetheless.

Their banter fills the room, a background hum that makes you feel like you’re on the edge of something you can’t quite reach. And then, Olive’s eyes flicker toward you, a mischievous gleam in them.

"What?" you mumble, the grater scraping against the block of cheese, the sound steady and metered like a clock ticking in the silence.

"Here comes Johnny," she murmurs, her half-smile betraying the amusement that you don’t quite share.

You glance over your shoulder. There he is—Johnny—moving toward you with the lazy confidence of a predator, eyes narrowing as he inches closer. His grin is wide, calculated, a mask he wears like armor to disarm. He’s too close now, his presence heavy, pressing against the air like a stormfront moving in. You feel the heat of his breath as it ghosts along the side of your neck, and your stomach churns, a cold knot tightening as he leans in, his voice a velvet slither.

"Hey, bonnie," he drawls, the words curling around you, soft and dangerous, like smoke that seeps into your lungs and lingers.

You want to shrink away, to vanish into the shadows of the kitchen, but you don’t. You stand there, waiting, caught in the pull of something you can’t name, your heart pounding like the beat of a drum you didn’t choose to hear.

"Hi," you manage, the word barely a whisper, fragile as a breath lost in the turbulent hum of the kitchen. It fades almost immediately, swallowed by the clatter of plates and pots, the heat of the stove, the sizzle of oil in the pan. Your fingers, slick with tension, glide the grater down the block of cheese with an intensity that almost betrays you. The blade kisses the surface too close to your skin, a faint, electric reminder of how easily things can go wrong.

“Get out of the kitchen,” Olive commands sharply, her brow lifted in a maternal arch, the kind of look that says she knows everything—what you’re thinking, what you’re hiding. “I know you’re trying to sneak a bite of something.”

“I’m not sneakin’ anything!” Johnny protests, his voice rising, honeyed and teasing, a mock offense that falls like a soft sigh through the air. The sound crawls along your spine, a warm shiver igniting across your shoulders, goosebumps blooming like stars across the expanse of your skin.

“Don’t give in, ‘Liv,” Price calls from the pantry, his voice low, thick with amusement, muffled by the rustle of cans and spices. “He’s a scavenger. He’s not getting shit.”

Johnny laughs—a light, airy scoff that slips through the room like smoke, dissolving into the space, leaving behind only the echo of something faint, elusive. He steps closer, his presence a gravity you can’t escape, pulling the air tight around you. “I jest wanted to introduce meself,” he says, his voice now lower, darker, like a velvet cloud pressing down on your chest. It lingers, suffocating, until his gaze settles on you—a quiet, insistent weight. His eyes lock with yours, a slow, searing pressure that promises to pin you in place, hold you until you can no longer move, speak, or breathe.

"Name’s Johnny."

You force a smile, one that barely skims the surface of your lips, like a cracked porcelain mask. It’s more a reflex than anything else—automatic, stiff, lacking any trace of warmth. “Blue,” you murmur, stealing a glance at him, just long enough to see the sharp edge of his gaze cut through the air, the flicker of something sharp—dangerous—in the depths of his eyes. Your attention snaps back to the cheese, the task of grating a flimsy excuse to escape the magnetic pull of his stare.

“From the diner. I remember.” His voice, smooth as silk, slides around you, weaving through the quiet spaces like a thread binding your senses to him. The weight of his gaze on you is almost tactile, like a slow burn against your skin. It presses through the veil of your peripheral vision, making your pulse stutter, each throb loud in your ears as it rushes to your throat.

“Olive!” Price calls from the pantry again, his voice an abrupt slice through the thick tension, breaking the spell. “Y’got any idea where the oregano is?”

Olive mutters something unintelligible under her breath, stomping toward the pantry, leaving you alone with Johnny. The silence left in her wake is heavy, like a storm about to break. The distance between you both shrinks, as if the air itself tightens, presses in.

“How’s the burn, lass?” His question is a sudden gust of wind, sharp and biting, cutting through the heat and making the hairs on your neck stand at attention. It stirs something deep inside you, makes your chest tighten and your breath catch, though you can’t quite place why. You grip the grater harder, your palm slick with sweat that betrays you, a signal of just how much he rattles you.

“Uh—it’s better. Fine, really,” you answer, your voice smaller than you want it to be, swallowed by the weight of his unwavering gaze. You wish you could control the way your heart starts to race, the way the air feels thicker, harder to breathe the longer he stands there. His gaze doesn’t waver, though it remains casual, deceptively so, like a predator pretending indifference while waiting for the slightest movement, the smallest crack in your composure.

“Good.” He draws the word out, savoring it, letting it linger between you like the softest of threats. And even though his tone remains deceptively easy, you know—without a doubt—that his eyes are waiting for you to falter. To show him something you’ve kept hidden, something you can’t afford to let slip.

Before he can speak again, the door creaks open, the sound slicing through the stillness like a knife cutting through velvet. You don’t raise your eyes, but the chill that rushes in steals the warmth from the room, biting at your skin like an unwelcome guest. It lingers in the air, a stark reminder of the world beyond this little sanctuary of soft conversation and heat.

“I brought gifts,” Simon’s voice rolls in, smooth but carrying weight, the kind that demands attention like thunder rolling in the distance before the storm. You flinch—not outwardly, not enough for anyone to catch—but your hand stills mid-motion, hovering above the cheese as if his very presence has sent ripples through the calm.

When you finally glance up, he’s placing a bottle of red wine and a foil-wrapped dish onto the counter. The deep red of the wine catches the light, as if it holds the evening’s secrets within it. He’s dressed in dark jeans, sharp and unscathed, with a navy wool sweater that clings just enough to outline the muscle beneath, the shoulders broad like the horizon at dusk. Tattoos snake down his arms, curling like dark tendrils around his wrists, hidden art that only seems to emerge when he’s close, as though parts of him were always kept at bay.

His gaze locks with yours, and for a moment, the room feels too small to contain the weight of it. He smiles, his lips pulling back to reveal white teeth, the slight chapping of them speaking of cold nights and long drives. “You’re late,” Olive’s voice rings out with playful reproach, as she reaches for the tray with hands that know the rhythm of shared meals.

“I know, I know. Had to stop for wine. Long line,” Simon answers, the shrug of his shoulders dismissing the lateness like it’s nothing at all. His jacket slips off, revealing the familiar scabbed knuckles, each wound telling a story deeper than words. They’re raw, angry against the soft fabric of his shirt, as though they belong to someone who’s lived in the spaces between calm and chaos.

“Well, it’s a good brand, so I’ll forgive you,” Price chimes in, his voice warm and familiar as he uncorks the bottle, the sound sharp and final, like a sentence passed in a court of good taste.

“Nice apron, boss,” Simon says, his tone light but weighted with something more, something sharp that cuts through the air between you like a thread pulled taut.

“Pleasure of my wife,” Price quips, his hand steady as he pours the wine with a flourish, each gesture so practiced it feels like a performance. Every motion has purpose, as if he’s acting out a play where every guest is a character, and each gesture holds meaning.

Johnny grabs a fistful of cheese, stuffing it into his mouth before anyone can stop him, his grin wide and unrepentant.

“Hey! No dirty fingers in the food!” Olive snaps, swatting at him with a swift, playful flick. He laughs, stepping back in exaggerated shock, as if the moment were made for an audience only he can see.

The air shifts again, thickening with Simon’s presence as he leans in, his voice low and measured, a hum that vibrates against the very walls of the room. “Hi, Blue,” he murmurs, his head tilting just enough to catch your gaze, like a wolf who knows the hunt is close but won’t rush it.

“Hi,” you whisper, your grip tightening on the bowl as though it could hold the moment still, anchoring you to the room, to the space between you.

Olive reappears, her wine glass gleaming like a polished ruby in the dim light, the liquid inside swirling like blood in a vein. She steps into the room with the effortless grace of someone who’s long mastered the art of disappearing into the spaces they occupy. Her eyes flick between you and Simon, measuring the air between you two with the clinical precision of a seasoned chemist, knowing exactly when to introduce a new element, when to let it simmer.

Price greets her with a kiss to the crown of her head, a gesture that lands soft as rain on a tired roof. His hand gives her rear a playful tap, a reminder of old routines, of moments that don’t need words to linger. She rolls her eyes, the motion habitual, but even in that, there’s a flicker of something—amusement, maybe, or just the quiet contentment of a life too familiar to be anything else. She swallows down the wine, her throat moving with the smooth, deliberate motion of a cat licking its wounds in the sun.

“Thanks, sweetpea,” Olive purrs, tugging at the apron strings knotted at Price’s hips. There’s something intimate in the way her fingers dance around the fabric, a tether binding them together in this small, circumscribed world. As if their world, this little kitchen where time seems to pause, is the only one that matters.

Simon’s gaze sharpens when he asks, “Olive’s got you cooking?” His voice, calm and composed, lingers in the air, like a stone sinking slowly into still water. There’s weight in his presence, a subtle pressure that presses on the ribs, a quiet pull like the tide, always there, always moving beneath the surface.

“I want to,” you reply, shrugging as the words slip from your mouth, slippery and unformed, before you can weigh their cost. They feel like something you might have said years ago, when you still believed in the power of wanting. The truth, like a cold shadow, stirs quietly in the background.

Simon’s brow arches, and the pause between you thickens. His gaze lingers, a soft dissection, like the way sunlight pulls at the edges of things, revealing the cracks you’d rather keep hidden. You feel as if he's peeling back layers, layer by layer, until there's nothing left but the parts of you you'd prefer to forget.

When you finally meet his eyes, there’s a flicker of amusement—a quiet, knowing glint—as though he’s caught the lie you didn’t even know you were telling. A shadow of something darker flits across his expression, like a stormcloud crossing the moon. His eyes gleam with something unreadable, but you know—he sees right through it.

“Well, I’m surprised you’re not working,” he comments, his voice curling around the words with a softness that betrays a hidden edge, something faint but sharp, like the quiet hum of a cello in a room too silent to bear the sound.

“Olive made me take off,” you admit, eyes dropping to the counter, where your fingers twirl around the cold, unforgiving edges of the cheese grater. It’s a small gesture, but in it, the tension in your hands speaks louder than any words could.

“Probably for your own good,” Simon teases, the sip of wine punctuating his words like the final note of a suspended chord. The sound of it lingers in the air, thick and heavy, as though the room is holding its breath, waiting.

“I don’t mind.” Another lie. The words feel sharp against your throat, like broken glass. You push them out anyway, not letting them falter, though the weight of them feels like lead in your stomach. The thought of returning to your father’s house—his voice like a whip and his hands like steel—tightens your chest.

Simon’s eyes remain on you, his gaze quiet and unwavering. He doesn’t press, just holds the silence with you, giving you room to breathe in a space that feels smaller by the second. His lack of words is a concession, a gift of sorts, the kind of offer you can’t return.

Olive interrupts the moment, her voice light as a summer breeze. She holds up two glasses of wine, like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat, and doesn’t wait for your response. The glass she presses into your hand is cold, smooth against your palm, and the liquid inside feels like something forbidden as it slips past your lips—rich, tart, like a balm to the wound you’re too tired to care for.

“Good, right?” Olive teases, her voice like a bell, sharp and light, as she tilts her glass toward yours in an exaggerated mock-toast.

You hum in agreement, focusing on the way the wine dances down your throat, its warmth settling in your chest like a fire too low to burn. It's smooth, numbing, the kind of comfort that doesn’t ask too many questions, just offers its presence—an unspoken agreement between you and the night.

And for a moment, the room feels just a little bit smaller, the edges a little more forgiving.

“Surprised Price didn’t pick this out,” Simon jokes, his eyes flicking toward the other man, who’s engrossed in the turkey carving ritual, every movement deliberate and reverent, like a priest at the altar, cleaving into the flesh of the bird with devotion.

“Price would pick boxed wine if I let him,” Olive quips back, a playful fire in her glare aimed at her husband, but softened by the warmth of affection.

The kitchen hums around you, the voices and laughter flowing like honey, sweet but thick, and somehow sticky. Yet, you feel distant from it all, your focus slipping through the cracks of the moment like sand slipping from your clenched fist. Johnny’s laugh, loud and brash, rips through the air, filling the space like a storm cloud bursting with rain. Simon’s presence beside you is a weight—heavy, suffocating—as if gravity itself has chosen to rest on your bones, a force that tugs at your very center. You wish you could sink into the floorboards, disappear into the seams of the house like a whisper that no one remembers.

Ten minutes pass, though time feels as though it’s dragging its feet, unwilling to hurry. The turkey emerges from the oven, golden skin shimmering like a prize, gleaming in the artificial light. It’s a spectacle, untouched by the hands of real life, a thing that could only exist in the pages of a catalog—perfect, polished, out of reach. It sits there, a symbol of a life you could never own, no matter how many hours you spent chasing the illusion of it.

Olive tugs you into your seat, pulling you closer with a gentleness that feels foreign. Johnny takes the place beside you, as though slotted in place, a man-sized puzzle piece. Across the table, Simon settles into his chair, leaning back, drink in hand, his fingers tracing patterns along the glass’s rim as if the table itself were an ancient artifact—something he’s studying, examining, perhaps deciding whether it’s worth his attention.

The conversation swirls around you like wind through a field of tall grass, all clinking glasses and overlapping voices. The golden garland above seems to glow with a light that is too perfect, like halos that should belong to angels but somehow rest on mortal heads. It makes the room feel unreal, as though the whole thing could dissolve like mist if you looked away too long. You chew your food with the precision of someone on autopilot—turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes—filling the empty spaces with tasteless bites. You nod along, but the words are like echoes, bouncing off your skull and fading before they can register.

Johnny’s voice cuts through, jagged and loud, like a knife scraping the edge of a stone. “So, Blue,” he says, the name falling from his lips with the sharpness of a saw’s edge. “How d’you know Olive?”

You don’t want to look up. You don’t want to see the expectant faces around you. So, you keep your gaze fixed on your plate, hoping the food might swallow you whole or at least offer some kind of refuge from the scrutiny, the weight of their attention pressing in from all sides, suffocating.

“Coworkers, huh?” Johnny’s grin splits like a crack in ice, his voice a low hum as he leans in closer, the scent of beer pushing you back in your seat like a tide. “Never heard her mention you.”

“I keep to myself,” you reply, your voice calm, though you can feel the weight of his gaze pressing into your skin.

“Clearly,” he teases, fingers brushing against yours, a casual touch that feels far too intimate as he reaches for his glass.

Across the table, Simon clears his throat. It’s subtle, a soft rumble like distant thunder, just enough to make Johnny pause. Simon’s eyes are locked on him, unreadable, but there's a charge in his gaze, a quiet warning, sharp as a blade beneath calm water.

Johnny shrugs, muttering something under his breath, his grin slipping as he turns back to his plate.

You glance at Simon, and find him already watching you. His eyes are darker than you remember, the shadows beneath them deepening, the hollows of his face making his stare heavier, like gravity itself is pulling you in. The inflamed scabs on his knuckles catch your eye again, and the urge to ask about them rises, but you swallow it down, unsure if you want to know the answer.

After dinner, the house spins into a blur of motion. People scatter—some to the living room, others toward the kitchen for more wine—but you slip away unnoticed, the weight in your chest too much to carry. The bathroom is cool and quiet, a refuge where the soft hum of the ceiling fan is the only sound as you lock the door behind you, isolating yourself from the rest of the world.

You catch your reflection in the mirror, but quickly look away. Your sweater is hiked up, revealing the tight bandages weaving around your ribs, crisscrossing away from your one-size-too-big bra, and continuing its journey around your sternum. The burn throbs in defiance, swollen and achy, the pain sharper now than it was this morning.

You rummage through Olive’s medicine cabinet, fingers grazing over the cool bottles until one catches your eye—a prescription bottle. Antidepressants. You blink at the label, too dazed to focus on the name beneath it. Setting it aside, your fingers fumble as you search for something more…immediate. You find a bottle of Advil, pop a few pills, and swallow them with a handful of water from the tap, some dribbling down your chin. You wipe it away with your sleeve, the fabric damp but scratchy against your skin, a quiet reminder of the tension coiling around you.

A knock at the door startles you.

“Blue—” Simon’s voice filters through, low and calm, threading into the space. “It’s Riley. You alrigh’? Y’been in there a while. Jus’ worried.”

You’re moving before thought has time to settle, unlocking the door and swinging it open. His eyes widen in surprise, disbelief flashing across his face as you grasp the soft fabric of his sweater, tugging him inside. The wool is buttery under your fingers, a sensation both foreign and familiar, and for a brief, stolen moment, you pause—suspended in the unexpected warmth of him.

Simon doesn’t resist. He lets you pull him in, his presence filling the small space, the air thickening as you shut the door behind him. The bathroom seems impossibly smaller with him in it, his broad shoulders brushing the tiled walls like a storm cloud settling into the room. You gesture for him to sit on the toilet, and he does, his long legs folding awkwardly, pressed against yours in the tight space.

“My burn hurts,” you mumble, slumping back against the cool tiles, your voice heavy with exhaustion, each word thick as though the weight of everything pressing on you has turned your tongue to lead.

“It’s gonna do that,” Simon replies, his tone steady, firm, but not unkind—like a reminder of what you’ve neglected. “You neglected it.”

“No, like—like it really hurts,” you insist, your fingers fumbling at the hem of your sweater, as if searching for something to anchor you in a world that refuses to stand still. The words slip from your mouth, stuttering, as if they’re afraid to be spoken. “Just—just look.”

“Blue—” His voice softens, threading through the air like a fragile thread, one that could snap at the slightest tug. There’s something unspoken between you, an understanding so thin it could be made of mist, too delicate to be held in the light of day.

“Look!” The command escapes your lips with a desperation that feels almost primal, the kind of desperation that births from the deepest wells of need. You tug at the fabric of your sweater, intent on exposing the wound beneath, but Simon’s hand is there in an instant, a sudden force, wrapping around your wrist with the quiet strength of someone who’s borne witness to things that bleed in silence.

“What are you doin’?” His voice is soft now, but there’s an edge—a warning, like a hand hovering over the broken glass of a dream. His grip is firm, but there’s a tenderness to it, as if he knows the fragility of what you’re offering him.

“I’m showing you,” you say, the words tumbling out, raw and unpolished, as if they could never be anything but the exposed parts of you—the parts that were never meant to be shown. Your voice quivers, breaking open at the edges, offering him something you weren’t even sure was real.

“I don’t need to see it,” he says, his voice low, a quiet conviction wrapped around every syllable. “I believe you.”

His eyes, dark and unreadable, seem to understand more than you ever could say. You stand there, caught between the sharp breath that claws at your lungs and the steady rhythm of his hand, still holding your wrist, his thumb tracing circles along your skin. It’s a touch that holds you together, but threatens to tear you apart.

You don’t want to pull away. You can’t. The connection is a thin thread, fragile and necessary, like the last stitch holding a broken heart in place.

“You’re drunk,” he murmurs, and you feel his gaze soften, though it carries the weight of something deeper, something harder. There’s a flicker of understanding in his eyes, something you can’t place, but it settles in the air between you like dust on a forgotten shelf.

“No, I’m not,” you slur, but the words feel like ghosts slipping through your fingers, no more substantial than the fog that clings to your mind. You can’t even make your body obey you. You press your forehead to the cold tile wall, and sigh. “No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are.” He exhales, the sound heavy in the room, a sigh that’s both worn and weary. There’s a quiet compassion in it, as if he understands the quiet wars you’re fighting, even if they’re wars you can’t speak aloud. “C’mon. Let’s get you upstairs.”

Before you can protest, he’s guiding you out of the bathroom, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back. The touch is fleeting but steady, grounding you as the hallway spins, the walls bending and swaying in your peripheral vision. His hand at your back is light, but it grounds you—just enough to stop you from crumbling completely, though it feels like everything inside you might just shatter if you let it.

In the guest bedroom, Simon helps you sit on the edge of the bed, his touch gentle as he kneels, movements precise and measured, like someone accustomed to tending to broken things. His fingers work deftly to untie your shoes, each motion a small act of tenderness, as though he’s learned the quiet language of care for the tired and lost.

“You didn’t have to—” you start, but he silences you with a soft murmur, the sound barely more than a breath.

“Hush,” he says, his voice a low, insistent hum. A command wrapped in compassion. “Jus’ lay back.”

The room tilts, the world around you spinning slowly as the alcohol buzzes in your veins, a lullaby played by the distant hum of the night. Your head sinks into the pillow’s softness, as if gravity itself is pulling you down, coaxing you to surrender to the darkness. The blanket clings to your body like a last defense against the cold, a fragile shield against the gnawing chill of an empty room. But Simon tucks it higher, drawing it gently beneath your chin, his movements deliberate, as if wrapping you in something more than fabric—something almost sacred, something that feels like care.

His hand pauses, fingertips brushing the stray strand of hair from your forehead, the gesture small, almost imperceptible, but it lingers in the air between you, a silent vow. He looks at you, studying the fragile curve of your face, as though trying to capture it, memorize the way you’ve finally found stillness. You, who are never still, who wear your restlessness like a second skin.

Your breathing evens out, the soft rise and fall of your chest now a steady rhythm in the quiet room. It is the only sound, and it’s enough. Simon watches you, his gaze heavy with a quiet sadness, as if you’ve unraveled something in him that he can’t quite name. His silence speaks volumes, his stillness matching your own.

With a soft clink, he unbuckles his boots, the sound too loud in the otherwise empty room. The weight of his presence settles beside you, as though his body is a tether, pulling the world a little closer, a little heavier. The mattress creaks under his weight, a sound almost apologetic, as though it’s trying to make room for the tension in the air. His movements are slow, deliberate—every inch of him cautious, as if each breath he takes might shatter the fragile peace that exists in the space between you.

The moonlight spills through the window, soft and silvery, like the touch of a lover long gone. It paints your face in shadows, tracing the lines of your quiet surrender. Your lashes flutter, a delicate ripple beneath the stillness of sleep, as if the world outside doesn’t know you anymore. And for a moment, neither does Simon. You are nothing but a shape in the dim glow of the night, a broken melody that has yet to find rest.

He leans back against the headboard, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze locked on the ceiling as if it might hold some kind of answer. The silence stretches between you, thick and impenetrable, each of you trapped in your own quiet despair. But Simon doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t dare to break the fragile bond you’ve silently shared. The night grows longer, each passing minute a weight, a quiet void that neither of you can escape.

But sleep doesn’t come to him. It hovers just out of reach, a specter he can’t outrun, just like the darkness that lingers in the corners of the room. His gaze stays fixed, his body unmoving, as if he’s waiting for something to change—or perhaps just for the night to finally end.

some fluff if you squint since I made u wait so long for this

[oct0bra1ns]

knockout!

Synopsis: So what if the referee was his obsession Pairing: Yandere boxer x referee reader Tw: manipulation, mentions of bringing harm to others, yanderes , breaking bones notes:  i read a 13 pages manual for this, appreciate me pls, also imma make my masterlist soon >.> reblogs and comments are appreciated!

Yandere boxer! Who was your friend and gave you the idea for applying to the job, sure it’s an underground ring but hey, money’s money and he assured you it wasn’t that bad.

Yandere boxer! Who gives you a smirk the first time he sees you in uniform, sure it looked horrible on everyone else but it looked good on you. He leaves you alone before the match, his relationship with you was only between the two of you.

Yandere boxer! Who keeps you in his room, asking you stupid questions just to take up your time, i mean, why should his opponent spend any time with you.

Yandere boxer! Who can’t help but make you flustered when you check over his gear, especially with how delicate your hands are when you remove his piercings, scolding him for being stupid enough to leave it on.

Yandere boxer! Who’s a completely different person when he steps into the ring, he goes from being your friend to being one of the most respected boxers in the place, someone who was known for being ruthless.

Yandere boxer! Who can’t help but have a look of pride and also amusement when you try to enforce the rules, challenging people who were basically criminals. A bit silly but he doesn’t mind.

Yandere boxer! Who completely ruined his opponent’s life and limbs after they had the nerve to lay their hands on you, accusing you for foul play. This was an underground sport, what did the pest expect?

Yandere boxer! Who checks over you, making sure you weren’t badly injured after the match and making sure to patch any injuries you had.

Yandere boxer!who never loses in his official matches but comes home battered and bruised just so you can take care of him.

Yandere boxer! Who stops caring about the rules and walks around with you before the match, making sure no one touches you.

Yandere boxer! Who broke his boss’s hand when he tried to get you away from him, no matter what you were staying.

Yandere boxer!was a force to be reckoned with in the hidden fight clubs, but it was the you who held your heart outside of the brutal confines of the makeshift rings

[kyunniebuns]

˗ˏˋ Entry : 055 - Big Brother! Sylus x Little Sister! Reader ◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ ˎˊ˗

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚ 𝕊𝕪𝕝𝕦𝕤 ˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

‼️[ tw: contains some spoilers for his myth except i dont fully understand but all ik is waw dragon man ayeeee. Child abuse mentioned as well as human trafficking. Murder and body horror. pure fluff ending btw....]‼️

╰┈➤ ❝ [ Hush Little Bird, Brother is Here to Keep You Safe ] ¡! ❞

Sylus had finally awaken from a long and tiring slumber that felt like he would be asleep for an eternity. But somehow he had awaken... In a body of a child.

His tall and proud body reduced to a bunch of stick and bones. He's wearing an oversized white shirt. He takes a deep sigh and decides to look at his reflection on a puddle.

Surely enough, he still has the bloody crimson eyes and the same silver hair except his masculine body is that of an 12-year old's.

Great.

Just great.

He died a miserable death in the arms of his beloved and yet here he is in the body of a child.

How the hell is he supposed to survive in this case?

"...."

Sylus takes a deep sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose.

He needs to figure out what the hell to do before setting off to look for his dearest.

He'll figure it out.

He has to.

꒰ .... ꒱

Sylus managed to figure out how the world works through some snooping and watching other mortals go about their days. He figures out that the 'city' he resides in is known as the n109 zone. It's an underground city similar to the slums of his time full of crime and well... Danger.

Not that he's afraid of course.

Sylus had already managed to make a living through street fights and occasionally stealing from oblivious passerbys.

What else can he do for now anyway?

It's demeaning in his honor as a proud dragon who once guarded a cave of luxuries but he needs to live.

This city he's in leaves everyone struggling in it's murky alleys.

It was either he succumbs to it's mercy or he overcomes everything as the topdog.

Survival is his priority if he wants to find that person again. He needs to make a name for himself and secure money in order to live in this brutal world where anything and everything is after his throat.

Cough... Cough....

He hears small sounds coming from behind a slanted signboard abandoned on the side of the alleyway. It sounded like it comes from a little girl.

Against his logic to leave it alone incase it might be a catfish pretending to be a helpless child— Sylus cautiously approaches the sign board and peers underneath it.

And there, he finds a little girl all ruffled up with her hair sticking everywhere, dressed in a makeshift adult shirt covered in grime and dirt.

Sensing his snooping, she lifts her tiny little face and looks up at him with her wide and tired beady eyes.

"...." Sylus stares back at her for a while before reaching behind him and handing her a pack of crackers.

After that, he just gets up and leaves her be.

What good is there to bring deadweight on you? She's a child, she'll be a hindrance to him. Giving her some food should sustain her enough to survive a few more days.

꒰ .... ꒱

Maybe he shouldn't have helped the little girl back then.

It's been three days since she started following him around whenever he's out to pickpocket or get into street fights to make some money.

She's a stubborn one.

But a clever little girl too.

She knows how to utilize her small body well to hide herself from the adults and everyone else. She never once got him into a tricky situation.

Oddly enough, Sylus had a feeling she knew more of the city than he did since she always manages to pop up anywhere he is and disappear just as fast whenever she senses danger.

At least he doesn't have to worry about her getting mixed up into the mess he gets himself into.

... Why is he worried about her anyway?

Ugh.

Anyway.

Sylus just finished one of his matches and secured a hefty sum as well as some food to sustain himself with.

Humans in this age are really fragile bastards. How come they're shitty at even the most basic fight? Their fighting forms are all over the place and it's pure bullshit they call themselves proud fighters!

They mind as well frolic in the arena waving their stupid delusions of being top fighters.

It irritates him to no end that they are no match eve a twelve-year-old's body but atleast he has it easier in building himself a name in this shitty place.

"You're here again, sweetie" Sylus said coolly as he lifted a cardboard box where the little girl was hiding herself in while watching him fight. "Aren't you scared someone might sit down on this wobbly box and crush your cute little body?"

"..." She starts giggling as she shows him a toothy smile with a missing front tooth.

'Does she think I'm playing with her?' Sylus thought as he watched her jump in her steps when she stood up and took his hand with her smaller ones.

The little girl started dragging him by his hand and leading him somewhere.

"You..." Sylus sighs and lets himself be dragged by her.

He followed her through winding alleyways and even went so far as entering a pipe just hanging in the backside of the tall buiding of n109 zone. When they came out of the dripping and dark pipe, they arrives at a makeshift base made in a withered and empty building.

It's lightsource is nothing more than a flickering light bulb and the contents of the little fort held up by sticks is a small blanket serving as a bed and a ruined bunny plush that is covered in dirt and dust.

"!!!!" She rummages on a box she had stashed under the blankets and pulls out a piece of bread then offers it to Sylus with twinkling eyes. "Brother... Eat!!!"

He was quite for a little while, scrunching his nose at her little action.

Regardless, he takes it and takes a small bite out of it before shoving the bread to her little mouth.

"Much appreciated, sweetheart" He said, glancing at her with less hostile crimson orbs. "But I'd rather you eat this."

Sylus made sure she finished the food before laying down on the makeshift bed, crossing his arms behind his bed.

He didn't have shelter yet, and since the little girl was so kind and naive enough to lead him to her hideout— What else should he do but rest? He has a lot to do tomorrow and he cant go around sleeping on the streets like he usually did.

So mind as well, right?

꒰ .... ꒱

In contrary to his previous thoughts, he ended up taking care of the little girl who always followed him around quietly or running behind him calling him "Brother, brother!" with that awfully cute voice of hers.

She's just like a stray kitten that he can't shake off no matter what he did.

Does he push her away? A few days back he would have, but now?

Yeah. No.

Absolutely Not.

It's another day of pickpocketing and petty street fights.

Sylus knew his shenanigans are going to catch up to him, but does it have to be so soon?

"Ack!" Sylus groans as he was hit with a pipe straight to his stomach.

He curls himself on the floor, panting heavily as he tries to school himself.

'These... Bastards!' He curses at them repeatedly in his head.

The fuckers followed him all the way to the back alley and ganged up on him in revenge for humiliating them in the previous fights.

"Fucking little shit" One of the men scowls, inhaling his smoke then stomping it out on the floor after blowing it out while his face is black and blue from being hit by Sylus earlier. "That son of a bitch put up a fight despite already being tired. What the fuck is he anyway? A fucking monster?"

"Shit, that must be it" Another sneers, kicking Sylus's stomach when he was already down. "What should we do with the bitch anyway?"

"Break his fucking legs, maybe even cut off his arms"

They laugh wickedly at that, making Sylus feel more pissed off at them.

"B-brother!" He hears a familiar voice crying out for him.

"What the hell?!" Another one of the group grabs the girl by yanking her back by her hair. "Why is there another rat here?"

"She's young?" The main perpetrator moves forward, ignoring Sylus's hand that grabbed his ankle to try and stop him.

"Don't touch her!" Sylus yells desperately, coughing out blood when his head was slammed down on the pavement.

"Must be his sister?" The one holding his head down laughs.

"Nah, I see no resemblance, this bitch looks like trash" The head man yanks the little girl's face. "She's around 5 or six? Maybe even younger? Either way, she'd fetch a good price at the black market"

"!!!!" She wriggles out of his hand and bites it, causing the fucker to pulls his hand out and hiss at the sharp pain.

"Fucking dipshit! She's just like that brother of hers!"

Sylus's eyes widened when he saw the same hand raise itself— About to hit her.

'Wake up.'

'Wake up.'

'WAKE UP'

'I'M TELLING YOU TO FUCKING WAKE UP!'

Boom.

An explosion suddenly resounded in the otherwise decrepit alleyway.

The hand that was holding Sylus down exploded, blood splatter painting the walls and falling onto his dirty silver hair.

He stands up, breathing heavily as crimson black wisps covered himfrom head to toe. Blood dribbles from his mouth to his chin, creating a wicked image with his bloodshot eyes.

The men attempt to scatter and call for help, but they only ended up having heads either severed or their limbs exploding.

He raises a hand towards the fucker that tried to hurt his dearest little sister.

"You..." He snarls, his red eyes overflowing with absolute malice. "I don't give a fuck even if you kidnap me to beat the living shit out of me, but involving my little sister who has nothing to do with anything crosses the line."

And with that, the man's head with suddenly explode into nothingness and his body would flop on the floor with a thump.

Blood puddles beneath him as the dead men spill out what they had in them from the injuries he gave them.

Sylus was in great pain.

Regardless, he stumbles towards the little girl he calls his family and tugs her to his chest.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. Oh I'm so sorry" Sylus breathes heavily, stroking her head lovingly and placing kisses on her hair. "Brother is sorry, I should've awakened earlier. I'm so sorry."

"Brother... Wahhh!!..." Her loud sobs pierces at his heart, opting Sylus to hold her even tighther.

"Sshh..." He hushes her lovingly. "Brother is here, baby bird. It's alright"

He can't continue on like this.

He needs to be stronger and better.

Not just for the sake of the beloved he is looking for, but for this little girl who clings onto him so weakly.

This sweet little thing who still calls him her family despite the monster that he is.

He isn't really human even, but this girl loves him as a little sibling would for an older brother.

What can he do but to pamper her and shield her away from everything?

And so, he holds her against him, soothing the sweet little thing he calls his beloved sister.

꒰ .... ꒱

Through the years, Sylus rose in the ranks and soon enough was crowned as the Onychinus leader. He became the rightful leader that he should be with all the wealth and power he can flaunt as much as he pleased.

He raised his little sister along with the struggles he went through.

She didn't have to be involved in the bloody things he does, so it's alright that she herself is just hiding away in his home safe from the dangers of the n109 zone.

He is comforted as long as he knows she is safe and sound.

Sylus made sure no one touches her or even aware of her existence as his family.

So, he managed to live a peaceful life with his little sister who often banters with him for fun.

If there's anyone who can be outright shameless and call him insulting names— It's his baby sister who can do it without fearing for her head to be flying.

"Bastard Santa"

"Old man onychinus"

"Walmart edgelord santa claus"

"If only everyone knew that the leader they all fear is shit at singing"

... Yep, totally shameless.

But does he do anything? Nope.

He just teases her back and pinch her cheek as a form of revenge for each insult she throws out to him.

Right now, he was accompanying his little sister in linkon city for their weekly outings. She was quite sickly and fresh air is a need for someone like her with a weak body.

And what better way to do that than to take her out to Linkon since the air here is much more cleaner?

The colors in the city are also brighter, lifting anyone's mood despite the fact he absolutely detests the sunlight.

"So I managed to pull a new five star in the game yester...day." Her voice drifts off as she passes by a tall man.

She turns her little head to the stranger, glancing back at the tall back wearing a black coat over his broad shoulders. His hair is neat and the ebony black locks made him captivating, underneath those black locks are a pair sharp and charming hazel-green eyes behind rectangular glasses that gave him an air of sophistication and maturity.

His features are sharp and extremely handsome, not as intense as her brother's but still giving off this ethereal air to him. He's beautiful with the small bump on his nose, but not as prominent as Sylus's nose bump.

The stranger's gaze is cold but alluring, almost captivating even.

So captivating that she doesn't realize the fact that she is holding her breath.

Sensing her gaze, the man politely nods at her— Causing her to be a bit flustered and nod back before turning back to Sylus.

"Something catch your eye, sweetheart?" Sylus cocks an eyebrow up as his sister suddenly clung onto his arm.

"No, no!" She shakes her head, bashfully hiding her expression with her hair.

"... Is it a handsome man?" He teases, nudging her gently causing a pout on her lips to form. "What? You always tease your brother when it comes to his girlfriend, why can't I have a bit of fun when my baby sister finds someone attractive?"

"...I'm telling Rei-unnie about this!" She spites at Sylus who always chuckles, amused at her little tantrum and then ruffles her hair up with his free hand up.

"Don't grow up too fast, baby sister. Brother isn't willing to walk you down the aisle and hand you off to someone else" Sylus said affectionately, earning him a soft punch from her.

"Oh don't be so dramatic! If you're so upset about the idea then go and propose to Rei-unnie!"

"Help me pick up a ring then?"

"Buy me plushies after~"

꒰ 🪼 A/N: //Gasp!!!. Kyunnie posted twice for a day???!!! Omgg!!!!! Hahah jk x3!!! I was hit with inspiration because I've been daydreaming about being Sylus's baby sister for quite a while now!!!~~~ I'm always rambling to my mootie about this idea because I like the idea of being Sysy's baby sis who roasts him everyday heheh!!! I even sneaked in Zaynie//giggles. My hubbyyy~~~~ Should I make a fic where the other three lads men date sysy's lil sis 🤔🤔🤔. Maybe? Heheh٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡. Soon, one day>:3!!! ꒱

ʚ(੭´͈ ᐜ `͈)੭ .｡✧: ~ —! stories written by kyunnie; translations, reposts, plagiarism are strictly forbidden.

[atalldrinkofcaprisun]

Don’t Wait For Me After I’m Gone (pt. 2)

silco x gn!reader - he didn’t die AU - tw: canon compliant violence, drug use - 18+

howdy!!! reposted and edited again! I’m having trouble with all of the links so sorry they’re not super functional right now. But anyways, I MISS MY WIFE TAILS!!

also on ao3 xx masterlist

The screaming was the worst part. You had been posted outside of The Doctor’s underground laboratory/cave for three hours now, under the orders not to enter unless you wanted to be sedated until the procedure was over.

When the Scientist arrived at the factory, he had started work immediately. The bullets nimbly extracted and quickly stitched, his hand feebly squeezing your own when he could. You had pressed kisses to his damp temples and pushed hair out of his face, back into his rumpled style. He’d even notice sometimes but it was clear he was in agony.

“It is good you kept that with you,” The Doctor nodded his head towards the injector lying cracked on the floor towards the far wall. You had thrown it off as soon as it had emptied, “He would have been unreachable if you had not administered the medicinal serum. It gave him just enough to hold on.”

“So, he’s going to be okay?” You asked, trying to give that little flame of hope in your chest something to fuel itself.

“He will survive, yes. Survival at least.” the bandaged man replied cryptically before returning his full attention to Silco, “I suggest making plans to move him to safety. Your opponents will be hunting for you soon if they haven’t started already.” He’d put a hand on your shoulder, “I know where they will not find you.”

Shortly afterwards, you had sprinted all the way back to The Last Drop. Exhausted and shaking, you’d only managed a stammering, “Silco. He’s- the warehouse…” before promptly passing out into Ran’s arms. You’d woken up in your bed, apparently you had only been out about 20 minutes.

Now, here you stood, arms crossed and leaning against a rough stone wall. Your nails dug into your skin, trying to center yourself. You couldn’t leave, not when he was in pain. Jinx had been permitted in. Whatever had transpired between Jinx and The Doctor had created a new trust. You had wanted to protest but when Jinx set Silco down on the examination table and sat quietly in a chair in the corner, her eyes not moving from Silco, you had surrendered. Jinx needed to know her father wasn’t going to be one more thing to haunt her. You could keep watch this time.

Sevika was elsewhere getting her arm fixed once again, and keeping all of the intelligence open for signs of what had been happening in Piltover. She’d headed back to The Drop. Running Zaun directly or alone had never been something you wanted. Especially now, with the love of your life still in danger of being lost forever, and your child being the cause on top of whatever had been done to her-

There came another string of rambles, ranging from terror to agony to anger. Occasionally you would hear The Doctor muttering. You could feel the wave of emotions settle between your shoulders, winding up the muscles like snakes tensing to bite. You needed a distraction.

Threats were going to be coming from all sides. Jinx had officially crossed the carefully toed line of impertinent interference that Silco had perfected. You didn’t know what the aftermath of the missile had been, and it didn’t take a genius to guess. A part of you didn’t care. Fuck the Topsiders for needing to be brought to the battlefield. Still, you couldn’t ignore the stiffness setting in your arms and neck, your hands clenched into fists as tears began to resurface.

Another moan of pain, this one low and mournful… your name again. You covered your ears and tried to fight the urge to bust through the door.

Fuck it. You’d rather be sedated then hear one more second of this without being able to help. Hands flew to the door handle of their own accord, but were met with the empty air as the door opened first.

Jinx’s pink eyes bore into your own, flat, “Doc say you can come in. Apparently he’s though the worst. Dad’ll- be okay.” She sounded completely drained.

You gathered Jinx in a tight hug, wanting to offer any sort of comfort you could, “He’s going to understand. We’ve been so worried about you, Blue.”

“I killed him.” She mumbled into your shoulder, “I almost-”

“But you didn’t,” you pulled back to look in her eyes, your hands pushing her bangs off of her forehead to finally get a good look. She was so pale now, worse than before, almost spectral. Her freckles and dark makeup only making her appear more sickly, she was smeared with dirt and blood and crusted tears. Her eyes weren’t glowing anymore, but their pale blue had been consumed by the eery magenta of Shimmer. “He knows how much you’re struggling. He isn’t dead. It was an accident. He knows that.”

Jinx didn’t look convinced, only lifting your arms off of her and pushing past into the fissures beyond, “I just need to be alone.“ She turned before she crossed behind the faint lantern glow, “You know where to find me,” and then she was gone.

You waited, letting the compulsion to run after her and comfort her dissolve for a later time. If anything would be able to get through to Jinx it would be Silco himself. In order for him to get the chance, however, you needed to make sure Silco would stay alive. Jinx was smart, and knew when and how to lay low. She would be alright for a few hours. With a deep breath and you headed into the attached cavern.

“Doctor, Is he-“ your gaze mimed fixated on the disheveled and miserable man strapped to the gurney. At the sound of your voice Silco’s eyes landed on you, relief washing over his expression the moment he processed what he was seeing. “Thank Jannah, Sil,” you sighed, stepping and crossing the space. Your hand fell into his, fitting perfectly into his palm, warm and alive and responsive. With a smile you took your free hand and pushed the strands of charcoal and ash hair out of his face, “Hey there, handsome.” You beamed.

The once bright orange iris, now matching his daughter’s pink hue, was scanning along your features, relief washing over the face you had come to love more than you had ever thought possible. His pale blue eye was just as intently looking at you, but his eyelid hung heavy with exhaustion, “What’s a creature like you,” his voice was strained and low, rumbling out of his chest more than his throat, “doing in a place like this?”

Your mind played the first time he had said that to you as you grinned, “That line is still too cheesy to work.”

“Better than the look you gave me when I said it then.” He hummed as your hand moved from his hair to brush his cheek, “Did I ever tell you it was Jinx’s idea?”

“To try and hit on me after saving my life or?” You laughed lightly.

“To tell you,” he wheezed for a second as a flare of purple raced up his skin and into his damaged iris, “ah, how pretty you looked.” You pressed a kiss to his cheek and the pain seemed to become just a little less.

“So you settled on calling me a creature?” You scoffed teasingly.

“Is now the time for such, frivolous things?” The Doctor’s tone was annoyed as he cut in. He started undoing the straps holding Silco down, and he motioned for you to help him.

You looked at the scientist with one brow raised as Silco sighed, “I’ve nearly died today. It makes a man think about things… differently,” his gaze didn’t move from your face, like he was studying it for the first time. You were used to his staring habit, but this felt different. Maybe it was the drugs, “so beautiful,” he muttered so low, he probably hadn’t even noticed he’d said it.

“Shut up, old man,” you smiled, “Save your breath.”

The Doctor moved to your side of the table, batting you away as he began to unstrap his arm and head. Which was only fair since you hadn’t even started to undo the buckle. Your hand slipped away from Silco’s and you immediately missed the feeling. The anxiety that boiled in your stomach was vicious and your skin seemed to itch with the need to continue to make sure Silco was truly alive and real, on the mend and going to survive. Once the kingpin was free, the Doctor took his pulse, then gently helped him rise to a sitting position. His face contorted with the pain but eased as he breathed through it. At last, Doc looked towards you and nodded, giving his permission, you could fully take in your paramour.

Silco’s left arm was protectively hugged around his bandage wrapped torso, his smoldering eye still pulsing pink as was it’s seafoam counterpart. His hair was haphazard and his makeup smeared away long ago, the ashen skin of his scar visible in large smudges. You wrapped your arms around him as gently as you could manage, still causing him to hiss ever so slightly. His heartbeat thumped away under your ear, protected in his rib cage, fast and a little irregular. His smell was tainted with blood and sweat but it was still him. His free arm pulled you closer, his nose resting on top of your head. Together you breathed. Just for a moment that to you, felt like the exact eternity you needed to find your voice.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

He chuckled deep in his chest, “I promise to try and not make it a habit, my lovely.”

You only burrowed further into his arms in reply. Your home was here. Safely by Silco’s side, in his arms, breathing and basking in the gift of having more time. Just as the tension had begun to ease from your shoulders Silco spoke again, “Where is Jinx? Is she alright?”

You met his gaze, “She’s… upset. She didn’t mean to kill you. I think she’s headed back to her lab. I wanted to go with her but…”

“But you needed to make sure I would be alright first.” He gently finished and ran a hand through your hair, “Thank you for saving me. Now we’re officially even.” He let his fingertips stroke your cheek, “We need to get to Jinx. I need to tell her I forgive her.”

“You won’t be able to walk on your own yet, old friend.” The Doctor spoke up again from his desk across the room, apparently he had returned to his more important projects, “Your body is still processing the serum. You don’t have your daughter’s vitality.”

Silco frowned over at the old scientist, “I think I can manage. And anyways,” he looked down at you, “I won’t be alone.”

You nodded, and stepped out of his embrace to help him down and onto his feet. As he touched the stone floor however, his legs seemed to buckle and he fell onto you heavily with a grunt of pain. You caught him and let him get his grip on the edge of the gurney. His teeth grinding as he pulled himself upwards, “Sil? Are you-?”

“It’s fine.” The ever stubborn Eye of Zaun commanded. The Doctor and you shared a quick look.

You knew he was lying but he had more pressing concerns than his own comfort at the moment, “Can you?” he gestured vaguely around himself. Asking for help was still not something he was completely comfortable with, but you knew what he meant.

You shifted around him, so one of your arms was around his midsection, the other was holding his hand as his own arm swept over your shoulders. Jinx’s Lab and The Last Drop were a bit of a walk away. The Doctor, grumbling all the while, retrieved a cane from some depths of his caverns and gave you what doses Silco might need if he took a sudden turn. With measured steps you began to lead Silco to the door. Just before you crossed the threshold, Silco tugged and stopped, “Thank you, Doctor. My family owes you a great debt.”

A stiff and matter of fact “I know.” was the only reply he received.

Silco pressed a kiss to your temple and together you set off.

[fillinforlater]

Pink Sheets of the Gangbang Queen

Male Reader x Kim Gaeul

Length: 1759 words

Tags: post-gangbang-unclarity, a fuckton of cum, the biggest creampies you can imagine, sluttiest_woman_ever!Gaeul, riding, reverse cowgirl, mating press, cumming again, surprisingly sweet

TW: nasty, a lot of cum by different people

Credit: @friskyriskywhisky had the idea and wrote most of it, I just expanded it as far as I could. Maybe there will be more Gangbang Queen stuff, but this was basically just a double BFH lol

(A/N: Have fun with this crazy, short piece!)

“I want one more…”

Gaeul lies on her nasty bed, which is not only the size of a New York apartment room but also a lot more comfortable. The fresh evidence of sin is all over the once royal pink bedsheet befitting of a princess, a queen to be more accurate. Her comically large pillow is full of wet fingerprints, there are even hints of Gaeul bending over it because she loves it when men penetrate her from behind and fuck her into the soft thing. The headboard and the walls nearby are all smeared with her own slick and the cum from the dozen of guys who unloaded a week's worth and then some for her, on her, because of her. Who knows how much genetic coding is now dripping down those walls, or the side of her bed or along her thighs.

Either way, Gaeul knows that the pungent creampie of hers only feels this good because at least ten horny men put their spunk deep into her cunt. Be it fat cocks, long ones, small, smelly, oddly shaped—Gaeul takes them all and her insides shape to each accordingly. For the horde of cocks it’s an incredible feeling with a surprising snugness, while Gaeul yearns and shouts (as long as there is no shaft testing her gag reflex) for them to finish quickly and deep. Though a marvelous feeling, she is never satisfied. She needs one more, she doesn’t even care if it’s the tiniest rest or a gigantic, creamy load—all that matters is that he cums inside her.

Gaeul’s once-animated and sex-crazed sexual partners have either left or completely passed out on the floor next to her bed—except lucky you, the only one lying naked next to her. Lucky you, who she now eyes, admiring your features while you're half asleep. She crawls over and gently flips you onto your back, stirring you awake in the process.

In your state of extreme grogginess, you aren't able to tell at first if you're being eaten alive or attacked by a savage animal. Just when your fight or flight response springs into action, a pair of lips press against yours. They instantly calm you down like a mothers embrace after a lucid nightmare. You can't help but smile unconsciously at how gentle it feels. Gaeul’s floral-scented shampoo reassures you who's currently kissing you, her touchy, wet and tender fingers reminding you of the first time she checked out your body…

It was a rainy night in one of the many underground bars in Seoul—the type of bar that makes you raise an eyebrow at first, someone with connections has recommended it, looks suspicious; then you fell into the trap of fun conversations and nice liquor that ultimately led to a selection ceremony. This was the moment you realized why this was not a commonly visited place.

Everyone went silent at her entry. Gaeul, the well-known (at least for most people that regularly visit these exclusive bars) gangbang queen was craving men tonight, many men. She was not picky, in fact, there was only one condition you had to fulfill:

“Three days worth of cum. If you had sex or jerked off during the last three days, you’re out for tonight.”

No one dared to defy her or lie to her. She diligently checked everyone’s balls and was extremely thorough, especially with you, who she gently pushed against a bar stool, hand past your waistband. Your breath hitched, hers too when her slender fingers caressed your balls.

“Tall, horny—and at least ten days of cum.

“I’d love for you to join the after party in my pink bed.”

That’s how Gaeul found you, touched you, lured you in and turned you on, like she does at this moment…

It's been minutes now, with no signs of stopping or letting go from Gaeul, her lips still fully attached to yours just to occasionally back off and peck at it again. The last remnants of a dream that could never match this disappear. They are replaced by memories that slowly creep back and your heart drops. You remember what happened not long ago, right on these pink sheets—don’t lie to yourself, you know it happens every other night.

Those soft lips of hers were satisfying other men not too long ago, fully enveloped around shafts of different shapes and sizes. That tongue of hers glided across the cockhead of multiple partners and made sure that no spot on their balls was left out. She would fill her mouth with as much manly musk and precum as she could before her throat was getting assaulted by who knows how many cocks, endlessly coating the back of it with thick cum and forcing her to gag and cry, which everyone knows is a huge turn on for the gangbang queen.

It’s those lips that form a seal around yours and it’s that mouth you attack lazily with your tongue.

Who are you to complain though? Gaeul is the greatest kisser your lips have ever met. Your obsession with her took control of your life even though you had no chance with her. You're just a nobody when Gaeul is the well-beloved queen. The gangbang queen - for those close enough to be her little circle filled with lust and desire. Yet somehow you saw a chance and took it, even if it means taking sloppy seconds (or thirds? Fifths? Wait, how many guys are here again?).

Your mind snaps back to the present when you feel your cock poking at her entrance. Hang on, did she even—fuck! You shiver in both pleasure and disgust. You're plunged into her sloppy cunt, extremely tight, even after being abused by multiple men (some girthier than the ridiculous sex toys she has in her collection). 

Gaeul’s walls hug your tip first, then slowly adjust to your size, like they have become your personal sexy toy. The pleasure really kicks in when the gangbang queen puts your hands on her hips and adds your name into the mixture of huffs and moans. Her incredibly damp cavern and how slippery her whole crotch is against your own, it displays a reality you don't want to admit: You're fucking Gaeul through the creampie of other men. Using the foreign substance as a sticky wannabe lube as you slowly ramp up your pace, you're thinking with your other head only; that’s not an uncommon occurrence with the gangbang queen around. 

Sex with her has you drunk, dazed, carelessly chasing your own high. You want to be the only one to have your load inside of her cunt. Gaeul yearns for breeding, and the sperm of all the other disgusting men, still unconscious in this room is deemed not enough. At this moment you decide to fuck the creampie out of her and replace it with your own.

You're frantically thrusting in and out of her, she replicates your passion as she rides you. Heaps of old cum get forced out with the assistance of gravity but mainly due to the pump that is your cock and the endless pumping into her cunt. Gaeul switches to a reverse cowgirl position and it's only now that you notice that her ass got absolutely filled as well. 

This should not be a surprise, she is the gangbang queen after all, yet you want to look away. This is exclusively other men's cum leaking out of Gaeul and onto your abs. It feels extremely wrong, fucking filthy and somewhat gross. The eagerness of the girl on your dick makes you forget that though. For a short while, you just admire her back, her small, shapely ass and the way her moans are in perfect harmony with the sound of flesh hitting flesh and cum being squeezed out. 

With your whole cock still buried inside her, bottoming her out, you two clumsily get into a mating press position. Gaeul is the most flexible girl you know, her small frame easily capable of folding and bending into every position you want. This position quickly becomes your favorite, because you don’t have to see her leaking asshole anymore, but you know that she is gaping and the worthless spunk steadily leaves her anal cavity. 

Every time you thrust into her, you see and feel her whole ass and thighs ripple. Shock waves across the smooth, stretched, spotless skin gets sent in all kinds of directions because you dig your hands into it. There's still a disgusting amount of cum defying gravity, defying your forceful pounding into Gaeul, but you are sure that if you just keep on fucking her, and press her whole body into the mattress, the petite gangbang queen will leak out all the rest. Through the lewdest of sounds and a clear lack of stamina, the thought of Gaeul filled with nothing but you pushes you through.

You feel the knot inside you loosen, strings and little last spurts of cum hitting her cervix as your tip is right up against it. Gaeul has her feet right up against your back, her heels pulling you deeper inside her. She's still rutting against you, her clit drawing circles against your crotch enjoying the friction and satisfaction it brings. The art of the orgasm, Gaeul has mastered it. In her scream, you find an infinite sea of bliss. It draws out your orgasm a few more seconds; perfect seconds.

Post-nut clarity kicks in and you try to block out the other people who are regaining consciousness in the room. Witness how ethereal her beauty is under the ceiling light. You want to kiss her. You want to tell her how much you love her. However, the harsh reality kicks in harder than the post-nut clarity as she shifts her gaze away from you and looks at the time. You close your eyes, take a deep breath to cherish just how fucking good her cock-warming cavern is. 

You pull away, unfazed at the mess in front of you at this point. Party time is over and you’re victorious but defeated, a bit deflated even. Why is the girl you’re falling for the wrong type of queen? 

"Hey..." Gaeul reaches out and grabs your forearm and pulls you a little closer to give you one last peck on your cheek. "Drive safely, okay?” Her fingers tiptoe towards your hand until it reaches the back of your it, her thumb gently rubs circles on it. A new level of intimacy that makes your heart stutter. “Message me when you’re back home."

[koiiiji]

family

starring ; Park Jonggun, Choi family, honorable mention of Goo Kim

tw ; no, just Jonggun being a bit softie for girls.

╴╴╴╴╴⊹ꮺ˚ ╴╴╴╴╴⊹˚ ╴╴╴╴˚ೃ ╴╴

Park Jonggun never truly understood what love was.

it wasn’t something he’d thought about a lot. in his world, love was irrelevant — strength, survival, and loyalty were what mattered. after coming to Korea and getting thrown into prison, those were the only concepts he could rely on. but everything shifted when director Choi Dongseu took him out of that cell. Jonggun wasn’t sure what he expected when he re-entered society, but it certainly wasn’t this.

╴╴╴╴╴⊹ꮺ˚ ╴╴╴╴╴⊹˚ ╴╴╴╴˚ೃ ╴╴

Jonggun stood at the entrance of director Choi Dongseu’s home, fists clenched at his sides. the cut lawn, garden, and the ordinary-looking house contrasted so violently with the man who had freed him from prison — a man who was just volunteer in prison, who stand on his knees before Jonggun, bagging him to help — live in such a place? and as he’d been freed from a prison cell, anger surged through him at how quickly he’d been pulled into Choi's personal world. it wasn’t the business world he’d expected, nor the underground fighting rings he thrived in, but something much messier. domestic chaos.

before he could knock, the door swung open. Dongseu stood there, dressed in a crisp white shirt, his face cold but weary. lines of stress were etched deeply around his eyes, and yet his demeanor was as sharp as ever. and before anyone could say something, a loud bang echoed from inside, followed by a shrill voice.

“IDIOT! i said those clothes don’t fit you!” a shrill voice shouted.

“shut up, you fool! they’re the same size as yours, genius!” another voice retorted, equally as piercing.

Jonggun flinched at the high-pitched screeching. his trained body, honed for combat, was not prepared for the assault on his ears. director Choi’s expression darkened further as his left eye twitch and he massaged his temple.

“don’t mind them,” Choi muttered. they both heard the unmistakable sound of feet stomping and doors slamming. “that’s my daughters. they’re… loud.”

another door slammed, and the background, more yelling filled the air, words like “hysteric!” and “moron” bounced off the walls. Jonggun suddenly wished he was back in prison. it would have been quieter.

╴╴╴╴╴⊹ꮺ˚ ╴╴╴╴╴⊹˚ ╴╴╴╴˚ೃ ╴╴

days passed, and Jonggun had slowly integrated himself into director Choi’s circle of influence.

this time, Director Choi asked to pick him up for an urgent meeting. when Jonggun arrived at the house, the scene inside was just as chaotic as before. “you’re late,” Choi said, his tone clipped, standing in the hallway with his coat on, ready to leave. before Jonggun could respond, you and Crystal stormed past him, locked in yet another argument.

“i’m telling you, this obsession with calories is unhealthy!” Crystal’s voice was sharp.

“like you’re one to talk!” you snapped back. “you freak out over every pound you gain!”

bickering was relentless, filling the house with noise. Jonggun winced, already feeling a headache coming on. This house was louder than any fight ring he’d ever stepped into.

and here director Choi’s patience snapped.

“enough!” he barked, turning to both of you, his voice cold and commanding. “i won’t tolerate this constant arguing in my house.” his eyes hardened, the strict, almost militaristic tone creeping into his voice. “you are sisters and my daughters. act like it.”

Crystal’s face tightened as she looked away, the tension in the room heavy. you muttered something under your breath before the two of you disappeared into separate rooms, slamming doors behind you.

director Choi’s shoulders sagged slightly. he never show it, but the burden of raising two daughters alone was clearly weighing on him.

as they stepped into the car, Jonggun glanced at Choi. “you’ve raise them all alone?”

“yes,” Choi responded, his voice was sharp. the drive was silent after that.

╴╴╴╴╴⊹ꮺ˚ ╴╴╴╴╴⊹˚ ╴╴╴╴˚ೃ ╴╴

another time, while waiting for director Choi to return from a meeting, Jonggun sat in the living room, watching the chaos unfold around him. you and Crystal were at it again, this time arguing about who stole the other’s cream, while your father was upstairs trying to handle business over the phone.

Jonggun found himself in the middle of the chaos, observing from the sidelines. the noise was overwhelming, but his mind wandered as he watched. this house — loud, chaotic, full of arguments and slammed doors — was so different from what he’d known growing up. his family had been strict, yes, but in a much colder, more distant way. there was no shouting in his house growing up, no noise or chaos like this. just silence. silence, and the crushing weight of expectation.

he leaned back in his chair, gazing at the mess in front of him. you two were loud, messy, and emotional — but you were close. as close as sisters could be, dragging each other by the hair around living room, and screaming like fighting cats, while Goo tried to uncouple you.

Jonggun blinked, pulling himself back into the moment, standing up and dragging you away from your sister.

was this… family? was this what it was supposed to look like, when Crystal sent you death wishes for using her cream and you snapping back with threats to smother her with a pillow at night?

he never had this. yet it was warmer then his household... the noise, the messiness of it all. his family had been different. unloving, fractured. this was loud, but it was also strangely… close.

╴╴╴╴╴⊹ꮺ˚ ╴╴╴╴╴⊹˚ ╴╴╴╴˚ೃ ╴╴

later that evening, after the arguments had subsided, Jonggun found himself slumped on the living room couch, with Crystal to his left and you to his right. somehow, you had managed to pull him into watching film together. you and your sister were surprisingly calm for once, though the bickering earlier still echoed in his head. a warm, pleasant weight rested on his shoulders — the unmistakable feeling of being hugged.

Crystal had fallen asleep first, against his chest, her soft breathing a sign of trust and comfort. you, on the other hand, were in a less graceful pose. back was turned to him, head awkwardly resting against his bicep, and… drooling. of course. the phone in your hand beeped softly with a notification from 'cats and soup'. you weren’t paying attention to the documentary about martial arts he’d picked.

“brat,” Jonggun muttered under his breath, but he couldn’t stop a faint smile from tugging at his lips. despite the chaos, the noise, and the headaches that came with being around director Choi’s family, this warmth was unfamiliar, yet… comforting.

he gazed at you and Crystal for a moment longer. both of you had wrapped your arms around his biceps, like you needed him to be there. it was such a strange feeling. was this what a family was supposed to be? a kind of chaotic mess, full of loud arguments and moments of quiet peace?

after gently lifting you both off him, Jonggun carefully carried you to your rooms. Crystal mumbled something in her sleep — something like “oppa” — as he set her down gently. he paused for a second. older brother? the words felt foreign to him.

when he carried you next, you clung to his arm even in your sleep, making it hard to lay you down. as soon as he finally managed to pull free, you shifted and sighed, muttering, “oppa is a fool,” in your sleep.

he couldn’t help but chuckle softly, shaking his head. he stood there for a moment, thinking about both you and Crystal, realizing he had somehow become a part of this odd, chaotic family. despite everything, the bickering and the noise, he felt something stir in his chest — something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

warmth.

and for the first time in a long time, Jonggun didn’t feel like an outsider.

╴╴╴╴╴⊹ꮺ˚ ╴╴╴╴╴⊹˚ ╴╴╴╴˚ೃ ╴╴

MASTERLIST

[yandereforme]

Yan! Mafia! Batfam AU Dynamics

Part 1

TW: Murder, violence mentioned, light mentions of assault, torture, kidnapping

Also, since ages are weird in DC canon (often conflicting) I’m assigning my own choices

Bruce

Like I mentioned in my earlier post, Bruce started working towards controlling crime at a young age. He first gets the idea after his parents died, and slowly over the years he starts cultivating skills that would later become useful(fighting, intimidation, deceptive things that you can do that aren’t exactly illegal, etc.)

He still takes that backpacking trip, and he still meets the league of assassins and has his affair with Talia. The reason he returns to Gotham isn’t a crime as vigilante. It’s to fight crime his own way.

He takes on a persona as the bat, no one knows his face or real name. He garners a lot of attention from criminals, and often steal men from people who he defeats to work lower level jobs(Think Red Hood’s system)

The rugs in the say, you are a mixture of actual criminals, and alternate mob bosses. However, Bruce still keeps the Bat and Bruce Wayne very separate, though he does not utilize a Brucie persona. Instead, he makes himself seem more quiet and soft-spoken so people tend to overlook him.(Bruce does not realize that his persona is someone that is one bad thing away from going full on crazy. Everyone in high society knows something is wrong with Bruce Wayne, and just does not comment on it.)

Bruce still has his no kill rule. That does not change, but any enemy of his will tell you that there are worse things than death.

He is 23 when he adopts 8 year old Dick Grayson.

Dick

Dick joins not long after he does in canon, or at least he tries to. After he figures everything out, he confronts Bruce and says that he wants to be a part of the business. He wants Zucco‘s head on a stick. Bruce gets him to compromise. They will capture Zucco and after a few years of training, Dick will be allowed to do what he wants and take on his own role. 

For a few years, he takes the role of Robin, a terrifying person who has seen as Batman‘s little shadow, constantly following him, and smiling brightly enough that people will forget about the blood covering his knuckles.( some believe he gives the smiles that Batman never has. Others believe he is the one thing that keeps the Bat from killing.)

As he grows, Robin’s persona of a vicious, smiling distraction slowly morphs into an amazing fighter who smiles unsettlingly and bends in a way that does not seem entirely human.(about 60% of Gotham’s criminals believe that the bat and robin and all of their associates are not human. Most of them of them think demons of some kind, though there is a smaller portion that believes that they are embodied souls coming back to enact justice)

Nightwing is not a reality in this world(since that is a story learned from Superman.) Instead, criminals learn to fear Nightingale, a distractingly, beautiful person whose voice tends to make you mesmerized so you don’t see the bloody intent behind it. The underground calls him a siren, and Dick is very good at making people tell him what he wants to hear.

In this AU, he switches to Nightingale after Tony Zucco is finally killed. Bruce had kept Zucco in a cell for years, until Dick was old enough to do what he originally wanted. Dick kills him in an act of final revenge, wearing his family’s colors. After the death, he decides he doesn’t want to dirty those colors anymore.

It becomes a commonly known fact that Robin doesn’t kill, and neither does the Bat. But once they get their own costume, you have to be cautious of the fact that some of them don’t have a no kill code.

Dick is 17 when 12 year old Jason is adopted

Jason

Instead of stealing from Batman, Jason is caught stealing tires of Bruce Wayne’s car. The rest of the interaction follows canon though.

Before Bruce formally adopts him, he tells Jason who is surprisingly okay with it.(Jason grew up in Crime alley. He knew what the Bat did with the worst of the worst, and how the Bat made life more live able.)

He and Dick don’t get along in the beginning, but after an attempted kidnapping at a gala, they get better.

The two incarnations of Robin are very different. Dick’s Robin was loud and haunting in his joy, beating people bloody with a smile. Jason’s Robin was softer in a sense, brash but polite. He was careful to only injure in places that they could recover from, and helped a lot of the victims(people whispered that he was the innocence that Nightingale had lost, that the Bat never had.)

The only people he didn’t care about hurting were the abusers and assaulters, men drunk on power. (More and more people started believing the re embodied souls theory with Jason. He seemed the most human of all the Bat family)

Then, when Jason was 15, he was kidnapped as Robin, and Gotham was never the same.

Note: Thank you all for being so interested in my writings. I don’t know if this is good or not, I’m sick at the moment and just wanted to finally write this. Let me know what you think!

[penumbra-mayhem]

Tank’s wolf with Quinn vs. Sam (i.e. ‘hellhound’ vs ‘pup’)

(Inspired by my post and @lookitseddie’s post)

TW: domestic violence, general violence

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Quinn knows his ‘hellhound’ is dangerous, so he uses their loyalty as a leash. He decides when they shift and controls what they do when they shift.

Sometimes, his ‘hellhound’ is used as a guard dog, standing post behind Quinn so he appears intimidating or powerful to other vamps or potential business partners. One word or whistle from Quinn and his ‘hellhound’ will elicit bone-chilling growls that’ll quickly make anyone compliant to Quinn’s wishes.

Other times, his ‘hellhound’ is a fighting dog. He enters them into underground werewolf cage fights and rakes in money from their undefeated streak. Or he’ll use them as a weapon against anyone who dares to attack him.

Quinn always leaves them to lick their own wounds, never getting them a healer and certainly never healing them himself. He’s much quicker to hit than to heal—which he does when they “screw up”.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam knows his ‘pup’ is scared. He lets them approach him, whenever they feel comfortable. There’s never a demand for them to shift.

With him, Sam’s ‘pup’ learns the joys of their wolf form. They stick their head out of Sam’s truck on late night drives, tongue streaming from their mouth like a ribbon. They run in the woods, sometimes with Sam, sometimes on their own. They lounge in the sun, then retreat inside and let Sam feel the sun’s warmth through their fur.

His ‘pup’ still fights, but it’s always their choice. And their fighting is different. They fight with a bit more reserve; they learn not to fling themself at everything with no regard for their own safety. Their wolf form is a shield, not a weapon, and they use it to protect those they love.

Sam tends to their wounds every time, with gentle hands and many kisses. He cleans the blood from their fur and the dirt from their eyes. And he never raises a hand against them. Never. Not his ‘pup’.

[ameliathornromance]

Cage Fighter! Orc x Reader

A/N: Just as I was uploading this I thought I could write more about Cage Fighter!Orc hehe, let me know if you guys are interested in him! TW: Mention of violence, description of injury but not in gross detail.

“Ouch!” Your Orc hissed, jerking in pain as you pressed alcohol soaked cloth to his arm. “You can’t be more gentle, can you?”

“Well if you stopped moving,” you returned through gritted teeth, “then it wouldn’t hurt as much. It’s not me that’s causing you pain, it’s the chemical. If I’m any more gentle about it, the pain will just last longer and it will sting a lot more.”

The giant gash in his arm just did not want to stop bleeding. You let out a sigh of irritation as you realised it was going to need stitches. “Hold onto it for me?”

Grumbling, your Orc Boyfriend pressed held the soaked cloth in place as you reached for your medical box behind you, “how did this happen then?”

“I was in the gym,” your boyfriend started, “and this goblin wouldn’t stop trying to take pictures of me, so I told him to put the phone down. He said ‘no, it’s a public space, I can film who I damn well likes’ and his smug face pissed me off. So… I might have gotten a little rough with him.”

You sighed again. Typical of an Orc to start the physical fight. Pulling out a needle and medical thread, you cleaned them, nodding as your boyfriend went on, “and then this little bastard pulls out a knife and just slashed me open!”

Your head whipped around to look at your partner, “what the fuck?!” you set the needle and thread down on your bedside table. “You’re not hurt anywhere else, are you? Oh my God, why did they even let that guy in with a weapon!?” You surveyed your Orcs topless body, searching his green skin for any kind of graze or cut.

“Something about it being for Goblin arts practice.” Your boyfriend grunted, annoyed. “Anyway, he’s then restrained by some of the staff, the police are called and there was also an ambulance.”

“Why didn’t you let the paramedics stitch you up?!” You asked, aghast. “Why would you refuse it and come back here!?”

Meeting your boyfriends gaze, he gives you a sheepish look. “… Because you used to sew up my cuts when I was a cage fighter?”

“That was only on the fly!” You snapped, “I’m not a medical professional, I could have really hurt you doing that!”

He scoffed, “we all could have gotten really hurt doing that. It was underground and illegal for all of us to be there.”

This post was uploaded in full on my Patreon today! Sign up to get early access to all my Tumblr content as well as exclusive posts!

If you're not sure about signing up, there is a 7 day free trial enabled on my lowest tier for my Patreon exclusive content!