#what if your man always pushed you to be better even if it meant you'd outplay him

[crowttore]

A knight's duty - Dainsleif x reader

Note: You're not being paranoid if people really are out to get you.

Tags: Dainsleif x Khaenri'ahn royalty!reader, hints at reincarnation, pining, unhappy ending (like with all Dain's life), 1.6k

He could see how fatigue had begun to coil around you, every movement more sluggish than the previous. The tip of your sword was quivering, your leather gloves taut over the back of your hand from how hard you gripped the hilt.

Seeing the glistening beads of sweat trickle down your forehead almost made Dainsleif feel remorseful about how hard he'd been pushing you lately.

Almost.

With practiced ease, he sidestepped your swiftly descending blade, refraining from countering lest he risk injuring you. The soft contours of your body were never meant to bear the weight of armor, yet Dainsleif's biggest concern lay with how brightly your eyes shone. Surely, there were already plenty who coveted that radiance.

How he wished you would see nothing but peace when it came time for you to reign.

"Captain, can we please rest for today? You're not even focused," your whine reached his ears just before the sound of your sword clattering to the ground.

Dainsleif saw how you rubbed your hands, wanting desperately to erase every trace of callouses and bruises formed under his watch.

"We will continue for the allocated duration, princess. Vary your swings and use your momentum as I demonstrated earlier, this is a duel, not a drill."

A feeling of dread had haunted Dainsleif for weeks, his eyes always lingering in the corners of the palace, convincing himself no shadows trailed along the stone. It had begun with the odd withdrawal of his brother, yet he knew better than to let a single act incite panic. This was hardly the first time there had been disagreements or secrets between the two.

Somehow, this felt different.

His eyes flickered to you, repressing a faint tug at his lips upon being met with a petulant expression as you adjusted the sword in your hand.

"My time would be better spent in the library Dain, I'm no good at this."

"We practice to improve."

With a sigh, he parried your foolhardy jab.

"It's not like war is at our door, besides, I have you to look out for me."

"Being able to defend yourself is never wasted, if anything was to happen-"

A downward slash, easily dodged with your lack of reach. What made him raise an eyebrow was the exasperation in your voice as you interrupted him.

"You're always so paranoid, people are happy here."

He hardly had time to consider his words, speaking them more to himself than you.

"It is not paranoia if people really are out to get you."

It had been spoken so softly, words barely formed in his mind where they should have been confined to. He should have screamed it for all to hear. Perhaps then, things could have been different.

Rarely did he look at the sky, what reason did he have when he yearned to bury himself again, freed from the oppressive stares above. His only solace was knowing you'd fallen before the curse had taken hold.

After so many years, he'd come to accept that his failure to protect you in the initial chaos was the only blessing he would receive from this world.

Dainsleif had once been told that the Twilight Sword, whenever bared, was fated to strike down a man.

But what good had titles, legacies, and prophesies ever done him?

Centuries had passed, yet he still felt the softness of your lips in the apple blossoms weaving through his fingers, felt your caress against his blackened skin in the warm autumn breeze, the color of the sky reflecting your eyes alight with stars when he'd first brought you outside the safety of Khaenri'ah.

Your parents had been surprisingly lenient when they learned of that escapade. Too late did he recognize the muted sorrow mixing with relief in their eyes when they saw your happiness; no doubt they had felt the impending disaster.

The mere notion made him seethe, a dull ache that sat behind ruined flesh in a grim reminder of his own oversight.

Worst of all, he swore he'd seen you, laughing as you spun clumsily around in a field of cecilias, sword clutched too tightly in your hand - just like always - in what was undoubtedly your definition of training.

His knees had hit the soft bedding of moss without his awareness, hand already pressed to his heart in preparation to bow. Or was it merely because something he thought lost long ago suddenly hurt?

Legend told that a scratch from the Twilight Sword would never heal. Dainsleif had never considered if perhaps such a weapon could not be mended either. If that was the price to pay for wielding such power.

How long had passed in quiet observation Dainsleif had no idea, like a petrified fool he'd watched until the sun bathed you in warm gold, feeling greed settle like a fog over his mind the longer he watched. It was to protect you; whoever 'you' were now, he supposed. No one acting so careless should be left alone in the wilderness.

That was the excuse he gave as he remained unmoving, drinking in the enchanting visage as you swung at nothing, swearing some of your movements were familiar. It was predictable how quickly you discarded the dull blade to instead lay down in the sea of flowers.

A soft rustle in his periphery was all the disturbance needed for his hand to twitch at the hilt of his blade, old instincts flaring as he suppressed the urge to call your name. The thought of how it would feel upon his tongue made his stomach lurch in fear, yet it still paled before the image of how you'd turned towards him, blood dripping from where a blade was lodged between your ribs.

Fear, agony, and sorrow. Your bubbly voice had been tainted by the ichor that spilled from your lips, a gargled mockery of his name the last thing to leave you beside sobs.

Three foxes hopped from a nearby shrubbery, bringing his thoughts back as he sighed in relief, a few critters were no threat. He shrank down a little further behind his cover as you sat up and looked around, noting with a small smile that at least your senses weren't entirely dull. Perhaps you spent less time in the library here- Dainsleif pushed aside the thought of how much you'd miss all your old books if you knew of their destruction.

Though there were stars dancing in your eyes as the crimson foxes chirped and approached, eagerly pawing at the bag you'd rested your head atop, they were far from the ones he longed to see; even if he knew it had only ever been a foolish hope. You were someone else. Surely, they would not be so cruel as to-

Ah but why wouldn't they?

If there was a single certainty in this cursed existence, it was the continuous cruelty of Celestia. Dainsleif had seen enough come and go without change to a single constellation to understand.

Dainsleif was well aware of his own folly. Already, he had far overstayed his welcome in the City of Freedom, constantly feeling the eyes of inexperienced knights tracing his every move.

Yet he couldn't bring himself to leave, nothing truly urgent enough that he couldn't justify staying here just as well as continuing his hunt elsewhere. After all, Mondstadt was a vile den of monsters if only you looked closely.

Falling into a routine had been easy, feeling how his being longed to adjust even if it enhanced that crumbling sensation in his mind.

For you, he would endure erosion far worse.

For all his care, Dainsleif knew he was far from infallible, a fact proven time and time again, and so it came as no great shock when he looked up from the glass of apple cider he'd been nursing to see you cautiously peering at him.

"You've been following me."

The liquid tingled as it flowed down his throat, fingers gripping the stem a little tighter than necessary at the way your eyes flickered between his face and hand.

"I want to know why," your voice shook with faux confidence as you sat down opposite him, eyes determined to hold him hostage without any effort.

You'd died in his arms and he had mourned a love that never had time to blossom, suffered the passage of centuries alone, only to be confronted with your voice after giving up on his own desires. Even if he should forget himself, he would never mistake how your lips formed the sweetest of sounds.

The urge to run had lodged itself into his bones and itched for control, locked in fierce battle with the need to grasp your cheeks, soft-looking as ever, and feel the reality of your flesh sinking beneath his fingers.

"I mistook you for someone else," neither truth nor lie, Dainsleif found unfit words gathering quickly and threatening to spill over.

Your eyes narrowed in healthy suspicion, fingers drumming against the wooden table loud enough that were it not for the bard performing, the other patrons would've surely glanced your way.

"You 'mistook me for someone else' for several days? You realise how unlikely that sounds, why didn't you simply ask?"

The rest of the conversation was nothing but a blur as he crossed the bridge, midnight breeze cooling his skin. You could take care of yourself, be happy here, without him and his curse.

Everything he touched was fated to die. For you, his hands could continue to twitch at his sides without relief, tears that he had not expected his body able to conjure could continue to press behind his eyes.

Genshin masterlist

[sailorsally]

y'all I can live like this anymore

[plethorawrites]

How I think the Batboys + Clark would respond to you asking them to "dress up" in some capacity for them in the bedroom like you always do for them.

"I'm always the one in lingerie, why don't you dress up for me for a change?"

---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---_

Bruce: Will go for the most petty response possible, by keeping his tie on the next time you're intimate. Which, he meant mostly as a sarcastic joke, but found himself enjoying. You also seemed to be incredibly fond of it, tugging it in between your teeth or biting at it around his neck. When it was covered in your spit from all the biting, it eventually slipped off his neck and got wrapped around your wrists, tightened to keep you in place. And when you resisted it after a bit (lovingly, of course) he untied it, pushing it back into your mouth to muffle your sounds. Who knew a tie was so versatile?

---

Dick: Has no problem with complying when you ask him to dress up. None. You make a fair point and it's only fair he puts in some effort and he's secure enough in his masculinity to do anything you ask. This is the same man who went as discowing for a while, after all. A garter? You're foaming at your mouth. You want him to wear some sort of dress or actual lingerie? He'll have to buy it since yours definitely wouldn't fit, but he'll absolutely get something flattering. A bit of roleplay, to fit, if it was something themed? It's a given. How could he not fully commit?

---

Jason: Would roll his eyes, not because he's annoyed but because he thinks he'd look ridiculous and he cares more about worshipping you than letting you take care of him. That said, If you wanted something different, he'd do something different. The next time he comes home from patrol, instead of taking his stuff off and changing, he stays in it, making you take it off. The leather of his gloves twirling your hair as you unbuckled things, the feeling of your hands tugging his jacket off, is enticing for both of you. And by the time he's nearly fully undressed, you're both desperate. The helmet is the last to go. And it only does after he whispers a few things he knew you'd like in your ear.

---

Tim: Has no idea what that even means, honestly. It could be a joke, maybe. But better safe than sorry if not. Since he didn't quite know, he went with the safest option that could still qualify and wore a see through button up under his jacket, with his slacks for an event, letting you see it later that night. You seemed happy, if not a little frustrated for him having it on all night without knowing. Probably because if you'd seen him in a sheer black top, showing off his chest and stomach, you'd pull him into the bathroom and take it off right there.

---

(Aged up) Damian: Isn't entirely unused to flamboyancy in one way or another. He wore plenty of nice robes and wraps for the League of Assassins, not to mention suits for his father's events. But that was a normal thing, he supposed. So, if you wanted something different, he'd have to think outside of the box. He's always liked art, ever since he was young and even considered making love to be an art in itself, in a way. So, the next time you're in his room, tugging off his clothes, you're surprised when he's covered in henna, little swirls, dots, even flowers. It had taken hours, but was absolutely worth it for the look on your face.

---

Clark: Was befuddled, like he often was when you said that. He had no idea how to dress up for you, or even why you'd want him to. But when you guys spend a weekend at the farm and he catches your eyes lingering when he's working in the yard, he figures it out. When you're home, several days after the visit ended, you find him in overalls and nothing else, except for a cowboy hat, he usually wore to keep the sun out of his eyes. And it was fun, he'll admit, seeing you get excited. The hat looked much better on you, though.

[tiramissyoucake]

I loveeeed your characterization of omnimark it felt so mark but distinctly himself like something was different in a way that made sense

if you ever wanted to expand on it; how did omnimark and wifey meet? was it early on in his life? college? or even when did he become omniman (omnivincible?) and was his personality and their relationship initially different before some event happened?

Thank you!! I think of him as a mature version of Mark who sadly took too much after his father, less attached to his mother and more.. independent, hope you like this !! Kinda long not rlly and not exactly proof read hhhh

Maybe cw, a little manipulative.

Before Mark's powers kicked in, you were a distant dream girl. He never talked to you, you always kept to yourself and no matter how quickly he ran to your desk after class, you'd be gone. He was certain you didn't know he existed in school.

The only time you ever 'talked' to him was during a test. Of all the things he forgot, he didn't bring a blue pen with him. Fumbling with his bag and pockets, he saw a pen peek into his peripheral vision. Looking up, he saw you, a small smile on your face as you offered the pen.

It was a wordless exchange, but it meant the world to him. He kept a close eye on you since then, glancing at you in hallways, passive looks in the little classes you shared, he'd always watch you, never talk to you.

He hated the human side of himself, weak, dependant, like a comical teenage boy. He felt on top of the world when the Viltrumite in him finally kicked in, granted he had an easier time pushing aside personal affairs while listening to his father's guidance. It wasn't long before he graduated school and had to take up the Omni-man mantle after his father's disappearance.

He berated his human side for being too much of a coward to talk to you.

He was so young, but everyone knew he was the only fitting candidate for the mantle. The only Viltrumite. Although he humoured his mother's demand for college, Mark never made many connections outside of his home. He left, killed a bad guy or two, made it in time for college classes, and went home to study or unwind. During the time between high school and college, he took up exercising, starting at a local gym before moving a few pieces of equipment to his room.

Life was stable. That's the best word that he could use to describe it. Wake up, fight, class, train, sleep. Earth needed him, and he didn't need much else.

Not until he saw you again.

At first, it was in a college class where he spotted you sitting in the centre, front enough to focus, back enough to blend in with everyone else. Though after the first week, you were gone. He assumed you dropped the class; the professor seemed egotistical, and he was forced to stay because of a time conflict in his schedule.

The second time was during an attack by some no-name alien bounty hunter looking for earthling heroes. The criminal had some sort of alien DNA detecting gizmo that traced Mark's Viltrumite genetics to his university. Wrecking havoc left and right, students, professors, and staff sprinting left and right.

You were caught in the crossfire, the bounty hunter zeroed in on you, maybe civilian casualty would lure him out, and what better way than to hurl a car to paint the sidewalk red?

Fear flooded you as a shadow overlapped your form, shielding yourself with your arms as best as you could while running, the car seemed to stop in mid air, your eyes following the trajectory you thought the car grew wings and started flying, but no— it was... Omni-man's descendant.

He looked down at you as he effortlessly held the car over his head with one arm, those goggles fooled a lot of people, but you know that familiar gaze, you felt it on your back too many times during school. "... Mark?"

He's actually happy you recognised him and proud. You were always a smart girl, of course you'd notice the spineless stalker from school. "We have to stop meeting like this." He wasn't one for quips, but he couldn't help himself, flying past you to deal with the intruder on his planet, the car boomeranged back to the villain as you escaped to safety.

Days since then, he wasn't able to find you, but he wasn't worried. You always kept to yourself, you wouldn't expose his identity, he was sure of it. Although he'd be lying if he said that pesky teenager didn't come clawing his way back out of the depths of Mark's soul at the sight of you again, did you think he looked cool? Were you surprised? Do you remember when you lended him your pen?

He must've been thinking of you too much, apparently, spotting you waiting for someone outside the class you dropped, and that someone may have been him when your eyes lit up at the sight of him.

"Hey, Mark! Can we talk?"

That human side of him started squirming like an annoying bug.

.

"I wouldn't have known," You mused, propping up your cheek on with your hand. "The cute but timid Mark Grayson, a superhero?"

A chuckle escaped him, that loser version of him from school again. "My powers didn't kick in until later, so... The timid Mark Grayson was genuine, sadly." He admitted, it didn't sting as bad to say so when you looked at him with so much interest.

"'Sadly'? No! Mark, both are lovely." You smiled, lowering your hand. "I liked how geeky and sweet you were! And you look so much more... grown-up now!" You tried to find the correct words, the extra muscle definitely demanded attention. "don't worry, I've got no one to tell."

"I know." He answered too quickly. You raised an eyebrow.

"... I mean that you're not that kind of person." Regret would swallow him up later for being vulnerable. "I always knew you as a kind girl, you even gave me your pen when I never asked."

Your face was warming up, oh, he was doing good.

"I think I had a crush on you, now that I'm looking back on it." You were getting flustered as he smiled so sweetly at you. Maybe he should've been honest from the beginning.

"I'm flattered.. I never had the chance to talk to you, now I'm regretting it..!" You barely strung the words together, fiddling with your hands on the table, you paused when his hand covered your own; it felt calloused.

"We can start catching up, if you'd like?" Be suave, don't be a sweaty teenager. He's a grown man now. "Dinner? Sometime this weekend, if you're free?"

Your smile told him everything he needed.

.

It's like life couldn't get any better. On weekdays, he was a hero and student, and on weekends, he was taking you around the world for any over-the-top romantic date. His father travelled the world with his mom, and it's appropriate that he'd follow in his footsteps.

He found you first this time, in the same spot at the library. The one near the hallway leading to the obscure cafe and just a few feet away from the computer science books shelves, his hand settled on your shoulder

"Hey you." He smiled, a rare smile as he leaned down to kiss your cheek, he took the seat in front of you as you returned his smile and shut your laptop. "Hey, I wanted to talk to you about this week's date."

He already had something planned, perking up. "You're gonna love what I have planned, it's kinda far but that just gives us time to talk during the trip, dinner, dancing- you'll love it."

"I actually wanted to talk to you about that.." his expression shifted, you had that nervous smile on your face, one he recognized from when you were trying to accommodate to whoever was in front of you at the cost of your own comfort. "you know we don't have to travel half way across the world to have fun, right...?"

Mark sat up, eyebrows furrowed, he planned to take you to Amsterdam too. "Well, yeah. but isn't it fun? c'mon, you'll like what I have planned."

"Mark, I appreciate it, but can we postpone that? maybe we can do all of that here?" your hand caressed his, but his frown didn't move, you were trying to butter him up. The promise of next time gave him hope, he figured he'll try to indulge you this time. "I appreciate it, really, but I don't want you to feel like we need to travel to have fun or have a moment..."

You looked at him with such a submissive gaze, wordlessly begging him not to be mad at you, to remove that frown. He sighed, his hand turning to hold yours, palm to palm. "Okay. I know a good restaurant, I'm pretty sure I can get a reservation before this weekend." he relented, your hopeful smile returned.

.

Graduating wasn't a big deal for him, hero work paid him better than any job. the bachelor's degree was just some formality. you, on the other hand, you diligently got a job, got situated, and became a working member of society so quickly. He was proud of you but something felt missing, a naked layer of skin on your ring finger irked him.

"Paris?" your voice reverberated through his phone as he removed his suit. "Yeah, if you're free, don't wanna keep my successful business woman from her job." he smiled to himself as he heard you laugh.

"I can fit you in my schedule, sure." your playful tone riled him up as he changed into his civilian clothes. "Good, dress your best, I'll pick you up at 9 am."

"9 am?" you paused, that's the same time you'd go into work.

"Timezones, sweetheart." he explained, adjusting the collar of his shirt in the mirror. "It'll be well after sunset when we get there, we'll have dinner, go sightseeing, you ever seen the Eiffel tower?"

"Okay, okay! enough gloating, I'll be ready then." you agreed again. "I got a meeting, I'll talk to you later, love you!"

"Love you too." he concluded, the phone grew quiet, he glanced down at it and then set it down on his nightstand. His eyes trailed to the velvet red box, housing a ring too expensive to be a casual gift.

.

it was a corny, cheesy, sappy proposal at the very top of the Eiffel tower. and yet you looked at him so sweetly, like you were going to explode from sheer love and admiration for him. accepting the ring from him as he slid it carefully onto that same empty slot on your finger he'd been eyeing for months and kissed you with more desire than he's ever kissed you in your love life.

Naturally, it was a private wedding with only close friends and family, and you learned soon after marriage that Mark used the ring as an excuse to keep you under his watchful eye.

You had moved in together, slept in the same bed, and for a while, he let you work. He let you leave the house and sometimes dropped you off himself, but he couldn't shake off the nagging feeling that you should be home, where he can keep an eye on you and keep you safe. the near death experience he witnessed you succumb to back in college was still vivid in his mind.

"No." you vehemently denied as you looked up from your laptop. "Mark, I'm not going to stop working just because I got married."

"You don't need it." Mark replied as he sat on the other end of the couch, in his civilian clothes. "I get paid enough for the two of us, and it'll keep you safe and comfortable, maybe even get you used to it for.." his fingers traced up your leg gently, attempting to put you in a good mood, or a vulnerable one. "When we finally have kids?"

your knees came up to your chest to move away from him, your laptop hugged to your chest. "Where is this coming from? I like working, I like being my own person outside of 'superhero's wife'."

He lowered his hand, he had to be smart with his response, silence filled the atmosphere for an uncomfortable moment before he continued. "... do you remember when you first saw me as Invincible?"

Your hostile stance was lowered as he brought up that time you were almost crushed. "... I just keep thinking about what would've happened if I was too late, if I took a wrong turn and took longer to get to campus." He sighed, pausing for effect before looking up at you. "Sweetheart, you would've been crushed into the pavement."

He had to prevent the smile from appearing on his features as your eyes darted down, the fear swelling again as you remembered the panic that controlled your body in that moment, how he saved you. how he saved you.

"... Mark, that was just-" He continued, bordering on desperate as he cut you off. "you work in town, sure, and I noticed that those areas... baby, they're hot spots for villains."

You couldn't doubt him, he was the hero, he knew these things and he's never lied to you before. ".... I know you're worried, but I... I should be okay, you're never too late to-"

"What if I was?" His volume unintentionally raised, not what he intended but it helped as he watched you wince. "... Please, I know I'm being selfish but can you- promise me you'll think about it? see it from my perspective?"

Your lips parted and closed repeatedly, his eyes examining you, and unnerved you into looking down. "... I'll.. mull it over later."

You didn't notice how his smile stretched further than it needed.

.

One bad day, that's all it took to get you to want to leave work and never return. Your boss yelled at you for a mistake that wasn't yours, coffee spilt on your laptop effectively putting it into a coma, and the sunny morning quickly turned to a depressing rain as you walked home, your favorite professional shirt ruined and stained by rain and grime.

Needless to say, you burst into tears the moment your husband asked 'how was work?'

After maintaining your strength for a shower and a cuddle, he listened to you vent, he watched you cry in frustration with a hand on your back and your face buried in his chest.

"I hate this! I wish I could just quit!" Your emotions overpowered any logic, but the string of bad luck and your work going unappreciated as well as unpaid overtime, a person can only take so much. Mark knew more than anyone just how fragile you are, how fragile humans are.

He hummed in response, he shouldn't bring up his previous offer outright, he couldn't just drop a 'well, you could.' At your most vulnerable. He settled to pull you closer and kiss your head gently. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. You've been working so hard, it must be frustrating when it's all for nothing."

You stayed quiet, sniffling between deep breaths as he continued. "God, I wish I could take it all away." His eyes watched you carefully, seeing your eyes shift, he can practically smell the uncertainty and desire to just stay home wafting from you.

His influence was set, now all he needed to do was be a good husband. Mark ran a hand up and down your back gently, tracing shapes absentmindedly as he focused on getting you to forget about your unfortunate day. "I'll get your laptop's data recovered first thing tomorrow, okay?" He offered.

It took you a moment to respond, your moping did a number on you. "Thank you, Mark.." You sighed, sitting up and finally deciding to part from him. "I'll get dinner started."

He followed suit, sitting up with you and holding your hand. "No, no. Don't be ridiculous. You had a long day, let me handle dinner." He cupped your cheek gently as you shook her head. "No, Mark-"

"I'm all over it, I promise." He got up, letting his hands part from you. "How about Katsu dinner? I'll zip over to Japan and back faster than you can say 'Dinner'." He joked to lift your mood.

You held his wrists, assuring him. "No, please.. I need something to take my mind off of today, I think cooking is gonna help a lot."

"... if you insist, I like when you cook for me." Mark leaned closer to kiss your forehead. "Need any help?"

Your smile returned, just briefly. "No, I got it." You reassured once more. "Go clean up, okay?"

"Yes ma'am, I love you." He murmured, giving you a brief peck before the two of you parted ways. With his back turned to you, he had to withhold himself from smiling too hard. You're such a good housewife, and you didn't even know it yet.

[bunni-v1]

how do you think lighter would handle the reader after learning it is going to be their first time aka a virgin reader x lighter

Lighter and Virgin!Reader

🍓Yayay! I wanted to really take my time to write this one, so sorry that I didn't get it out super quick. Wrote it while listening to Christmas music btw, probably gonna write smth smutty for Christmas now. I've never written full-on smut outside of an RP setting so... apolocheese if this is cringe. You can throw tomatoes at me, I will eat them like the rodent I am.

Minors DNI

TW: NSFW; First time!; sickeningly sweet lighter; grammar errors probably lol (I promise I edit my stuff).

Info: Lighter x Reader; Nsfw; Fluffy; no pronouns but reader is fem bodied

Lighter is, and always has been, a rather simple man. While he loves you and respects you more than anything in the world, he too has thoughts that any man might have. It was only natural that he found you... mmm... titillating. You were his partner after all, and you were very good-looking if you asked him.

So many times he's found you on his lap, or beneath him whichever comes easiest at the time, drowning in your sweet lips. His hands wandered over your clothed sides, desperate for a taste of the real thing. He was addicted to you, and sweet candies couldn't placate him this time. It was heavenly having you in his grasp, so very close to everything he'd been dreaming about.

The only issue was that you always seemed to have some excuse to push him away. He'd fisted his cock one too many times alone in his room after another failed encounter, and he just didn't get it. You always seemed so eager, so pliant, right up until he slid his hands below your shirt.

The second his fingers made contact with the soft, oh-so-tempting skin there you would jump like he'd burned you. Then you'd push his eager hands down and come up with some lame reason to leave. He understood that maybe you weren't ready, that was okay, but didn't you feel safe enough to tell him? No, surely something else was going on. He could tell, there was something else that was holding you back, and he was going to figure it out.

Tonight would be the perfect chance to do just that. The girls were busy doing their own thing at the bar, leaving him with all the free time in the world to be alone with you. As usual, he had you on his lap, mouths working against each other. His tongue pressed into yours, happily exploring its space as he swallowed up your whimpers and whines.

Fingers press into your thighs like a vice, desperate for all the skin they can get their hands on. As you wind your fingers into his hair, he takes it as his sign to slide his hands up to your hips, slowly pressing you down into him. You jolt a little in his grasp, drawing a low chuckle from the back of his throat. So cute.

You pull back from him, a thin string of saliva keeping you connected, eyes wide and face flushed. Your chest heaves with effort, and your hair is an absolute disaster. It makes his cock twitch in his jeans, another gasp falling from your pretty swollen lips at the sensation.

"Lighter..." You say breathlessly, and he knows its meant to be a scolding remark, but he just finds it too cute.

He cocks his head to the side, "What? Too much to handle?"

You give him an eye roll that is all too endearing, trying and failing to straighten out your messy hair, "It's getting late, I should probably head to mine soon."

His smile falls from his face, disappointed again, like clockwork. He can't even find it in himself to hide it anymore, which makes you frown too. You press a kiss on his cheek, apologetically, "What's wrong? Why is my champion pouting?"

The pet name is almost enough to get him to forget everything, but then you shift on his lap a little and his hard-on screams at him to at least get some kind of answer. So he sighs, patting the meat of your thigh almost sadly, "Why do you always do that?"

You raise an eyebrow, which he mirrors. You know better than to play dumb, Lighter can see right through the schtick. Your demeanor cracks first, and you seem genuinely nervous as you respond, "I don't know..."

"Listen, baby. If you're not ready all you gotta do is tell me--" He tries to soothe you, because he doesn't want you to be upset. There was no shame in just not being ready, but you cut him off before he can finish his reassurances.

"No, it's not-" A grumble leaves your chest, "I want to, I really do I just... I get nervous."

It's his turn to raise an eyebrow at you, sunglasses slanting down his nose as he tilts his head curiously, "What's there to be nervous about...?"

You fluster, looking anywhere your eyes can find that wasn't him. You were awfully cute when you were embarrassed, but he couldn't let himself get distracted. With the gentlest touch to your chin, he refocuses your attention on him. A reassuring smile on his face, urging you without words to tell him what was wrong.

Some kind of war goes on behind your pretty little eyes, and he has to tap your lip with his thumb to center you again. You pout against the finger, and it takes everything in him not to push it up and into your mouth. Finally, after what seemed like ages of waiting, you give another sigh. "I'm... a virgin."

"Oh," he says, automated like a robot. It takes his brain a moment to click the gears together, but once they do, he nods. Oh. That makes so much sense.

"I'm sorry," you mumble, pressing off his chest to get up, but he tugs you back into his lap. Giving you a reassuring squeeze, praying to whatever there was out there for you to give him a moment to collect his thoughts.

It really isn't a big deal to him, not at all. He'd taken people's virginity before - former partners he doesn't even remember the names of - but you. Getting to be your first? It felt like the world had both blessed and cursed him at the same time. You didn't have a good frame of reference, which was great. He'd be the best partner you've had. Yet... he'd also be the only partner you've had, and that was a lot of pressure to put on a guy like him.

"Lighter?" You squeak out, face all nervous and cute in a way that just drives him wild.

A huff leaves him before he can think better of it, causing you to frown a little. His arms wrap around your middle, tugging you closer to him, "That's all? Here you had me thinking you weren't attracted to me all of a sudden."

The response takes you off guard, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. Had you genuinely thought that would be a turn-off for him? What do you take him for, some prude? "I- I mean, you know... I don't have any experience, and I figured since... since you had it would just-"

He hushes you, trying his best not to laugh at how ridiculous the thought is. Most guys would leap to be in his shoes, it was a loser's wet dream to take some innocent angel like you and ruin you. Not Lighter, though. Despite how many times he'd fucked his hand thinking about your pretty little body, he would make sure your first time was perfect. He really needed it to be perfect.

"I don't care about that, baby." There's a teasing lilt in his tone that sends shockwaves down your spine, "I just want you to be happy."

It was your turn to be dumbfounded, staring at him like he had spoken forbidden texts in tongues you didn't understand. He tilts your head with the hand still holding your chin, and it's incredibly sexy the way his sunglasses dip a little so you can see the genuineness in his eyes.

"Would it make you happy if I took your virginity?" You give a slow, dumb nod, and he presses closer, "Do you wanna try tonight?"

Lighter watches with thinly veiled amusement as the pieces slip into place for you, face so warm he could feel it at this distance. You seem to have stalled a bit, so he gives you an award-winning smile and taps your lips to remind you to use them.

"Yes. Please." You blurt out, and it's so incredibly unsexy and awkward, but he still bites his lip like you were sex incarnate.

He gives you all but three seconds to admire the (so, so incredibly hot) look on his face before he's picking you up with no effort, hands wrapped under the swell of your ass like they were made to be there. You cling to his shoulders like a lifeline, and his cock strains in his stupidly tight jeans as he imagines you doing so without the jacket between your skin.

"Where are we going?" You ask, voice uneasy.

He smirks at you, "You didn't seriously think I was gonna let your first time be on some dingy outdoor couch, did you?"

You're silent all the way to his quarters after that, warm face buried into the crook of his shoulder. He can feel how nervous you are in the shaky breaths you let puff out onto his neck. He gives your butt a reassuring pat, which only makes you burrow yourself further into his neck.

He doesn't get to see your face again until he carefully lies you on his bed, and he's glad for it too. The nervous shimmer in your eyes would've been enough for him to bend you over any surface in a heartbeat. Your teeth nibble awkwardly on your swollen bottom lip, and he resists the urge to take it in between his own, instead busying his hands with shrugging off his jacket so he doesn't do exactly that.

You look near terrified when he climbs on top of you, so leans down to kiss your forehead, and in the gentlest voice he can muster whispers, "We'll go slow, but we gotta take our clothes off if we wanna do anything, m'kay?"

You give him a slow nod, slowly drifting your eyes down to his tight-fitting t-shirt. Once you seem to calm a little, he leans down and starts right where you left off. Capturing your lips in a soft kiss, slowly easing back into the passion from earlier. His hips press into yours, but they remain still against your heat. He would let you decide when you were ready for that again.

His hands eagerly slid around your thighs, squeezing the fat between his fingers and sighing as they sank against his touch. Always so malleable, it was addictive, but he couldn't get ahead of himself. This was all about you, after all.

Slowly, he inched his digits up to the edge of your shirt, pooling the fabric between them. You give a little jolt, pressing against his crotch a little harder than he expected drawing a hiss from between his teeth. He rubs his nose against yours, "Can we get rid of your shirt?"

Another slow, unsure nod, and he's easing you up just enough that he can tug the offending fabric up and out of the way. (No bra, thank god, he sucks at removing them.) The sight it reveals better than Lighter could've begun to imagine. Your chest rises and falls with your breath, mesmerizing him. You give him an unsure smile, nodding your head along with it, and he thinks he might genuinely die tonight.

He does not suddenly go into cardiac arrest, so instead his hands glide over your stomach, and it's everything he dreamed of and more. The skin is like heaven beneath his calloused fingertips, and the light whimpers and whines you give him are honey in his ears. You shift with every touch, jerking away and then easing into his touch. Unsure, but oh so willing and wanting.

He maps out each inch of your skin like he might lose his way exploring it, tracing all the way to the final destination of your chest. Your nipples are hard already in combination with his touching and the cold air around you. He gives you one last look, one last chance to tell him no, and then he runs his thumb over the tops of them.

The sound you make is delicious, something between a moan and a strangled choking noise -- almost confused at the pleasure you are feeling. He rolls them in his fingers a few times, watching your face intently as he does so. Your confused moans melt into sighs of contentment, so he decides to try his luck with his mouth. With your head rolled back, he ensures you can feel his breath before he presses his tongue to your skin.

You shoot up, gasping in surprise, but you don't make any move to push him away. No, instead you rake your fingers through his hair, pushing his shaggy bangs back so you can really look at him. Those emerald eyes lock with yours, making a show of slowly kissing his way back up to your chest. Along the contours of your collarbones, between the valley of your breasts, and finally right down to your perky bud.

Lighter takes a moment to really appreciate just how nice it looks up close, rather than through the fabric of your tank tops. Just the perfect size for sucking on, he thinks right before he engulfs the needy thing in his mouth. You throw your head back, chest hefting with your cry of "Fuck, Lighter."

He hums, only making it so much worse for you, the vibrations sending a shock through your body that makes you twist your hips just right. He takes his sweet time with your breasts, alternating between the two until you're a messy puddle below him. He hadn't even gotten past the waistband of your pants yet, and you were already so far gone. It was an ego booster, to say the least.

His free hand draws its way down your stomach, stopping at the edge of your pants. They dance their way along your abdomen, just itching to be let in, but not willing to disrespect your boundaries. Lucky for him, they don't have to wait long, and your own join him and carefully aid him in their removal.

It's then that he finally gives your chest a break, pulling back to tug your pants down your legs. Giving himself the time to finally admire you. He'd left... more than a few purple marks along your chest, all of which he thinks look incredibly nice in the light of the moon. His eyes trace their way down your stomach, just like his hands had, and land on the underwear you still had on.

They weren't particularly cutesy or sexy, but on you, it was the hottest thing he'd seen in years. They had a sizable wet spot in the middle, right where he wanted- no, needed to be. The only thing standing between him and tasting you was that thin piece of fabric.

A tug at the hem of his shirt draws him out of his daze, meeting eyes with your cute, nervous ones. It takes him a second to realize you wanted his shirt off, but once he gets the message, he wastes no time in shrugging it to the ground. Following it with his pants, leaving him in his boxers.

Your eyes trace their way along his figure, over his shoulders, across his stomach, and settle shyly on the outline of his dick. It only occurs to him then that you might find him just as attractive as he finds you. With eyes blown wide and distracted as you drink him all in, it's hard to avoid how much you're admiring the view right now.

He has the decency to act embarrassed, despite how he was practically drooling all over you just a few moments ago. He shivers when you reach up and trace your fingers over a scar, breath catching in his throat. "They're so pretty," you mutter, completely unaware that you had said that out loud. It could honestly make him cry. The way you look at him like he's some kind of art piece. So much love and admiration in your eyes. He can't handle it for long, even though you seem to be content just admiring his scars.

He grabs your hand, intertwining your fingers together as he presses you back into the mattress. You let out a huff as he pressed his forehead to yours, pouting now that he had interrupted your show. He gives you a few apologetic kisses, smiling at your pouting.

"Are you sure you wanna keep going, we can stop now if you want," he whispers, soft and gentle.

You nod, confident this time, "I'm ready. I wanna do this with you, Lighter. Not anyone else."

That makes his heart swell, sending the feeling right down to his dick, throbbing and reminding him he needs to prepare you. He wasn't usually one to brag, but he knew he was big, and it would be a tough take for your first time. If he wanted you to enjoy it, he'd have to take care to loosen you up first.

"Okay," he hums, reaching over to grab the lube and condoms from his nightstand, setting them nearby for when he needs it, "I'm gonna have to loosen you up first, and it's gonna hurt. You sure you can take it?"

He feels your muscles contract as he trails gentle, feather-light pecks along the edge of your underwear. "You'll take care of me, just like you always do..." Ah, you were gonna be the death of him tonight, he just knows it.

He hooks his fingers over the sides of your underwear, carefully tugging them down your legs like unwrapping a present he didn't want to ruin. What a gift he received as he threw the useless fabric to the floor, your pretty little cunt already drooling for him.

"God..." He mutters out, enchanted at the very sight. He adjusts his position one last time, making sure he is perfectly positioned in front of your gorgeous pussy. The view is something straight out of a porno, Lighter's messy hair shadowing his eyes as they stare into your very being, big hands gripping at your thighs -- like he was readying himself to consume you whole.

"You ready, baby?" He asks one last time, though it's painfully hard to do so now that he was literally right where he wanted to be, "Cause if you're not you better say so now, I don't think I could stop myself once I start, angel."

You give him the slowest nod known to man, followed by a timid little 'yes' and he's gone. His strong arms wrap under and rest atop your thighs, carefully pulling your folds apart to reveal the shining pearl he'd been dreaming of. Involuntarily he huffs out a hot breath, causing you to squirm a little in his grasp, and then he leans down and kisses your clit.

You jolt at the new sensation, another awkward breathy moan leaving your lips. He pulls back to give you a second, watching your expressions and committing them all to mind, and then he licks his lips and leans down for another wet kiss against your neglected bud. Then another, and another, and another, and at some point his tongue joins the barrage but you have no idea when. Too caught up in how good he's making you feel. So much better than your own fingers.

Lighter is in heaven, completely surrounded by nothing but you. Your little sighs, your skin, your sweet smell, and of course your juices dripping down his chin. You tasted so amazing, better than all the candies he ate. He swallowed you like a man starved, arguably more desperate for your pleasure than you were. Your little whines of his name only fueled him to suck on the little bud like a sweet treat, humming at the taste.

He wondered how many more moans he could get out of you if he added a finger... He had to stretch you out anyway, seems like now was better a time than any. One hand unwound itself from under your leg, snaking along the sheets right up under your bum.

Without taking his eyes or mouth off you he gently traces around your hole with his middle and index. Your hips grind up into his mouth, and he feels the way you clench against his fingertips. A smile grows on his face, god you were adorable, weren't you? He presses the tip of his finger into your heat, and you squeeze around it sucking him in like nothing.

"Shit..." He groans against you, the grumble going right through your nerves drawing a delicious moan out of you. He slowly pumps his finger at the same pace as his tongue, when it rolls across your clit, the finger presses up into you again. The white, hot pleasure that curls up your spine and through your body makes you arch your back. If he kept it up like this, you would cum faster than you ever had before.

Unfortunately, he pulls back and you whine like a needy child. He presses his thumb to your clit instead of his mouth as compensation, rolling in sweet little circles. Not nearly as pleasurable, but still enough to make your head spin, especially when you watch him press his cheek to your thigh to watch his own ministrations.

He is mesmerized by the way your hips jerk into his touch, his finger disappearing and reappearing over and over awfully stimulating for his relatively blank mind. His eyes lazily roll up to yours, smirking when he sees you watching him with lidded ones. "You like it, baby?"

You mutter an incoherent sound of approval, head falling back to the pillows, but that doesn't do it for him. He grabs your face with his free hand, focusing your expression on him yet again. As he does so, he eases a second finger in and you let out the most sinful moan of his name he's ever heard. He presses a kiss against your inner thigh, encouraging you to keep making those pretty noises.

He keeps on watching you, eyes having trouble focusing on both your face and your messy cunt. They're both such a good show, how could he be expected to pick which one was better. All the while he was sucking marks into your inner thigh, adding to the growing coil below your naval.

It was all too much for your poor little untouched body. His eyes watching you so carefully, the sting of his teeth on your thighs, his calloused thumb rubbing delightfully perfect circles against your swollen clit. You couldn't even think about anything other than how nice his fingers felt with circular motions right against that spot that your fingers could never reach.

"Lighter..." Your voice is so much more airy than you thought it would be, "I'm-"

He hums, understanding you without you needing to say anything at all. He removes himself from your thigh, climbing over to press his forehead against yours without stopping his movements. He wanted to see the face you made when you cum clearly. Wanted to have it etched into every corner of his brain so he could never dream of forgetting it.

"Go on then, I've got you," He encourages, and that's all it takes for the tight ball in your stomach to burst, and the flood of pleasure to take its place. You spasm around his fingers, juices coating them and dripping down his wrist. It's a beautiful thing to Lighter, watching the way your face scrunches up and then melts into pure pleasure. That was a face he could never forget, not in a million lifetimes.

He keeps his fingers moving at a slow and steady pace, easing you back down from your high. Only pull them out when you stop clenching around them, sucking your essence clean from them with a groan of satisfaction. "Delicious," He whispers, easing you back into the sheets, limbs soft and limp with the pleasant aftershocks of your orgasm.

Lighter is still there above you, watching with all the admiration in the world as your gaze refocuses on him. It's an infectious look that you subconsciously mirror, cradling his face in the palm of your hand.

"Feel good?" He asks, playing with a loose strand of your hair.

You nod, pressing a kiss to his nose, "Wonderful, actually. I don't know what I was so scared of."

He chuckles deep and warmly from the back of his throat, "I'm glad."

He presses gentle kisses across your cheek, nosing along your jaw and following with soft presses into the sensitive skin. You scratch his scalp appreciatively, more than happy to accept the affections.

"You wanna call it there?" He murmurs against your throat, hot breath leaving goosebumps in its wake, "Don't wanna push you too far."

You shake your head, frowning down at him, "No, no. I wanna keep going. It's not fair of me to leave you like... that." You gesture to his still rock-hard dick pressed against your thigh.

He comes back up to look at you, caressing your face with utmost care, "Don't worry about me, I can live without getting off."

"I know," you giggle, and it's such a sweet sound to him, "I want to, Lighter. I want you. Please indulge me just a little longer?"

He really can't argue with that, not with how you're smiling at him. "Alright," He sits up, grabs the condoms, and rips the box open with practiced ease, "but it's not gonna feel good to start."

"I know," You answer, sitting up to watch him slide his boxers down. His cock springs out, tip an angry red and bleeding precum down the shaft. It was an incredibly hot sight to see him slide the condom over himself, his muscles flexing from the much-needed attention. "I definitely know."

He smirks, settling between your legs again as he picks up the lube this time. "Enjoying the view?"

"Too much," you respond, enraptured as he tugs along his member a few times, shuddering at the sensation.

He takes the time to adjust you beneath him, tugging your hips up in an angled position. The manhandling is surprisingly hot, and your heart skips a beat when he grabs at your thigh more roughly than you're used to.

"I hope I can keep you satisfied," he muses, lining himself up with your pussy.

He runs the tip against your clit a few times, spreading a mixture of lube and your cum around, hissing to himself at the feeling. He wasn't even inside and he was already needing more of you, god what did you do to him?

He presses the tip against your weeping hole, hot and desperate against him. It fluttered in anticipation, feeling far too empty knowing what his fingers felt like. It had you praying to know what his cock felt like fully pressed inside. Surely it would fill you up even better.

His emerald green eyes come down to stare into yours, an intensity you've only ever seen from him in fights burning behind them. "Ready?"

You take a deep breath and then nod as assuredly as you can. You had no idea what you were getting into, but as the tip slowly sunk into you, you felt lightheaded. The sting was deep, drawing a hiss of pain out of you, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. He wasn't lying when he said it would hurt, but this was way worse than you expected.

He leans down, locking his fingers with yours and pressing loving kisses along your cheeks. His hair tickles your skin and it does wonders in distracting you from the burn of his stretching you. That was just the tip. If you couldn't handle that, how could you take the rest of him?

Lighter doesn't let you worry about it, rubbing his thumbs into your hips. Muttering sweet nothings into your sweaty skin, worshipping you like a god. Like you were his whole world. In his pleasure-fueled haze, that was more truth than it was fiction.

For every stinging inch, Lighter muttered praises and peppered a thousand more kisses across your burning skin. This was the most full you'd ever felt, and the more he pushed inside the more you wanted. He stuffed himself in to the hilt, stopping fully when his hips were pressed flush against yours. You shuddered at the sensation of his tip kissing your cervix. When he said he was big he meant it, and it was everything you wanted and more.

His rough hands slide gently along your sides, coaxing you to just look at him. Your glazed eyes slide over to his face, and you smile dumbly at his expression. His face is red, brows furrowed in concentrated effort and eyes clouded in lust. "You okay? Still hurt?"

You shake your head, chest rising and falling with more effort than you were used to. "It feels good. I like it."

He swallows hard, adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Fuck, he just can't stand it. You were so tight and warm, sucking him in like he was your last meal. He could feel your pussy clench around him suddenly, and he had to bury his face into your neck to stop himself from moaning out loud.

Who could've imagined a few years without sex would make him so weak. Maybe it was actually just you that made him like this. He couldn't possibly imagine any pussy better than yours, it felt like it was molded perfectly just for him. The thought occurs to him, like a stroke of genius, that this was his pussy and it was molded to him. Now that you let him fuck you once, he could do it again and again and again whenever either of you liked.

He liked that idea a lot more than he probably should, his cock twitching a little at the prospect. You squeeze back and he does moan this time, deep and throaty into your neck. It's quite the sound from such a big guy, making your skin tingle excitedly. You had been the reason for it, after all, it was flattering.

"Lighter?" You say, startling him. He looks up at you from his spot against your shoulder, "Can you move? I'm too full with you just sitting there."

He blinks at you, taking in your words carefully and digesting them. Yeah, you were gonna kill him tonight. You had no fucking clue what you were doing to him.

"Whatever you want," He mumbles out, pressing a wet kiss to your cheek, before slowly pulling out.

You groan out in tandem, the drag of his cock and a squeeze of your walls more pleasurable than you'd imagined. Then he pushes back in at the same pace and you shudder in his arms. He keeps the pace slow and easy, still able to remember that he wanted to be gentle despite how much he wished to be anything but. First time, he echoed in his head, take it easy Lighter.

Each drag of his cock against your plush warm insides has you gasping out, desperate for more and more. He watches you with an intensity to rival his excitement during a fight, taking in each detail with careful consideration. The way your brows scrunch up when he brushes that gummy spot with his tip, and how your teeth tug on your lips, and the way your eyelashes flutter when his hips lay flush into yours.

Lighter never considered himself an artist, but damn if you weren't his greatest masterpiece like this. You open your eyes and finally look at him, and the intensity in his gaze has you shying away into your palms. He can't have that, he wanted to look, so he grabbed your wrists and set them on his shoulders. They curl into the skin, crescent-shaped marks sure to form in the morning.

You still try to evade his gaze, so he follows with his own face, leaning forward. "Don't hide," he coos, his hands moving your hips with his upper body so he's fully leaning over you now, the new position allowing him to not only look at you but hit much deeper than before. "Lemme see yer pretty face."

A wanton moan is ripped from your throat as he picks up his pace, and you finally look at him when he grabs at your chin. His hair is stuck to his sweaty forehead, breathing heavily as he keeps up the new speed he's set. The wild look in his eyes is enough to make you clench and get to watch in real-time the effect it has on him. Swallowing hard as his eyebrows come together in pleasured surprise.

You were making it so, so hard on him, really you were. Each reaction you had made it so much more difficult to keep himself together. When you clench around him again he lets out a sound between a sigh and a squeak. Your fingers are running along the nape of his neck and through his hair, and it's nearly got him choking on air.

You're no better, hardly even coherent as his hips continue pistoning in and out of you at such consistent pacing. The wet slapping of skin on skin is the only thing you can focus on, everything else is too much for your muddled brain to understand.

The hand that isn't keeping your eyes on him comes down to massage your clit again, fingers splayed across your abdomen to feel himself through your skin while his thumb takes care of you. He was close, and he could tell you were too. Your moans getting more and more desperate, and the squeezing you gave him more and more desperate to keep him moving.

He didn't have it in himself to say anything coherent, so instead he settled on kissing you. Sloppy and uncoordinated and more teeth than anything else, but he still kissed you. Swallowing up every moan like a man starved.

His pace grows sloppy as he chases your highs, both of you moaning unabashedly loudly. He would hear from Lucy in the morning, he was sure of it, but that didn't matter too much to him now. Not when he felt you come undone around him. Your whole body tensed, desperate little cunt squeezing him in a vice grip and moans so delicious that he couldn't help but follow your lead.

He gives one last harsh thrust, and then he unloads into the condom. He thinks for a moment that he wishes it wasn't there but focuses instead on sucking at the juncture of your neck. You writhe under him, fingers raking down his back harsh enough to leave red lines in his skin.

It was better than he had expected it to feel, that was for certain. Even as he calmed down and came back to reality, there were little sparks of pleasure ringing through his body. He kissed his way over the marks he'd left on your body, waiting patiently for you to calm down before he pulled out.

Both of you let out sounds of complaint at the loss, but he knew that he couldn't stay inside you forever (no matter how nice that sounded). He smiled warmly down at you, caressing your face with such gentleness it could make you cry. "You alright...?"

You nod, brushing the hair out of his face so you can look at him properly, "This is probably the best I've ever felt in my whole life."

That gets him to laugh, pressing his forehead against yours, "I'm glad I could be of service."

"Did you-" You start, but he doesn't let you finish before he responds.

"Yes. I did enjoy myself, very much, baby." He hums, washing away any insecurities you could've had with ease.

He eases you up into a sitting position with him, holding you there until he is sure you will stay like that by yourself. Then, he stands and digs around his dresser for a towel to wipe you down with. You take the time to admire how nice his ass is out of those skinny jeans, humming to yourself at the sight.

When he rejoins you on the bed, you smirk at him, "Your ass is nice."

"Yeah," he huffs out a laugh, "Yours ain't all that bad either."

You let him do what he needs to, wiping you of sweat and any fluids that might become uncomfortable after a while. Then he does the same for himself, and the show is rather nice. When he finishes cleaning the both of you up, he crawls into bed and pulls you to his chest.

You take your chance to trace over the scars again, admiring just how pretty his marred skin is. He doesn't say a word, and you have the understanding not to make verbal comments now. The warmth of his chest combined with the pleasant ache in your limbs was enough to lull you to sleep.

The last thing you hear is Lighter mumble a quiet, "I love you." Though you don't respond, you know he knows you feel the same way.

[eternal-evergreens]

｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+*⁠.⁠✧JJK Men as Yanderes ｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+*⁠.⁠✧

Post Format: Headcanons

Featuring: Gender-Neutral Reader, Satoru Gojo, Suguru Geto, Kento Nanami, Toji Fushiguro, Ryomen Sukuna, Mahito, Choso Kamo

Word count: Each piece is roughly 750 words

Warnings: implied sabotage (Gojo, Toji, Choso), invasion of privacy (Gojo), kidnapping (Gojo, Sukuna), murder (Geto), kidnapping mention (Nanami, Toji), suicidal ideation (Nanami), light gore (Gojo, Sukuna, Mahito), reader injury (Sukuna), threats of bodily harm/mutilation (Mahito), sexual assault (Mahito), implied murder (Choso)

Satoru Gojo

You're nothing special. Not compared to him, at least. With no long line of sorcery or blue blood running through your veins, your family is just about as average as it gets.

You're nothing special---not to Jujutsu society, anyway. But who gives a shit about that? To Satoru, you're more than special.

You're everything.

He's always been the strongest, and yet, when he's with you, he just feels so weak.

Like a schoolgirl fawning over her latest crush, Satoru often finds himself checking his phone while away on missions, hoping to see your name appear on his screen. It doesn't have to be anything special—even a picture of some ugly animal with the caption "That's u, lol." is enough to get him going. Just knowing you were thinking of him at all, even in an unflattering light, makes him feel lightheaded in a way not even battle can emulate.

It's weird. It's embarrassing.

But he can't get enough.

Satoru wants you more than he's ever wanted anything, and he wants you to feel the same way. He'd do anything if it meant winning your heart.

If you asked him to kneel, he'd kneel. If you asked him to beg, he'd beg. If you asked him to rip out a man's heart and present it to you, he'd ask if he should do so on a silver or gold platter.

If you asked him to let you go, however...

You sigh and fall back onto the couch. It'd been a week since your landlord mysteriously kicked you out, and Satoru took you in with a frankly suspicious eagerness. To say that he was an overbearing roommate was to put it lightly.

He'd follow you around the flat from room to room, enter your bedroom without knocking, and once, you even caught him sifting through your laundry. He wasn't even embarrassed about getting caught, let alone the fact that he had done it in the first place.

You decided to start searching for a new roommate after that.

"Y'know," Satoru says, slinging his arms around your shoulders---you hadn't even heard him approach. You quickly close your computer, which happens to have very clearly been showcasing cheap apartments in the area. "I could have just taken ya'. Snatched you up off the street like some kidnapper."

"What...?"

"---But I decided to play nice instead. I thought we could forge a real relationship that way. But you've just been pushing me away. I'm starting to think I've been too lenient with ya'. Like maybe I should have just locked you up instead."

"That isn't funny, Satoru."

"Who said I was joking?" You open your mouth to respond, but Satoru cuts you off before you get the chance. "You want dinner? I can order us takeout. Anywhere you'd like."

Drop it, his eyes say. You do.

That very night, you pack a bag and head to the nearest hotel. In the morning, you'll ask your job if they can transfer you to another city. For tonight, you'd like to just get a good night's rest without the lingering fear of waking up to his figure looming over you.

You wake up to familiar surroundings. It doesn't register as strange until you remember checking into a hotel the night prior. You shoot up to get a better look around. Sure enough, you're in your own bedroom, not the hotel's.

But how...?

You're sure you left last night. Did you dream it? You go to check your phone, but it's not there.

Just then, the door opens. "Oh, you're up," your roommate says.

"Satoru, what's---"

"I called you in sick for work today," he says casually, "and tomorrow. Actually, starting today, you're unemployed."

"What?!"

"Don't worry. I can take care of us. I've got more than enough money."

Satoru wants you more than he's ever wanted anything, and he wants you to feel the same way. He'd do anything if it meant winning your heart.

If you asked him to kneel...If you asked him to beg...

If you asked him to let you go, however...

"C'mon, baby, you know I can't do that," he'd say, arms around your waist and head in your lap. "Ask me for something else, anything. Just not that. Do you want a pony? We can get a pony."

"No---"

"What about a cat? Or maybe you prefer dogs? I could get a purebred if you wanted one. I know it gets lonely being in the house all by yourself."

"I want to go outside, Satoru."

"We could get a fish tank, I guess. Though I doubt they'd make good company."

"Listen to me---"

"Actually, maybe that's for the best. Wouldn't want to compete for my lover's attention in my very own home, you know?"

Suguru Geto

When he was at his lowest, Suguru thought of you. It kept him going. It kept him sane.

So, of course, you were the first person he asked to join him in the creation of the new world. His world.

"Our world," he said, the look on his face desperate, pleading.

You declined, of course. His ideals went against everything you stood for as a Jujutsu sorcerer. As a person.

He took it well---or seemed to, at least. He flashed you a plastered-on smile and released your hands from his, leaving you with no further fuss.

For a while, that seemed to be the end of it.

Life went on. Though you would occasionally catch wind of his nefarious deeds, dealing with such things never fell within your purview. In fact, it almost seemed as if the higher-ups were purposefully keeping you from any cases that involved him.

You had all but forgotten about that fateful evening when a call from the higher-ups had you booking a flight to Okayama.

Apparently, there had been a sudden influx of cursed spirits in the region. And as the lead researcher in cursed phenomena, you were called to the scene.

You had already been given a file outlining the happenings, but out of courtesy, Yumi, the assistant supervisor assigned to the case alongside you, filled you in regardless.

"It's not that there's a higher rate of cursed spirits being born in this area," she said. "They're migrating here."

"Hmm," you look over the map on your tablet again; colour-coded dots mark the locations and grades of each (presumed) non-native sighting. The spacings are far from natural. They seem to have been made with intent, almost as if forming a pattern of some kind.

"We've set up a barrier to track the arrival of new cursed spirits. Nearly every curse from fourth to semi-first grade in the neighbouring towns has been coming here. Some of our windows have even spotted them moving together in groups."

"Was there anything strange about their behaviour? Like moving in single-file lines, with strange movements, or perhaps even speaking?" Yumi lights up.

"Yes, actually! They were all---"

Your screen flashes, suddenly restarting the tablet without your input.

"Huh...?"

"[Last]-San..." Your supervisor almost whispers. You tear your eyes from your screen to hers as she weakly holds up her tablet to you.

Over four hundred cursed spirits have been spotted crossing the Okayama border within the past fifteen minutes.

Your tablet finishes restarting, and you scramble to view the map again, hoping what you just saw was nothing more than a glitch.

The loading screen seems to take ages to complete, but when it does, the map shows exactly what you feared.

Oh. You get it now.

The pattern it was trying to spell out. It's "愛"

---"Love".

You hear a scream.

"Ah, it's good to see you again. How long has it been now?" A voice---one you're all too familiar with---says. "Two, no, maybe three years?" Suguru is wiping blood off of his hands. You don't want to look down. You can't look down.

Yumi is dead.

You looked down.

"I'm not sure why I phrased that like a question I didn't know the answer to," he says, smiling in a way that makes your heart ache. "I've been keeping track down to the days, you see."

"Were you...behind this?" You've never been one for combat. You can't use reverse cursed technique to save Yumi. You can't fight to save the others. There's nothing you can do.

You've never felt so helpless.

"I did," he admits casually. "I recently got my hands on a new curse. First-grade 'Pied Piper', its technique creates a sort of call-and-response between itself and other curses of a lower grade through a musical frequency only other curses can perceive. With that technique, I can manipulate the movements of curses I haven't yet acquired without leaving my residuals behind."

"But if it's coming from the technique of a curse you possess, your residuals would still be left behind," you counter.

"Ah, as quick on the uptake as always, [First]," he praises. "You're right, or you would be if this curse were under the control of my curse spirit manipulation. No, this curse was tamed, not subjugated."

"Why are you telling me this?"

He's going to kill you once he's finished explaining.

"I've always appreciated an inquisitive mind," he says. "especially when it's your inquisitive mind." Your mouth forms a vague 'O' shape as the realisation dawns on you.

"愛"

"Love"

...You're never getting away.

Kento Nanami

Nanami is someone who has never really been all that content with life.

Sorcery sucks. Corporate sucks. Japan sucks.

Sometimes, on his darkest days, Nanami thinks about what would have happened if he had joined Haibara—or better yet, if he had never even been born in the first place. If the world is this awful, wouldn't it be better to have never experienced it at all?

But then he met you, and suddenly, the world didn't seem all that bad.

Don't get him wrong, it's not like your presence suddenly made all the wrongs in the world right, but it did make him feel like they all mattered just a little bit less. Like maybe all this suffering was worth it, if it also meant he could see you smile.

So, of course, he'd do anything to keep you safe. To protect that smile.

The easiest way to ensure that, of course, would be to clip your wings. To lock you away somewhere where only he could reach you. A songbird that only sings for him, a dove in a birdcage.

He'd treat you like royalty, of course. His job pays well, but he's a somewhat frugal person by nature, so he has plenty of savings lying around. Whatever you wanted, he'd get you.

As long as you stayed safe, he couldn't ask for anything more. Even if you didn't love him, as long as your smile could be protected, that would be enough.

He's in the middle of researching what kind of restraints would cause the least damage and irritation to your skin when he realises what a grave mistake he was about to make.

'If the world is this awful, wouldn't it be better to have never experienced it at all?'

What if...

What if you started feeling that way, too?

What if, in trying to protect your smile, he ends up being the one to take it away?

He could offer you all the material things in the world, but if it comes at the price of your freedom, it might still not make you happy. After all, it was the same for him.

If money didn't make him happy, why would you be different?

Sorcery sucks. Corporate sucks. Japan sucks.

Nanami is worse.

He doesn't deserve you. It's with this thought in mind that he begins to avoid you. He refuses to meet your gaze, leaves the room when you enter, and declines all missions that involve your presence.

He feels like he's going crazy. Separation has made him sloppy and reckless. He comes home with more injuries, and a part of him thinks he deserves it.

Bags begin to form under his eyes as two weeks go by without the haven of your presence. He sees you everywhere now. The girl across the street is dressed in a substyle you like. The model in that magazine has your eyes. The cafe down the block is having a special on your coffee order.

"Nanamin, why're you avoiding [Last] all of a sudden? They do something to you?" Nanami scoffs at the remark but doesn't answer. He turns to leave but stops when Gojo continues. "Y'know, they actually came cryin' to me about it. Said they had no idea why you suddenly started treatin' 'em like they've got the plague." Nanami turns to look at Gojo, who's fiddling with his blindfold. "You should make up with them soon. Can't leave our cute little assistant supervisor feeling so down, you know?"

Nanami hates to admit it, but Gojo might be right.

'What if, in trying to protect your smile, he ends up being the one to take it away?'

Fuck. He can't do anything right.

He really doesn't deserve you, but what can he do? If he leaves, you won't smile anymore, but if he stays, you'll be smiling at a monster.

But what can he do? He'd do anything to protect that smile.

Even if it means hiding his fangs.

Toji Fushiguro

Toji is a man who takes what he wants and doesn't care if he has to get his hands dirty in order to take it.

Naturally, this applies to you as well.

It's strange, he's never wanted someone as badly as he wants you. Not his past flings, not even his late wife.

Toji is no stranger to romance. He was married, after all. He knows love. It's a familiar feeling.

That's why he's inclined to believe that what he feels for you isn't love. No, what he feels for you is far too primal to be love. It's rough and all-consuming. It's nothing like the soothing feeling he had around his wife.

Love wraps around one's heart like a warm blanket. This wraps around his heart like a python.

But if it's not love, what is it?

Actually, scratch that. It doesn't matter.

Whatever it is, it's some form of desire. And if he desires something, then all he has to do is take it.

Yes, it's better to keep these kinds of things simple rather than getting tied up in technicalities.

There is a problem, however. He'd like nothing more than to just lock you up and keep you for himself, but with his somewhat unstable income and his habit of bouncing around from place to place, that isn't exactly feasible.

Ah, what to do...?

He could settle down or stop spending his money as soon as he earns it, but where's the fun in that?

No, rather than try to adapt to your lifestyle, he'd much rather force you to adapt to his. Still, he supposes some sacrifices will be necessary, as his lifestyle is currently only fit for one.

You'll have to quit your job since you'll be moving around from place to place alongside him, but he'll just take on some more jobs to cover the extra cost; it's no big deal.

He proposes the idea to you so matter-of-factly that it's almost as if he believes you to have already agreed to the plan beforehand. In reality, this is your first time hearing of such a thing, and you're so stunned that you momentarily lose your voice.

You've known this man for two, no, maybe three weeks, and yet he's asking you to drop everything and come overseas with him? You're not even friends! He's just a regular at the cafe you're employed with.

It dawns on you that he must be joking, so you chuckle awkwardly and avert your gaze. Perhaps you simply haven't known him long enough to gauge his sense of humour. You feel a little embarrassed for nearly having taken him so seriously.

Then, he shows you the plane tickets.

Bewildered, you end up being more blunt than you perhaps meant to: "I'm not going," you say, pushing his tickets back to him.

"Sweetheart," he says dryly. "I'm not asking." You shoot him a strained, confused smile, which quickly morphs into a more genuine one as the door chimes.

To think you'd ever be happy to serve a customer. It's a foreign sentiment, but if it means an end to this strange interaction, you'd happily serve a hundred---no, maybe even a thousand customers.

You take their order and get to making their drink, shooting quick glances at the man---Toji, you think---from behind the bar.

He hasn't taken his eyes off of you.

It's days like this that you wish the company wasn't so stingy about hiring more than one person for shifts. You're about to clock out, and if that man is going to stay until closing, you'd really like to have a coworker walk you back to your car.

It's twenty minutes until closing when Toji finally leaves. You let out an unconscious sigh of relief, feeling your shoulders relax. That was weird, but you shouldn't have to see him again, right? He's going overseas tomorrow, after all.

Yeah, you won't see him again. Thank goodness.

It's with that thought in mind that you flip the "We're open!" sign to its side and lock the doors. It's only 6 PM, but the fall season means it's already dark. You shiver from a cool breeze as you make your way towards your car at last.

Huh. Flat tire.

Ryomen Sukuna

Those who know of Sukuna will inevitably feel sorry for anyone who happens to catch his gaze. Sorcerer or not, none will ever possess even a fraction of the strength he carries, and for someone like Sukuna, that means you're no better than a bug to be trampled on.

What a poor, pitiful thing you are. You must be treated more like a pet than a person. A plaything for him to toy with, to discard once you've ceased to entertain.

However, this interpretation couldn't be more wrong.

What others fail to realise is that Sukuna would never waste his time on someone he doesn't consider his equal. Weak as you may be, there's something about you that seems different in his eyes.

Like a precious gem left unpolished, there's a certain allure to you that only a trained eye could see, and he'll be damned if he lets anyone else stake a claim on you first.

No, he'll be the one to bring out your true potential.

Sukuna has never met someone worthy of being his companion. This has never bothered him, however. Loneliness was not something he was familiar with. There are those who have tried, of course, to prove their worth, to stand by his side, but none have ever moved him.

None until you, that is.

The funny thing is that you don't even try to win his attention. You never once asked for his gaze to land upon you. And yet, he can't bring himself to look away.

Sukuna doesn't know what to do with you. You make him feel things he's never felt before.

Is this weakness? Is it love?

Is there a difference between the two at all?

Should he kill you? Should he keep you?

What can he do to make these feelings go away? What can he do to ensure they never go away?

In exchange for not pillaging your homeland, the townspeople offer you up as a sacrifice. It was Uraume's idea.

At midnight, you're dragged out of the comfort of your home and tied to a stake, where you stay for hours. By dawn, you've worn yourself out with struggle, dried blood sticking to your hands and the ropes around your wrists, when a white-haired stranger comes to collect you.

The stranger undoes your bindings, but only the ones keeping you bound to the pole. You're dragged along like a dog on a leash for countless hours until you eventually arrive at the largest estate you've ever seen in your life. It's midday when you're untied and allowed to bathe. The warm water releases all the tension from your aching muscles, and as you bathe, the white-haired fellow replaces the garments you arrived in with robes made of fine silk.

The stranger's name is Uraume, they tell you. They'll be taking care of you until their master is ready to meet with you.

"What happens after that?" you ask tentatively.

Uruame flashes you a smile that refuses to answer.

Before you know it, a full week has passed you by. You're still yet to see this so-called master, but Uraume tells you not to worry. After all, the master has already seen you lots of times, they say.

The thought of being watched in secret sends a shiver down your spine.

Though the prison is large, you're confined to only one wing of the estate, and after a week of having nothing to do but wander, you have the entire layout memorized. Bored and unattended, you decide to venture out into the unknown past the garden's gates. There, you come face-to-face with the largest man you've ever laid eyes upon.

A hulking figure with four arms and fiery pink hair turns to you, and in an instant, you fall to the ground, only vaguely aware of the blood pooling around you and the pain across your chest.

In truth, Sukuna had tried to kill you, but his technique missed your vitals. It takes him a moment of watching your blood ooze out of the open wound to realize he did it on purpose. Before he even realizes it, he's picked you up in his lower arms and applied reverse cursed technique to your injury. You've lost consciousness, and your pulse is weak, but you aren't dead. Relief floods through Sukuna's veins as he listens to your soft breathing.

From that day on, you're never to leave his side unless absolutely necessary. From that day on, Sukuna has someone worthy of standing by his side, not as a servant, nor a pet, but as a companion. From that day on, Sukuna has a lover.

Whether you like it or not.

Mahito

As a curse born from the hatred and fear humans feel towards their own kind, Mahito relishes humanity's anguish and despair. He kills without a second thought, not caring who he hurts or who gets swept up into his path of mass destruction.

So why is it that this particular human sways him so? Why is it that he thinks your soul looks pretty, just the way it is? Why does he want to touch you but not to warp you beyond repair?

Why does he want you to look at him? Why does he want to scoop your eyes out of your sockets so that you can never look away?

To be a curse is to always follow your own desires, no matter how contradictory or inconsistent---that's the motto that Mahito lives by.

So, of course, this philosophy applies to you as well.

It doesn't make sense, and he doesn't understand it. But that doesn't matter to him. Why would it? He's a curse, and curses take what they want. What he wants is you, so, of course, he has to take you, too.

Mahito doesn't spend long watching you before he makes his move. First, he has to check if you can even see curses to begin with. If you can, that'll make things easier. But if you can't...well, that'll be fun too.

He bumps into you at the train station around 2 AM. It was a late night at work, and you're now dead on your feet. There's no one around, so it's the perfect time for him to test you. He taps your shoulder with a smile.

If you don't react, he starts feeling you up, talking aloud about how much he wants you as his hands roam your body.

"Mm, you're so weak," he says, palm on your stomach. "Look at you, all unguarded. If I wanted to, I could take your soul and just—" he squeezes the flesh on your abdomen. "—until you go splat! Hmm, but I don't really want to do that. I wonder why?" His hand trails down to your hips, brushing past—but not quite landing on—your private areas.

"It's weird, isn't it? You can't even see me. You don't even know I exist. But I know you exist." He grabs your hand, interlocking your fingers together. "Humans usually wear rings when they're married, right? I wonder why you don't have one? You're such a catch," he giggles. "Ah, well, I guess it's better for me. Less work, y'know?Though, I would have liked to see the look on your face, coming home to dear, sweet hubby, all mangled up in your living room. I wouldn't even bother transfiguring him. No, I'd want you to see his face clearly, all contorted in pain with his guts splayed out all over the floor."

He follows you home. You still can't see him, but you at least seem a little aware of his presence, with the way you keep glancing over your shoulder, randomly picking up the pace and taking more turns than necessary.

How fascinating! You can't see him, and yet you can sense him? He's swooning already.

"Don't worry, [First]," he says, arms around your shoulders as you fumble with your keys. "You'll be able to see me soon. And after that, you're never getting rid of me."

If you do react, however, he holds himself back, opting to strike up a lighthearted conversation with you instead.

"What's a pretty thing like you doing here all alone?" He asks. "Don't you know the subway is dangerous at night?" You visibly bristle, clearly on guard. He grins.

"Do you need something?" You ask, clutching your bag to your chest and stepping back. His grin widens, easily closing the distance you've just created.

"You're lonely, aren't you? All you do is work; you don't even have any friends! It's kind of pathetic, really. That's okay, though, I like you anyway. I might be the only one."

"What do you---"

"I could help you, you know. Ease your loneliness, maybe?" He's touching you now. Nothing outright inappropriate, but you could smell his intentions from a mile away.

"No thanks," you say. The train stops, and you hurry off the platform. Fortunately, the stranger doesn't get off with you. He waves at you as the doors close, and you run all the way home.

Finally feeling safe, you don't bother to do anything more than kick off your shoes before collapsing on your bed. It creaks under your weight, then creaks again. You freeze, your eyes shooting open.

"Heya," the stranger says. "Fancy seeing you again."

Choso Kamo

If you were to describe him in one word, 'inexperienced' may be your best bet.

Though it's true that he has 'lived' for over one hundred and fifty years, he spent most of that time as a cursed womb, unable to truly experience the outside world for himself. Even after being incarnated and absorbing the memories of his host, Choso finds himself unable to relate to any of his body's experiences. He knows what love is and what lovers do, but only from a technical standpoint. To actually experience it is something he's never even dreamed of doing.

So, of course, when he starts feeling these things for you, he's unable to properly put a label on them. At first, he thinks he's sick, which isn't unreasonable, considering his rather long list of symptoms (fever, shakes, sweats, heart palpitations, and clouded mind, he notes dutifully).

However, that idea is quickly shut down. Being a cursed womb death painting, it's highly unlikely that he even can get sick; plus, his symptoms only seem to surface when you're around (or when he's thinking of you, which, admittedly, is often).

Did you curse him? No, you don't have a technique like that.

Then, what...?

It takes him a somewhat embarrassingly long time for him to realise the truth behind his feelings. It isn't until after he catches himself staring at your lips and thinking about how soft they'd feel against his that he concludes he likes you.

So, he's figured it out. Now what...?

Choso searches through his host's memories in an attempt to figure out how to woo you. Unfortunately for him, his host was a frat boy with commitment issues who knew more about one-night stands than how to build the foundations for an actual relationship.

So, Choso consults Yuki Tsukimo, who he, with his very limited circle of friends, considers to be an expert.

As expected, Yuki is ecstatic at the news that Choso has found his type. Immediately, she's giving an impromptu lecture on the ways of the heart.

"First, you have to figure out their type," she says, wagging a finger. "If it's a match, you're all good. If not, you either need to give up or double down."

Through Yuki's mentoring, Choso learned the general rules for signalling romantic interest. Flowers, chocolates, walks in the park, walks on the beach—a lot of walking in general, actually—candlelit dinner, pick-up lines—he's got it all memorized.

The problem is that his throat gets dry, and his knees lock up when he so much as thinks about talking to you.

So he takes to following you with his eyes instead.

"It's just until I gather the courage to talk to them," he tells himself. "I'll stop once I figure out their type."

Right, if he can't ask you about your interests, he'll just have to observe them instead.

So, he watches you. All the time. Eventually, he all but forgets about his previous plan of it being a temporary habit.

It's just so...addicting. Watching you go about your day like normal. Completely unaware of his presence in the shadows. 

He learns about your hobbies, your interests, what kind of shows you like, your favourite foods, whether you still keep stuffed animals in your room, and more. He has a mental folder of all your likes and dislikes. And while there are some things he’s not able to learn, some places he’s not able to follow, it’s enough. Just knowing this much is perfect. 

He doesn't do anything. He doesn't plan to, either. He’s content with just watching. It's comfortable like this. He doesn't want anything to change. So, he forgets about stopping, and instead sinks even deeper into his newfound obsession.

If he had it his way, things would stay like this forever. Him, never confessing, and you, never knowing. But, unfortunately, fate had other plans in mind.

It was 10:15 AM, and you were at a local coffee shop by yourself when the barista handed you their number with your receipt. You shyly accepted, and just a day later, the two of you had plans for a date the next week.

Unfortunately, your 'date' canceled last minute and blocked you with no explanation.

It's a good thing, then, that your good friend Choso just so happened to bump into you, lending you his shoulder to cry on.

Well, there's no reason to waste a good dinner reservation, right?

You never do go back to that cafe, but if you did, you'd find the barista missing from the register.

[mariasont]

Murphy's Law - A.H

summary: you have spent your whole life thinking love was something that could be lost. Aaron has spent his whole life proving that the things worth fighting for don't go anywhere.

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x reader

warnings: some angsty angst, self sabatoge, emotional vulnerability, miscommunication, self worth issues, hotch knows you better than you know yourself, hurt/comfort, happy ending ish

wc: 1.7k

You were staring at the liquid swirl in your glass, watching the way the light bent through it, like if you stared long enough, you could disappear into it, dissolve into it completely. It was sweating against your palm, ice melting, thinning, becoming something less than it was before. 

You were exhausted, an exhaustion that clung your very bones and soul and flesh, moving into places you were certain sleep couldn't reach nor fix.

The case had been brutal and unfortunately for everyone involved, it was the type of case that didn't end just because the paperwork was filed. And you'd done what you always did when it got to be too much, you'd picked a fight with the only person who never fought back.

It was practically muscle memory by now, the way you pushed, the way you tested him, the way you all but begged for him to get tired of you. You took a sip and let yourself wonder if this was the time he finally did.

The whiskey tasted awful. You scrunched your nose at the aftertaste, the way it coated your tongue with something sharp and unforgiving. But you swallowed it anyway. It was his drink, and maybe you deserved the bitterness. Maybe you deserved the way it burned on the way down, the way it sunk heavy in your stomach.

If he was tired of you, if this was the night you finally ruined it, then at least you could feel what he felt, at least you could know what it was like to choke down something that wasn't meant for you.

You could never figure out why he was with you, could never make sense of it, could never understand what he saw when he looked at you. Because all you could see were the cracks, the flaws, the thousands of ways you weren't enough. And Aaron, well, he was steady. He was level-headed, patient, impossibly good, and you were a mess of emotions. You were impulse and self-destruction, always bracing for impact.

You were temporary. And Aaron was the kind of man who deserved something permanent.

You felt him before you saw him. Of course he was here. Of course he came looking for you. You swallowed another sip of the whiskey and let the burn dissipate through your chest before he even had the chance to speak.

"You didn't want to go home."

It wasn't angry or accusatory. That made it worse. You didn't turn to face him, instead you rolled the glass between shaky fingers and let out a bitter laugh.

"What, am I in trouble?"

The second the words left your mouth, you hated them. Hated yourself. You weren't trying to pick another fight, weren't trying to make things worse. But it was like your body was moving before you mind could stop it, like some sick part of yourself wanted to see how much more you could destroy before the night was over.

Hotch sighed, pulled out the stool beside you and sat without a word. He didn't push, didn't ask, didn't even look at you right away. Instead, he reached across the bar, tapping his fingers twice against the counter.

"Water."

The bartender nodded, setting down a glass in front of him. He slid it toward you without a second thought, like this was something they'd done a thousand times before.

Which you had.

But before, you had been soft for each other. Before, the drinks had been sweet, your laughter even sweeter, your hands weaving in his tie as you pulled him down for a slow, unhurried kiss. Before, he'd touched your waist, guiding you toward him before giving you a water and whispering something against your temple like, you're trouble. And you'd grin, because you knew he didn't mean it, not really, not when he was the one who always indulged you, who always let you be trouble, who always looked at you like you were something precious.

Now, the gesture was the same, but everything around it had changed. Now, it wasn't about taking care of you at the end of a good night. It was the same notion, stripped of everything that used to make it feel like love.

"Thanks," you murmured.

You took the glass, but you didn't lift it, didn't take a sip, just dragged a fingertip through the moisture, watching as it smeared beneath your touch.

And then you made the mistake of looking at him.

He looked wrecked. And not just tired, but more than that. Worn down in a way that had nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with you. You were the same in that way. His jaw was tight, and his eyes lingered on you like he was searching for something, something he wasn't sure he'd find. He looked worried, and worse, so much worse, he looked hurt.

And that made everything burn. It made your vision blur at the edges.

You looked back down at your drink before you could embarrass yourself further, before the sting behind your eyes could turn into something real.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw. "You look like you're waiting for me to give up."

"Do I?"

It was weak and too quick. Flimsy and transparent. A question with a question. A classic misdirection, the kind of thing you had both watched suspects do a thousand times when they were caught, when the truth was too ugly to face head-on.

"When people are afraid of loss, they do one of two things," Aaron said and you could feel his eyes on you. "They cling to what they have, or they push it away before it can leave on its own." You looked at him. "You've already decided this won't last, so you're doing everything in your power to make that true. But the problem is—," he leaned in slightly and you could see the freckle under his eye clearly now, "you're treating your fear like a fact."

Your gaze flickered over his face, mapping out every detail like a blueprint. The tiny scar on his chin that you'd never asked him about, the exact shade of his eyes, the way his nose tilted just slightly at the bridge.

You wanted to memorize it all, because someday, this would be all you have left.

When he was gone, because he would leave, it was only a matter of when, you didn't want to rely on pictures. You wanted to close your eyes and see him, clear as he was now. Every part of him. Even the parts he didn't realize you noticed.

His voice was softer now, almost pleading. "Talk to me, sweetheart."

"Stop being so nice to me!"

The words came out choked, tears stinging at your eyes before you could blink them away. You dug your nails into your palm, trying to get something under your control, but it was slipping through your fingers like everything else.

"You're going to get tired of me. You're going to wake up one day and realize I'm not worth it and — and you should. You should yell at me, you should tell me I'm too much, you should —," The tears spilled over now and you hated how blurry he looked. "Fight back, Aaron. Please just — just stop pretending like I deserve this, like I deserve you."

Hotch inhaled sharply, then stood, reaching for his wallet. He placed the bill on the counter — too much, but he wasn't about to wait for change — before finally turning back to you.

"Let's get some air."

You hiccupped, the sound breaking awkwardly in your throat, and you blinked hard. Everything felt like too much, your muscles too tight, your face too hot, the tears still falling despite your best efforts. You rubbed at your face with back of your hand, nodding, because you didn't trust yourself to speak.

You stood and glanced around for your coat and before you could even realize you didn't bring one, Aaron was already moving.

"Arms in," he said, slipping his jacket around you, his fingers barely skimming your shoulders.

He didn't give you a moment to process it. He just started guiding you to the door, like he already knew you wouldn't stop him.

The night air didn't bite the way you expected. It should have shocked you awake, made you shiver, but it didn't. You barely felt it.

Your body felt off, warmth thrummed through your limbs in way that you feel unsteady. You swayed slightly, and Aaron's hand came to hover near your waist, not quite touching, but waiting. Just in case.

He was frowning at you.

So, instinctively, you frowned back.

"You're acting like I don't know what I signed up for." You opened your mouth to argue but Aaron stepped closer before you could even form the words. "I know what I signed up for because I know you."

His eyes didn't leave yours.

"I know you overthink every single text before you send it. I know that when you're anxious you chew on the inside of your cheek until it's raw. I know you order the same three things at a restaurant because too many choices stress you out, and I know you hate when the cabinets in the kitchen are left open, even by an inch."

He took another step.

"I know you cry at commercials but try to hide it. I know that when you're upset, you don't want comfort, but you need it. I know that you think needing people makes you weak. But I also know you are smart and kind and stubborn as hell. I know that I love you in a way that is reckless and absolute. And I know—," he exhaled, standing so close his breath was mingling with yours. "that you are worth every single argument it's going to take to convince you of that."

It was too much. The way he knew you. The way he saw you. The way he spoke like loving you was a fact, an inevitability, something that could not be argued or undone.

A sharp breath shuttered from your lips, your whole body tightening like you could hold it all in.

But you couldn't. Because your chest ached. Your hands ached. Your heart ached. Your whole body felt like it belonged to him in a way you didn't know how to put into words.

So you did the only thing you could do. You closed the miniscule distance between you, your fingers grasping onto the front of his coat, pulling, holding, needing.

Because you didn't know how to say I love you so much it physically hurts me.

But maybe, if you pressed close enough, he would feel it.

taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[gf2bellamy]

guilt — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: you are tired of spencer apologising all the time. or the one where you no longer want to be the cause of spencer's constant guilt. content warnings: literally just angst sorry :( a/n: bye i broke my own heart writing this

You stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at your reflection, your hands gripping the edge of the counter. Spencer had called you a little while ago, his voice carrying the unmistakable weight of guilt. He'd been asked last-minute to teach a guest lecture, something he’d clearly not expected, and had warned you he’d be running late.

It was supposed to be a quiet night, just the two of you. You’d planned to unwind and to enjoy each other’s company. The things that, months ago, were routine.

You wiped away the last remnants of your lip gloss, staring at your reflection as you let out a heavy sigh. You’d tried to distract yourself, but it wasn’t working. Your mind kept drifting to Spencer, to the reason why he wasn't here, and to the frustration that sat heavy in your chest, not with him, but with yourself.

You weren't angry. No, of course not. How could you be?

Spencer was the kind of man who gave every part of himself to everything he did. You admired that about him.He was brilliant, kind, and incredibly humble. You'd watched him in his element, lecturing on topics that made his eyes light up.

You couldn’t help but smile at the memory of it. He was happiest when talking about his work, and those moments of joy filled your heart in a way nothing else could.

But tonight was different. It wasn’t about being angry. It was about the growing feeling in your chest that something wasn’t quite right. The realization that you might be standing in his way, even without meaning to.

You pushed yourself off the counter, turning to lean against it, crossing your arms tightly across your chest.

What bothered you was not that Spencer had to be away tonight, but the constant, nagging feeling that you were the one who was holding him back.

He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, trying to balance the demands of his career with the needs of your relationship. And no matter how many times you told him it was fine, no matter how many times you reassured him that you understood,

Spencer couldn’t shake the guilt. It was always there.

You hated it. The way he apologized. For things he didn’t need to apologize for. For the long hours when Hotch kept him late. For the times he was called away on a case at the last minute. For the times you barely spoke because his mind was somewhere else.

It was as though, in his mind, every part of his life, every obligation, every commitment, was something he owed an apology for, even if it meant sacrificing his own happiness.

He deserved better than that.

You swallowed hard, shaking your head at yourself. Was this your fault? Were you the one making him feel like he had to apologize? Were you asking too much from him?

You didn’t want to be the one to burden him. The last thing you ever wanted was to make him feel like he couldn’t give his best to the things that mattered most to him, especially when it came to his work.

But you also wanted him to feel like you weren’t just another item on his to-do list. You didn’t want him to apologize for every moment he couldn’t be there, especially if those moments were out of his control. With a slow exhale, you left the bathroom, catching your reflection in the mirror one last time. Your hair was slightly disheveled and your eyes a little too tired. You shook your head, pushing the thought aside, and stepped into the kitchen.

For a while, you just stood there. The hum of the refrigerator and the faint ticking of the clock in the background. Your fingers drummed against the counter as you stared at nothing in particular, your mind racing through the same thought over and over again.

You realized then, with an ache deep in your chest, that both your heart and your head had made a decision.

You bit your lip as it hit you, a cold, sinking feeling settling in your stomach.

And before you could even process it fully, before you could find the words for what it was you were feeling, the familiar sound of keys rattling at the door sent a sharp jolt through you. Your body stiffened instinctively.

You squeezed your eyes shut for a second, only then realizing the tears that had welled up. You blinked them away quickly, forcing them down before they had a chance to fall.

Why were you crying? You couldn’t even remember why you had come into the kitchen in the first place. You swallowed the lump in your throat and turned away, heading back toward the living room just as the door opened.

Spencer stepped in. His tired eyes immediately searching for you. His satchel slid from his shoulder, landing with a soft thud next to the door. Before you could say anything, before you could take another breath, he had already pulled you into his arms.

“Hey, Spence,” you mumbled, barely able to get the words out before you felt him tighten his hold on you.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into your hair, his chin resting on top of your head before pressing a gentle kiss there.

There it was. That word. Again. Your arms wrapped around his waist, and you rested your head against his chest. But you didn’t say anything. You couldn’t.

Spencer didn’t let go. Maybe he knew you needed this, maybe he needed it just as much. But then something shifted. You felt the moment he realized just how tightly you were holding on to him, how desperate your grip had become. And you realized that he realized.

But you were terrified that if you loosened your hold even the slightest bit, it would be for the last time.

And yet, eventually, you did.

Slowly, hesitantly, you let your arms drop, though your hand lingered against Spencer’s stomach for a moment longer, reluctant to break the last bit of contact.

He noticed, of course he did.

His hands moved to your face, fingers brushing delicately over your cheeks before tilting your chin up slightly. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering just long enough to make your chest ache.

“How was the lecture?” you asked, voice quieter than you intended.

Spencer pulled away just enough to look at you, his fingers still tracing gentle circles against your skin before he finally let his hands fall. “It was nice. I enjoyed it,” he said simply.

That was it. No eager rambling, no bright excitement about the subject matter, no recounting the way the students had responded.

Because of course, he wouldn’t talk about it.

You closed your eyes for a brief second, pressing your lips together as realization settled over you. He didn’t want to tell you how much he enjoyed it, because he felt guilty. Because he thought saying so would make you feel worse about being left alone tonight. Spencer was watching you closely, always attuned to the slightest change in your expression.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice laced with concern. You hesitated. You didn’t want to do this now. You didn’t want to ruin his night, especially after a good day. But you knew Spencer. Once he noticed something was wrong, he wouldn’t let it go.

And just like that, you were trapped.

Before you could even think of a way to deflect, Spencer reached for your hand, pulling you toward the couch. He sat down beside you, his grip gentle.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured again, his eyes searching yours. “Really. I’ll make it up to you.”

Oh, God. He thought you were upset about tonight.

You could feel the lump in your throat, the pressure behind your ribcage that had been building for weeks, months maybe. The guilt, the apologies, the constant push and pull between his world and yours, was too much. And suddenly, the words were spilling out before you could stop them.

“I think we should break up.”

The moment the words left your lips, you felt Spencer’s entire body go still. Your hands slipped from his, the warmth of his touch vanishing in an instant.

“What?” he whispered, staring at you like you’d just shattered the world beneath his feet.The sheer devastation in that one word sent another wave of tears rushing to your eyes. You blinked rapidly, willing them away, but it was useless.

“Why?” he asked, and that single syllable, so small, so fragile, nearly broke you.

Why did it feel like your entire heart was being ripped from your chest? You didn’t even want to imagine how Spencer felt. You were blindsiding him, springing this on him without warning, and the realization made the guilt in your stomach twist unbearably.

Spencer’s panic was immediate.

“I—I’m really sorry,” he stammered, shaking his head as if trying to make sense of what was happening. “I tried, I swear. They just— They really needed me to guest lecture, and I know I should’ve said no, but I thought—” He exhaled sharply, stumbling over his words as he desperately tried to fix something he didn’t even understand yet. “I can make it up to you. We can go out this weekend, or— or I’ll take some time off, whatever you want, just—”

“Spencer.” Your voice came out louder than you meant, and you winced at your own volume.He fell silent immediately.

The room felt painfully still. You stared down at your hands in your lap, unable to look at him, because you knew. The second you met his eyes, you’d take it all back. You’d fold under the weight of his heartbreak, and you’d tell him it was all a mistake.

But you couldn’t do this anymore.

“It’s not because of that,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. You could feel his eyes on you, feel the confusion and desperation radiating off of him.

“Then why?” he asked, voice strained, raw. You swallowed hard.

Because you were tired. Tired of being another thing on his long list of responsibilities. Tired of hearing him apologize for things that weren’t his fault. Tired of watching him carry guilt he didn’t deserve.

You were doing this for him.

You took a shaky breath. “Because you shouldn’t have to keep saying sorry just for living your life, Spencer.”

“What?” Spencer asked again, barely above a whisper.

It was so unlike him. Spencer was a man of big words, of endless explanations and carefully chosen phrases. But now, he was stuck on the smallest, simplest ones. And somehow, that broke your heart even more.

“You—” You exhaled sharply, running a hand through your hair as you stood up, suddenly feeling like you couldn’t sit still. “You just keep apologizing.”

Spencer’s eyes followed you as you moved, wide and confused, his brows furrowed like he was trying to piece together a puzzle that didn’t make sense. “I—I don’t understand,” he admitted, voice cracking slightly at the end.

“You apologize for every single thing,” you muttered again, your voice barely above a whisper. You weren’t even sure how to phrase your feelings in a way that made sense, in a way that wouldn’t hurt him more than it already was.

How do you tell someone you love that you’re leaving because you love them?

You swallowed hard. “You just have so much going for you right now.”

You met Spencer’s eyes for a fleeting second before looking away almost immediately. You couldn’t do it. You didn’t have it in you to hold his gaze, not when the pain in them mirrored your own. A single tear slipped down your cheek, and you brushed it away quickly, like you could pretend it was never there.

Spencer saw it, of course. And even though his heart was breaking, even though everything inside him was screaming to reach for you, to brush the tear away himself and hold you until you weren’t sad anymore, he stayed frozen in place.

You stared at the ground. “I am in your way, Spence.”

Spencer’s mouth opened instantly, desperate to argue, to stop this before it spiraled any further. But when you looked at him, your eyes filled with quiet pleading, begging him to just let you speak, his lips pressed shut again.

“You’re so smart,” you said softly, a bittersweet smile tugging at your lips despite the ache in your chest. “You get asked to step in for guest lectures last minute, and you do it—no preparation, no hesitation—just because of how brilliant you are.”

Spencer swallowed, his throat tight, his own tears welling up now.

“You’re literally an FBI agent,” you continued, your voice shaking. “And you still reread entire books while drinking one cup of coffee.”

He let out a short, broken laugh, but it faded just as quickly as it came.

“And yet…” Your voice wavered, your eyes brimming with more tears. “Yet you always come home and apologize.”

Spencer clenched his jaw, his entire body tense as he watched you unravel in front of him.

“You say sorry for reading too much,” you whispered. “For getting lost in something you love. For having these incredible opportunities that most people would dream of. And I just… I don’t understand, Spence.”

The tears were falling freely now, your chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. Across from you, Spencer wasn’t faring any better. His own tears had started slipping down his cheeks, though he made no move to wipe them away.

“And on top of all that, you carry so much guilt,” you choked out. “I will never be able to fully grasp what it’s like to have a job like yours—to see the things you see, to shoulder the things you do. But what I do know is that I don’t want to be another thing that adds to your guilt.”

Spencer shook his head, his breath shuddering as he finally stepped forward, closing the distance between you. “You’re not—”

“I am,” you interrupted, your voice breaking. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to say sorry just for being who you are, Spencer. I don’t want to be something that makes your life harder.”

Spencer let out a soft, desperate noise, barely more than a breath, as if the words physically pained him.

“You’re not,” he whispered again, and this time, he didn’t stop himself. His hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away your tears with a gentleness that made your heart shatter even more.

“I love you,” he breathed, his voice raw. “You are not in my way. You are not something I have to apologize for. You are the best part of my life.”

Your breath hitched. “Then why does it feel like I am?”

Spencer didn’t have an answer to that question. Maybe because there wasn’t one. Or maybe it was because the sight of your tear-filled eyes took his breath away. That’s how much this hurt him. But he still couldn’t take his hands off your face. He was terrified, terrified that if he let go, it would be the last time he ever got to touch you.

“But you’re not,” he whispered again, his voice breaking under the weight of his own devastation.

He looked at you with so much love, so much desperation, that it made your stomach twist painfully. He wasn’t just heartbroken, he was lost. Completely and utterly lost in the idea of a world where you weren’t his anymore. You closed your eyes for a second, letting yourself memorize the warmth of his hands, the way his thumbs rested just beneath your cheekbones, like they belonged there.

You wanted to stay in this moment forever. But you couldn’t.

So you took a step back.

Spencer’s hands fell away, lingering in the air for a second before he clenched them into fists at his sides, like he didn’t know what to do with himself without you there.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, your voice barely audible. “And I love you.”

Spencer inhaled sharply, like the words physically wounded him. “Then don’t go.”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his eyes one last time.

And then you turned away.

[yandere-daydreams]

tw - non/con, gn!reader, somnophilia, oral sex, victim blaming, implied stalking, and obsessive behavior.

Gojo can usually be trusted to do the right thing.

He knows he's not the best guy out there, but if he's given a choice between saving a cat from a tree and pushing a stroller into oncoming traffic, there's a good chance he'll choose the cat. His students might give him a hard time, but he knows better than to take it to heart when Megumi says the only useful thing about his dutiful guardian in his platinum card or Maki claims he could be replaced with a low-level curse and they'd struggle to tell the difference. He's not a saint, sure, but he doesn't entirely miss the mark.

That's why you felt so comfortable tag-along with him on a mission that took you to the other side of the country, why you didn't panic when you found out the higher-ups expected you to share a single (admittedly, still bigger than he'd like for it to be) bed, why you didn't think twice before stripping down to a tank-top and sleeping shorts and passing out - too exhausted to care about sorcerer decorum. Because Gojo can usually be trusted to do the right thing. Gojo can normally, generally, almost always be trusted to do the right thing.

It's just that he can't be trusted to do the right thing right now.

It's not his fault, Gojo reasons as he stares unblinkingly at the mold-stained ceiling, doing his best not to let his eyes drift. He's a hot-blooded man in the prime of his life, and you're... well, you're you - beautiful, smart, oblivious you. It's not his fault that you looked so pretty in the dim light filtering in through cheap curtains, that the stuffy motel room was too hot to justify using the paper-thin bedsheets, that all your tossing and turning meant your shorts were starting to ride up your legs in a way that wanted to make him dig his teeth into your thighs and--

And look at you. With a shaky breath, he sits up and rakes his fingers through his hair. Looking never hurt anyone. That's what he tells himself, at least, as he shifts onto his knees and lets his eyes rake over the length of your body. You'd rolled onto your side since the last time he could bring himself to check - your knees pulled up and your head tucked downward. He watches the gentle rise and fall of your chest for a moment, than another, before letting his attention fall lower - to where the waistband of your shorts had drifted below your hip, leaving a strip of supple flesh just a touch lower than what even the lowest-set of your jeans revealed. Both straps of your tank-top had managed to fall off of your shoulders sometime during the night, and careful not to touch you and cross a line he'd only half-heartedly set for himself, Gojo catches the flimsy fabric of your top between two fingers and tugs it downward, just enough to expose the swell of your chest and draw the material taut. Your nipples are already hard, he notes with just a little too much satisfaction. You wouldn't have been happy if you knew what he was doing, but your body might've been.

He feels his cock twitch, and he's palming it before he can stop himself. Touching himself wouldn't hurt you, either, and he wouldn't leave a mess, not if he could help it, not if he could summon that much self-restraint. Cursing under his breath, he shrugs his sweatpants down to his thighs and spits into his palm before wrapping his fist around his shaft. He's already stiff - had been from the second you started to undress, as hard as he'd tried not to acknowledge it. Biting down on his bottom lip, he pumps his hand over his cock to the tempo over your breathing, letting his mind wander to the space between your thighs. He couldn't, not without waking you up. He couldn't, but..

His attention drifts back to your lips, wet and ever so slightly parted. It wouldn't compare, but it'd have to do.

He positions himself carefully, his knees sinking into the mattress next to your head. Arousal beads at his tip, dripping down his shaft and filling the cramped room with a soft 'click, click, click' as he brings the head of his cock to your mouth, resting it gingerly on the crook of your lips. He does what little he can to swallow down his voice and smother the movement in his hips as your warm breath fans over his cock, as his fist tightens in a weak attempt to imitate how tight your throat would be, if he ever got the chance to fuck it properly.

He's thinking about how hot it would be inside of you, how adoringly your body would welcome him when his self-control snaps, when his hips buck forward and the head of his cock collides with the back of your throat. You gag sharply, your eyes snapping open and find his in an instant, expression a mix of shock and confusion and horror, pure and unadulterated. He wants to draw back. He wants to apologize. He wants to do the right thing.

Instead, he cums. His free hand falls to your head, and he holds you in place while he fucks shallowly into your mouth and rides through his orgasm. Your reaction is a pitiful thing - all choking and betrayal, but he can't seem to stop himself from grinning.

When he really thought about it, this was all your fault. You have no one to blame but yourself.

After all, Gojo can usually be trusted to do the right thing.

This time, you just didn't give him another choice.

[ghostlynightpanda]

HII, I WANTED TO REQUEST A FLUFFY FIC OF DAZAI X READER IT CAN BE ANYTHING I DON'T MIND.

-St4rz

P.S "I love you're writing dude it's so amazing 🎀"

Veil of Thorns

A/N: I know this request is fairly new, but I’ve had this Dazai fic sitting in my drafts for a while, so I thought I’d finally post it. Hope you like it!

synopsis: Feared for a deadly touch that once took a life, you've lived in isolation, cut off from the world. But everything changes when the Armed Detective Agency seeks you out—offering a new life, and a chance to be close again, thanks to Dazai’s power to nullify your ability.

content/warnings: ADA!Dazai x reader, mentions of death and trauma, fluff, 6.161 words

You were alone.

But that was nothing new. Loneliness had long since become your shadow, your silent companion. It lingered in every room you entered, sat with you during meals, echoed in your footsteps. You weren't just used to it—you had adapted, folded yourself neatly into its shape.

Sometimes, when the silence grew too thick, you tried to remember the last time you'd spoken to someone and meant it—held a conversation that wasn't strained by fear or ended in tragedy. When had you last felt the warmth of a hand on your shoulder, the press of a hug not weighed down by caution?

You couldn't remember. Not clearly.

Ever since your ability first awakened—violent, raw, and unforgiving—you had been pushed to the margins of society. Or maybe you had pulled yourself there, out of guilt. Out of fear. The day it manifested, you had still been a child. Just a kid, small and bright-eyed, with no idea of the power coiled beneath your skin. You hadn't even known you were dangerous.

Until that morning.

It had started so simply. The sun had risen lazily through the curtains. You had been happy. Giddy even. You remember the smell of breakfast, the clatter of dishes in the kitchen, and the hum of your father's voice as he moved about. You ran to him, arms outstretched, beaming with all the love in the world.

He turned at the last second, smiling, and caught you in his arms.

But his smile faded.

Your father collapsed the instant your arms wrapped around him. You didn't understand at first. His body shook violently—spasms like waves of pain tearing through him—and then… he stilled.

You called his name again and again, your voice rising into panic. You shook him, tried to wake him, tried to hold on. But it was already too late.

He was gone.

It took time—hours of crying, of confusion, of horror—before the truth settled in like a sickness. It wasn't a heart attack. It wasn't some cruel twist of fate. It was you. You had done this. Your touch had killed the man you loved most in the world.

That day, something inside you broke.

Authorities came. Specialists followed. That's when the term was first whispered around you—clinical, detached, like labeling a disease.

Veil of Thorns. That was what they called it.

A grim name, taken from the Greek god of death. Fitting, wasn't it? With just a touch, you could disrupt a person's nervous system so violently that they collapsed into unconsciousness. Harmless, they said, if contact was brief. But if you held on—if your skin lingered against theirs for more than a few seconds—death was inevitable.

They told you to wear gloves. To avoid contact. To isolate. As if that would make it better. As if precautions could fill the gaping hole where your father's laughter used to be.

From that point on, people kept their distance. And you let them. You convinced yourself it was safer this way, easier. No one could die if you stayed alone.

But loneliness, you soon realized, was its own kind of death.

After your father's death, you became a child nobody wanted.

The system didn't know what to do with you. You were passed from one orphanage to another like a cursed object no one dared keep for long. Each new home came with fresh smiles, promises of understanding—but they never lasted. Word about your ability always got out, whether through whispered gossip or terrified staff who had witnessed your gloves slip off by accident. Fear always found you.

Caretakers kept their distance. Other children were warned to stay away. And when accidents happened—minor ones, mostly, but enough to stir panic—the solution was always the same: move you along. You were a problem to be passed on, never solved. By the time you turned fifteen, there were no more doors left to knock on. The last orphanage didn't bother with a goodbye. One cold morning, they simply handed you a duffel bag of your belongings and shut the gate behind you.

You were on the streets after that.

Alone again.

You learned quickly how to survive. Hunger taught you where to find food, fear taught you which alleys were safe to sleep in. The city of Yokohama, so full of life and light for others, became a shadowed maze of avoidance for you. Every human encounter was a potential tragedy. A misplaced touch, a stumble, a brush of fingers—and someone else might die.

Eventually, you found work. A factory on the edge of the industrial district took you in—no questions, no handshakes. It was the kind of place where nobody cared who you were, as long as you showed up on time and kept your head down. Perfect. You kept to yourself, speaking only when absolutely necessary. Day after day, you stood at the assembly line, performing the same task over and over again. It was tedious. Mechanical. Lonely.

But it was safe.

Within a few months, you saved enough to rent a small flat. You chose one tucked away in a quiet corner of Yokohama—an old building with crumbling walls and no neighbors who asked questions. The streets there were silent, devoid of the usual city noise. No children playing. No vendors shouting. Just the dull hum of distant traffic and the occasional stray cat slinking through the alleyways.

You made it your haven.

Groceries were ordered online and delivered to your door. You never had to set foot in a store, never had to worry about brushing hands with a cashier. No more crowded subways or bustling markets. You avoided rush hours like a phantom. Even on your way to work, you took the back alleys and narrow walkways where no one else bothered to walk. You had trained your life into a pattern of evasion—every move calculated, every step a quiet effort to remain unnoticed.

The accidents stopped happening.

Not because you were cured. But because you had removed yourself from the world that might force you to touch it.

Now, your world was made of empty rooms and routine. A small apartment where nothing changed, a job where no one looked you in the eye, and a heart that had slowly grown numb beneath layers of caution. You didn't even miss people anymore. Not really. Not in any way that could outweigh the terror of hurting them.

You had found peace, in a way.

A fragile, silent peace built on isolation.

And you told yourself that was enough.

Of course, solitude didn't mean you were always left alone.

One day, a man came looking for you.

He wasn't like the others—no wide eyes or trembling hands. He was calm, composed, dressed in a dark coat that fluttered like a shadow behind him as he stepped into your empty world. His voice was smooth, words carefully chosen, as though rehearsed.

He said he knew who you were. What you could do.

And he offered you something no one else had ever dared: a place to belong.

He spoke of power, of purpose, of shedding the chains that bound you to this isolated existence. If you were willing to offer your ability to him—if you pledged loyalty to his cause, to his people—he promised your life would change.

You wouldn't be a ghost anymore. You wouldn't have to hide.

He said you would be respected, even feared—not as a monster, but as a comrade. A weapon, yes, but valued. Protected. Understood.

The Port Mafia, he called them. You didn't need the name explained. Everyone in Yokohama knew who they were. You had heard their stories whispered like warnings—of blood on backstreets, of bodies found without answers, of entire businesses crushed overnight when they refused to cooperate.

They didn't just take what they wanted. They erased what stood in their way.

And now, they wanted you.

Maybe… maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe he could have changed your life. Maybe there, among people who lived outside the law and moral constraints, you would have found something like acceptance. After all, monsters had no reason to fear other monsters.

But it would have come at a price.

You saw it in his eyes—cold, measured, evaluating. He didn't want you. He wanted what you could do. The death beneath your skin.

If you joined them, you would be used.

Every ounce of your guilt and pain twisted into something lethal, something transactional. No more running. No more loneliness. But also—no more choice. No more innocence. You would become what they saw in you. A weapon, unsheathed.

You said no.

You didn't yell. You didn't tremble. You simply raised your hand—slowly, deliberately—until your gloved fingers hovered just centimeters from his coat sleeve. Not touching. But close enough to make the warning unmistakable.

The air between you crackled with silent threat.

"I won't be your blade," you told him. "Not now. Not ever."

He didn't flinch. Didn't retreat. He just nodded, lips curling into something that wasn't quite a smile. Something more like a promise.

And then, like a shadow, he was gone.

But you knew better than to think that was the end of it.

The Port Mafia didn't make offers lightly. If they had come for you once, they would come again. Sooner or later. Especially if they truly needed what only you could do.

Your peace, as fragile as it was, had begun to fracture.

And somewhere deep inside, you wondered how long you could keep choosing solitude over survival.

The day had been long—just like every other. Another monotonous shift at the factory, another quiet walk home through the empty streets of Yokohama's forgotten districts. The evening air hung heavy, the sky painted in muted grays. You kept your head down, your gloved hands tucked deep in your coat pockets, steps soft against the cracked pavement.

It was supposed to be just another uneventful return to the silence of your flat.

But as you turned onto your street, you heard voices up ahead—unfamiliar, layered, and strangely out of place in this usually lifeless part of town.

"Are you sure we're in the right place?" a youthful voice asked, tinged with uncertainty. A child, maybe—definitely not someone who belonged here.

"Are you doubting me, Kenji-kun?" came the sharp reply, lazy but edged with unmistakable authority. There was an underlying smugness in it, like the speaker wasn't used to being wrong—and didn't intend to start now.

"No one's doubting you, Ranpo-san," a third voice said—female this time, calm and professional, but slightly exasperated. "Maybe she's just not home today, or—"

You rounded the corner and froze.

Three figures stood directly in front of your building. Not Port Mafia, at least not as you recognized them. But they didn't look like locals either. Their presence didn't feel accidental.

You exhaled quietly, already tired of what you assumed was another attempt to recruit you. Of course the Mafia wouldn't give up so easily—they were just using a new tactic. A new face.

Or three.

"Can I help you?" you asked flatly, your voice hollow with resignation.

The man in the brown coat turned toward you with a triumphant grin, leaning back on his heels like he'd just solved the final clue in a puzzle. His eyes remained shut, but his expression radiated smug satisfaction.

"Told you I was right," he said, sounding more pleased with himself than with the situation.

"Hello!" the boy beside him chimed, bright and cheerful. He looked no older than fifteen, with straw-colored hair and eyes as open as his smile. Genuine. Warm. Unafraid.

You blinked, startled. Instinctively, you took a step back.

It had been over a decade since anyone had smiled at you like that.

Not with pity. Not with fear. Just… kindness.

You steadied yourself, pushing down the ripple of emotion it stirred. "Can I help you?" you asked again, your voice firmer this time.

The woman, dark-haired and composed, stepped forward with a polite nod.

"You're L/N Y/N, correct? An ability user?"

"From what we've heard," the man in brown added with a casual smirk, "your touch can kill someone in seconds."

He said it like it was a party trick. Like it wasn't a curse you carried with you every second of every day.

You narrowed your eyes.

"I told the old man already—I'm not joining the Port Mafia," you said coldly, your words edged with warning. "And I'd really appreciate it if you all left me alone. Permanently."

You meant for your voice to sound threatening. You weren't sure if it did.

But the three of them didn't flinch. They didn't reach for weapons. They didn't run. Instead, the man in brown simply tilted his head, as if amused by your response, while the boy still looked at you with that same unwavering light in his eyes.

For a second, something about them felt different.

Unsettlingly different.

Not like the Mafia at all.

"I'm Kenji Miyazawa!" the boy beamed, stepping forward with unshakable cheer. "And these are Ranpo Edogawa and Dr. Akiko Yosano!" He gestured excitedly to his companions, clearly proud of the introductions. "We're not from the Port Mafia—I promise!"

You blinked at him, unsure whether to be relieved or even more suspicious. His optimism felt too... genuine. Too bright for someone standing face to face with a killer, even if you wore gloves. Even if you hadn't touched anyone in years.

"...Ah," you said at last, giving a faint nod, uncertain what else to offer. He smiled even wider, undeterred by your awkward silence.

"We're from the ADA," the woman added—her voice calm, precise. "The Armed Detective Agency. Maybe you've heard of us?"

"Of course they have!" Ranpo cut in, lifting his chin with a smug grin. "Who hasn't heard of the greatest detective in the world—me?" He pointed a thumb toward himself, eyes still closed, clearly basking in his own brilliance.

And yes—you had heard of them.

Even a recluse like you wasn't completely detached from the world. You watched the news. You kept up with reports, if only to make sure you were never in them. You knew of the Armed Detective Agency—an independent group of gifted individuals who took on the kinds of cases that the police couldn't handle. Especially those involving ability users.

They weren't villains. That much was clear. But still… trusting strangers didn't come easy to you. Especially ones who showed up at your door without warning.

"I don't understand why you're here," you admitted carefully, eyes shifting between them as they stood there, expectant.

Ranpo raised an eyebrow like you'd just asked whether water was wet. "Isn't it obvious?" he said, shrugging. "We're here to recruit you."

You stared at him.

He stared right back, utterly confident, like he already knew what your answer should be.

You didn't respond right away. You just looked at his smug expression, studied the way his coat fluttered slightly in the wind, like even the breeze knew he was full of himself.

Finally, you said, "I think you've got the wrong idea about me." Your voice was flat. Measured. "I'm not interested in being recruited by anyone. I don't want to fight. I don't want to help. I just want to be left alone."

The words settled in the air between you, heavy and certain.

But as you looked at them—Kenji's innocent smile, Yosano's composed gaze, Ranpo's annoying but oddly reassuring confidence—you couldn't help but feel like they weren't going to turn away so easily.

Not this time.

"But do you really?"

The new voice cut through the tension like a blade through silk. You turned sharply, startled by the sudden presence behind you—another man, approaching from the direction you had just come.

His hands were in his pockets, his gait relaxed, unhurried. But his eyes were sharp. Studying. Seeing too much.

"Do you really want to live like this?" he asked calmly, as though it were a simple question. "Shut away. Alone. No connection to anyone. Just... surviving."

You instinctively took a step back, your jaw tightening.

Who was this now? Another recruit? Another smiling optimist who didn't understand what it meant to be you?

Your gloved hands clenched at your sides as he kept walking, not stopping until there was barely a meter between you—close enough for danger, close enough to tempt fate.

Your voice came low, defensive, a snarl under your breath. "It's no one's business how I live my—"

"Give me your hand."

The words hit you like a slap.

Your breath caught in your throat as he extended his own hand toward you, palm up, fingers open in quiet invitation. His expression was unreadable—there was a ghost of a smile there, something casual and knowing, as if what he was asking wasn't insane.

"What?" you managed, your voice cracking slightly. "Are you insane? I can't—"

"He knows what he's doing," Ranpo called out, not even looking up from adjusting his coat.

"And if he doesn't," Kenji added brightly, "we still have Yosano-san!"

"I can heal fatal injuries," Yosano confirmed matter-of-factly, her voice steady. "My ability, Thou Shalt Not Die, restores anyone on the brink of death. So if something goes wrong... I'll be here."

You looked between them, overwhelmed by the ease in which they discussed it—your ability, your curse—as if it were nothing more than a minor technicality.

You hesitated.

And for a heartbeat, that hesitation wasn't fear. It was something colder. Something bitter. Envy.

She could heal. She could undo the damage. Bring people back from the edge.

And you?

You only ever brought them closer to it.

You cursed the world for that. Cursed yourself. Cursed whatever cruel irony had decided to make your touch a sentence and hers a salvation.

You looked down at the man's hand, still open, still waiting.

"Are you trying to test me?" you asked, voice flat, guarded. "Is this some kind of experiment?"

He shook his head slowly.

"No," he said. "We're trying to prove something to you."

And before you could react, before your instincts screamed loud enough, he reached out and took your hand in his, peeling the glove away before engulfing your hand—your bare hand—in his.

Your entire body froze.

You waited for it—the tremble, the spasms, the ragged gasp for air. The way their bodies always contorted when your ability took hold. You waited for the weight of death to settle between your joined hands.

But there was only... warmth.

No pain. No collapse. No screaming.

Just skin. Contact. Touch.

"W-What—"

"No Longer Human," he said, the faintest smile playing on his lips. "That's my ability. It nullifies all other abilities on contact. As long as I'm touching you... yours doesn't exist."

You stared at him, then at your joined hands, still struggling to believe what your senses were telling you.

It had been so long since you'd felt this—someone else. Not fabric, not plastic gloves, not the absence of touch. A person.

Your voice caught in your throat, nothing but the soft rustle of your breath filling the silence. The world seemed to still around you.

It was only a hand.

But to you, it felt like everything you'd ever been denied.

It felt like hope.

"Kenji-kun, come here," the man said, his voice calm but firm.

The cheerful boy didn't hesitate. He skipped forward, still wearing that sunny expression as if nothing in the world could go wrong. Without needing further instruction, he reached for your free hand, taking off the glove and clasping it gently.

And again—nothing.

No pain. No convulsions. No death.

Just another point of contact, another impossibility made real.

"See?" the man said softly, watching your face with a knowing look. "As long as I'm here, you can't hurt anyone."

Your breath caught in your chest.

"…Does it—" You swallowed hard, trying to clear the knot forming in your throat. "Does it still work if you're not touching me? If you're just nearby?"

For a moment, he didn't answer.

Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he turned his head toward Kenji. "Sorry about this, Kenji-kun," he said lightly.

The boy's eyes widened. "Wait—!"

Too late.

He stepped back.

In that instant, the warmth in your hand turned into horror.

Kenji let out a cry of pain, his body seizing as he dropped to the pavement, his hand locked tight around yours in a death grip you couldn't break. His small frame twisted, legs kicking weakly as he gasped, a pained, choking sound tearing from his throat.

"No—what are you doing?!" you screamed, dropping to your knees beside him. Your hands fumbled to free his, panic overtaking your senses as your ability surged through your skin like venom. "Let go! Please—stop—!"

But Kenji didn't respond. In seconds, he went limp—face pale, lips parted, still.

Your heart shattered.

Tears sprang to your eyes as you hovered over his motionless body, your hands shaking. "Are you insane?!" you shouted, turning your fury on the man. "He was just a kid! How could you—how could you use him like that?!"

He didn't flinch. He simply tilted his head toward Yosano, who was smirking lazily, her body glowing faintly with an eerie, beautiful energy.

"Relax," he said casually. "You're forgetting about Yosano's ability."

Within moments, color was returning to Kenji's cheeks. His chest rose with a sharp inhale, and his eyes fluttered open.

You stumbled backward in disbelief.

"Still…" Ranpo spoke up, adjusting his hat, though his tone was more amused than angry. "That was reckless, Dazai. You do know there are limits to her ability."

"If it had failed," Dazai replied with a shrug, "I would've paid for the funeral."

"Dazai-san, that really hurt," Kenji grumbled as he sat up, brushing the dirt off his knees. Despite having just died, he looked no worse for wear—irritated, but otherwise completely unfazed. He was even smiling again.

Your head spun.

This had all happened so fast. Too fast.

You stared at your hands. They still felt dangerous. Cursed. But for the first time in years, someone had touched you—two people had—and lived to tell the tale.

Then Dazai extended his hand toward you once again, that same infuriatingly relaxed smile on his face.

"So," he said, voice light but with a deeper weight beneath the words, "what do you say?"

A pause.

"Ready to try a new life?"

You arrived at the Armed Detective Agency after what could only be described as the most stressful train ride of your life.

The entire time, you clung to Dazai's arm like it was a lifeline—because, in truth, it was. Not yours, but everyone else's. You weren't about to take a chance in a crowded carriage filled with unsuspecting civilians. One slip, one brush of skin, and someone might not make it home.

Dazai grumbled, of course.

"You're cursing my hand with your emotional baggage," he muttered at one point, sighing dramatically.

You ignored him.

You were still too bitter about how he'd handled things with Kenji—still haunted by the way the boy's body had gone limp in your arms. Kenji had forgiven you easily after you'd apologized over and over, brushing it off with a laugh and a sunny, "I've been through worse!" But you hadn't forgiven yourself.

Not for that. Not for anything.

Now, standing in front of the Agency's headquarters, you stared up at the unassuming building with its clean lines and welcoming signage. It looked normal. Safe, even. But it might as well have been the gates of another world.

"I still don't get why I'm here," you muttered, your voice low, more to yourself than anyone else. "It's not like my ability is... useful."

Yosano turned to you, expression unreadable but not unkind. "It's not always about how 'useful' someone is," she said. "You want to help people, don't you?"

You hesitated.

She continued, her tone matter-of-fact. "You didn't want to hurt anyone. That much is obvious. You turned down the Port Mafia, even when they offered you a place among people who wouldn't fear you."

She shrugged, as if the answer were simple.

"That's enough for us."

You looked away, uneasy. The idea that your intentions mattered more than your potential for destruction was foreign. Dangerous, even.

Yosano must've sensed your doubt.

"We've taken in all kinds of strays," she said, voice softer now. "Some of them far more dangerous than you. And as long as Dazai or I are around, you don't have to worry about hurting anyone."

Her words settled heavily in your chest—not quite comforting, but not dismissive either.

The others waited ahead on the steps. Kenji waved enthusiastically when he caught your eye, as if you hadn't nearly ended his life earlier.

And somehow, that made everything more terrifying.

But also… just a little less lonely.

The lobby of the Armed Detective Agency was brighter than you'd expected—sunlight spilled through the tall windows, warming the polished floors and walls lined with case files and bookshelves. It was… lived in. Comfortable.

Too comfortable, almost. You kept close to the door, your posture tense, hands locked at your sides.

Dazai stayed close.

Not that he said anything—not yet. But you could feel him there, hovering just behind your shoulder like a shadow. You suspected it wasn't entirely about his ability. He'd seen the way you flinched when Kenji fell limp, how your expression had cracked like splintered glass. Even with Yosano by your side now, you were clearly haunted by the memory.

Dazai, for all his irritating quirks and teasing smirks, didn't want to give you another reason to fear yourself.

A group of voices drifted in from the hall, and soon enough, you were no longer alone.

"Well, well," said a tall man with blond hair, eyes sharp behind his glasses. "So this is the new recruit."

You shifted uncomfortably, but the blond man's eyes flicked to you—more assessing than hostile.

"Kunikida," he introduced himself shortly. "Second-in-command here. I expect discipline and order from everyone under this roof. If you stay, I'll expect it from you, too."

You nodded stiffly, unsure what to say. He looked like the kind of man who wrote his life in neatly lined schedules.

"Don't mind him," another voice chimed in—light, sarcastic, and bordering on amused. A young man with messy red hair lounged in the doorway, flipping through a book without really reading it. "He's allergic to chaos."

"Tanizaki," he said, then motioned behind him as a quiet girl peeked in. "That's Naomi. My sister."

Naomi gave you a polite smile, though she stayed close to the wall.

And so it went—more introductions, more curious glances, none of them quite as afraid of you as you expected. If anything, they treated you like someone who had simply… arrived. Like you weren't a curse in human form.

Eventually, the room quieted when another presence entered—quiet, composed, and commanding. A man in a formal youkata, eyes calm and focused as they scanned the room. The others straightened slightly.

You knew at once this was the President.

"Fukuzawa-san," Dazai greeted with a lazy wave.

"Dazai," he said in return before his gaze shifted to you. There was no judgment in his expression. Just… understanding. And something else—acceptance.

"You're the one with the ability," he said gently. "The one they call Veil of Thorns, correct?"

Your breath caught. You hadn't heard the name of your ability spoken aloud like that in a long time.

You nodded, swallowing the tightness in your throat. "Yes, sir."

"I've read your file," he said. "And I've also heard about your choices. You could have taken an easier path—one with fewer rules. More bloodshed."

"I didn't want that," you said quietly.

"Which is exactly why you're here," he replied. "This agency doesn't just take in people because of their powers. We take them in for their principles. For who they choose to be."

You felt something shift—barely—but it was there. A sliver of warmth where cold had lived for too long.

Fukuzawa nodded once. "If you choose to stay, you'll have a place here. We'll teach you how to control your ability. How to work with others. How to live again."

You didn't trust your voice, so you only nodded. Slowly.

Dazai's presence lingered beside you. He didn't say anything, didn't tease. But when your hands trembled, he shifted just enough that his arm brushed yours, grounding you with that quiet, familiar pressure.

"I'll stick close," he said under his breath, just for you. "Not because I think you'll hurt anyone—but because I know how terrified you are of doing it."

You didn't reply.

But in that moment, you believed him.

And for the first time in years, the idea of staying didn't feel like a trap.

It felt like maybe—just maybe—the beginning of something you thought you'd never have again.

A life.

It didn't take long before you were officially inducted into the Armed Detective Agency. There was no grand ceremony—just a signature, a few papers, and a half-hearted "welcome" from Kunikida while Ranpo stole the last of the agency's cookies behind his back. It felt surreal, really. After years of solitude, you suddenly had a good job. A title. A place.

A home.

And apparently… a new apartment.

"Lucky you," Kenji beamed, swinging a box filled with your books effortlessly over one shoulder. "Your place is right next to Dazai-san's! That way he can keep you safe at all times!"

"Safe?" Dazai repeated from behind the box of potted plants he'd agreed to carry but now sat beside him on the sidewalk. "You mean emotionally tormented and psychologically confused. Honestly, those are the best ways to live."

You rolled your eyes as you passed him another box from the small delivery truck the Agency had helped arrange. "You said you were going to help carry things."

"I am helping. I'm supervising. And spiritually supporting you from the comfort of this very shady patch of sidewalk," he sighed dramatically, collapsing further against the building as if lifting a finger would cause his death.

Kenji giggled. "He said the same thing when I helped him move in."

"Exactly! Tradition is important, Kenji-kun!"

You tried not to smile—but it was hard around Kenji's cheer and Dazai's nonsense. The day was warm, the sky open, and for once, you weren't holding your breath for something to go wrong.

The apartment itself was… small. Sparse. But yours. Clean floors, neutral walls, a little balcony that overlooked a quiet street. And best (or worst?) of all: a thin wall separating your unit from Dazai's.

He wasted no time making himself at home in yours.

"I mean, clearly this is fate," he said casually, flopping onto your couch. "Your power kills with touch, my power nullifies all powers. It's like the universe wants us to be together forever. An eternal bond. Tragic. Romantic. Unavoidable."

You arched a brow. "You're insufferable."

"But touchable," he added, holding out his hand with a wink. "And that's rare in your case."

You ignored him and started unpacking a stack of mismatched dishes. He watched you for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly—not with suspicion, but something softer. Then, of course, he ruined it.

"Imagine," he sighed dreamily, "we could get matching coffins. Lay side-by-side under the cherry blossoms. Lovers in death. Poetic, no?"

You paused, turned to glare. "Is that your idea of flirting?"

"Only when it's with someone special."

Kenji poked his head in from the balcony, arms stretched over his head as he enjoyed the breeze. "Dazai-san flirts with everyone."

"Kenji-kun!" Dazai gasped. "That makes me sound disingenuous. I'll have you know, I only flirt with people who intrigue me. And people who might kill me. You, dear neighbor, happen to be both."

You couldn't stop the quiet laugh that slipped out, and Dazai's eyes flicked toward you, pleased.

Maybe it was reckless—being near him. He teased death like it was an old friend and wrapped sarcasm around him like armor. But for all his fatalism, Dazai didn't look at you with fear. Not once. He touched you without flinching, sat close without tension. You didn't have to be careful around him. You didn't have to apologize for existing.

"You're thinking too hard," he said, tipping his head at you. "That's dangerous. First it leads to hope. Then it leads to heartbreak. Then, inevitably—" He mimed a gun to his head. "Bang."

You gave him a flat look. "You're not very good at comforting people."

"I'm excellent at comforting people. I just do it in a way that makes them reconsider their entire existence."

You sighed and dropped onto the couch next to him—not close enough to touch, but closer than you'd ever let anyone else sit before.

He noticed.

No comment. No teasing.

Just a slight smile as he leaned back, arms folded behind his head, like he belonged there.

Maybe he did.

The soft hum of Yokohama at night drifted through the air—distant traffic, rustling leaves, the occasional bark or laughter echoing from streets far below. The city was winding down. But on your little balcony, tucked away just above the streetlights, it felt like time had slowed to a hush.

You sat shoulder to shoulder with Dazai, legs pulled up onto the chair, cradling a warm mug in your hands. He nursed a bottle of something questionable beside you, the label peeled halfway off, his other arm resting lazily along the back of your seat—close, but not quite touching. Not yet.

"I've been thinking," he said quietly, breaking the silence between you with a voice softer than usual. No dramatic inflection, no sharp grin. Just a murmur beneath the stars.

"That's dangerous," you replied without looking at him.

He chuckled. "Everything I do is dangerous. But…" He tilted his head to glance at you. "It's been a month since you joined the ADA."

You looked down at your mug.

"I know."

"I'm just wondering," he continued, "how you're doing. Really doing. You've never talked about your past."

You didn't answer right away. A breeze passed, brushing your hair across your face, and you tucked it behind your ear with a sigh. He didn't push. He never did when it came to this. For all the jokes and suicide pacts he tried to rope you into, he never forced you to speak.

Maybe that's why you finally did.

"I haven't… really talked about it ever before. Not properly." Your voice was barely above a whisper. "When my ability first appeared, I didn't even know what it was. I was a kid. Just a kid."

You swallowed, throat tight. Dazai didn't move, but you felt the tension ease from him—like he was giving you space and attention at the same time.

"It happened so fast. One minute I was hugging my dad good morning. And the next…" You trailed off. "He was on the floor. Convulsing. And I couldn't do anything. I didn't even know I had done it. Not until after."

You weren't crying. You thought maybe you would. But the tears had already come and gone, years ago, in the dark, when no one could hear them. Now there was just the ache. And the silence.

"I loved him so much," you whispered. "And after that… no one ever looked at me the same. Not the orphanage, not the teachers, not anyone. I learned to stay away. I had to."

A moment passed.

Then you felt it: the soft weight of his arm curling around your shoulders. Not hesitant, not pitying. Just there. Solid. Warm. Real.

You stiffened—reflexively—but he didn't draw back, didn't tense. Just let it happen. Gave you time.

And slowly, so slowly, you let your body lean sideways until your shoulder brushed his chest, until your weight rested slightly against him.

"I've been alone for so long," you admitted. "I think I forgot what it felt like to not be."

You felt his chin rest lightly atop your head.

"I know that feeling," he murmured. "All too well."

No lectures. No empty reassurances. No lies about how everything would be fine. Just his presence—like a promise unspoken. You could survive. You didn't have to do it alone.

Not anymore.

The city continued its quiet song beneath you, but you only listened to the steady beat of Dazai's breathing beside you. In a world that had taken so much from you… somehow, this had been given back.

And you clung to it like something sacred.

Masterlist

[auroralwriting]

coffee

spencer reid x fem!reader

spencer always feels better when you make him coffee to cheer him up. auroral writing's fallidays masterlist

word count: 1k

warnings: season 2 spencer, no use of y/n, show-accurate spencer aka he’s a little, sweet nerd, comfort but no angst

Sometimes, having your boyfriend at home was worse than missing him while he was on a case. Spencer would be exhausted from time to time, varying on the case they worked on. It wasn’t easy to see your love so beat down so often. He promised it was just jet lag, but deep down, you knew some of the cases bothered him, too.

Late last night, Spencer arrived back home. Whenever he was gone, you’d stay at his apartment to water his plants and make sure the place was top notch by the time he came home. He had slipped into bed with you while you slept, not wanting to disturb your peace.

When you woke up, your heart fluttered seeing your genius lying next to you. The dark circles around his eyes were more prominent than they usually were. He didn’t even change out of his clothes.

It was clear that his thoughts were heavy, even deep in sleep. You wondered how bad this case was. What always cheered Spencer up was a nice, warm cup of coffee in the morning. So, you decided that's what you'd do; make him a nice, warm cup to make him feel better.

You got up slowly, making sure to take soft steps in order to not wake Spencer up. You opened his dresser drawers and laid him out a tee shirt and some plaid pajama pants so he could get comfortable when he woke up.

Once that was done, you went into his kitchen and turned on his record player, some soft classical music filling the empty room. The tunes help occupy the space as you worked on breakfast.

The coffee pot beeped off when you heard soft creaks from Spencer’s bedroom.

You grabbed his mug, one catered to the way he made his coffee, and carefully walked into the bedroom once more. Spencer’s eyes softened when he looked at you. He rubbed his eyes, giving his iconic soft, goofy smile.

“G’morning, love.” Spencer muttered, softly stretching as he sat up.

Cheeks tinted with red, you sat on the side of the bed with the mug in hand. “Morning, Spence. I made you some coffee, fresh out of the pot.”

Spencer took a sip, a low hum coming from his throat. “Perfect,” he mused.

“Long case?” You asked, brushing a piece of his hair back from his forehead.

“Very much so,” Spencer nodded. He grabbed his glasses from the nightstand and pushed them up the bridge of his nose. “Statistically, ninth percent of victims gone within the first day or two are found safely. Ours had been gone a full week.”

Your heart lurched in your chest, you knew what he meant. “You all tried your best, honey.” You tried to comfort. “Did you catch him?”

“Yeah,” Spencer nodded, a sigh of relief following his next sip of coffee. “This is really good.”

“I made it just the same,” you chuckled.

Spencer gave a small shrug with a hint of a smile on hips lips. “It tasted better when I know it’s to make me feel better.”

“If it helps, I also made blueberry pancakes.” Spencer’s smile grew at your words. “Now, get comfy and come have breakfast with me. I’m starving.”

After a few minutes, Spencer walked out of the room. “You put on Beethoven,” he smiled. You knew that was his favorite composer. Spencer sat down, eagerly taking a bite of the food you prepared for him. “Baby, it’s so good,”

You smiled at his compliment, “I’m glad, Spence.”

“Let me make dinner tonight as a thank you,” Spencer said, swallowing the food in his mouth. “Please?”

No matter how many times you did nice things for him, Spencer always wanted to repay you. That’s one of the many reasons you loved him so much. He was always fair, kind, and truly the most loving man you’d ever met in your life. Your relationship was built off of love, trust, and balance. It was perfection.

“How could I ever say no to that face?” You giggled at the dopey smile he wore.

"How about more breakfast for dinner," Spencer offered, taking a sip from his mug. "I can make us cinnamon rolls, hot chocolate, and maybe today we can go out and get an apple pie, too."

Your face lit up at the thought, "You really do love me, don't you?"

Spencer laughed, "With every bone in my body."

"That coffee really helped your mood, huh?" You put your head on your hand as you stared lovingly at your boyfriend. What a perfect man he was.

"It did," Spencer admitted, "but the fact that you made it and did all of this for me is what really helped."

Once you were both finished eating, you and Spencer snuggled on the couch, a large blanket laying over top of both of your laps. You were both cuddled in the middle, laughing at the tv as you watched Halloweentown. It was the perfect fall day outside, and you both were on your second mugs of coffee.

"Don't we still need to go to the store?" Spencer asked as he played with a strand of your hair.

You softly hummed in reply, "It's noon, we still have time."

"Well, there's still several more Halloweentown movies to watch," Spencer replied with a smile. "At this rate, we'll never go to the store."

"A late midnight snack, then." You decided. "This is too nice to just give up."

Spencer pressed a kiss to your forehead, "I agree. I could go for a big midnight snack."

Even when you went to go to the store, more around seven, you stopped off at the local coffee place to grab a cup from them. They were just about to close, but it was worth it to see the look on Spencer's face.

The last cup of coffee was served at just a little past midnight as the two of you sat on the couch, criss crossed, eating cinnamon rolls and apple pie. Your mugs were still smoking from the heat of the coffee.

Spencer gently grabbed your chin, giving you a warm kiss. You tasted the icing on his lips from the cinnamon rolls.

"Thank you," Spencer said softly. "For today and the coffee."

"I'd do anything for you, Spencer." You replied with a small smile settling on your lips.

[motthe]

there's no death here | robert "bob" reynolds [part 3]

ཐིཋྀ wrote this part very late and half asleep so bear with any mistakes or things that could've been written better

warnings: child abuse and threat of death, mental health crisis, heavy mentions of sexual assault, lots of violence and panic, one moment where this feels a bit like a crack fic but shock does weird things so yeah

masterlist | ao3

A week and a half went by.

The mental training wasn't easy by any means. Every shame room you had to coerce Bob to drag you into was not without its own consequences to your own mental health, but each time you were able to show Bob how to detach. How to accept the pain, understand it, and ultimately let it pass.

The problem was, you had steps ingrained in you from years of therapy. Bob had nothing but his own hands holding him together.

Bringing him into your psyche with a firm grip, you allowed him to see your own broken days of youth. There was a time you'd both lived on the streets. But where he fell into drugs, you were tangled up in petty thievery and coercion of strangers giving you a place to stay and warm food.

“By fifteen I could insert memories or mess with them,” you'd told him over lunch. “It was enough to get people to trust me.”

“Better than a meth-crazed chicken,” he grumbled, still very much beside himself that you had managed to slip you both into that particular memory. 

“Yeah, wasn't too bad until I screwed with the wrong person.” The cold tone had surprised both of you. It took a moment to wave the dark cloud out from over you—a story for another time. “Look we all have shit days, but we can outgrow them.”

You allowed him to walk through some old therapy sessions to get a taste of the environment. Dr. Arlington had been of monumental help to you and you hoped, with Bob's consent, she could be the same for him. While it had been some time since you'd seen her, you knew she could be trusted around super people and their psychological problems.

“I can't help you with the underlying issues. I wish I could,” you sighed, making sure to keep pace with Bob as you walked. It had been a nice day and as much as the man was a homebody, you pushed him to get some fresh air at least once a day. The public gardens nearby were usually peaceful in the earlier hours and he'd agreed to have easier lessons here for today, which mainly meant building up walls and you breaking them down.

“I know I need therapy,” he murmured, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “But what if we start talking about something and I snap?”

That's the part I'm helping you with, you assured, smiling as he blinked and worked to shake you out of his head. “Better,” you said. A little light came back into his eyes.

“I can section off pieces of your powers,” you continued, “but only the psychic parts and not for long given your strength.”

His slate blue gaze skated the grooves in the sidewalk, tongue working inside his cheek. It popped as he sighed, a breeze sending little hairs across his forehead. “Everything feels like a risk.”

“Life is a risk, constantly,” you huffed, both of you pausing as a flock of pigeons flew by to land in the center green. Perfect timing.

You shouldered your bag around to grab the bag of cooked rice within, guiding Bob towards the nearest bench. It wasn't until he was watching the birds eat that you finished your earlier statement.

“The best part is when you don't have to take risks alone. Little less scary.” A jogger going by scattered the birds but they quickly swarmed your feet again. “And you can trust your team for that. And hopefully me too with a bit more time.”

You caught Bob staring as you scattered another handful of rice. He didn't turn away even when you hummed in question.

“How can you be so nice?” he mumbled.

You just laughed because he made it easy to be kind, but that part he didn't see.

By the end of the first month, Bob was scheduled and going to therapy twice a week. You drove him there and back, always in the next room with a gentle presence at the border of his consciousness in case he grew to be too stressed. If he ever felt out of control, you were there to shield him.

Better yet, Dr. Arlington adored him, but that she told you in confidence as you caught up over the phone.

“You're calming,” Bob told you, looking cozy in the corner of your favorite café.

It was a lazy Tuesday afternoon after his fourth therapy session. He'd been a man of few words today when you picked him up. You hadn't pushed, noticing the dark circles under his eyes and a new sweater adorning him. It was all muted stripes and fall tones. The weather had gotten colder and while you hated to be chilly the aesthetic fit him alarmingly well.

“Am I?” you asked, setting his tea in front of him. “It’s still a little hot. Be careful.”

“You don't think so?” He was getting a lot better at holding eye contact in these quiet conversations between lessons.

“I dunno,” you hummed, popping the cap off your drink. The steam left your chin sticky as you blew into it. “I'm happy you find me calming. I feel like a mess most days.”

“You're really put together from where I'm standing,” he mumbled through a smile and the soft jab at himself left you brave enough to nudge his foot under the table, passing looks that would've felt too much at the Watchtower. Too big.

He grabbed the door on your way out, your arms brushing. Even through your clothes, you felt his warmth and the sudden need to inch a bit closer. A bit deeper. 

Don't. The warning was distant. A ripple in the ocean of your mind. Don't do that. You have to be an anchor.

You shut your eyes and took a breath before thanking him, keeping space between you as you returned to the car.

It was late when you shot up in bed, every hair on your body singing at the sense of wrongness in the air. There hadn't been a nightmare and reaching out with your mind, you found no others in the vicinity of your apartment.

Focus. You gripped the bedsheets under you, slowing your breath and closing your eyes. Something was wavering at the edge of your consciousness, whipping like a red flag at the coast. You tried to pinpoint it, but the problem was too far away. Just on the horizon. 

Your eyes snapped open.

“Bob,” you whispered, springing from bed.

Your phone blared against your bedside table as your feet touched the floor. Buchanan trailed across the screen.

“Bucky? I'm on the way,” you said, grabbing your bag and shoving your feet into sneakers by the door.

“Damn, you feel it from there?” Bucky scoffed.

“Give me a report,” you demanded, scaling the stairs to the ground floor. Thank God you were only on the second level. “What happened?”

“Not sure. Walker was up and found a wall of black where Bob reads. Yelena already tried to go in.”

“Tried?”

“Tell her to fucking hurry!”

That sounded like her.

“Usually we get transported in the weird memory room things, but it's not pulling us in. On the bright side—”

“Don't talk about a ‘bright side’ when there's literally an entire part of the room blacked out!”

That sounded like Ava.

“—it's not spreading,” Bucky finished as a roar broke through the speaker. “Don't throw a fucking chair at it!”

“I break through darkness to save Bob!”

“We don't need to be breaking anything! You’re gonna piss it off!”

“You just throw shield at it, why not chair?!”

Shit, you'd just ran a red light. Well, whatever. This was more important than—you glanced at the dashboard clock—4AM traffic laws.

“I'll be there as fast as I can. In the car now.”

“Okay. I'll unlock the elevator for you. Alexei quit—!”

The call went dead. You tossed your phone into the passenger seat and floored it.

The minutes went by in flashes. You didn't stop to find a parking space or grab your purse. You shoulder checked one of the sliding glass doors when they failed to open fast enough off and slammed into the elevator that was open and waiting.

Panting up a storm, the floor had barely begun to rise when something kicked against your mental barrier. The psychic blow had you careening back against the wall, gasping as you fought to hold them intact.

“Hurts. Hurts. I don't want to be here. Stop yelling. Please. Don't hurt them. I always ruin everything. Stop. Please.”

“Oh, Bob,” you choked, hand going straight to your chest. Even through your shield you could hear his thoughts screaming out of the void. Every word was distraught, beating against you like armored fists. You wanted to let him in, open your arms and wrap them around him and show him he wasn't alone. Whatever he was seeing wasn't real.

Hearing the ding of the elevator, you ran head first as the doors opened and about crashed into Ava.

“Sorry!” you gasped out, scanning the room. It took less than a second to spot the clouds of ink seeping from Bob's book nook. The rest of the team was huddled on the outskirts, arguing before they turned at your entrance.

“I thought you were helping him!” Yelena yelled at you as you approached.

“I'm doing my best. Healing isn't linear!” you yelled right back, sweating through your tee and moving towards the darkness.

Bucky intercepted before you could reach out for it. He wore the wartorn look of a leader as his metal fingers clutched your elbow.

“Let's stop and think about this for a sec,” he grunted.

“If you can't get in I can try to force my way in.” You looked at him, eyes watering, “Please. I can feel him. He's in pain.”

“What, we're supposed to just send her in there alone?” Walker snapped. “It took all of us to pull him out last time.”

“Last time it snatched us, but this? This is different,” Yelena hissed, running her hands back over her hair. Her piercing eyes landed on you. “If you can figure out a way to get us in, we can help him.”

“I'll try, but I can't just pull you all into his psyche. Your minds—they don't move the same,” you explained in a rush.

“What the fuck is a sigh-key?” Walker grumbled.

Bucky let go, pointing a harsh finger over your shoulder. You turned to find Alexei rolling his eyes and letting go of the couch.

“Whatever, just do what you can,” Yelena said and maybe you made a face or maybe she noticed herself how cruel her tone was becoming but she added, softer, “please.”

Nodding, you ushered them back towards the elevator and double checked your mental shields as you stood at the precipice of the darkness. There was nothing beyond it, just a wall of rippling smoke.

“Okay,” you whispered, listening to the stream of thoughts pouring out. “I’m coming, Bob.”

One slip of your shield was all it took. There was a resounding THUMP as your physical body was wrenched out of reality. Your feet hit a new floor, knees buckling as you crashed down breathless.

Okay, guess that's letting me in. You'd been in numerous shame rooms, had felt the mental landscape like any other space you would create for yourself in meditation. This was one step further as your heartbeat rose to your throat. He brought all of me into his psyche.

The amount of energy that would take—it was far more similar to Ava with how she could phase out of one room and into another. You could link someone to your mind, show them everything, speak to them but you couldn't bring them in, not like this.

You knew Bob was powerful, but this was on a whole other level.

A door opened, lighting up the space you occupied. The figure of your mother was backlit as the hall light stretched into your childhood bedroom.

No. Fuck, not this one again. She walked straight by you, humming a song that had chills breaking down your spine. You tried to mute the scene and found you had no control as you had once had before. Now it blocks me.

Your toddler-self turned over in her bed, blinking wearily as your mother sat down next to her. “Mama?”

You shook your head, hating how hard the floor was against your hands and knees as you pushed off it and towards the door. Your body crashed against it, hands smacking over the fake hallway.

“Bob?” you called loudly, reaching out with your mind and wincing at the onslaught. His voices echoed and bounced every which way here. Bob, it's me. Where are you?

“I'm sorry, baby, it's time to go,” your mother whispered and you refused to turn around, but you could feel the phantom touch of her hand brushing back your hair.

“Go where?”

Bob! Can you hear me? Where are you?

You turned from the fake hall and sprinted towards the window, attempting to open it. Out of the corner of your eye you could see your mother's hand settle over your little self's throat.

“It'll be better, I promise,” she whispered, sniffling.

“Bob!” you screamed, banging on the glass.

“(Name)?”

You jerked your head up at the sound of him in your head and noticed movement in the window's reflection. You recognized that sweater.

Whipping your head around, you found that same fake hall before turning back. You could just make out his horrified expression as he found you through the window. Bob! I'm here!

You blocked out the sounds of little legs thrashing against a bed and the hysterical crying of your mother as you backed up a couple of steps.

This wasn't real anymore. You were done with this place.

Yelling, you ran and threw yourself into the window. The wooden frame splintered as glass shattered. Halfway through, gravity shifted as your body ripped backwards. You saw your legs above you a split second before your upper back hit cold, wet ground.

A crumpled mess, you whimpered at the aches building in your body before noticing your old bedroom hanging above you. The door opened to your mother's outline once more.

“Come back,” she called, hands reaching out. “It'll be better, baby. I promise.”

“Fuck you,” you spit, turning over broken glass shards. “Oh God dammit. No.”

Metal bars greeted you a few feet away, the door opening into another poster board hall as a familiar uniform stepped over you, ignoring your presence completely.

“Nothing without your little mind tricks, huh?”

This was the one shame room Bob hadn't encountered with you, yet, and by far the worst.

I knew it was coming. I can get past it. You refused to look behind you, taking deep breaths as you pushed off your shoulder to get upright. Glass was embedded in too many places—you instantly blocked the pain out. All receptors shut away into a little corner for later.

While you couldn't affect the landscape around you anymore, you still had your own mind to control. That was something.

Bob, where are you? you called.

“You're getting closer. Hold on, let me get try this way.”

“Don't…touch me.”

You covered your ears, hating to recognize your own slurred speech as you kicked at the fake wall. I'm out of here. That prick is dead. I'm free.

“They call you a witch. Do you look like one under there, too?”

You kicked harder, eyes watering as the voices slipped in. It was like someone had turned up the volume as the jangling of handcuffs echoed against stone and your tired, pleading voice swarmed your head.

You let out an ear-piercing scream as you flung yourself away from the wall and dove at the uniformed man, ripping him away from your teen self and slamming him against the ground.

“Don't touch her!” you yelled, split flying as those cold eyes stared up at you.

“Finally,” a voice reiterated from his mouth, echoing into your mind. “A way to break you.”

You froze, nails digging into the neck of your tormentor. This wasn't the man you remembered anymore, but that voice was one you recognized now tinged with hatred.

“Void,” you whispered.

The man lunged up at you, darkness settling over his skin as a hand grabbed your throat and threw you to the side. You wheezed, grabbing at his arm as a man made of darkness settled over you, eyes pinpricks of molten silver staring down into your very soul.

The sound of your name caught your attention as well as his. There was a hole in the wall of the jail cell, hands ripping chunks of stone out as flashes of Bob's face came and went.

“Let her go!” he yelled, halfway through before you felt the ground around you sink. You couldn't take a breath as you went under, Void's hand squeezing.

“See what happens when you ask for help?” You thrashed, attempting to bring your legs out from under him but his weight pinned you into the dark liquid. “You ruin everything, Robert.”

Don't listen to him! You projected, grunting as the pressure. You still couldn't feel any pain, but not being able to breathe was never comfortable. You can take control of this, Bob. Pull yourself out!

“You keep trying to teach him, but he'll never learn.” Void's fingers dug between the tendons of your neck. “Give up. Go back to your worthless job and pretend to be the hero you will never become.”

Bob's yell was muffled through the water you were half under as he landed on top of Void. He punched and kicked and pulled, but the darkness wasn't letting you go. “Fuck. How do I fix this? She's helped me and I'm hurting her. Figure this out. Do something! Come on!”

Fear crept in as you saw the ink of Void bleeding into Bob. It wanted to overtake him. Control him.

Weeks ago, he had told you the one thing Void wanted above all else was for him to end up alone. He'd tried everything that day in New York to make as many people as possible suffer the same fate.

“You don't die there,” he had explained. “You're just…stuck. Stuck with the pain and it gets worse and worse.”

“He didn't try to kill any of you?” you'd asked and Bob's tired eyes had found yours, empty of hope.

“I think death would be too easy for him.”

He wants us to suffer. You reminded yourself. He won't end it.

Focusing your direction on your mind, you rammed it against Void above you, imagining your thoughts—fine needles digging into his head.

“That won't work here, mind reader.”

Panic was overwhelming you, but you’d trained for these situations. You could hear Nat yelling instructions, remember Wanda's soft guidance at the back of your mind. If landing hits on him, physical or mental, wasn't going to work you needed a new angle.

You dug your mind into Void's mass, meat hooks into skin and felt your heart thunder as those pinprick eyes shuddered and shock crowded the consciousness around you all. Even Bob stopped fighting behind him.

Got you.

His entire upper half flew down over you, sending all three of you into a sea of black. You continued to drag him into yourself as you sank, gathering the darkness like bundles of clothes slipping from your arms and holding it close to your core. Bob was caught up in it, that sweater brushing your hands as you dug your fingers into it.

You felt all of Bob's terror and hatred, every negative emotion bubbling up and held it tight.

Its okay, you told him. I'm right here. Everyone's waiting for you.

“I messed up again. He took over.”

Then take it back. You've done it before, so do it again. That angry mass fought against your hooks. Panic licked up your consciousness. Grab him by the scruff and put him in the corner or something!

Your words shocked Bob enough that everything went blank. You took the chance to hold tight and slam your shields up and over, crowding over that endless pit stuck between the two of you.

Void struggled, slipping through your fingers like congealed oil before another pair of hands encompassed yours helping you drag it somewhere deeper, somewhere safer. A door closed, or maybe a lid sealed and there was a flash before reality split open.

Both of you were panting, your arms between each other and hands tangled. Bob's face was close enough your noses skimmed and your weight settled in his lap, your legs tense around his waist as his folded around you.

“S-scruff?” he choked through a breath, blue eyes wide. “Like a kitten's scruff?”

You tried to nod but you were too close and far too tense. “Uh, yeah. I think so?”

Bob sucked in a breath and tumbled into hysterics, tears slipping down his cheeks. It was fine until his tune changed and the sobs took on the sadder variety, leaving you to pull from his hands and wrap your arms around him.

You noticed the city through the windows a few feet away as he bawled into your shoulder. The reflections of the New Avengers lay behind you, all of them different types of disbelief.

“Was he laughing?” Walker whispered as you rubbed Bob's back.

“He's crying now,” Ava murmured.

“Hugs are really best weapon against Void,” Alexei stated, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I'm sorry,” Bob gasped out, pulling back and wiping at his cheeks as your arms fell away. “That came out of nowhere and I was hurting you, but then you made a joke and I'm still in shock I think.”

“I told you I'm messy,” you mumbled, rolling off his lap and checking over your body. Your pajamas weren't ripped anywhere and there was no blood. Releasing your pain receptors only had aches surfacing. Okay. No actual injuries, noted.

“What happened in there?” Yelena asked, careful as she approached. “Bob, you okay?”

He nodded, the backs of his hands smoothing over his eyes. He blinked a few times before he frowned at you, taking something in.

“Uh, there was… What happened again?” he mumbled, eyes going distant.

Walker groaned in the background as Bucky sighed out, “Figures.”

“It's okay. It'll come back to you when you're ready,” you said, grunting as you got to your feet. The amnesia you'd heard about and it was a very logical reaction to trauma. Seeing it happen in real time was a bit overwhelming on your side of things, but easy enough to handle.

“You good?” Bucky stepped forward to help you up, steadying you as the world swayed a bit.

“That was…a lot,” you admitted, glancing at Bob as Yelena pulled him to his feet. “But we learned some stuff and we made it out.”

“Did I do it again?” Bob murmured, guilt weighing on his features.

“You did amazing,” you swore to him, offering a smile when he looked at you.

“Why are you in your pajamas?” he questioned, eyes lowering to your half-shoved on sneakers.

“Oh shit, my car!” you gasped, darting towards the elevator before Bucky wrapped his prosthetic arm around your waist and dragged you back.

“I'll handle it. Just stay with him for now.”

“Maybe it's best you stay here tonight,” Yelena suggested, eyes shifting between you and Bob. “You're sure you both are okay?”

“Nothing therapy can't fix,” you promised, trailing after Bucky. “I think I parked on the curb. My purse and phone are somewhere in there.”

“Got it.”

“I help as well,” Alexei said, winking at you as he went by. “As thanks for your help. Also to see the car. I hear it's nice model.”

“Yeah, well, might have some bumps now after that drive,” you sighed, thanking them again as the elevator doors closed on the men.

“Are we good now?” Ava sighed. Everyone left in the room remained silent. Yelena shrugged. “I'll take that as a yes. Good night.”

You watched her phase out of the room, the weight of your body beginning to take a toll. Sleep sounded nice.

“So,” trailed Walker, easing up next to you, “you two seem close.”

You sidestepped away from him, assuming he meant Bucky. “Yeah, we were around the same people. I've known him for a few years now so it would be a little weird if we weren't.”

“No, I meant Bob,” he said.

“What?” Both of you turned as Bob shuffled down from the book nook. He ducked his head at the attention. “Sorry, I thought I heard my name.”

“Let's get you back to bed, Bob,” Yelena advised, a hand on his back. He didn't argue, but you'd be blind to miss the countless glances he took of you over his shoulder as she guided him away.

Your mind crossed the distance, smoothing over his. It's okay. I won't be far.

“He hurt you didn't he? I hurt you.”

Technically, no. I shut my pain receptors off.

“Wait, you can do that?”

I can do a lot of things, but they're not very superhero based.

“I think you'd be a great hero.”

Your heart skipped. Thanks. Try to get some sleep. I'm here if you need me.

You retreated a bit, crossing your arms and sighing. A clearing of the throat had you looking at Walker who had a knowing look on his face.

“Word of advice,” he murmured, nose scrunching, “you could do better.”

“Word of warning,” you replied, eyes narrowing, “I can make you shit your pants.”

He nodded slowly, raising his hands in surrender before heading off.

Left alone in the living room of the New Avengers, you let your head fall into your hands with a quiet groan.

[mediocrecowboyhat]

Late night bath (Arthur Morgan x fem!reader)

This is inspired by my fic 'Set in Sand' where the reader washes herself off at the river and Arthur tags along to keep an eye on her. Though in here it takes a more intimate turn.

You also don't have to read 'Set in Sand' in order to read this one! <3

Word count: 3k

Tags: 18+ MDNI, semi-public sex, fingering, unprotected sex, Arthur pulls out, she/her pronouns, Chapter 6, no TB Arthur Morgan, High Honor Arthur Morgan

As the sun slowly begins to set and drowning the camp in a deep orange hue, you pick up a fresh pair of clothes to take with you. There's still dried dirt stuck to your skin and hair and you don't feel like riding all the way to Annesburg just for a bath. So you take a bar of soap and make your way to the nearby river.

"And where do you think you're goin'?", a male voice calls out to you and you turn around on your heels, slightly startled by the sudden appearance.

Arthur has his thumbs hooked into his belt and strolls over to where you're standing. At the sight of him, all tension immediately leaves your muscles and you let out a relieved sigh.

"Thought I could head to the river and wash off properly.", you answer, pointing with your thumb behind you. Much to your surprise, he shakes his head and takes the stuff you're carrying from you.

"You ain't goin' there alone.", he says, his tone making it clear that he won't tolerate any protest. Not that you care though.

"I think I'm pretty capable of washing off by myself.", you argue and follow him down the small path, that leads away from camp.

"I ain't doubtin' your skills, sweetheart." There is a heavy pause. "It's just...lately you've been gettin' shot at everytime I look away."

His concern warms your heart and you reach out to touch his arm. You can't blame him for feeling that way. If the roles were reversed, you also wouldn't be comfortable letting him go out by himself. Even if it's just a few minutes walk away.

"And here I thought you were just trying to catch me naked.", you tease with a mischievous smirk beginning to take form on your face.

He let's out barking laughter and shakes his head with an amused huff.

"That ain't the case."

"Sure. Whatever excuse makes you feel better."

Once you arrive at the river, you sit down on the shore and start to take your boots off. As much as your remark was only meant to be a joke, the prospect of being completely exposed to him still makes you nervous. Maybe you could ask him to turn away or something? While you contemplate, you come up with an even better idea.

With the speed the sun is setting at, it will be dark by the time you're undressed and then he won't be able to see much of you anyways. Besides, he did say that he doesn't want to leave you alone, right?

"Do you wanna join me?", you hear yourself ask, before you can even properly process the thought.

Arthur's head snaps in your direction and he awkwardly clears his throat.

"Why? Do I smell?"

His reply makes you groan in feigned annoyance. As you go to open up the first couple of buttons on your blouse, he quickly looks the other way. Respectful as always.

"That's not what I meant and you know it.", you answer, letting your blouse slide off your shoulders. It falls to the ground without producing any sound.

Once you've removed every piece of clothing you were wearing, you tiptoe over to the outlaw and intertwine your fingers with his. You don't want to push him to do something he doesn't feel comfortable with, but you're also aware that he's just holding back.

It's both kind of silly and endearing to see a man like him this bashful about seeing you naked. Though when you think about it, it makes sense. From what you've found out, Arthur hasn't really had what you'd call a wild love life. He only rarely shows his vulnerable side to others.

As you stand up on your toes to plant a soft kiss on his jawline, you hear his breath getting caught up in his throat.

"I won't force you into the river, but if you change your mind, you know where to find me.", you say in a hushed voice and make your way into the water.

At first it doesn't look like he's planning on moving from his spot at all, but then he begins to unbuckle his belt. It takes everything within you not to stare at him, so you distract yourself with brushing the dirt out of your hair.

When Arthur finally enters the cool water, he creates small waves around himself and you notice how nervous you're becoming again. The outlaw keeps a respectable distance between the two of you and you turn to face him entirely. It's impossible to fight off the excited grin on your face.

"Hey.", is all you're able to muster up and he clears his throat again.

The awkward silence between you two hangs heavy in the air, until he takes the brush out of your hands and runs it through your hair. You can't imagine that he's doing any progress with how gentle he is, but you don't complain. It feels too nice for it.

There is still a 'safe' distance between the two of you, but every now and then you feel his naked skin brush over yours. As much as you try to keep a clear head, this is quite a loaded situation and it does things to you. His fingers gently brush over your temple as Arthur moves some of your hair to the side.

Once he's done and puts the hairbrush aside, you turn around to face him. Most of the moon's light is unable to break through the dense treetops, but it's enough for you to see his outlines. His broad shoulders, his wide arms and those rough features in his face that have been marked by time and countless of fights.

His light brown hair is wet and slicked back, curling slightly around his ears. The tips of your fingers dance across the side of his face and his eyes flutter shut. This must be quite the struggle for him. Exposing himself to someone else that way again. It makes you happy, seeing how much he trusts you.

In one swift motion, you find yourself scooped up in his arms and his forehead pressed against yours. His eyes are fluttered shut as if he's aching and he whispers your name like a plea. It's so sweet and tender, but at the same time you feel like a sharp blade is piercing your heart, when you hear it.

Arthur's fingers trace your collarbone and run down the curve of your back. His touch leaves a hot trail, having you long for more. Your hands cup his cheeks and you quickly pull him closer for a kiss.

As your lips move in sync together, you press your chest flush against his. It feels like your bodies fit perfectly into each other like two puzzle pieces would. One of his hands is nestled in the crook of your neck, while the other is holding onto your hips as if you're his lifeline.

Gasps and pants fill the peaceful quiet around you, mixed together with the rustling of leaves and the rushing of water. He kisses you more, until your lips are red and your face is burning. A familiar heat pools between your legs and you rub your thighs together.

While moving your legs, you feel something else brush your skin and your mind goes blank for a brief moment. Something snaps within you and you run your tongue over the outlaw's chapped lips. He groans in response, dipping his head deeper so you would have better access.

You feel his hardened dick twitch in response when you grab a fistful of his hair and tug. The way his body reacts to your touch fills you with pride, pleased to have a tough criminal like him melt in the palm of your hands. Though you can tell that he's still somewhat holding back.

Of course he's devoting himself entirely to you and your lips, but it's as if he's not quite in it either. With a worried crease between your eyebrows you pull away and study his expression. It's a mix between lust, desperation and something else, that you can't place.

"What's wrong?", you ask, not wanting to push him. There is a long pause until he answers.

"I don't deserve to have you like this."

Hearing this from him isn't anything new. He has distanced himself from you before, because of this belief and you wish you could change his mind, make him see how wonderful he is. Gently, you cup his cheeks and watch him lean into your palms like a moth drawn to a flame.

"Don't think that way now, Arthur.", you tell him, your voice sweet like honey to his ears. "Just focus on me, okay?"

"I-"

"Don't. I want this. I want you."

For the longest time he simply stares at you, an unreadable mask on his face and you fear that he might back off anyways. But then his lips crash against yours with more vigor than before, catching you completely off guard. His hands roam all over your body as he pulls you close.

A deep groan escapes your throat, but he muffles it with his tongue. His dick is pressed against your stomach, flooding your mind with all sorts of dirty scenarios and next thing you know, you're being lifted.

"Arthur, what-"

"I don't want you here.", he interrupts you in a low voice. "Wanna hear those noises you make better."

Heat shoots up into your face and you let him carry you back on land. There he picks up some of his clothes and leads you further away from the river. You can still hear the rushing water in the background, but it's not dominating as much anymore.

At the new spot, he spreads his clothes over the grass and moss and signals for you to lay down on them. His large body follows you, towering over you like a shield. There he attacks your lips again, sliding his wet tongue over yours and nibbling at your lower lip. All this is driving you crazy and if you don't get any friction between your legs soon, you might cry out into the nightsky from frustration.

As if he had read your mind, his calloused hand travels down your body. It stops every now and then to cup your breast and have his thumb circle over your nipple. Other times he's just squeezing your waist, tummy and hip, appreciating every inch of your exposed body.

When he finally reaches your thigh, you feel like you could burst into a round of applause and cheers. Instinctively, you spread your legs for him and you feel his lips curl up into a smile in between the kisses. You don't have to look at him to know about that smug grin on his face.

Arthur runs a finger over your wet folds and every single muscle of yours trembles. This is the moment you have been dreaming of ever since the two of you got stuck in that closet during the Mayor's garden party. The thought of having his hands on you like this have haunted you nearly every night and now you finally get to live it.

That brilliant thumb of his finds it's way to your clit which is almost aching by now from all the anticipation. He rubs it in a agonizingly slow way and you claw at his shoulders, silently begging for more. His hot breath hits your face and he speeds up, unable to deny you the pleasure you're oh so desperately seeking.

Next thing you know, he slides a finger inside, searching for that sweet spot. Once he finds it and you arch your back in response, he adds another one. The way he massages your clit and curls his fingers up inside you, has you seeing stars.

"I'm so close.", you gasp out and hold onto his arms like a lifeline.

Arthur let's out a satisfied hum, keeping a steady pace. He makes sure not to slow down or to speed up, not wanting to throw you off this path to sweet release. When you pull him in for a kiss, it's to muffle the cry that tears from your lips when that knot in your stomach opens.

Your thighs shake and your back arches in an almost painful way, as the orgasm hits you like a slap to the face. Arthur continues moving his fingers, letting you ride out your high until he pulls away. An outraged gasp escapes you when he licks off that wet slick from his fingers and you half-heartedly slap his shoulder.

"What? Can't a man enjoy his meal?", he drawls with a smirk and you laugh.

"Mr. Morgan!", you squeal in feigned embarrassment.

That look of adoration and arousal on his face would have made you shy away on any other day, but not now. Now you only want to keep this going until you're both exhausted and unable to catch your breaths.

Once again it's as if he's reading your mind. He lifts your leg, propping it over his shoulder and the feeling of his thick cock on your pussy has you moaning. It flips a switch in your head and you shamelessly grind yourself against him.

Arthur furrows his eyebrows and his eyes flutter shut, as a beautiful groan leaves his mouth. The outlaw straightens his back, kneeling now and staring down at you. He looks like a dream this way.

Wet hair sticking to his forehead, his lips parted, all red and swollen from your rough kisses. Your eyes take in every detail of his. From the tan lines where he rolls up the sleeves of his button up shirts to the trail of thick, dark hair that travels down from his belly button to his bush.

"You sure 'bout this, sweetheart?", he asks, ripping you out of your thoughts and you nod hastily.

"I want this, Arthur."

The way you speak his name does something to him. Next thing you know, he slides his tip in and your eyes roll back. Slowly he pushes in the rest of his length, giving you the time to adjust. Aside from his fingers, you have also dreamed about his dick being burried inside you, but you never expected for him to make you feel this full.

He stretches your walls and sharp pain shoots through your veins from the sensation, but it disappears quickly. With one of your legs still on his shoulder, he starts to pull out and rolls his hips back forward. Every single motion is careful, gentle. His goal is not to hurt you, but to make you feel good, unaware that this slow pace of his is actually torture for you. Though it's not for the reasons he's afraid of.

"Arthur.", you breathe out his name and he immediately halts. "I need more. Please."

The worry in his face vanishes the moment he processes your words and he leans down until he's towering over you again. His elbows are planted on either side of your head to keep him up and you wrap your legs around his waist.

With one swift motion, you pull him closer, deeper inside you and he dips his head into the crook of your neck. Hot breath hits your skin, making the hair on the back of your neck stand up and he begins to thrust into you again. This time his hips move with more confidence and you moan his name over and over like a prayer.

His cock pounds into you, the slight curve of his shaft making it possible for his tip to hit your sweet spot. It makes you see stars behind your eyes and you feel another orgasm build up. The sound of both your moans and the wet slapping of skin on skin fills the air and you hope that the river is drowning it all out.

Arthur fucks you relentlessly, taking your hand in his and intertwining his fingers with yours. He whispers soft praises into your ear, pushing you more and more towards the edge.

"You feel so good. You're takin' me so good, sweetheart.", he murmurs in a raspy voice. "Goddamn, so tight."

His thrusts grow sloppier and messier, indicating that he's close as well. Then his hand leaves yours and he puts his thumb back to work on your swollen clit. It feels so good, that you barely even get the chance to warn him. Your orgasm washes over you only a few seconds later, still sensitive from the previous one and you let out a sound that makes Arthur's knees buckle.

Your walls clench around him tightly, too tight for him to hold back his own release. As much as he would love to fill you up with his cum, he forces himself to pull out and gives his dick a few pumps before spilling all over your stomach.

The water from his hair drips down onto your nose and the guttural moan leaving his lips is like music to your ears. Both your chests are rising and falling in sync with your heavy panting and he rolls over to the side. With a strong arm around your waist, Arthur pulls you closer and you lean your head on his shoulder.

"You're too good to me.", he murmurs while tracing patterns over your skin with his fingers and you give him a puzzled look.

"I didn't really do much."

"You did more for me than you can imagine."

Your muscles feel heavy and sore as you relax against his side and breathe in his scent. If you could you'd stay like this forever, but you have to get back to the camp soon.

Together you sneak to Arthur's tent, where he drapes a thick blanket of your shoulders and pulls you down to lay next to him. Your fingers are tracing the outlines of his face and you watch him drift off into a deep slumber.

[eroticdarling]

Choso brainrot because I need this man to fuck me out—AHEM! I meant take me out! On a date...

✦ Art credit to rednoki0 on Tumblr

I am a firm believer that Choso can be a sub ninety-nine percent of the time, but when he's extremely horny and can't get what he wants is when you find that one percent.

This can be caused by you teasing him to a certain extent, whether it's in public or during sex. In public, he prefers waiting until you get home so no one won't hear you call out his name from the rough pleasure. Now, in bed, you're always in control, which is why your favorite thing was edging him on. But even though doing this was a guilty pleasure of yours, there was a time when you went a bit over the top.

Whenever you feel like he's about to cum while you're riding him you completely stop. He's blushed out just begging to cum inside you as soft whimpers slip past his lips. You then pepper wet kisses along the sensitive parts of his neck and drown him in praise. His favorite combo.

You kept this cycle going for about a good twenty minutes till he got frustrated. Refusing to give him what he wanted, you wondered how far he could go before giving up. Unfortunately for you, his pent-up frustrations got the better of him already reaching past his max.

When his rough hands grabbed your waist without any warning you were instantly taken aback. This was the first time you saw Choso like this, which is why you were surprised by how easily he picked you up off him to pin you to the bed.

"Fuck (Y/N), You know how to make me like this." He says flipping you over to an ass up face down position before he's balls deep in your pussy.

He knew if you weren't going to give him what he wanted then he had no choice but to get it himself. And that's exactly what he's doing by fucking you at a tempo to make you cock drunk. The way he's gripping your waist while pounding into you just to find his high got you on cloud nine.

The way your body is in sync with his hips, your pussy clenching around him with every hard orgasm you have to the point your sweet juices drip down his cock, even the squelching sounds of your cunt mixing with moans. It's all putting him in a heaven-like state making him go insane.

You'd cry for him to at least slow down but it goes unheard and he'd reply with, "Remember when I begged you to let me cum? You didn't listen to me so why should I?" Hearing this you assume he isn't going to let up until he's done.

Your heated face buried deep into the pillow stained with tears of pleasure. Your legs are on the verge of giving up because of the friction including how many times you've cum already. Not to mention how much lewd noises you're making being overstimulated.

And of course, once Choso finds his orgasm he buries his dick deep in your cunt before filling you up to the brim. When he removes himself from you, he visibly sees the white mixture seeping out of you. His face is filled with amusement, having the thought of how pretty you look in this position.

I also feel like when Choso comes back to his senses after sex he's already apologizing for how rough he was. All because you still somehow seem fucked out. You, on the other hand, thought this side of him was cute and would wrap yourself around his arms.

Even though you're somewhat new to acting dominant Choso still loves your attempts. He was the one who gave you the idea when you found out he was the submissive type. Despite the fact you didn't want a submissive boyfriend, you decided to stay with him and learned how to be dominant.

Since then, you haven't pushed him past his limits unless you were positive you could take him.

[pretty-little-mind33]

Tangerine x fem!reader

Summary: Tangerine accidentally hurts your feelings.

Prompt: friends to lovers - "oh shit, are you crying?"

~ here you go @yourlocalnegroko, i hope you like this 🤍 ~

The hum of conversations and the clinking of glasses dance around the small, dimly lit bar in south London. The warm lowlights cast a shimmer over the faces of the customers and in a corner booth, you, Lemon, and Tangerine sit like you do every other thursday. 

You swirl your straw in your glass, your eyes distant as you look at the lime floating in your drink. This afternoon had gone to absolute shit. The man who had hired you had snapped, abruptly ending the hit you'd spent months preparing, so by now you're a bundle of frustration and exhaustion.

Tangerine, always the more observant Twin, had caught on to your foul mood. He's known you since you were teenagers and it has always been easy to read the tension in your shoulders as well as the tightness in your smile.

He leans against his seat and drapes his arm behind where your head is as he looks at you with a hint of a smile. "Why don' we all get piss drunk and knock yer frown upside down," he says a little sarcastically as his voice takes on an overly cherry quality and he pushes his index into your skin. 

You smile weakly and Lemon, who is sitting across from you, joins in. "Psh, fuck sloshed, bruv," he grins and turns to you. "You, me, Tan, and some  'Bohemian Rhapsody.'" he asks and looks to the small Karaoke stage, wiggling his eyebrows.

Tangerine scoffs and sniffs, clearly hating Lemon's suggestion.

You chuckle a little. "No one in here needs us butchering Queen, Lem."

Tangerine nods in agreement with you as he sends his brother a stern, disapproving look. He looks at you again and still sees the sadness in your eyes, his heart clenching. 

"Bullocks, you're a bunch of pricks. Alright, fine, no singing," Lemon raises his hands in surrender and then takes a sip of his beer, looking suspicious. He leans forward and points his index at you. "But hey, how about ya tell us what happened, huh?"

"Nothing." You answer too quickly.

Tangerine crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow. "Nothin? Ya think we're stupid, Y/n/n?"

You hesitate, then sigh. "Fine. I lost that job—the one in Munich, y'know? The one that would pay thousands? The old prick said he wanted someone more experienced."

"What an arse," Lemon chimes in.

Tangerine nods, his eyes softer. "Yeah, seriously, what the fuck? The fucker needs to learn some fuckin' respect. You're an amazin' assassin and he's what, some dick who can't solve his own problems?" he huffs and sips his beer, "he the prick with that comb-over we saw last week? Who does he think he's foolin', huh?”

You laugh at the mental image, but then your smile falters.

Seeing your reaction, Tangerine pushed further, his tone careless as his anger and annoyance built. "Honestly, ya don't need a git like him— if he wants some arsehole to finish the job, let him finish it, perhaps it's for the best. If he thinks he can find someone better, let 'im,"

Tangerine means well. He always does but he's never been the best with words. You're a little confused by what he means and in your vulnerable state, everything sounds bad. Your expression shifts from amused to hurt.

"Someone better? Why would that be for the best?" you ask, misunderstanding him as your voice stays quiet, "This job meant something to me. I needed the money and it was humiliating that he made me feel inadequate in a field I've worked in for years."

Tangerine frowns, feeling defensive. "Pardon? I-I didn't mean it like that—"

But it was too late. The sting of his words, even if unintentional, had stung and you can't help that forming pit in your stomach. You turn away, warm tears falling down my cheeks as my mascara stains my cheeks.

Lemon, noticing the shift, opens his mouth to say something, but Tangerine beats him to it. He moves quickly, his heart hammering in his chest. "Shit, are ya crying?" he mumbles and wraps his arm around you, pulling you closer to him. 

You stiffen for a moment, still hurt by the implications in his words. Finally, you relax against him and allow the tears to fall as they stain his shirt.

"Darlin', I didn't mean to make ya feel like you're somehow less good than us or any other man in the field—you're amazin', better than most," Tangerine whispers, his voice hoarse with sincerity. "I was tryin' to say that that absolute cock is gonna have a hard time findin' someone as qualified as ya—I, fuck, I just wanted to see you smile."

His confession causes a warmth in your stomach and you sniff, holding him tighter. You're quiet for a moment until you finally speak. "I do realize that now, Tan. I'm sorry I misunderstood. It's not your fault. It's just, everything feels so wrong now."

Tangerine continues to hold you. "Ya don't have to carry it all by yourself, ya know? We're here. I'm here. And I promise, you'll find a new job sooner rather than later."

"Ya can always work with us again," Lemon suggests nonchalantly, popping an olive into his mouth as he looks at you and his brother, a knowing look drawn across his features.

Tangerine brother nods, pulling away with his hands still near your hips. "Ya know we love when we work as a trio—like old times," he winks and he feels like he won when he finally sees you smile.

You sniff and wiping at your tears with your hand, feeling stupid for jumping to conclusions. Your smile widens as Tangerine wipes his thumb under your eyes.

"Can I drive the car?" you ask him cheekily, knowing how much Tangerine loves his car and how possessive he is over her.

Lemon barks a laugh as Tangerine's eyes narrow. However, Tangerine can't bring himself to deny you anything so he nods. "Of course," he whispers.

When you disappear into the bathroom to touch up your smeared makeup, Lemon turns to his brother and smirks.

"You're so fuckin' whipped."

Tangerine's cheeks turn crimson but he doesn't deny it.

[plaguespacebird]

ꨄ ☁︎ ୨୧ Jenna likes attending events and especially the attention it gives her...

*a/n: also my first attempt at smut? tell me if it wasn't too bad ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ ᡣ𐭩 ༉

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡

Maybe it was the air of events like premieres, parties, celebrations or galas that made her so... flirty. Even if it came at a cost, like every Hollywood actress, Jenna loved fame. The glittering lights that jumped to capture her in still frames, the countless hands she shook and awed at her beauty, the mindless interview that while a bit redundant- she gladly entertained. Bits and pieces of the very interviews she was currently doing would no doubt end up in edits she'd see later while scrolling. All good publicity, all the attention she soaked and readily took, feeding a growing mischievous feeling.

Equivalent to drinking. She thinks. A buzz of excitement, an evening where she is the radiant star of the night, and the plenty of flirty looks she receives from other actors. It all serves to make her ego purr, to relax, enjoy and simply be the star. And why wouldn't it?

A bright, upcoming, beauty of an actresses at a young age with a promising future ahead of her, surely she deserves to bask in her achievements. What better way than letting out some build up emotions than by sharing her excitement?

Much like a cat curling her tail in another's face, Jenna's hooded eyes give her intentions away. It's that look. The one that broke you originally, the one that continues to break you now.

She's gleaming. You think. Basking in her stardom, enjoying the evening at its fullest by having already danced and mingled with plenty of invites. Your eyes had been unable to leave her form since you heard her giggles from three tables down.

'Who the fuc-' Careful, it's a party and not one with hands. As causally as you could you look back, eyes instantly clocking her gorgeous figure. Clad in a black dress with tasteful cutouts and black, sheer lace with a lovely shade of red lipstick. Stunning. What's not so, is the irksome man beside her making her giggle sitting a little too close to her for your liking.

Oh, to whisk her away and kiss her senseless. Now, how lovely would that be?

Back to the present, where you needlessly debate entertaining her proposition from your table. You always give in, and she knows that. Especially during these starlit nights.

She laughs from her spot, clearly excusing herself before looking at you once more with a curling all-to-knowing smile. You finally tear your eyes away, having missed your tables entire conversation. You get up too fast, tell them something about fixing yourself up and try not to bolt through the invitees. You reach for the door handle of the women's powder room and lead yourself inside.

Her hands are on you before you can fully close the door. Her scent is enticing and every part of you instantly reciprocates her growing lust.

"Hi," she giggles, arms wrapped around your neck loosely, hands occasionally wandering to your exposed collarbones, unable to keep still. She's bubbling with energy, eyes telling you every thought she's been brewing.

You roll your eyes, hands resting on her hips, grounding her to you. "Whatever he said, was not that funny."

She laughs, hands falling to your arms, tracing your biceps. "You've been watching me? Didn't realize I had a stalker..."

It's a fun dance, a push and pull, a rhythm she sets and decides when to play. One you are incapable of refusing when all you want is to have her in your arms.

"A girlfriend actually." You bite, squeezing her hips. She hums, her mischievous smile never leaving. She tosses her curled hair back, not-so subtlety exposing her neck to you. She reminds you of a bird dancing to impress his potential mate, expect she doesn't have to lift a single finger to have you on your knees. You'd bring her every single shinny ring, clean your home to suit her every taste if it meant she'd so much as glance your way.

"So," she starts, seemingly absentmindedly playing with your own curls, "My girlfriend is a little crazy? Watching me all night?"

She lowers her voice, heels help her close the gap between you easily, "Can't a girl have some fun?"

Her soothing scent, her whispered words, the warmth of her body, and her obvious need for attention chips away at the little remaining restraint you have.

"If you need attention so badly," A hand on her hips falls further, squeezing the plush skin wrapped in black lace, she gasps, "I'd gladly give you everything."

Your lips crash on hers feverishly, your body had match her energy simply by proximity. Jenna had consumed your thoughts all night and along with her needy behavior, you simply couldn't hold back any longer.

Her moans fuel your desperate kisses, hands wander, paw and squeeze anything within reach. She breaks away but your furry of kiss continues on any exposed skin you can find. She's needy, sensitive and so willing to be taken. Oh, how lucky you are, to be completely in tune with her wants.

She leads you in front of the mirror with her hand on yours. Lust covers her wonderful features as she presses her body against your chest and leads your hand on her hip. She's still giggling but far more airy and sultry as she sways her hips with her hands in the air.

Her eyes are locked onto yours and you feel a growing pool between your legs. You tease her a bit, hands only lightly resting on her, moving with her movements but she can play far longer than you can. Her sounds are becoming more desperate, whiny even, like she was doing more than giving you a show. She backs up and presses on to you harder, and you can't help the way your hands grasp her hips. That's enough.

You lean onto her, a hand reaching inside her thigh split earning you a glee of delight. Her fun is so palpable, it leaves you breathless. She 'Ooh's' at the feeling of your fingers and her moans and gasps having you sinking further inside. Gosh, you could cum with just watching her like this.

"Couldn't wait 'till we got home?" You start holding her up with an arm around her waist, words pressed on her neck as she leans onto you. "Had to get fingered with everyone outside?"

"Yes," she gasps, her hands coming down to fondle her breasts. You press harder. "Yes," she repeats, her giggles had faded into louder moans.

"You're so spoiled. Should start bringin' my strap, bend you over the sink next time." Your words have her clenching around your fingers, more telling gasps escape her. She was close, and so were you.

"Kiss me," She slurs out. You give to her request easily, still reaching as fast as liked until finally crash down. Your messy kiss slows, peaks cascading down on you both. Slowly, you reach ground, removing your fingers from her and gaze at her blissed out face. A flushed look adorns her cheeks and her girly giggles come back. Turning around, she pecks your face, arms loosely around your neck again. Pleasant hums escape you, until you bring your fingers in your mouth, eyes still locked in with hers.

Her round eyes widened and her mouth opens with a surprised smile. The hunger lingering in her reignites, eating up the way you feast on her remains. As cheeky as she's been all night, she smiles, "Want more?"

A laugh escapes you, already kneeling at her feet. With her leg slinged on your shoulder, ready to greedily clean her, you look up at your beloved. With her teasing smile, now slightly smudged red lips, she blows you a kiss.

Oh, how well trained she had you.