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jolapeno · 5 months

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12. stormy sky

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter twelve of do me yourself

summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.

wordcount: 3.6k chapter warnings: anxious!reader. allusions to bad mental health day/sadness. frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n. an: this one is dedicated to all those who sometimes just need a day, a hug and a love. i see you, and i love you (notes at the bottom).

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key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics

It wasn’t often you felt the storm coming before it arrived.

At times, it was kind enough to make itself more obviously known than on other occasions. Sometimes, it just happened, almost beyond your control—a feeling that wells up inside, leaving you in a funk for a day or two.

An unexplainable force that commands you to smile outwardly but crumble inwardly.

Then, you rise again the next morning, or in a few, completely anew—like nothing had ever happened.

Occasionally, it rides in on unexplainable sadness that follows you like a rain cloud, spreading out into swelling grief that chokes you from the inside out. Other times, it would be a headache that bloomed behind your eyes into something uncontrollable, unmanageable, that only settled with bedsheets and darkness.

As soon as the email appeared in your inbox, you felt the latter. It throbbing, pulsing—beginning somewhere between your second to final nerve.

Things shifting; a wave forming. One which rose inside of you when you weren’t aligning with the person you were working with. It growing. Swelling. Expanding inside of you to the point you were sure it was going to dislodge bone and deform you forever. The words on the screen slowly blur, barely discernible as sentences and not just another paragraph of failure.

You knew this could happen. From time to time creative visions weren't always going to align. A thing you reminded yourself of regularly, routinely. Telling yourself it in the shower, mirror or as you make your third coffee past midnight.

It never does lessen the sting, though.

Just like now, when your hand can't seem to stop slamming the lid of your laptop shut, or when you find yourself nervously nursing your lower lip between your teeth, a bubbling sensation begins within. Your mind fractures, allowing a flood of negative thoughts to pour forth, corroding, spewing and slathering itself over everything good.

You clutch at your phone, feeling the rubber of your case. Not even thinking; not even checking the time—just calling.

And hoping.

Waiting.

As soon as you hear his sunshine-like voice say your name and 'Are you okay?' (practically spoken as one word), you feel yourself take a breath.

Becoming aware, only then, of how damp your cheeks are, that your hand is shaking as he repeats the question, more gently, less dunked in worry.

Surprisingly, it feels easy to say no. To unravel silently to him as he asks you a question you rarely have been asked: 'Do you want to talk about it or something different?'

It’s small, a simple thing. But your heart swells. Your shoulders unlodge themselves from your ears and your spine softens, making the choice, all with far too much ease. Taking in the sound of his voice as he clears it, you hear him ask lowly and gruffly if you're comfortable before he begins explaining how he has a non-permanent tattoo of a creature on his arm.

Not a dinosaur, Rainy. Not even something born or created from Jurassic Park—and how he was worried that due to its placement, people would think Harold’s had become rougher, more dangerous business.

“Dangerous?”

You swear you hear him shrug. “People might see me, all tattooed up and think the worst of the place.”

Giggling, your fingers massage your head. “Where is it?”

“Guess.”

For a brief moment, like when light shines from behind the clouds, you grin. Guessing, naming body parts you know it couldn’t be, but only to hear his laugh—bathe in the joy that he can only summon, rinse your woes in it in the hope tomorrow you wake lighter.

“Ass.”

“They’d definitely think Harold’s had fucking changed if my ass is out baby.”

Smirking, climbing into bed (his advice, one you happily took). “I think I’d visit more. It’s peachy.”

Peachy he scoffs, but you swear he’s grinning. Adjusting the t-shirt as you lie down—one of his, stolen (with permission) from the drawer you’d made for him, taking in the scent of him, all musk, wood and man as you welded it with the voice as you discover it’s on his cheek.

“How are you going to explain that one?”

His laugh flows down the phone, meeting your ear as you lean against your pillows, trying (with all that you have) to almost convince yourself that he was here—and not streets and streets away.

Morning, guess what doesn’t come off with soap and a scrub? A monster.

Hope you slept okay, baby. Can bring a coffee round on my break. Can even see if I can sweet-talk a larger one for you. Put it in a flask.

Rainy, you awake?

Baby I don’t mean to worry, I bet you’re fine, just busy caught up in doing work, but just let me know you’re okay.

I have the spare key still from that delivery. If you don’t want to see me, tell me.

You’re not sure of the time—drifting on wood out at the sea of your own making. Having done so for a while.

Distantly aware of the passing of time. That it was no longer 3 am, which had been the last time you'd last checked the time. The sun is far too bright through your curtains; desperate to claw its fingers in and yank you from your sheets.

It doesn't, can't.

Instead, you're floating; lost somewhere between awake and asleep—only being disturbed, rocked from it, at the sound of your front door opening. The stiffness of the door, the squeak of a floorboard. All things which should fill you with alarm, but barely make your head move.

Because it's thumping.

Pounding.

Too much stuffed in there to do anything but lie there. Split at the seams, the rest of you shaken like a snow globe.

It crosses your mind—briefly—that if they were here to rob you, they’d find very little to take. If they were here for you, they were most definitely mistaken. Your eyes struggle to stay open, even if your ears are tuning, trying to twist to each noise, only relaxing when you hear the intruder mutter fuck.

Because you know that fuck. Know the exact voice as though it lives in your head with the one that wouldn't quiet at 3 am.

For the most part, you have to admit Frankie is quiet. A skill he likely gained from his former life, the one where it was a necessity. He just didn’t know your home. You only being able to tell he’s here from the little things, like that he’s not completely aware your front door gets a little stuck when it’s really warm and that some floorboards are looser than others.

In the same way, he doesn’t know that if you open your partially shut bedroom door slowly, it groans like it’s being personally offended—

“Mierda.”

You’re sure you croak a Hi Frankie.

You think it anyway; wanting to give an invitation to come closer, to move further in as your eyes try to focus on the money tree named Moana. With each blink, the leaves slowly come into focus as you begin to adapt to the brightness cast in by, what you now assume must be the afternoon. Blinking when you see him crouch down, all soft curls and silky brown eyes.

“You worried me.”

Swallowing, struggling to shove the dryness back, you clear your throat. “Headache.”

He’s gentle, slowly placing his palm on the side of your head, thumb brushing over the skin above your brow as he shifts in his crouched position. “Worse than that time you told me about?”

“About the same.”

It’s quiet, the way he answers with okay. Thumb doing a final swipe before you hear a pop of his knee as he stands, a mumble of Be right back, baby before the floorboards creek and you can hear him opening and closing cupboards in your kitchen. With a sigh, you close your eyes briefly, being roused by a gentle breeze caressing your cheek to find he'd returned, a glass of water in one hand and a crinkling packet in the other.

“Do you want to get in?”

“Sure,” he says, in the familiar deep voice—as you shuffle with ease.

Not daring to lift your head, to move too quickly or violently. The mattress dips as the bed groans when he throws his feet up, sliding into the warmth you’ve been creating for hours, finding his eyes—how that worry is still there. It swirling, likely mixing with the gold flecks and deep browns you admire every chance you can get.

You worry you've spoiled them, tainted them. Made them swirl with sadness caused by worry. And the thought makes your insides hum, as though someone has plucked all your strings. The twang of it trying to mix with the other emotions you don't feel equipped to unpiece.

“I’m s—”

“Don’t. You have nothing to be sorry for,” he says, firmly. Not accompanied by any smile.

A thing you know he means when he asks you, voice wrapped in satin, if you can take a sip for him. His arm slides around you, trying to pull you close as you do more than that, but rather consume, drain, and finish the glass.

When you hand it back, you think about the fact that a you with your head not coming apart might have teased him, might even throw your leg over his and asked him if he thinks sex gets rid of migraines like it does headaches. But, the words catch, stick and clag to the roof of your mouth.

Something rising, the emotions you’d shoved down trying to weave up. Climb. Stick their spikes into your oesophagus and crawl out your mouth. That is, until his palm spreads out, the width of his fingers sliding further up and along your spine. The act aiding you, guiding you to take a measured breath. One that stammers, hammers. One that floods inside of your chest, rising and rising like it wishes to crash against a beach and take everything to shore—

But, then it eases, calms.

All being gobbled back up, calmer waves lapping as you shift, seeing him lit by muffled, golden yellow. Listening to his heart, the breaths he takes as you try to follow them—even the scratching of his beard as he tucks himself closer and asks nothing, except silently, to be here.

Eventually, when you stop counting seconds, the quiet is broken—not rudely, or unnecessarily, but just with: “What can I do?”

“You’ve done it.”

Turning to see him—to find the gaze you know will already be on you. To look at the face you think of and have truthfully only wanted to see, there. You begin to explain, letting it all unravel, it unspooling from your tongue. Maybe sharing too much, like that no one you’ve dated has shown up like this before, and that you don’t ever expect him to do it again.

Shifting closer, as you continue talking, eyes closed to not aggravate what is trying to lessen, as you add extra context, sharing what happens, that you’re okay—but that sometimes you’re not. Statements, mainly. Likely broken sentences you somehow mash into paragraphs. Filling in the gaps, from the last weeks to now, to the email and then the call. How it happened—

“Maybe it’s because I’m happy.”

“Hmm?”

Shrugging gently against him, your chest fills with air before you exhale it in one long drag through your nose. “Maybe because I’m happy, my work isn’t that good.”

“Maybe.” His fingers find your chin, turning your eyes to his. “Or maybe he’s got very high expectations and the two of you just aren’t a good fit.”

Chewing your lip, you lower your gaze. “Yeah, maybe.” Unconsciously turning into the palm resting on your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek as you dare yourself to find his eyes. “I really hate people sometimes.”

Snorting, you feel his lips press to your forehead. “Let me tell you about this fucking asshole who tried to tell me the white paint he was buying wasn’t white.”

You press yourself closer to him ready to listen, hand sliding across his middle as you grasp more of his shirt, finding the smallest smile trying to crack through.

The next time you wake it’s to the smell of breakfast.

There's humming too, occasional words floating from the kitchen through the open door of your bedroom.

A coy smile already tugging across your cheek, the storm having waned, moved to the distance. But still, you test to see if it's safe as you lift from the pillows—sleep rubbed from your eyes as you spot the crumpled side of the bed. See the empty glass you’d drank before he held you, the jacket he’d been wearing when he’d showed up impromptu folded on the floor near the dresser.

Then, the grossness hits. The awareness that your skin feels claggy and awful, shuffling your feet from the bed, all the way to your bathroom.

His t-shirt peels from you with reluctance. The sadness eventually glides down the drain as the water falls down your skin—stepping out feeling refreshed.

Smiling as you head down the hallway, not forcing a smile as you slide your hands around his waist, fingers moving under the band of his tee, as they stroke over soft, warm skin and the dark hairs that swirl across his middle.

“Thank you,” you say, the words so large you hope they land with the weight you intend them to.

He turns and kisses you, whispering a don't against your minty mouth. Hovering for a moment there, before his mouth finds you again, more hungry, more laced with words as he presses you against the counter. Nowhere to go as he tilts your chin up. “You're worth showing up for, Rainy.”

You swear your heart triples in size as you bury your face in his tee and grin something stupid against him as he continues to sing whatever is playing out loud on his phone.

Do we need to go furniture shopping before or after you put the shelving in?

Probably before in case we need to order things. How’s your mini project coming along?

Well, I followed this tutorial by this very handsome man, and it seems easy to do, but my kitchen shelf isn’t straight.

Did you follow all of the instructions?

Now why would you assume I didn’t?

Because it sounds like you didn’t make sure it was level, baby.

Rude.

But did you?

I may have assumed that my eyesight was good.

How many holes do I need to fill in?

Oh, just the one.

In the wall.

Oh. Eight.

Since the moment he picked you up, you've been buzzing with excitement, just as you have been all week since he told you where he was taking you.

A skip in your step when you locked your door, the sun warming your skin in the short walk to the door he'd opened for you. Remembering how he teased you on the phone last night—you made a Pinterest board of what it could look like?—as you sat cross-legged on the couch, listening to him, shaking your head at the camera.

He handed you the coffee—brewed and made by him—only when you were seated. Another thing you were also sure had added to the swirling excitement in your stomach.

The drive, thankfully, hadn't been long. Undoing your belt when he kills the engine, his palm pressing down on your knee.

“No plants.”

“Are you asking me, or are you telling me?”

Leaning across the centre of his vehicle, he pulls your lips to his. “A very polite ask.”

“You don’t fancy your own Benedict or Henry?”

The tip of his nose touching yours, “I really don’t.”

You suggested other names as the two of you walked to the store's entrance, hand slotting inside his. Only silencing from your torment when your footsteps echoed softly against the glossy tile floors—blending with the rumbles of distant, murmured conversations, phone rings and furniture being rearranged.

Suddenly, the two of you were enveloped in the scents of polished wood and fresh upholstery, a scent you’re sure you used to like, but now really freaking loved.

Because this place is nice. The soft glow of overhead lights bathed the showroom in a warm, inviting ambience—casting a gentle spotlight on each carefully curated display. It was a scene straight out of a home decor magazine—every homeowner's dream.

"C'mon, Rainy," he coos, guiding.

Adding a soft this way from the back of his throat, becoming aware of his fingers brushing over the back of your jeans—along the pockets, along the expanse of your ass as you eye him, finding that same shy smirk that could explode into something more devilishly and ridiculously hard to resist.

A thing he already is without trying.

A thing which worsens when his arm comes around and keeps your side flush to his as the two of you make the way to the rows and rows of desks.

It makes sense to begin here.

To choose the ‘centrepiece’ of the room—as Frankie had explained on the drive—because everything has to fit around it. A thing you’d teased that you thought he was good at making things fit. To which he’d, playfully, replied that he was good, but he wasn’t fit-a-desk-and-a-dresser-an-armchair-and-shelving-good. A thing you'd promptly argued.

Stepping from his side, fingers brushing over the top of one, you glance over at them all. How they’re all vying for your attention, each with a unique allure. From sleek modern to rustic wood.

Catching Frankie's eye and with a mischievous grin, you take a seat behind one of the desks.

“Frank DIY’s office, how I can hammer you a good time today?” you say into the faux telephone, “Oh, I am sure Mr Morales would be able to… bend over and get himself in—I mean, you in.”

Frankie shakes his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as you get up and sit behind another, typing on the desk as a keyboard, pretending to stare at the unplugged monitor that had no computer with it. Then moving to another, one with a desk mat and no other items than a plant that looks chewed by tiny teeth, before pulling yourself on the wheels behind one with drawers and a keyboard but nil else.

“Oh, hello sir. Your 2 o’clock is here.”

“Is that right?” he asks, folding his arms. “What am I doing for this appointment?”

Smirking, fingers poised over the keys. “They wish to know how to check if a desk is stable. For two people.”

You hear him take in a breath. Lips threatening to spread into a smirk before he clears his throat. “To work at?”

Shaking your head, you grin.

“I’ll have to call my assistant in. She’s a handful, bad with drilling, but, she can help me.”

Laughing, almost hiccuping from it, he stares down at you—palms still very flat against the desk—as it fades and spreads into a smile that hurts your cheeks. “There it is.”

“There’s what?”

“My smile.”

Eyes widening, you snort. “Your smile?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Mine.”

Rolling your lips, standing from the wheely chair, you raise your brows. Moving around the edge, fingers dancing along the wood until you’re standing perfectly in front of him—eyeing him, as always unable to take your eyes from him.

“I think I like this one,” you add, running the tips of your fingers over the smooth surface of the desk. “There’s no price though—or sizing.”

Frankie glances at it, eyes flicking from each of the sides as he likely does math gymnastics. “You’ll have a lot of space for your dresser—the butterscotch one.”

“You just know that do you?”

“Grab a measuring tape and I’ll confirm it,” he grins.

Hand on hip, you arch a brow as Frankie's laughter fills the air, but you can see it in his eyes, the challenge.

“Get it yourself, Morales.”

Pinching your ass, he walks around it. “I’ll remember that.”

Shaking your head, he snaps a photo of the desk—staring at his screen to check it before locking it. His hand offered to you.

“Chairs?”

Leaning close, voice dropping, you—all velvet-like— whisper, “Your face not on offer when I’m working?”

Pink spreads up his neck, tongue clicking against his teeth, he smiles. Grins. His fingers tighten around yours as you’re sure his eyes actually sparkle. “From the way you weren’t able to form sentences last time, not sure you’d get much work done.”

The chairs, for how colourful and varying they were, felt less fun than desk shopping. Most of them were out of reach, high up on shelves—having to assess whether they were as comfortable as they looked or if it was a lie. A game that got less and less fun the more you trailed.

Frankie, likely guessing your joy was wavering, grabbed a basket at some point—allowing you to peruse the mini plant aisles and other decorative things. For your shelves, he said, for the shelves, you replied, grinning, even as you grabbed a particularly wiry cactus you named Cisco.

“You think you’ve got at least one of everything in here?”

Fake laughing, your elbow confidently finds his side—hearing a gruff huff from him. “Almost. I just need—”

Eyes spotting it, body moving all of its own accord as though the required item had been lit under a spotlight and heaven-like noises had begun playing. Fingers gliding over each, brushing over fleece fluff that left marks of your touch, to more knitted, firmer types, too many choices all to be shared at, contemplated.

You feel it before you see it. Pain flaring from your side as your head whips—meeting the disgruntled face of another shopper, the end of their cart still firmly against your side as though somehow, you were the one who was required to move. Even after he’d practically rammed the cart into you.

“Hey man, watch it,” Frankie says, arm sliding around you, pulling you close.

The smallest of gaps made, created, between yourself and the offending cart. The pain throbbing, the embarrassment simmering, as you fight rubbing the impacted sight as it continued to pound, hearing:

And maybe, if you had looked across, you would have seen the man scoff—observed the expression that made Frankie tense even more protectively next to you You would have noticed why his usually soft smile shifted into a thin line as a storm brewed inside of him before you heard:

“She's the one in the way.”

An adult-like response if you've ever heard one. A thing you shake your head at, but reach your hand up to touch Frankie's chest, tapping lightly as you watch him visibly swallow whatever had been about to come out of his mouth. Instead, he mutters a few choice curses under his breath, shooting a silent but determined look to the person as they mumbled the most pathetic apology known.

But, you didn’t, don’t.

Because, if you had, you'd have missed the way it all vanished when his eyes met yours. How it was erased, wiped all clean. Every affliction on his face, from the hardened eyes to the twitch of his nose, slipped away back to its recess.

“You alright, baby?”

Not one blame placed on you; not even a thought to do so, as his knuckles brush your cheek.

“I’m fine, Butterscotch. It's nice to meet protective you, though.” His eyes shifting from you quickly, the deepest of reds flooding his ears, you flatten your hand to his chest. “I appreciate it.”

Meeting your stare, he swallows. “You sure you're okay?”

Biting the inside of your cheek when his palm, warm and spreading heat, begins stroking over the offended area, you nod. Grinning.

Because if anything, you're pretty sure you might be in love with him.

NEXT CHAPTER ->

notes: i've drip fed rainy's difficult client for a few chapters now, as well as her little wobbles with anxiety. i know this isn't everyone's experience, but i think we can all relate to those days when getting out of bed just feels hard. i hope you're all okay, and just know i'm always here. no one is ever alone when the grey clouds are overhead, even if they clouds hope to make us feel that way. ily all, jo.

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killsaki · 1 year

Text

implode — there’s only so many feelings one can hold in, especially with bakugou blood in their veins.

bakugou katsuki x little sister!reader

6.7k | minors dni | read on ao3

cw / tw : incest, drugging, hinted noncon gangbang, scummy!denki+sero+kiri, aphrodisiac, weed, alcohol, fingering, creampie, reader calls bkg ‘bubba’.

is it hard being the sibling of a prohero?

of course! they disappear for days to weeks at a time—leaving for training, meetings, press events, and then for missions. you go from having them all to yourself, to sharing them with the world. from being their number one fan, to merely feeling like one amongst a million. and there’s so many things to worry about, from them going to work and never coming home, to a villain coming after you out of spite of being captured by said sibling.

those all sound logical answers to the question, normal ones. hence why you’ve practiced saying them so many times in case anyone ever asks.

but, truly, you knew most of those were things you’d never have to worry about. not when you’re the younger sister of none other than bakugou katsuki.

your brother being, well.. himself, was enough to keep any thoughts of danger from your mind. he was too fast, too strong, too skilled, too protective for anything to ever happen to either of you. but this peace of mind only gives room for you to dwell on other things.

like the social media ‘famous’ girls who just don’t shut up about how hot your brother is—which shouldn’t bother you so much, not in the stomach churning, phone gripping way that it does. and you could blame your intense reactions on the fact that you have to see it literally every time you try to scroll down your timeline, or that it’s just weird that your brother is suddenly getting so much attention.. but that's less believable than the first excuse to you.

and then there’s the out of context candids posted in tabloids of him saving civilians, who understandably look at him so longingly, and then there’s a picture painted of him as some kind of bachelor. to make matters worse, said online articles become almost impossible to escape no matter how much you try—partially thanks to your old school ‘friends’ sending them to you asking for all the details to share with their group chats, as if you’d tell them.

to top everything off, your brother, as doting as he is, never has time for you anymore. despite how you live with him, have your own room and bath in his unnecessarily large condo, and even have a card to his bank account for anything you could possibly need—still, you rarely see him. he’s so consumed in his work, from partols to missions, and when he’s not on the clock he’s forced to do press and modeling for whatever goodies they want to slap his picture onto.

and you could never hold that against him, not when he’s been working towards this his whole life. but still, having just a moment with him could cure all the thoughts that hang heavy in your mind daily. just a second to be reminded that your brother is yours, all alone. that you’re the only little sister he’ll ever have, the only girl he’ll ever need.

luckily for you, a day comes that your brother gets a day's break—more like he’s forced into a vacation as he never takes any days off. and he’s able to lounge about, meaning that he’s sitting on the couch in sweats and bouncing his leg waiting for someone to call his phone saying he can finally come to work as if being away from it was excruciating. you could giggle at the thought, what person besides katsuki would rather be out fighting petty criminals than relaxing on their own couch.

“did you hear me?” he questions, eyebrows furrowed slightly as he looks over at you.

you shake your head, too caught up in your thoughts to realize he was even speaking to you.

“the guys want me to go over for a bit. i won’t be gone long.” he repeats before turning back to his phone screen as he finishes typing.

your heart jumps into your throat. tonight was exactly what you’d been longing for, time with just the two of you, so you could reassure yourself the importance of the role you have in his life. so that you could have katsuki all to yourself. so that you could pretend for just a little while, that he’s just your brother again, not the hero you have to share with the world.

“i wanna go too.” you spit without thought.

he shoots you another look, lifting a brow as he blinks at you. “i want to come hang out too.” you say again as you chew at your lip, unable to back out of the situation your loud mouth has already gotten you into.

“no.” he replies back coldly, pushing himself from the couch before stretching his arms up, revealing the bottom of his toned stomach as he does so. “there’s going to be a lot of people, and drinking.” he looks at you out of the corner of his eyes before mumbling on. “and denki’s gonna be there.”

you snap your gaze up to him in confusion about the mention of a certain friend of his. but, he doesn’t let you get any questions out, heading off towards his room to get ready to leave. you pad right behind him, arms crossed while you walk, letting out huffs every few minutes just to remind him how you’re not going to give up. you sit on his bed as he collects an outfit to wear and little things he needs for a shower, noticing how he avoids making any glances in your direction.

it’s not until he’s already fully showered and starting to dress himself that he cracks, groaning as he looks at you.

“go fuckin’ get dressed.” he orders with out any actual malice in his tone. “once i get in the car, i’m leaving.”

your brother is many things, but a liar is not one.

so, you race to your room, tearing into your dresser to slip into that one outfit you’d been holding onto, hoping to wear the next time you’d gotten the chance to go on an outing with katsuki. though, you’d pictured something with more room for alone time, you suppose it would work at a party with his old friends too.

you’d just finished touching up what you need in the mirror as you hear his car engine start up, giving you only seconds to force yourself into your shoes and jog out to his car.

“you stay by my side until we leave.” he looks over at you, while you reach over your shoulder for the seatbelt, his crimson eyes squinted warningly. “i mean it.”

he didn’t mean it.

it’s not even half an hour after you arrive, barely finished shoving your way through the sweaty bodies crowded in someone’s living space, hardly enough time enough to adjust your ears to the shitty music and screams of laughter—something catches your brother's eye, to which he leaves you in the hands of his old classmate. ‘be back in a minute’, he says, pushing you into the red head’s side. but it’s not a minute, it’s been thirty and you haven’t managed to spot the blonde mess of a head, not even from your seat on the kitchen’s counter over the crowd merely feet away.

“what’s wrong?” kirishima raises his eyebrows slightly at you from behind his solo cup.

“just expected to be with kats’,” you huff, fingers twiddling with the end of your skirt. “kinda the only reason i came.”

he nods, glancing down into his drink before peering over his shoulder.

“want a sip?”

you know that you shouldn’t, how mad your brother will get at the both of you if he shows up to find you wasted and slung over his best friend.

“it’ll help you relax, at least until he gets back. i won’t let you drink too much, i promise.”

you can’t resist the small smile he gives. he’s so warm, safe. being with him is almost the same as being with katsuki, almost.

one sip turns into two cups, and suddenly it’s not just you and eijiro anymore. sero and denki showed up somewhere along the way. but, it’s fine, you think. they’re heroes alongside your brother, and they’ve known him long enough to know any better. only, in your slurred thoughts, that voice in the back of your mind starts to hope otherwise.

they’re all undoubtedly handsome, the three of them much taller than you despite the height difference amongst themselves, and all so strong. there’s sero with his shaggy black hair, signature grin and pretty ring clad fingers that grip the cup he’d been babysitting since he’d walked over. denki and his pretty pink lips he never stops running his tongue over, his slightly whiney voice and golden eyes that just get so much deeper when he looks at you. and then of course, kirishima, who’s just so unreasonably big, length and width—wait, that's… not the right words. but now you wonder—

“what are you smiling about?” the blonde asks from where he’s propped on the kitchen’s island across from you.

you shake your head, biting your lips when you realize how caught up in your thoughts you let yourself get with them still right in front of you.

“i was just thinking.” you let out, trying to look anywhere but at kirishima.

“thinking about?” the voice pipes in from beside you, resting his head on your arm as he leans back to look up at you. your heart races a bit when you can physically feel how close he’s gotten to you without you realizing.

“yeah, you’ve been so quiet. not really living up to the bakugou name.” sero shakes his head with fake disapproval.

“my brother’s not that loud.” you giggle, knowing it's a lie before it even hits your tongue. “i was just thinking about how i never see you guys, you’re so different than you were when i met you back at the graduation.” you sigh. “he never lets me go out with him when you guys invite him.”

you miss the look that hanta and kaminari share, how the corners of the blonde's mouth perk up for a split second before he paints on a confused expression.

“when do we invite him out?” he asks, tilting his head slightly when you look up at him.

you nearly mimic the movement when you register his words.

“always?..” you ask, but glancing at the dark haired man and the red head who share the same confused expression, you don't need an answer. “but he… i’m so confused.”

you can only blink, staring at the black side of the fridge, thinking back on the rare nights that he gets off with enough time to do anything besides shower and sleep. how he’d knock on your door, letting you know he was running over to one of ‘the guys’ house before it got too late. he was never gone too terribly long, but that’s just how your brother is. you always thought he literally only went to say hi and came home—wanting to get enough sleep for another full day of hero work. that’s the only thing that made any sense.

“hey, don’t worry about it.” kirishima’s large hand has somehow found its way to rub soothingly at your side, arm now wrapped behind your back.

“i’m sure he could’ve meant midoriya or something.” denki still wears a straight face, speaking with faulty concern.

sero stays quiet while he pulls out his phone, scrolling through something and finally starting to sip out of his cup.

“i should go try to find him.” you go to slide off the counter when denki speaks up again.

“i think you should stay with us.”

the words send a gut wrenching feeling to your core, your body screams to get away, but you fight it.

“why?” you dumbly ask, the smallest bit of curiosity keeping you.

“your brother’s busy.” he shrugs, bumping sero’s shoulder with his own.

the long fingers you were admiring minutes ago faint against yours as he hands you his phone, the screen showing a man you recognize unmistakingly as your brother, dressed in the outfit he’d worn tonight. his arm snug around some girl's lower back, ducked down with his mouth to her ear, the camera’s quality is shitty but even so, you can still see the way their bodies are pressed together. you feel your heart sink, though, you’re not entirely sure why.

you let yourself get slotted back into kirishima’s side, finding a sense of comfort in the weight of his arm around your shoulder as they walk you to the glass doors at the back of the house.

“don’t looked so bummed little baku’!” denki shoots you a grin. “we’ll keep you entertained for the night.”

the air is warm outside, not helping to cool your cheeks that are still hot from the alcohol. the four of you end up sitting on some cushioned benches near the middle of the yard, surrounded by small bushes. it’s much nicer than being inside, but you’re not entirely sure why they brought you out here. not until sero pulls out something rolled and a lighter. you watch as he puts it between his lips, lighting the end and inhaling til the end burns red without the flame. you forget to look away whenever he exhales, giving him the chance to catch you watching him.

“you want to hit it?” his voice suddenly sounds like silk, acting like ties as it’s doing everything to pull you in despite the way your nerves are still screaming at you.

“i’ve never smoked before.” you laugh awkwardly. “my brother would kill me.”

he flashes that big toothy grin, shaking his head for the who-knows-what time that night and you know you’re in for it whenever you see your brother again. but just for this second, you think it’ll be okay.. if he’s busy with some girl when he told you he’d be by your side for the night, then you can have fun with his cute friends.

“he doesn’t have to know.” sero pulls you back to the moment in front of you. “come here, i’ll teach you.”

you’re moving without thinking, giggling again at the way he shoo’s denki from beside him so that you can sit. he teaches you how to breathe it in easily, but how not to take too much. and you do exactly as he says, letting him put it on your lips, you pull in a slow but shallow drag. holding it until he tells you to let it out.

“good girl.” hanta smirks, the warmth of his hand holding your jaw as he moves the damp paper back to your mouth. “now do it again, just like that.”

you listen, thinking nothing of it. thinking nothing at all, actually. you can’t. the flood of warmth lingering in your veins from those drinks that you’re just realising were much stronger than you thought and the clouds now fogging your consciousness, too much to form any kind of thought.

“here, try this.” you hear from the side- no, in front of you. denki’s leaned over with a diamond shaped candy on his palm.

you hesitate, but not able to talk, body already working overtime to remember how to breathe properly.

“it’ll just make you feel good, i just took one too.” he reassures, gesturing again for you to grab it. if you could feel your body right now, you’d feel every single inch of it aching to run. you’d feel that same feeling in your stomach as it started to churn. maybe you would’ve listened this time. but instead all you can feel is the race in your chest as you eye the light blue against his pale skin.

“c’mon.” kirishima’s showing off his sharp teeth with how wide he’s grinning, trying his hardest to be just as reassuring as he was to get you to drink with him a while ago. “we’re your brother's best friends, you know we wouldn’t let anything happen to you.. even if he is busy.

you take another deep breath, nodding. right. katsuki wouldn’t let anything happen to you.

“let me.” denki’s suddenly standing over you, candy- pill pinched between his fingers, a grin just as big plastered on his face. “open up.”

you miss the devilish intent hiding behind those smiling faces. you miss the almost telepathic conversation they all have in the glances they share as you flutter your pretty eyes closed, letting your tongue fall out for denki to drop the pill on. it hits your taste, dissolving almost immediately. you swallow the bitter grainy bits, grimacing as you only have your spit to get it down with.

“give it just a few minutes.” the blonde speaks again, much more eagerly this time. which should alert you, all of this should.

you could blame it on the alcohol you have a low tolerance for, on the weed you’ve never smoked, on the fact you trust anyone who attaches their name to your brothers. but really, it’s because you’re dumb. you don’t think anything bad can ever happen to you. not like this. not when your brother is so close.

“it’s kinda warm out here.” you mumble, shifting uncomfortably on the padding. you feel the heat across your cheeks and down your neck, skipping to your stomach that warms slowly, trickling down between your legs and across your thighs. “think i want some water.”

you slowly push yourself to stand, body feeling heavy as you move. you don’t catch how they all follow right behind you, until sero—no, denki’s arm slinks its way around your waist as you walk. he pulls you away from the path back to the glass door and towards the gate in the big wooden fence.

“it’s too hot in there.” he tugs you again when you weakly attempt to pull away. “kirishima’s place isn’t too far from here. we can just hang out there while you cool off.”

you shake your head, mind racing to how badly you just want something to drink, and to be with katsuki. mentally cursing out the stupid girl in that picture for taking your brother away from you, for stealing his attention when you’re the one who needs it. and you curse yourself, for not listening to his warning when he said denki would be here.

“denki.” you drag your feet, doing anything to attempt a fight against the push of his much stronger hands. “what was that? the…” it’s hard to think, even harder to push those thoughts into words and say them aloud “the pill. what’d you give me?”

“i told you,” he smirks, glancing behind you and nodding one of the men over. “it’s just to make everything feel better.” stepping aside, kirishima’s heavy arm replaces denki’s, locking you under it and forcing you forward. your heart races at all the implications that could have. you don’t even notice you’re shaking until he wraps his other arm around you, bending his head down to graze the shell of your ear, whispering into it

“it’ll make things easier,” something about his tone makes you want to vomit. “just don’t think about it, pretty.”

“don’t get too friendly, dude, i’m the one who set this up.” denki bites, pulling his keys out as the four of you near a car. “there’s no way you get first.”

sero snickers again, sighing as kiri opens his mouth to snide back about how he’s been waiting two years and that you should at least get to pick that much. you can’t really make it out anymore, all you can hear is your own heartbeat banging in your ears.

you try and struggle out of his hold, which only makes them all laugh in turn and your heart falls into your stomach. you’re with pro heroes, if anything bad is going to happen to you here, at their hands, there's no way you’re going to fight your way out of it.

sero’s fingers wrap around the handle of the car’s back door when the voice booms out your name down the small hill the house is sitting on.

you can physically feel kirishima tense up and his heart start to race, you can hear the way sero and denki stop breathing in unison. you can even picture the way they all freeze without having to look, you can imagine the absolute fear in their face as they stand there, gaping at your brother.

his red eyes dig into you before taking a second to glance at the men around you.

“why do you look so fucked up?” he barks out, brows furrowing deeper with each step he takes towards you. “where the fuck were you guys about to go?”

he’s eyeing kirishima now, tugging you by your wrist out of the red head’s hold and into his own, gripping you as if he lets go, you'll get stolen away.

“she said it was hot in there.” kirishima shrugs awkwardly, face stiff.

“and who the fuck said you could take her anywhere?” bakugou tilts his head face twisted dumbfoundedly at the boldness his old friend suddenly seems to have.

“my place is just up the street she wanted to—“

“and why the fuck do you have her around denki?” you can feel bakugou’s skin grow hotter to the touch with each word he spits. or maybe it's you that’s getting hotter. god, it’s fucking hot.

“i didn’t drive.” he shrugs again, breaking eye contact to look over at the other blonde.

“she’s not a baby bakugou, she can be around whoever she wants.” kaminiari says smugly, like the idiot he is.

“i’ll kill you.” your brother doesn’t hesitate with this threat, and it wipes the smile off denki’s, raising his hands slightly in defence.

you use the hold he has on you to wrap your arm around his, feeling a great sense of relief pressed against him.

“he didn’t touch you did he?” katsuki’s voice is still gruff when he talks down to you, but you don’t mind it.

you know that he did technically touch you, but not enough to hurt anything. and if you answer truthfully it’ll just drag this out even longer, and all you want is to be wrapped around him. so, you shake your head, and you hope he doesn’t hear the way they all sigh in relief.

your brother doesn’t say anything else, just pulls you away towards where he’d parked. the second he turns around, you peek back at the men. kirishima has his head tossed back, hand over his chest as he takes in a deep breath, sero, leaned against the car shoulders shaking with laughter while denki curses and slams the driver side door shut.

“i’m hot katsu’” you whine when he unlocks the door for you.

“how much did he let you drink?” he scoffs, leaning across you and buckling your seatbelt for you as if you’re unable.

you huff, watching his strong arms reach over your body. his warm chest coming down to press into yours, that you find is so sensitive. so much so that a small whine escapes your throat before you’re able to register it he’s already pulled back looking down at you. one hand on the top of the car as he leans over, eyebrows pinched together.

“‘m just hot, bubba.” you assure, face burning in embarrassment and whatever else was setting your body on fire.

he immediately blasts the AC as soon as the car is on, and in the second that it satiates the burning under your skin, you remember.

“who was the girl?” you question, voice somewhere between shaking and slurring. you shouldn’t be asking, there’s no reason for you to do this right now—or at all. “the one you left me to go see.”

katsuki just stares ahead for a second before his jaw tightens.

“and where did you see me with a girl?” he asks blankly, like he already knows the answer.

“sero had a picture. they said you were busy, that’s why i stayed with them.” you answer truthfully, hoping he’d driven far enough to not want to turn back.

“i didn’t know her, sero at introduced us.” he scoffs, scowl resting on his face as he keeps his eyes focused on the drive.

the heat begins to dig into you again, the cool blow the ac’s aid only a temporary fix.

“why? why didn’t you come look for me? text me?” he asks, his short fuse burning already.

“you were busy.” you reply shortly, too focused on the ache going on in your lower half.

“and? if i knew that shit face was going to try fucking with you we would’ve left as soon as we got there.” he shakes his head, voice raising only slightly.

“you were with a girl, katsu! i didn’t want to interrupt.” you throw your head back against the cool leather, smoothing your hands out over your skirt, across the tops of your thighs as if that would help.

“you’re my little sister, that’s completely different.” he scrunches his face up as he glances between you and the road, the same thing he does anytime anyone says something he thinks is the slightest bit dumb.

“is it?” you ask.

“yes.” he snaps back.

“so if i wasn’t your little sister, you wouldn’t care?” you mumble, shifting at the warmth you feel start to spill into your panties. “or if i wouldn’t have come with you tonight, would you have left with her?”

he sighs, exasperated.

“what the fuck are you saying right now?” he keeps glancing at you, rushing a reply.

“why did you leave me to go see her?” you groan. “why didn’t you stay with me? why didn’t you wanna just be at home with me?”

he only gets your name and a curse out before you cut him off, the heat itching at you becoming too much.

“katsu’ ‘m so hot.” you mewl, raking your hands down your body, reveling in the momentary coolness under your own touch. you can feel the way he stiffens slightly next to you, but the previous tension is out the window, almost forgotten.

“i have the ac on.” he states, keeping his eyes on the road as you near the building the two of you call home.

“it’s inside katsu, ‘m hot on the inside.”

he stops the car with a jerk in the middle of the parking lot, snapping his head over towards you.

“what did they give you?” his question is sharp, voice filled with anger once again.

“denki gave me candy—no, a pill.” you toss your head side to side, thighs rubbing together mindlessly. “to make me ‘feel good’—make everything, no—something feel good that’s what they said, but i just hurt.”

you can hear death threats spill out his mouth as he watches you squirm in the seat.

“i’ll take you to the hospital.” he mutters, putting a hand on the shoulder of your seat to look behind him as starts to back out.

“no!” you whine, grabbing his hand and pulling it to your lap. “i don’t want doctors touching me.”

he keeps his eyes on you as you put his palm against your inner thigh, watching how you keen against the seat when his skin touches yours.

“want you to help me, bubba, please.” he pulls his hand from you, face contorted with.. something before he’s rubbing his palms over his face and pulling at his hair. you realize what you just asked and for the umpteenth time tonight, your heart sinks. but this time you're sure that if you stood, it’d be sitting on the seat underneath you.

“i’m—katsuki, i’m sorry.” you start to babble out apology after apology, which soon all runs together and becomes broken as you tear up, voice cracking every other word.

the blond throws his head back, hard. quickly changing gear and moving his car into a private parking spot. you’re still crying when he pulls your wrist, strength easily shifting you over the middle console of his car and into his lap.

“tell me that you need my help.” he blinks up at you, holding your waist just above his lap.

you nod, hoping it’ll suffice, but it doesn’t.

“i need you to help me, katsu—no one else can.” he drops you onto his lap, fingertips digging into the softness of your sides. “please, make it better.” you breathe, shakily.

he uses his hold to drag you across his lap, the friction making you drop your head onto his shoulder. pleasure shooting up your spine, small whines of his name getting lost in his neck as he keeps grinding you down onto him until your thighs start to shake, your moans turn into breathless whines and you’re crumbling against him as you make a mess all over his jeans…

the two of you sit in panting silence for a few minutes before he tells you to move, that you need a shower. and like you always do, you listen. following him inside and discarding your clothes from your still buzzing body in silence. but as soon as the showers water hits you, you’re burning again. the ache between your legs coming back stronger than before, the burn in your stomach twice as hot and the need is too much.

you don’t hesitate to make your way right back to his room, body still nude and dripping all over the floors as you do. but you don’t care—your brain and body only knows one thing right now and it’s that you need your brother.

“what are you doing?” he strains, turning his head back towards the drawer he was sorting through as soon as he takes in your naked body standing at his doorway.

“i still hurt, katsu.” you whisper, not caring if he heard you or not. just wanting him to give you more than what he gave earlier.

“i already helped.” you can hear pain in his voice and it makes you want to cry. you wish you didn’t put him in such a position, that you would’ve just been grateful and stayed home—but you need him, it’s all your mind and body can tell you, you need him.

“help again.” you practically demand, craving him too badly to be embarrassed or think much at all about what you were doing. your hands land on his shoulders and pull yourself up to kiss at his neck trying to entice him.

“i can’t.” he groans low, but doesn’t attempt to push you away, letting you drag your lips across all the skin you can reach.

you don’t say anything else, not until you manage to pull him down by his hair to look at you.

“make it better.. like you always do.”

it’s the pebble that cracks the glass, his hands grip your waist and all but throw you onto his mattress. you only have a moment to gasp before he’s hovering over you.

“say it again.” he commands, voice rough as one of his hands makes its way to the apex of your thighs. your eyes flutter at the vibration of his words against your chest, the knot in your stomach already tying itself.

“make me feel better, bubba, please.”

there was a reason behind why he’s left the condo the few times that he does get to sit in the house, a reason why he doesn’t want to be alone with you for too long. it’s not that he doesn’t have any restraint, but he’s known thatif something ever happened, where the little sister that has always been the exception his selfish attitude asked him to do anything like this—even without whatever the fuck it was that denki gave you—he’d do it.

he drags a heavy finger along your slit, up to your still swollen clit making you gasp against his lips as they ghost your own. he teases only for a second, not able to bare you being in pain when he’s there to do something about it, just like he’s always been. he uses your excessive slick to rub harsh circles over your clit, it sends your eyes rolling back, it’s so much more practiced than the pathetic frottage he pulled in the car.

“need more, katsu, please.” you push your hips into his hand with the little bit of strength you have, desperate for as much as he’ll give you.

he drops his forehead to your shoulder this time, looking down as he moves his fingertips to your entrance, pushing two in without warning. he immediately works away with them, curling into your swollen, most sensitive wall and fucking into you with a strength that could only be possessed by such a high ranking pro hero. your wetness sticks to his knuckles with every pull before it squelches obscenely loud when he pushes back in.

“kiss me, katsu.” you whine.

he brings his lips back to yours, red eyes flickering between both of your eyes for a moment, waiting for you to take it back. you don’t, instead, sliding your hands from where they sat on his shoulders up to twist into his hair.

“you can pretend ‘m someone else… just please kiss me.” his fingers pause their movement for a moment, and he pulls away. you start to whine, from the loss and out of fear you’d said something wrong again.

“why would you say that?” you trip over any word that hits your tongue. but you don’t need to speak, he does it for you. “i don’t need to do that,” his fingers pick their pace back up, drawing wonton moans from you that you wouldn’t be able to bite back if you tried. “not when i’ve always pretended everyone else was you.” he admits.

your heart leaps in your chest just as he presses his mouth into yours, the kiss is littered with teeth and spit—but neither of you can find a reason to care.

the familiar feeling starts to coil in your stomach, your hips moving on their own down on his hand to chase the feeling of ecstasy but it never comes, you cry out as the pressure fades.

“more.” you cry softly against his lips, keeping your eyes screwed shut so you don’t have to face any look that he might give you. “‘need you.”

but, he complies, tugging himself out of the sweats he’d thrown on after his shower and kicking them off to be dealt with later. he doesn’t waste any time teasing, rushing to give you what you want—what you need, to make his pretty little sister feel good the way he’s been cursing his brain for imaging for the longest time.

he lines the thick head of him up with your already stretched hole, dropping back down to your lips as he eases in. the pop of the head of him pulls a gasp from the both of you, but he doesn’t give you time to adjust to it, knowing with how you’ve been aching to be filled all night that you can handle the stretch. which is exactly what he gives you, his fingers were nothing in comparison to the girth of his cock.

it stings, making your eyes tear up, and drags whine after whine from your throat. katsuki catches them in his mouth, swallowing them and shushing you while he continues to push in until he’s at the hilt. you babble out senseless ‘thank you’s while he pulls back slightly, never separating your hips and his own by too much. his hips make a circular motion, grinding back into you slowly, pushing the trimmed light colored pubes at the base of him against your ever throbbing clit and making you squeal from the pleasure of it.

he repeats it over and over, curved length of him dragging along your g-spot until youre twitching, your mouth hangs open, sounds falling against his lips as he drinks all of them in. your hips rise every few strokes trying to meet him, to egg him on to go harder, to give you more without having to ask for it, but he just wont. keeping his slow, sensual pace, as if he was fucking you at his own leisure and not because you basically forced yourself onto him

“love you, bubba.” you whisper drunkenly, lips dragging across his soft ones as you speak.

his hips stutter at your words, strong arms move from holding himself over you to grabbing the underside of your knees and pulling them slightly, wrapping your legs around him. “ah- my katsu.”

“keep telling me.” he grunts, sliding his hand down to your waist where your thighs fold over them. “tell me i’m yours, say that you’re mine.”

he finally picks up his antagonizing pace, hips still swirling into yours, pubic hair scratching against your bud with each push. the head of him presses deep against that spongey spot with each sway, heavy balls sticking to your leaked juices as you chant out the i love you’s like a mantra, like it’s the only meaningful thing that you’ve ever said. it’s not long before your legs start to shake, his cock hitting all of the right nerves in your throbbing cunt.

“don’t stop.” he repeats when your mouth drops wide open, orgasm creeping up on you.

“mine! you’re mine!” you cry as your vision turns white and your walls spasm around him. “‘m yours, all yours, bubba.” you whimper as the ache in your cunt becomes the pain of overstimulation.

your words and the steady throb of your clamping cunt ultimately bringing him to his end with you. you feel the heat simmer down as he fills you, warmth spilling out even as his cock still plugs you. and you couldn’t be more thankful for denki being such a scumbag.

you don’t have enough strength to stay awake past that, all of your energy left with the last orgasm. at some point you wake up, you’re clean between your thighs and cuddled up on your brother's warm chest. you shift only an inch and you could feel him jump awake to pull you closer, leaving a kiss on the top of your head before you drift back to sleep with small smiles on both of your faces—happy to be your brother’s girl.

a / n : obligatory bkgs little sis tag : @vampireloverz <33 thank you stevie for inspiring me to write this in first place!!!! +++ happy birthday to The Guy !!!

reblogs + feedback appreciated !

#bakugou smut #bakugou katsuki smut #my hero smut #mha smut #bnha smut #boku no hero smut #my hero academia smut #bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #my hero x reader #mha x reader #bnha x reader #boku no hero x reader #lets how long i keep this up #this is so good fr tho you should read it and praise me

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moondirti · 1 year

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10. RESILIENCE

CHAPTER TEN OF ANIMALIC | MIGUEL O'HARA X F!READER

↼ chapter nine / chapter eleven ⇀

summary: miguel gives you something to work for

explicit (18+) | 5.1k words warnings: enemies (with benefits) to lovers, SMUT, fingering, praise kinks, edging, miguel is a tease, training arcs, using sex as encouragement, strict mentor miguel, angst, blood and injury notes: this is just five thousand words of banter and filth. am i sorry?

You’ve never been one to reminisce.

Nostalgia, déjà vu – to pull a sweet memory often feels like trying to fish a lightbulb out from the traps of your jaw. Impossible, not unless the glass shatters to cut your gums and you’re left with the bitter aftertaste of tungsten. There’s a barrier preventing it, somewhere in your mind, built to divide your life into two clean segments. Before and after.

The woman you were before the incident at Alchemax had plenty to look forward to. She spent her time shooting way beyond her ground to ever consider slowing down, lured by aspirations far more tempting than the comfortable life she led. Had she stopped to smell the flowers, to appreciate the way lavender lotion felt on her skin or the past not yet marked with blood, you believe things could have gone differently. That too is hard to consider.

The girl you are now is ripe with rot, softening in the places touched by radiation, crystallising in others. To bring anything – a voice, a face, any memory – back from your previous life would mean spoiling it, so you keep it all banked behind that wall. And of course, from the year past, there’s hardly anything new to recall with a smile.

Had you been anyone else, you suppose this could’ve been one of those rare times.

Because the gym is unchanged, exactly as you left it. Realistically, it’s only been a week, and to expect any major upheaval would be counting on a tragedy like the one that befell your Earth. Yet–

Somehow, you believed that coming back could paint it in a new light. Like the ground would collapse where you took him, and the mirrors would crack, all to expose an element you’d failed to consider. One to help you take comfort in the fact, despite your reckless tryst, you’re still here. Returned – which means that all your worst worries were needless, and that this is just a gym, and you are just a person. Perhaps, if you were to pace around that gaping realisation, then your anxiety would give away to thrill.

Would’ve. Could’ve.

It still looks like the roots of your most recent mistake, though. Your tummy knots with it, tangled in that dermal tissue. You’re overcome with the urge to run, in an almost exact mirror of the last you were here. The air brims with promise; not the well-heeled kind, but a twisted sort that makes it hard to breathe. You’re afraid that, whatever happens today, things will only get more complicated. You won’t handle it well if it does.

You’ve never been one to reminisce. This morning, it is all you can do.

When eventually it gets too much to bear, you search for something else while you wait. You’d come early, right out of your third shower of the weekend, to counter the warning he’d given you.

(‘Don’t be late.’)

Shivering, you zip your jacket before arranging your things on the entryway bench. You avoid your reflection on the mirror-lined wall, turning to face the machinery instead. They aren’t conventional, you notice – though a shelf holds an array of dumbbells, they run up to twice the average weights found elsewhere. There’s a frame resembling a medieval torture device; two hand pull mechanisms on either side, both of which are attached to a tower of barbells. To try pulling both up simultaneously would rip an unenhanced human apart, you think. It certainly would come close in doing so to you.

Of the bunch, your least favourite has to be the leg press sent from hell. That’s what you assume it is, at least. In truth, you can’t exactly tell. With a plate large enough to cover your entire lower half, wedged underneath approximately forty thick slabs of solid steel, the pressure alone would be enough to crush you.

You remain firmly within the confines of the hand-to-hand combat mat. Safe, if not somewhat weird for your foul misuse of it in the past.

But your unease is heavy enough to diffuse into your fingertips now. Your knuckles shake with it, and you must do something lest you start clawing away at your palms.

Stretching, maybe.

Yeah. Stretching would be good.

You start with what you know. The familiarity is agreeable enough to lose yourself to it. Five minutes pass; you’re bent into a low lunge. Ten, and you’re forcing your knees to touch the floor in a butterfly spread. Fifteen is when your tendons start to tremble with a warm ache, when you finally feel loose enough to relent and take a quick rest.

It turns out to be fortunate timing. The door swings upon not a moment later, the atmosphere sinking to accommodate the gravity of his presence. You catch his shadow from the top of your peripheral, hanging upside down as it appears from your point of view – laying on your back with your head slightly tipped.

You can’t see his face, and therefore have nothing to occupy yourself with. In its absence, you’re forced to consider the uncomfortable parallel your position draws forth. The only thing missing are his thick thighs, straddling your chest with subdued strength.

Swallowing, you flip around to settle on your stomach, propping yourself up on your elbows to take a good look at him. Last night, eyes hot and cloudy with tears, you refused to do yourself the favour in fear that his allure would only exacerbate things. You begin to understand the sentiment when your gaze locks to his.

“Morning.”

“You’re late,” You attempt to joke, grimacing at the awkward timing. The beam on which your relationship stands is precarious, possibly even more so than when you’d been plain-cut enemies. Everything is painted in grey, and it’s near impossible to discern where one boundary branches and the other ends. The confidence with which you once divulged in your humour is lost within the midst – your best bet is to cling to whatever instinct feels right.

Miguel nods, eyebrows raising in tandem to his languid shrug. There’s an almost playful beat to the way he walks, lined perfectly with the perimeter of the mat. You take note of his chosen apparel – his spider suit, perfectly complete save for the mask. A swell akin to disappointment rises within you.

“That expectation is solely reserved for you, fortunately.”

“I see. I suppose heroes have much better things to do, then.”

“Fate of the multiverse,” He waves his wrist, like the barb is easily dismissed. With what you’ve gathered about the man, you’re aware that’s far from the truth. “I still have things to tend to, beyond your containment.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” With the way he’s pursued you – relentless, a panther trapped in a box with an immaterial mouse as its meal – you’d have thought he’d delegated all other responsibilities to his trusted teammates in order to make time for it all. “Coming back from a mission?”

He traipses closer, blinking slowly in the affirmative. Unconsciously, you wiggle away.

“Successful, I take it?” You prod. “That an oddity for you, O’Hara?”

“The opposite.” He mutters, assessing your resting stance with mild intrigue. Your neck throbs with the angle it takes to peer up at him, again prompting a reminder of your last combat session. To quell it, you shift to sit on your knees.

Then, you imagine how your adjustment must look. Worse, likely. Wanton.

(Caveats seem to exist in abundance with him. There is always a but to your actions, a perspective to consider lest you want another misunderstanding.)

“My case being the exception?”

“As it continues to be.”

“I’m here though,”

“You are.” He pauses, inflection softening, as though the argument were fresh news. You half anticipate praise – a recognition of the effort it took for you to return. You’d spent your sleep after coming down that rooftop in a half-conscious state, reaching beyond your feverish dreams to grasp at whatever motivation you had left. You find, the longer he goes without mentioning it, the greater it begins to wane. Like a dying star, sputtering the last dregs of its fuel.

“Early too, I should mention.” You simper. For most intended purposes, it’s a crack at him, a push for the levity today so desperately needs. Yet another, lower part of you already mouths the response you wish to hear.

Good job.

He doesn’t give it to you. “Which brings me to the topic today’s lesson,”

“As a precaution, I should tell you that any of the equipment will likely kill me.” You disclose, if only to brush off the disillusionment, pointing in particular to the leg press.

“We’re not just there yet.”

“Then…”

“You want to know why you failed to pin me down when I asked you to?” He crouches, levelling to a degree closer to your eye-line. Still taller, you note. You steel yourself against shrinking back.

“Because you threw me off.”

“No.” His jaw ticks. “If you had kept with your attack, then you would’ve managed.”

You haven’t given yourself the opportunity to consider the reality of your clumsy attempt. The conversation lulls to make room for your contemplation. You’d thrown yourself onto him – like a glorified backpack – and were too wrapped up in your own panic that you hadn’t noticed his. With hindsight, though, it’s clear as day. He’s right, you could’ve managed. “But I faltered.”

“Exactly.” He echoes. “You didn’t stand your ground, which gave me the opening.”

It occurs to you that he doesn’t know the scope of your supposed error. It had really been the effect of his borderline aphrodisiacal cologne, potent and a dangerous addition to the vertigo that came with being jostled around. You consider pointing it out, a desperate last bid to disprove the very true argument he’s making, until he interrupts:

“Face down, forearms and toes on the floor.”

Your heart clenches with a febrile panic, blood piping hot through your veins at the same rate that your brain detangles the command behind his words. Either you’re debauched beyond reason, or it registers as filthy because he meant it to be. And where you’d usually rely on context, the murky limits of your relationship makes it hard to comprehend. You wipe your sweaty palms on your pants and decide that the former is the more plausible option.

(Or you can’t admit to yourself how badly you want the latter to be true.)

Either way, you do as Miguel says.

Once across the ground again, you’re able to better process the direction he’s taking you in. A plank: he’s asking you to do a plank. Ironically, you dread it more than you would’ve done the alternative.

You keep your pelvis to the mat, not yet exercising your core strength. He carries on.

“You lack resilience. Not only are you unable to withstand struggle, you don’t think to recover when you eventually fall.” The barbed observations hurt, striking you where you’re tender. It’s the part of you that’s always dissected everything he does into small, digestible pieces, but has failed to realise that he might’ve been doing the same in turn. “The first mark of a hero is their resilience. For you, that means pitting what you want to do against what you need to do.”

Another strike. You’d poked fun at his philosophical approach before, but it’s starting to make sense. Perhaps that fact alone should scare you.

Perhaps it does.

(What you want versus what you need.

Is that what you owe the world, then? Self-sacrifice – some bloody atonement – like you haven’t already bitten tooth and nail in guilt?)

“So, you’re going to make me plank?” You snap.

“I’m going to make you hold a plank. I won’t define a duration; you’ll just have to keep on until I tell you to stop.”

“O’Hara, not to question the metaphor you’ve got going on, but what could I possibly want from that?”

“I’ve only witnessed you work hard for one thing.” He explains. It takes on a different tone than the one he’s been using thus far, though. Gentler, well-versed in the ways of a veterinary placating a feral cat. He’s treading lightly, you can tell that much, but for what you’re not sure. Because you’re close to walking out again, or because he’s about to broach unmarked territory. Whatever it is, it reads as condescending. Your muscles start to tense, like a taut elastic ready to snap, and your critique sharpens for what he’ll suggest next. “I won’t assume, and with what it can do as a form of encouragement, it’s important that you agree.”

“Spit it out.”

He doesn’t know you; you tell yourself. You’ve given him a lot of your worst, and maybe he can decipher a few truths from that, but he does not know you. You repeat the mantra over and over like a soothing balm, attempting to tamp your frantic confusion at this whole ordeal.

“I’ll touch you. Return the favour, goad you along – but only for as long as you’re able to hold it. Drop, and I’ll stop. Pick yourself back up, I’ll continue.”

Oh.

“When I feel as though you’ve met today’s goal, you can cum.”

And then he goes quiet. Deathly still, pouring his scrutiny into your wide eyes like he can read every thought that fires within you. But he wouldn’t be, because there are none. You don’t think. Can’t. It’s absolutely the last thing you could’ve predicted, a declaration so far removed from your worst-case-scenario that it sends you reeling beyond your flesh. You’re watching yourself in third person, a voyeur to the blubbering spectacle of Wraith – blanched and warm and entirely empty-headed. It’s unfathomable, disconcerting.

Then, to make matters worse, you laugh.

In a manner completely unbecoming of the seriousness you’d opted to take this whole thing with, you laugh.

A crowing, boisterous sound of relief that crackles through your chest like lightning. You have to heave huge gulps of air in between to be able to respond. “You’re serious,”

A dark eyebrow raises, the corner of his mouth curling with it. He must find it funny too, and for that you’re thankful. The mere notion injects a molten buzz into your gut. “Yes.”

“So… What – you’re insinuating a mentorship… with benefits situation?”

“No.” He shakes his head, like the title is any more ridiculous than the fact. “I’m giving you the option. You can’t trust your encouragement alone, so take it as something to look forward to. Something to work for. With it, you’ll be able to tell when you’re on the right track.”

“You’re going to Pavlov me into becoming a hero.”

He blinks. You meant it as a joke, though he seems to be taking it into account.

“If you don’t-”

“I want to.”

It’s said so quickly that you regret not faking a moment of deliberation. Really, though, there are only three things that occur to you:

Your contrition following last time was solely based on your fear of having overstepped.

The bottomless itch in you demanding some sort of recognition for your efforts remains unaddressed.

And him. It’s such an abstract reason that you can’t exactly name its contribution to your answer. Just that it’s him who’s asking; patchouli infused, broad-shouldered and stubborn Miguel O’Hara. The same man who you’d bet your life on wanting nothing to do with you, whose claw marks still scar the flesh above your wrist, whose venom still undoubtedly lingers in your system – making itself familiar with the chambers of your heart, that which you yourself can’t map. The very same man you can imagine being a father to adoring little children, because despite all the evidence to your feud, he’s also the same man who answered your curiosity about the 2099 space station with patience. Who’d cradled your neck between that rubble and refrains from calling you Wraith since you expressed your distaste for it.

Who felt so heavy on your tongue, pulsing and so fucking thick you wake up some mornings to the phantom feel of it stretching your lips.

Desire begins to gnaw up your bones. Changing your mind now would be the most blatant betrayal of oneself.

(What was it you promised earlier; to cling to whatever instinct feels right?)

“Extend your legs then.” He doesn’t let you dwell on it. “That means hips off the floor.”

You adjust yourself into a proper plank position. Or, less than proper. Miguel takes several issues with it, rising from his crouch.

“Your elbows are too wide apart.” His foot nudges your arm until you bring it parallel to the other, straight beneath your shoulders. “Evenly distribute your weight to your forearms and toes. Everywhere else should be rigid.”

“Like this?” You turn to assess his expression. Already your lungs clench in exhaustion – this isn’t as fun as you thought it’d be.

“Of course not. Stop trying to look at me. Face down, you’ll hurt your neck like that.” The air swooshes and you assume he’s crouched back down, near your middle. A large hand grazes your belly. It tickles. “Contract it.”

You try to, but the slightest movement causes him to come in contact with you again. It’s over your jacket, just the barest of touches, yet it’s enough to make your form go weak. Your legs almost give out.

“Sorry– Just…” You huff a nervous laugh, adjusting yourself the second his warmth pulls away.

“Not just your abdomen, but your glutes too. You should feel like the rope in a game of tug-of-war. Full body tension.” You tune in to every syllable, triggered into every command like a well-rigged machine. “Yeah, that’s it.”

The acknowledgement makes you preen. It must affect your stance too, because he promptly clicks his tongue in disapproval.

“Most importantly, you don’t want this.”

And he finds the small of your back – right where your ass curves upward – to guide you back down, completely straight. His hand doesn’t leave you afterward, either, warm enough that you can make out the contours of it through body heat alone. Somehow, it stirs you even more.

Your groan is so pained that you hope it’s from exhaustion and not pining. “How much longer?”

“Really?” He deadpans.

“I feel like I’m going to collapse.” Your hips dip.

“I haven’t started the timer yet.”

His fingers slide along your pelvis, tracing it around the curve of your waist, down to where you’re sinking. Then, he lifts you back into place – anchored right above your pubic region. His press now is firmer, nudging into your flesh with the pads of his fingertips, and you can’t help the nauseous thrill arising where they do. They brush beneath your baggy top, skimming the precarious edge where your pants’ hem dives to skin.

You feel like the pages of an old book, flipped through an array of different scenes.

The first and most blatant is the discomfort that starts seizing control of you. Miguel insists you haven’t begun, but your unfit body is already suffering from positioning alone. Contracting your muscles proves harder by the moment, fragility skipping along the tissue until you’re convinced of the temptation to just let go. Your feet are unbalanced, and the unforgiving ground does a number on your elbows. The thin sheen of sweat beading across your hairline can only aggravate your suffocation, not cool you down as needed.

What’s harder to focus on – for all its monopoly on your mind – is how intentional his caress is. Every shift of his hand is practised, hovering right around where you need him but never doing anything about it. If he hadn’t admitted his course of action, then you would have tricked yourself into calling it professionalism. But while you can’t see him, his smirk is almost palpable – like humidity that makes a temporary home in your lungs – and you’re confident enough in it that you’re able to name him a tease. He’s teasing you.

The amalgamation of it all sends you into overdrive. You’ve only begun and you’re already yelling.

“The timer!”

“You’re making it worse for yourself, you know.” He says, though moves to fiddle with his watch.

“You’re a little shit, y’know.” But he’s right. Talking amplifies the fatigue.

“I’ll add that to the list. Right next to cocky bastard.”

“Don… Don’t forget sadist–”

“Hm,”

And, as if to emphasise its inapplicability, he cups you.

From behind. Dips his fingers in the space between your thighs, winds them to the front of your groyne, and palms your clothed cunt.

Your skin prickles.

“Fuck!”

Static envelops your arms as they phase right through the floor – momentum stopped only by your chin, which remains corporeal. If it weren’t for your tongue, which slips to wedge itself between your teeth, then you’re sure your jaw would have shattered on impact. Ichor floods your mouth, sharp, like butter melted on a penny. You groan, rolling around to rapidly blink up at the ceiling, purging the stars speckling your vision.

Miguel just looks at you, expectant. His biceps flex when they cross over his chest.

“That was four seconds.”

“Oh, pleath. Thpare me the lecture,” Upon sitting up, you spit the blood out to your empty side. Your limbs have already reverted back to their natural state. “Not that you care, but it still counts as a personal record.”

“Go figure.” He mutters, helping you back into place. He doesn’t have to correct your posture this time. “Back to zero.”

Silence follows the beep of his watch.

Really, it’s more of a mental hush. You force your mind to scour all preoccupations to the backlog, cleansing the forefront of it to steam-pressed sterility. What had caught you off guard was your lacking focus on the physical; if you had been aware of the smallest movements coming from behind, then perhaps his touch wouldn’t have prompted you to phase out. You hadn’t even noticed his gloves retracting into his suit.

Your tongue is still sore with incisor shaped indents, and you vow not to repeat the mistake that caused it.

So, you focus on what’s happening rather than what could. Baby steps, one second after the next, waddling until you find a gait that suits your rhythm. When anything but your abdomen aches, you readjust. Your shoulder joints aren’t supposed to tense like that – you can almost hear him say – so you work on fixing it. If your toes begin to hurt, then clench your calves. Dig your nails into a fist, it helps take away from everything else.

The air conditioning unit hums evenly from all around you. The echoes of other spider-people outside filter in with it. The combat mat has a vinyl surface that zips when you scratch it. The material of his suit smooths tacitly across your jacket. Your breath is as consistent as you allow it to be, stunted when you exhale.

Your sweat is itchy as it dries to your lip. Your ribs pound where they fractured a while ago. Sinew wears down the longer you continue to flex it. He flicks the trim of your leggings, stroking the valley of your spine. Your palms split as your nails plough further into them, marked with crescent-shaped beads of red.

Varicoloured motes float by your nose. Somewhere, hitchhiking on your train of thought, there’s a confusion. No stream of sunlight exists to highlight them. They shouldn’t be here at all.

But then Miguel slips in, ironing over your cotton panties. Your whole body knits together, bracing like a compressed spring. There’s nothing you can do without making him stop, no jump or grand feat that promises release. You can’t even see the finish line, the marker an uncapturable notion, a rainbow moving away at your same speed. So, instead, you revel in how unwavering he is.

His hand strokes over the line of your ass, about to push downward to where you need him most, before deciding against it.

To pinch a cheek.

He… pinches the swell of fat, right where your rear curves to your hamstrings.

It’s rough enough that you’re sure you’ll bruise.

“Nmmgf–” You sulk. “Don… Y– T-tease.”

“Se te olvidó. Squeeze your glutes.”

The sarcastic yes sir dies in your throat. Your face is aflame – from the work out, his ministrations, the revelation that when he reaches your cunt, he’ll be greeted with a humiliating mess. Your thighs are spread apart, yet your underwear still slides over your core, jostled by his intrusion and too slick to provide any real friction.

That is, until he nips the fabric to bunch up between your lips. It stresses over your clit, biting down on the fattening pressure there. Pleasure tremors up your nerves, unsure of its validity under such an unfamiliar sensation. Your subsequent moan is almost miserable in contrast.

“P-Ple… O’H-ra.” To punctuate your plea, you purse your bottom as hard as you can. A physical signal, a question – is this good? Is it not enough? But all that manages to do is worsen your lust. Adding to the fire tenfold, potent as a gallon of petrol. You try to remain steadfast in the face of it all – this calamity, bombs upturning battlefield soil, to keep yourself in the position he’s asked of you.

But fuck if it isn’t punishing.

“Mierda– that’s it.” He curses. You’re at the point where it’s enough praise to urge you along. “You’re soaked.”

You hadn’t noticed his index and middle digits, finally fondling over your hole. Fabric still separates you, bunched tight right over the weeping thing, but as you hold out, he moves it to the side. It snaps away like he’s vocally ordered it to stay that way, his whims laws of physics in their own right, and you use that skewed rationale to supply the basis to your obedience. You couldn’t have done this alone – in no universe, of the hundreds you’ve visited, have you ever thought of it. You’d purchased gym memberships for their showers and walked right past the purpose. In your own world, you’d wasted your limited free time in strangers’ beds.

There’s always been a deficit of purpose in your life. For a brief moment, you’d found it in the stars. Now, with Miguel, you’re granted every ounce you might’ve missed in between, if only to experience what it would be like to unravel by his touch.

And he leads you to it like he’s been trained in your precise anatomy. Blunt fingers implant onto your electric centre – that bundle of nerves overfed by the edging – circling, harsh and rough and fast enough to spike wrecked sobs. Your eyes cloud with desperation, foggy tears budding at your lashes and flowering down your sweat-slicked cheeks. His thumb responds, thrumming along your opening to test its elasticity. Upon deeming you ready, it dives to plug you shut.

It’s delicious. You’re beyond delirious. He’s got a grip on you in every way; spiritually, his philosophy for today echoing as your only tether to reality. Mentally, with his stupid fucking lesson and this god-forsaken plank. Physically, strong arm literally hooked into your cunt and coaxing new slick with every quirk of his fingers.

Which press down with a vengeance now, bearing on a trillion little synapses that flare up, liquifying your guts into a viscous substance, heavy as it sloshes around in you. Everything is screwed in, bolted to the same position he asked for – you don’t dare let go. Not as your heart stutters out of beat, finding the pace he dictates instead, flicking over your clit unhinged. Not when the digit that fingers your clinch twirls in place, searching for the lewd sounds it can create. Or with the following squelch, your lungs flaring – embarrassed – at every consecutive one thereafter.

He’s talking, whispering, goading you along. You can’t hear any of it. Either dirty talk or reprimand, it’s lost amidst your self-doubt.

Because truthfully, you can’t persevere through this much longer. The tunnel continues to unroll before you, the light at the end waning dimmer and dimmer. How wonderfully poetic, you brood; your whole spider-hood spent chasing salvation, navigating through one purgatory to the next, only to lose sight of your little prelude to heaven.

You want this – so much so that the word begins to blur with need, and Miguel’s lesson gains more relevance. You want this so bad that you’d worship every atom, every callus of his, from cuticle to elbow.

(Resilience. Resilience. Resilience.)

What you want and what you need.

Which is which, again?

You can let yourself go now, suffer through a shameful orgasm by collapsing to the floor and holding his wrist still to fuck yourself onto. It isn’t so much about that anymore, though – that pure sexual gratification, the most basic of requirements.

It’s about the thing you’ve been wishing for the whole morning. Approval, the cue that you earned it, filtered through his encouragement alone. Not the physicality that manifests as a screeching voice inside your head, but his own – unadulterated, smoke-charred, the slightest of accents scorching its edges. And whether you like it or not, you can only gain it by enduring this test.

(He walked into this gym with the assumption that you’d want your way, and need his.

Funny, how things turn out. It’s completely the opposite.

Perhaps he does not know you at all.)

But he sees you.

Watches the rigidity of your muscles, how they stiffen further given your newfound resolve. Observes as you smear bloody palms onto your wrists, and sniff back the cries you’ve let rip thus far. Your heels straighten out, ninety degrees to the arch, your head ducking to ensure your torso is as straight as can be. You hardly feel the pain anymore.

And you see him.

Or – the vague shape of his hand, tucked beneath your leggings. It’s dark, shadowed by the overhead fluorescents, but the bump is big enough for you to pinpoint when exactly he makes his decision. It halts, breaks away a smidge, and comes back with a renewed vigour.

“Can I!”

“Go.” He permisses.

(And it’s cataclysmic; both everything and nothing all at once. The bout of deathly quiet before matter meets antimatter, where magnets lose their function and you think you can hear the pitter patter of a pulse, erratic at your wrist. And when the ground rocks, trembling with an explosive magnitude, mass converting entirely to energy. When you roll into a ball of fear–)

You wind impossibly tighter, all but forcing his fingers from you. It’s terrifyingly strong; your orgasm wrecks you not in ripples, but as one metre-high wave, floodgates open to the mat beneath you.

(–and your best to embrace a quick death.)

Miguel aids you down to lay on your back. When he lifts his wrist to check the set stopwatch, his hand glistens with your juices. You're compelled to wipe it off, raptured by humility like he isn’t the one that just fingered you into oblivion.

“Two minutes.” He says. “Good.”

“That… that was only one-twenty seconds?”

“Talk about a personal record.” You huff. “Shut up.”

chapter eleven

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erwinsvow · 10 months

Text

𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞

summary: you and aaron are having a hard time deciding on a baby name.

word count: 1.5k

author's note: eeeeeeee x3. cannot stop writing for aaron, especially domestic, happy aaron. not bau!reader but i stole elements from that story too, linked here. i really loved this one!

now spinning

You had thought time would fly by during pregnancy, or at least that’s what everyone else made it seem like. You felt like all you’d heard so far was warnings to enjoy this time with ‘just the two of you’ and spend your days preparing as much as you could.

You’d taken it very literally—your evenings after work were spent reading baby books and prepping food to store in the freezer.

Your days off from work, and even the rare, treasured weekend Aaron has off, is spent looking at paint samples (all yellows and greens, even though you’ve known it’s a girl since the two of you had Jack take a big bite out of a cupcake with raspberry frosting inside) and browsing websites for a car seat and a stroller. Aaron digs through the garage for Jack’s old things, and comes out with a sturdy wooden crib and a beautiful bassinet.

Aaron doesn’t worry as much as you, of course, and he has the best dad instinct you’ve ever seen. It comes so naturally to him, you almost worry about yourself. Will it be this easy for you?

You have experience parenting now, thanks to Jack and all the time you spent with him and Aaron even before you got married, but he barely counts. He’s an angel child—one who asks for extra servings of vegetables, does his homework without being asked, and never complains when you have to remind him to tidy up his room.

Besides a few puzzle pieces and various, outgrown sports gear scattered throughout the house—your house, your family home, you think fondly— he always puts away his belongings in the proper place.

He even reminds you and Aaron of his upcoming school projects and which commitments he penciled in for—a friend’s birthday party next weekend (When should we go get the gift?) and a class field trip next month (They need two more chaperones. Should I ask Uncle David?)

You’re convinced you’ll never have it this easy with another child. You start over preparing the week you find out you’re pregnant, after Aaron smothers you in kisses and hugs.

He takes you out to dinner with the team—another rare, treasured event, but not because he doesn’t want to, just because they’re always on a case—and you break the news to them when you turn down a glass of wine from Emily, who looks at you quizzically. No more wine for nine months, you had said. Ten, JJ corrected.

You’re seven months now, halfway to eight. Pregnancy brain is very real and has affected you like crazy. You keep forgetting to go grocery shopping and then you keep misplacing the paper grocery list Aaron keeps on the fridge with a little magnet. You and Jack have been eating a lot of take-out, and he’s not complaining but he still inquires about his vegetable intake over slices of pizza.

“You know, the baby is the size of a coconut right now,” you tell Aaron on the phone, rubbing your stomach. Your back has been killing you lately, another thing you had read about happening nearing month eight in your baby books of horror.

Aaron offers a massage when he’s around but it always hurts the most when he’s gone. Besides, his massages are what got you into this predicament in the first place.

Jack is asleep on the sofa right next to you. He had asked to watch Star Wars before bed—it’s a Friday night and he has no soccer practice tomorrow, and you are a perpetual good cop who can’t say no—so you had cozied up with him and a bowl of popcorn on the couch while The Empire Strikes Back played quietly in the background. You move your hand back to stroke his hair while he sleeps.

“Really, sweetheat? A coconut?” Aaron says. The team is up in Connecticut, and though he’s gone and you wish he was here with you, you’re thankful he’s in the same time zone.

You’re not sure about the case and can’t stomach the gory details anymore, but you think they must have made some strides since he’s staying on the phone with you and not in a rush to leave.

“Uh-huh, that’s what my book said. Never knew a coconut could kick this hard.” Aaron laughs on his side of the call, a sweet sound. You smile. “Maybe she’s kicking now to let us know she wants to play soccer like her big brother.”

“A prodigy in the making. Speaking of, does Jack have practice tomorrow?” Aaron likes to remind you of these things because he knows you keep forgetting.

“No, nothing tomorrow, I triple checked. And this little brainiac is just like you, keeps reminding me so I don’t wake him up at seven-thirty tomorrow.”

You hear Aaron laugh again. It all feels very domestic. Your mouth hurts from smiling.

“Aaron, it’s getting to that time. We need to pick a baby name soon. Any crazy ex-girlfriends or female serial killers we need to avoid?”

“Well there’s certainly a few. Serial killers, that is, not the other thing. What are you thinking so far?”

“Well my book said-” Aaron groans on the other end. “Hey! Don’t knock my book, it’s helpful.”

“Honey, your book had you convinced the baby would be missing fingers and toes if you had a turkey sandwich.”

“Deli meat is bad during pregnancy! So is sushi, thank you very much. I’d rather not risk my baby’s digits just because you wanted subs.”

“Reid said that’s not true and everything’s fine in moderation.”

“I’m sorry, has Reid ever birthed a human before?”

“Point taken. Your book also said your heartburn isn’t a big deal because it just means the baby will have a full head of hair-” “JJ said that too! And she said Henry had lots of hair-”

“And it also said sex during pregnancy is bad. Remember that?” Your face heats up. Damn him, making you blush even when he’s hundreds of miles away.

“Oh, whatever. Just tell me which names we have to avoid. I think we should do something with a J, though. Make it matching.”

“Very sweet, honey. Jordan? Juliet? June?”

“Hmm,” you ponder carefully. Even if it’s silly, this feels like one of the biggest decisions you’ll ever make. “I like them all but I don’t love them. They’re too… something. Too new maybe.”

“Older names, then? Joy, Josie, Julia?”

“I like those too. Should we really name our child after a Beatles song though?”

“I think that’s a great idea, don’t you?” You can almost hear it in Aaron’s voice—he’s relaxing for the moment. Either they’ve already caught the unsub or you have a bigger impact on him than you thought you did.

“Well if we’re gonna do that then we should at least use Eleanor or Michelle. Or Lucy! I like Lucy.”

“I’d prefer not to name our daughter after a song written about hallucinogens.”

“Aw, you're no fun. How about Anna?”

“What happened to wanting to match with Jack?” he asks.

“Ah, let the kid have his own identity. If he had it his way we’d name the baby Leia or Yoda.”

“Leah’s not bad. Pretty and simple. Four letters, keeping the trend.”

“That’s not a Beatles song!” You hear Aaron groan.

“You have too many demands, honey.” “No, I’m just picky. You should consider it a compliment, I’m choosy and I chose you, remember?”

“Vividly. Prudence, then?”

“Oh, that’s pretty.” You try to picture it written on holiday cards and homework sheets. Prudence Hotchner. You say it aloud to test the feel of it. “Prudence Hotchner. Prue Hotchner.”

“Sweetheart, I was joking.”

“You should never joke around a pregnant woman. I like it, it’s so pretty. Pretty Prudence.”

“You don’t think it’s a little old?”

“Well, her father is an old man who wants to name her after a Beatles song, so yeah, it’s very fitting. Doesn’t it just roll right off the tongue? Prudence Hotchner? We could call her Prue.”

“Prue is very cute. I like Prudence Joy.”

“Oh, I love Prudence Joy. Prudence Joy Hotchner. I like it so much. I’m tempted to wake up Jack and ask if he likes it. Will you ask the team if they like it too?”

“I will, honey. Isn’t it time to sleep now?”

“Yes, I’ve just been putting it off. Jack’s asleep next to me, I have no idea how I’ll get him upstairs without waking him.”

“If you wake him he’ll be able to fall asleep again, as long as it’s quick-” “I know, honey, don’t worry about us.”

“Can’t help it.” You can’t stop the smile that spreads, cheek to cheek. You have a feeling he’s smiling too.

“You’ll ask the others, right? About Prudence?”

“Yes, honey, I will. I’ll see them in a little bit, I stepped out to call you while I made another cup of coffee.”

“Oh, Aaron, it's so late for coffee,” you chide, lovingly. Don’t drink a whole cup please. I wish you guys would drink tea instead. Or at least decaf.”

“Sorry, sweetheart. I gotta go now. Kiss Jack goodnight for me?” “Of course.”

“And play Prudence her song, then?” You can’t contain the smile on your face.

“Of course. Good night from all three of us, Aaron.”

#hope everyone likes this one!#aaron hotchner #hotch #aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #criminal minds #aaron hotchner imagine #hotch imagine #hotch drabble #aaron hotch

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devildomditzy · 2 years

Text

Pacts - Mammon x MC

Part 3

Haven’t Read The Beginning? : Part One - Part Two

Tag list + Author’s Note at the end

Tags: Angst w/ eventual comfort, Mentions of Death/The Fall, Mentions of anxiety/anxiety attacks

——————————————————————————

Okay… Deep breaths. Just like Lilith taught ya.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

IN!!!!

“Mammon, what’s wrong! Hey, Mammon, come on, come back to me.”

If only the simple snapping of your fingers in his face and the feeling of you grabbing his shoulders could bring him down from the panic he was now feeling.

This should be easy. He can remember another time, a simpler time, a time long gone by. One where his sister still lived and smiled and breathed. One where she taught him things like expressing your feelings and sharing your emotions with others. One where she showed just how important family and friends and lovers could be…

He was never good at it. Of course, that was his own personal opinion. But whenever he did Lilith would smile that blinding smile and glow and tell how much of a natural he was at it.

He’s flirted, sure, he’s put on the charm and picked up various angels and demons and humans and who even knows what to fulfill his more primal desires. He’s taken lovers and partners and been a part of a couple, or thruple…or even quadruple, some of which lasting for years or even decades.

But ever since the fall, ever since he lost his home, his friends, his sister, his life; and was left to pick up the pieces with the other six who swore themselves to damnation for the rest of existence? He can’t say that he’s been interested in another being. At least not like this.

You. You. The human. The stupid exchange student he was unceremoniously shackled to. The one he had no choice but to watch over. The one that seemingly didn’t care that they were thrust into hell. The one that defied his all powerful brothers, whether out of bravery or innocence or down right stupidity. The one that calls him silly for wearing sunglasses inside and hums to themselves when they’re really focused and explores the Devildom with curiosity rather than fear and is too friendly for their own good and looks at him with big, bright, beautiful eyes that nobody has ever looked at him with before and tells him they really like hanging out with him and and and…

Everything stops. Everything goes blank. The only thing Mammon can feel is a weight, one that’s made it’s way around his body. It’s comforting and warm and all consuming and it’s…

He opens his eyes he didn’t realize he had screwed shut, only to find you clinging onto his form, arms wrapped around him. Your face tilts upwards from where it was buried in his chest, your expression painted one of concern.

“Oh god- I mean, oh gosh? I think. Are you okay?”, you question, tone laced with worry. “I have anxiety attacks too sometimes, I know it sucks. Do you need space? Or maybe water? I don’t know how it works for demons but that usually helps me.”

Mammon feels the blush beginning to spread across his face, knowing the position you’re both in looks compromising. He can’t remember the last time he has someone make such a fuss over him, and of course it’d be you, while he’s trying to sort out his feelings no less! You make it extremely hard to think, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t absolutely enjoy every second you made contact with his skin.

“N-Nah, ‘m good. I guess it’s…just a lot to explain ‘n all,” he mutters, playing with a loose thread he found on your shirt collar.

“Well, then let’s start from the beginning. The pact, right? We formed it like normal, well… as normal as forming a pact with a demon can be, right?

“Right.”

“And the placement of ours… that doesn’t normally happen right- or at least, it hasn’t happened to you?”

“Right. Hasn’t happened to me before, or any of ‘m brothers. I dun’ even think Solomon’s got one there, and he’s covered in ‘em. It’s….rare.”

“Rare? How’s it rare?”

“Well…cause it means somethin’. Somethin’…. important.”

He continues pulling at the loose thread, looking anywhere but you, his face a brilliant shade of red.

“All pacts represent a bond right?”

“Yea.”

“A shared bond? Between the former and formee.”

“Yea.”

“And so a bond formed over my heart means something…else?”

“GAH! DO I HAV’TA SPELL IT OUT FOR YA DUMMY!”

Mammon jumps up from his seat and out of your arms before shoving his hands in his pockets, turning his back towards you. He brings a shaky hand up to wipe his face.

“Tch. Can’t believe ‘m sayin this out loud”, he mutters under his breath, before turning around.

“Human, I…I like ya! Okay! There, I said it, ya happy dammit?!”

It was now your turn to blush furiously, watching as he brings his shoulders up and winces, almost like he’s waiting for something bad to happen, almost like he’s bracing for the worst.

“You…like me?”, you ask, shocked at the bluntness of his confession.

“Don’t make me repeat myself!”

You sit dumbfounded, letting the feeling of his feelings wash over you. He watched the gears turn in your head and thinks that if you think any harder, your brain is going to explode. Ya know, fragile human stuff ‘n all.

“But…Mammon, you said you didn’t like me being around you. You said that it was an inconvenience to be near me. You even said the pact mark was a blemish.”

Mammon freezes. Fuck. For once, the outspoken second born doesn’t have a response. He stares at you, eyes wide and wild, a deer caught in the headlights.

“So, you throw insults at me, tell me to leave you alone, and now you tell me you like me?”

“I-”

“Mammon, what am I supposed to do with that? You constantly treat me like an annoyance, you threatened me my first week here, hell, you just decided it was fine if I was seen with you outside of R.A.D., and now all of a sudden you like me?”

“MC-”

“I…I don’t know what to say, Mammon. Honestly, I don’t know…what you want from me here.”

His fists ball in his pockets as he starts to tremble a little. He bites his lip and turn his head, not wanting to face you for this next part. Even if you denied it due to the hurt he caused, he knew the undeniable truth; It sat right across your chest.

“Ya don’t gotta say anythin’. I already know how ya feel about me.”

“Mammon-”

“No, I do. Ya don’t have to say it. An’ I’m sorry for bein’ a jerk, alright. I just…I can’t…I’ve been…I mean…It’s cuz’…tch!”

He turns again to compose himself. You almost expect him to leave, to run towards the door and walk out, sulking by himself. You can’t say you’d blame him, you’d probably find yourself doing the same if someone responded to you the way you had just to him. Sure, you liked the second born, but he made it so hard with the way he flip flopped his feelings towards you. You don’t have long to mourn the budding friendship you were having with the avatar of greed before he makes his next move.

He shakes his head and turns back to you, his trademark cocky smirk reappearing across his face. There’s an expression in his eyes you can’t quite place, and he steps forward, crouching down to your eye level. There’s a new determination to his swagger, one that makes your heart beat speed up and your body run hot.

“MC, I know how ya feel about me, ‘cuz pact marks only form there if ya both feel the same way.”

Before you could process the thought, his lips are on yours.

You don’t have time to react, he’s doing that for you. One hand comes up behind the back of your head to fist your hair as he brings you closer to him, deepening the kiss, though he still leaves space for you to push him away, enough where if you truly didn’t want this, you could escape his grasp.

It’s tender, you think, the way he holds you. The way his lips move across yours is a softness you’ve never felt before, and it takes your brain a second to catch up and begin kissing him back. As soon as you do, you feel his lips stretch into a smile. This, a stark contrast from the sides of himself he’s been showing you thus far.

After a minute or so, he pulls away from you. “Ya have no idea how long I’ve been wantin’ to do that.”

“Based on what you’ve told me”, you muse with smile, “It looks like it’s been…hmm…I dunno…about as long as I’ve been here?”

“Shuddup.”

You can’t help but laugh at his childish reaction. No matter if he was insulting you like a kid on the playground or kissing you like you were his only way to breathe, he was still Mammon.

“So what does the pact mark on the heart mean in scientific terms?”

“Scien-what?”, He gawks, clearly stumped at your question. You stifle another giggle.

“I mean, if I asked what it meant to a teacher or, say, Solomon, what would he say it meant?”

Mammon sighs at the question. You really were gonna make him repeat himself, huh. “It means that I like ya and ya like me, okay?”

You seem kind of bummed at this answer. “Aww, is that it?”, you question.

“Whadda mean is that if? Whadda ya want, it to mean we’re soulmates or somethin’?”

“Does it?”

“…”

“Mammon?”

“…”

“WAIT! MAMMON! DOES IT?”, you wildly smile, eyes bright in shock.

“S-Some old folktales may say-”

“I’M ASKING SOLOMON!”, you declare, jumping out of his arms and speeding towards the door

“Oi! No ya don’t ya little nightmare!”, he screams running after you.

He’d let you win this race, of course he would. And the one after that. And the one after that.

Besides,

He had the rest of your life to catch ya whenever he wanted.

——————————————————————————

Taglist: @someoneunkownforyou @fandomhell97 @crocrafts @dragonageoregons @furblrwurblr @youaskedfurret @simpinginthecorner @astarotha @glitterandgoldfinds @liminalimmortal @bestblob @crow-charlie @hauntedcatnerd @aprilwallflower @ungodlywoes @h2ojuice @nani-nani-nani @cant-sleep-because-anime @zarakem @rawharr @nicksworld0715 @fxllen-sxldier @someoneunkownforyou @lexiekim @darlingsama630 @xiaosalmoundtofu @abadonkori @harujkookie @whatamidoing89 @all-mights-wife @oliemolliever @kamukayakmonyet @zp1cy-tr4n5m4n @toobsessedsstuff @enwriq @emsieeee @just-an-indian-pre-med-student @chaoticjojo @todosteakettle @thepaleghost777 @milkysoobi @hopeannalea @pandaplan18 @cutiepattutiestarlight @mentally-unstable-simp @satanawakenedmyoceans

Author’s Note: Holy shit. Guys. GUYS. LOOK AT THAT MF TAGLIST. IM SO HAPPY SO MANY OF YOU ENJOY MY WRITING THAT MUCH 😭😭😭.

Thank you all so much for your support on this series! I’d love to try to do all the brothers next, or keep expanding on this one via MC’s and Mammon’s relationship as MC continues making pacts with the others. Not sure which I’ll go with! Any suggestions? Would we rather it continue being MC x Mammom as MC bonds with the other brothers, or every brother having their own romance line? Anyway, let me know what you think. Love ya lovelies <3

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pixaho · 9 months

Note

Hi eli🥳It's nice to see a new high & low writer.how would sword leaders be with their girly lover

How The Sword Leaders Are With Their Girly Lover.

AN | YES! I will happily do this, thank you so much! I decided to also add a wee little twist by adding 1 more character since technically he is a SWORD leader.

Cobra | Hino Junpei

Skin care

"What are you doing?" Cobra rounds the corner to your room, taking in the sight of you. Here you were, wearing a face mask, your hair pushed out of your face, and painting your nails your favorite color. "Doing skin care. Would you like to join?" You ask, a sweet smile plastered on your face. He seems hesitant before walking over and sitting next to you. "Good choice, I was gonna force you anyways."

Public affection

He does it rarely, and when it does happen you seem surprised. This is mainly because the others like to tease him. Unless Naomi is around, then they all shut up about it. (I make Naomi a hype woman, because I feel like she would definitely be one. Her and Lala.)

Date Nights

I feel as though Cobra would ask the others about what to do for date nights. This often leads to him just caving and asking Rocky or settling for a movie night. This man is half good of a cook, he never really learned. More of a take-out kind of guy, or will ask Yamato's mom to help him cook.

Getting hurt (Him)

He gets hurt a lot while fighting, which makes you kind of annoyed. Usually it is just you cleaning him up. You've started to keep a medkit on you at all times of the day.

Getting hurt (You)

Would stay calm but deep inside is worried to hell. If you didn't know how to use a medkit or how to clean your wounds, he would take you to Naomi. If you did, he'd pry the names of the people who hurt you and disappear for hours on end before coming back.

Wearing a skirt that is too short (or a dress)

This man would walk behind you and give anyone who looked at you in a weird way the deadliest death stare there is. We're talking about psychopathic death stare.

Jealous

Not entirely the jealous type, but when he is, he tends to show it by wrapping his arm around your shoulder. If he is really jealous, he holds your love handles/waist.

Rocky | Mutsugi

Skin Care

"Is it suppose to make me feel like my lips are burning?" Rocky asks as he stares at his lips, the lip plumper you had put on him moments ago finally kicking in. "Yes my dear, it is." You giggle slightly as you continue to rub your face wash into your face.

Public Affection

This man does not care if someone sees him being affectionate with you, he wants everyone to know who you belong to and who is the lucky person that gets to be with you.

Date Nights

Ohhh he knows how to cook. I mean, he's been on his own since he was a teen so he's had to learn how to cook. Your date nights are typically him cooking and treating you like you're a goddess. If he doesn't feel like cooking, he'll take you out somewhere and if you're lucky, shopping spree!

Getting Hurt (Him)

Rocky rarely gets hurt since he doesn't really fight but when he does, he usually doesn't want to tell you. He doesn't want to stress you or make you worry so he talks to Koo.

Getting Hurt (You)

If you get hurt, he'll send the others out to hunt down the person or people who harmed you. He will then spend the rest of the time making sure you are okay and helping you clean up. If he's really livid, he'll tell Kizzy to stay while he goes out. Just expect him to come back a wee bit roughed up.

Wearing a skirt that is too short (or dress)

He wouldn't walk behind you like Cobra would but he will make you wear his jacket. If anyone makes a disrespectful comment, he will simply make sure they never speak about you like that ever again. We're talking about this man being so unreasonable that he attacks someone.

Jealous

Doesn't get too jealous unless the other person starts getting touchy feely, then he steps in. His way of making it clear that you are taken is by holding you real close. Unlike Cobra, he doesn't really give death stares but he does give people the stink eye.

Murayama | Yoshiki Murayama

Skin Care

"'Yama.." You whisper, he had fallen asleep with the face mask on. His sleeping face looked so peaceful, you almost felt bad for waking him up. "Five more minutes, this is really comfortable to sleep it." He mumbles, holding your hand.

Public Affection

You don't get to really see each other that much as majority of his time is spent at Oya Kou. But when you do, he's super affectionate. Not wanting to lose you of course. Even if its in public, he is still lovey towards you.

Date Nights

Murayama can partially cook, if he does, that is rare. He doesn't want to cook in case it tastes really bad so he occasionally asks you if you want to order take out and stay in all night. This dies down to cuddling and having fun.

Getting Hurt (Him)

He always comes home with new injuries, whether they come from Todoroki or from others in Oya Kou. Although it is tiring to constantly patch him up, you love him nonetheless.

Getting Hurt (You)

Let's just say that this man goes lethal. We're talking man hunts. He will have Seki and Furuya hunting down whoever hurt you while he stays with you and covers you in pink or your favorite colored bandages. After that, he typically kisses your face to make you feel better.

Wearing a skirt that is too short (or a dress)

Best believe this man is walking with his jacket wrapped around your waist. Giving an ugly stare to anyone that stares for far too long. If you do this just to irk him, he'll see to it that you are wearing leggings.

Jealous

Oh boy, he's jealous. He'll act childish if someone is flirting with you or if they're getting way too close. This usually leads to him getting into a fight or him clinging to you like you are going to drift away at sea.

Smoky | This man has no first name

Skin Care

"Lala uses this too," He squints, reading the label. "Did you buy it for her?" "Yes, I've been helping her earn money from things." You laugh as you continue rubbing the lotion into his hands. His hands were not always rough, but he wanted to try your skin care routine.

Public Affection

Private or public this man don't care. He's hugging, kissing, and or giving you all his attention. Unless he's fighting. Or feels really under the weather. Then he is resting.

Date Nights

There isn't really anywhere romantic for you two to go other than hanging around in the high places. Your date nights consist of taking care of the Nameless Road children or spending the night looking at the stars. Your dinner time is spent with the other Rude Boys and or Lala.

Getting Hurt (Him)

You worry enough about him as it is, considering how sick he is and how fighting also effects his condition. The others usually take care of him while Lala takes you with her, this is by his request.

Getting Hurt (You)

If it's from someone who isn't in Nameless Road, he typically doesn't tell anyone to hunt the person down but instead requests the help from the others (Cobra, Murayama, or Rocky (it's usually Rocky)) and takes the day to spend with you. If it's from someone who is in Nameless City (as in was naturally born there) he will have the others get the person. He is a forgiving person so he'll give them a warning and that is shouldn't happen again.

Wearing a skirt that is too short (or a dress)

If he isn't with you, the other Rude Boys (Mainly P and Takeshi) will walk with you, one of them giving you their jacket. If he is, he's walking behind you to make sure that his jacket isn't short either. He does love when you wear clothes that you're comfortable in, he just doesn't like it when others stare for creepy reasons.

Jealous

Not the jealous type, will feel a tinge of jealousy but he knows you are capable of handling yourself.

Takeshi | "Beat Takeshi"

Skin Care

"This won't take long, right?" He mumbles, still wanting to get to Smoky's grave in time. You nod, rubbing the scrub into his skin. His hands placed on both sides of your hips, him looking up at you.

Public Affection

He's very affectionate in private, but in public he minimalizes his affection. This doesn't have anything to do with being manly, but it has something to do with the fact that usually by the time he's running around with the others, he's already covered in dirt.

Date Nights

Just like Smoky, except instead of being around the Nameless Road children, he usually takes you to a high area to cuddle and watch the stars.

Getting Hurt (Him)

Even though he gets hurt, he takes good enough care of himself that he usually doesn't mention it because he forgets or is too busy.

Getting Hurt (You)

Best believe this man will bring up to P. In return, P and the others will go looking for whoever it was and Takeshi will stay with you to make sure you're doing okay. He worries about you even if he sometimes doesn't show it.

Wearing a skirt that is too short (or a dress)

The only and last time you wore a dress that was too short was the time that Takeshi got a jacket that was long enough to help cover your bum. You still wear skirts and dresses but you always wear the jacket.

Jealous

Definitely the jealous type, he'll boast about how you're his girl and how you're beautiful. If that isn't enough, he will take you away from the person and be super close to you.

Hyuga | Norihisa Hyuga

Skin Care

"No." He pushes away the idea of doing your skin care routine, he would like to do it but he does not want you to know that. "Fine then, grumpy." You grumble as you walk back into the bathroom. That was enough to get him to get up and do it with you. Playing it off as though he hates it, when in reality he really enjoys it.

Public Affection

You best bet this man will refuse to show you any form of affection in public, and even in private his affection is quite shit. It isn't that he doesn't love you, it's that he doesn't know how to show it quite yet. His way of showing you affection is getting you all types of gifts, which are usually small (candles, makeup (he so fucks this up), clothes, and sometimes jewelry).

Date Nights

Your date nights are spent at restaurants, but 80% of the time he has the other Daruma Ikka members there, and if they aren't there then you actually spend time alone. The rare date nights are where you both stay in and do shit together.

Getting Hurt (Him)

Actually doesn't care to tell you or bother asking you to help him. It's not about being manly, well it partially is, but its also because he doesn't want you to see him when he's like this. He cares for you.

Getting Hurt (You)

Let's be brutally honest, he'll act as if he doesn't care but in secret he gets his right hand men to hunt and possibly kill the person who hurt you.

Wearing a skirt thats too short (or a dress)

He doesn't really care if anyone is staring because he wants to flaunt you. Granted the people that cat call you annoy him, he's too proud that he landed you to really give a shit.

Jealous

This mf.. if someone is getting too close or touchy feely with you, he'd act as if it didn't bother him but he's secretly grabbing you and holding you close. Not in the affectionate way, more so of in the "she's mine" way.

Masterlist High&Low Masterlist

#high and low #high and low fluff #high and low rocky #high and low cobra #high and low smoky #high and low hyuga #high and low takeshi #high and low murayama #high and low x reader #fluff #Elixirol0gy #Pixaho #Request #requests open #high and low fanfic

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copperbadge · 2 years

Note

would you mind talking a little about enjoying traveling solo? I've always wanted to explore, but so many people paint traveling as this group activity, and I've always felt bad not having friends to do it with

My god, how much time do we have?

So, I could indulge in a little free therapy here and talk about some fucked-up experiences of travel I had as a child, but that's not really applicable, so...let's leave it at the fact that until I was out on my own, I didn't get to pick what happened to me on trips. I do often travel with my friends, who are always up to do the dumb shit I concoct for us, but any travel with another person involves compromise, and sometimes I just don't want to compromise, or to irritate my friends. Even though I know they probably won't be, I still worry they will, and sometimes I don't want to worry.

I also never internalized the idea that doing things alone was sad or weird. It's a social cue that I completely missed. The first time a friend of mine randomly came across me eating alone in a restaurant in college, she said, "Sam, why are you eating alone?" and I said, baffled, "Because I wanted dinner?"

I was twenty years old before it occurred to me that other people would feel strange eating alone in a restaurant, and then only because she told me she'd be too self-conscious. I was thirty before I realized most people would be self-conscious traveling alone, something I'd been doing since I was seventeen. And there's nothing wrong with wanting to be with other people -- some people love company or are nervous traveling alone or just plain don't get the appeal, and that's entirely fine.

But I love knowing that everything I do is for me alone. I can go to the weird museum or check out the odd store or do strange secret things to delight myself and never worry that I'm making life unpleasant for someone. I can be as selfish as I want. That's very rare for me and very precious. Also why I will probably never have a permanent romantic partner, but that's also free therapy for some other time.

The truth is, when you are alone, nobody actually knows that. Yes, if you're the only person at your table in a restaurant you're obviously alone, but nobody knows you aren't just getting a bite to eat before meeting up with your many cool friends. I don't look at anyone I see out in the world and go "Oh sad sack, look at them without anyone to hang out with." I think most of us worry everyone is saying that, and none of us actually are saying that.

And when I have been asked if I'm with someone and said, "Oh, I'm traveling on my own", people universally react with envy. "That must be amazing. I couldn't do it," or "I've never gone on a trip by myself, is it fun?" I've never had anyone say or imply that I'm a loser who couldn't find someone else to travel with. Quite the reverse.

Recently I had the thought that if I was more afraid of being alone I would probably have more intimate friendships or at any rate a much wider social circle, because I would need someone else to go with me on adventures and I would have to internalize the idea that it's okay to inconvenience or bore someone else at times, which I never really have. But that's kind of a tautology; "if I was less okay being alone I'd be less alone" is cyclical reasoning, when the truth is I'm someone who is a little fucked up about other people but also just genuinely enjoys solitude.

I love my friends, and I try very hard to form strong bonds with them despite that being really hard for me. I do get lonely, and I spend more time alone than is probably good for me. I get very anxious before solo trips. But I will also always need times when I am alone and only ever have to worry about myself. And once I'm launched on the trip I fucking love it. There are very few joys to rival walking out early in the morning into a strange city and knowing that the day and the city are both yours and yours alone.

Also sometimes I pretend I'm a spy, or an art historian on the trail of a stolen painting, or an academic writing a very important book. That's fun as hell.

Anyway, even when I do travel alone my friends are only a text message away, and I get to see cool stuff that I bring back to my room at night and share with all of you. I love sharing my adventures with you guys.

So yeah. My thesis is that nobody will even notice you're alone and if they do they'll probably think you're fucking cool for doing it, and meanwhile you get to do exactly what you want and nothing you don't. I think everyone should at least try it. You don't have to do a four-country trip through Europe for your first time out; you can just find something in another city that you want to see -- a museum or a zoo or a play or a cool burger joint -- book a trip, arrive Friday night and leave Sunday afternoon. And if it turns out you don't like traveling alone, that's okay too. There's no inherent moral virtue in being alone any more than there is in not wanting to be.

I just think it's super cool to sometimes go haring off on my own and do dumb shit. :D

#travel #sam travels #solo travel

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kaigarax · 4 months

Text

Sometimes, All I Think About Is You

Satoru Gojo x Reader

Quote: "Openly fall in love."

First Encounters

The first time Satoru Gojo sees you is when the two of you are just kids. He’s a boy just about to attend Eton Academy and you’re a young girl who’s just begun to learn the difference between men and women.

Satoru’s parents, citing his lack of friends (his only friend being the young stable boy around his age) and hoping to acquaint him with some ‘proper’ company. Whatever that’s supposed to mean. So, being the ever doting parents that the Gojo’s claim to be they set up a playdate with the family of the viscounts that live close by.

A family of six, if Satoru isn’t mistaken.

The Viscount and his wife, two twin boys around his age and two girls about five and seven years younger respectively.

Satoru finds your older brothers awfully boring. One of them, Satoru thinks, certainly has to be the dumbest person he’s ever met and the other is the most aloof. Such a pair that Satoru is almost a little worried about what might happen next to the Viscount's family in the future and he rarely ever cares about others.

Satoru doesn’t try very hard to get along with the two boys. He lets them show him around briefly, he even plays a couple of games of croquet before disappearing into the manner with the excuse of looking for the bathroom. With any luck, the two of them might forget about him long enough for the remainder of this horrible playdate to end and he can finally leave.

Truth be told, Satoru has always been a little different from the other people around him. Always seen the world a little differently from everyone else. It was almost as if everyone else stumbled around in a world of black and white while he was the only one that could see in colour. The only person who ever came close to understanding him was Suguru Geto, the stable boy and son of his family’s butler. And while it was frowned upon to make friends with the ‘help’ it would be the first time that Satoru could just be… himself.

The young boy could barely even find it within himself to feel bad as he abandoned your twin brother to wander the house. Sure, he’d been given a tour earlier but that had mostly been a quick look around. Satoru hadn’t gotten the chance to actually look at things in the detail that he wanted to.

His eyes wandered from the old curtains, which oddly reminded Satoru of his mother’s dresses, to the long line of photos left to hang up on the wall. Family portraits, Satoru thinks. All the people look vaguely familiar to one another with a familiar resemblance in the eyes and smiles. Satoru’s own family had something similar though the paintings are ones of the patriarch rather than of the entire family.

“It took the painter three weeks to paint that one.” You say.

Satoru isn’t surprised, he had heard you come in, but he feigns surprise. Suguru had told him that it was better to pretend to act normal around other people if he wanted them to like him. He had always found that annoying and pretentious but he would do what he had to in polite society. Especially if it meant he wouldn’t have to hear another lecture from his parents.

You look to be a couple years younger than Satoru as he turns to look at you. Five years give or take one or two in either direction. You’re a small thing, well small compared to him. You’re draped in a cool summer dress while Satoru personally thinks that spring is much too early. There also happens to be pins attached at the edges of the dress reminding him of his own fitting session that he would have to attend later on in the week.

Satoru hates attending fitting sessions. Doesn't see why he always needs to be wearing clothes that fit perfectly, especially because he seems to need to head there at least once every two months now that he’s begun growing. He doesn’t see why he can’t just wear clothes that are a little too big or too small for a little while like Suguru.

You take a step towards him, your eyes never lingering too long on him. Satoru’s always being scolded by his mother for staring at one thing for too long or not keeping eye contact long enough but you seem to have mastered the timing of the gaze perfectly. It’s both polite and respectful.

It absolutely infuriates Satoru.

You regard him with a calm expression that has him forgetting that you’re the younger of the two.

“I see you’ve abandoned the company of my brother.” You state.

Satoru points his nose up, “what of it?”

“It was merely an observation. I meant no harm.”

He then scrunches his face up as he leans down to stare at you. He has to lean down quite far considering you’re short. Though, admittedly you are five years younger than him and he’s tall for his age.

He notices that you’re holding a book behind your back fiddling around the edges of the page self consciously. Satoru had never been a big fan of reading, especially when he was around your age. He’d rather be outside play-wrestling with Suguru or doing some other physical activity or sport. He’d always been very good at physical things.

Admittedly, Satoru thinks you're pretty. Much better looking than your two brothers. So much so that he briefly wonders if the three of you are even related in the first place. If not for the same shape of the eyes, Satoru would have been certain that you were merely children that lived in the same house instead of siblings.

He still thinks that might be the case.

You’ll probably be pretty when you grow up. Perhaps not nearly as pretty as his mother but he’s certain you’ll be… charming? Well, at the very least you won’t be ugly. Especially if you end up taking after your mother. Satoru never really cared much for how pretty other people are but he has always considered himself a good judge.

Finally, Satoru pulls away, “you’re annoying.”

“If you’re attempting to insult me you’re going to have to try a little harder,” you say, a teasing smile playing at the corners of your lips, “I have two older brothers.”

“And you’re weird.” Huffed Satoru.

Your calm smile turns from calm to amused, “so are you.” Your lips move up more and your eyes seem to linger for just a moment longer on Satoru’s own.

Satoru’s jaw is dropped before he can even realise that it has. Not only is it the first time someone has so brazenly insulted him (not including Suguru) but it’s both the first time a woman (girl) has insulted him and someone younger than him has dared to treat him as an equal. Even most adults didn’t have the guts to bring themselves up to Satoru’s level unless they too stood in the same position as his parents.

But you.

Annoying and weird you are standing there in front of him as if you’re friends joking about a funny joke you just told. Perhaps you do think it’s a joke - which would only further prove to Satoru that you’re weird.

An older woman (likely your Nurse) runs into the room, her expression worried. She quickly bows to Satoru, “sorry, My Lord. The little missy here seems to have a mind of her own most of the time.” She turns to you with a harsh look, “did you say anything to insult the young Lord?”

Satoru expects you to roll your eyes or look away like any normal child would do. Thought maybe you might’ve stomped away angrily or made a face at him when your Nurse wasn’t looking.

Instead, your eyes soften and you smile fondly at your nurse, “I wasn’t on my best behaviour,” you calmly admitted.

Your Nurse sighs as she continues to reprimand you.

Satoru, on the other hand, is left a little shocked and speechless. He isn’t quite sure what happened but the wheels in his hand do begin turning and his heart starts to beat a little faster. He wonders if you can see the colours too.

---

A Conversation

Satoru Gojo comes to the conclusion that, after a while of getting to know you, yes you do see colours just not in the same way that he does. Your skills lie not in a brilliant way to dissect numbers nor demonstrate the ability to memorize new information or pick up skills at the drop of a hat like how he can but there’s nothing about you that can be considered ordinary either.

He heads over to your house at least once a week for the next two years. Not because he wants to, of course, but because his parents have stopped with the lectures about not hanging out with Suguru when he gives into their wishes and spends time at your house. And, sure, your older brother is awfully boring and dull but it gives him the chance to get to know you better. The strangely entertaining and endearing little girl who’s intelligence rivals his own.

It sucks that you don’t actually ever linger around when Satoru is there. You obediently listen to your brothers when they ask you to head elsewhere and you rarely ever spare Satoru a second glance unless Satoru goes out to seek you himself; and even you refuse to spend time with him unless he’s entertaining your brothers.

He notices that you’re an avid reader, always holding a new text in your hand every week. Satoru just knows that his parents wish that they had a child like you. So obedient to your elders and caretakers. So well mannered and thoughtful plus you seem intelligent and well read. He bets that you would have been named heir over your two older brothers if you too had been born a man.

You’re so mature for your age and perhaps that is what Satoru likes about you best.

He doesn’t have to go out of his way to entertain you or have to explain himself when he says something strange or different.

It simply just is.

It takes Satoru exactly two years to figure out why exactly he likes you so much. To come to all those conclusions above and finally get close enough to you that the two of you can consider one another as friends. It’s unfortunate that by then his visits stop as he begins school at Eton’s Academy for Boys. Higher education where any worth a damn in high society attends.

It sucks that he won’t be able to see you much anymore but what can Satoru do against the adamant wishes of his parents?

At least Suguru will be attending with him.

Suguru isn’t you but he’s one of the only people that actually understand him so it won’t be that bad.

You make his heart race and his stomach feel all fuzzy.

But it isn’t until several years later, when you’re a debutant freshly minted and prepared for your first season, that Satoru realises why.

It had been years since he’d last seen you.

Obviously, he knew that you were going to change. People always changed, both physically and mentally, but he just wasn’t ready for how different you looked. Hadn’t been as prepared for the change as he thought he was.

He’d always known that you would grow up to be pretty but this pretty? It wasn’t what he had been expecting.

Everyone’s eyes are drawn to you.

He knows that you must be the diamond of the season. It would simply be a crime not to. In fact, Satoru himself would march right up to the Queen himself and demand an explanation as to why you were not named the diamond.

Satoru floats through conversations, half of his attention on the conversation at hand and the other half wishing he was speaking to you. You always know the right thing to say to make him smile and he never has to bend over backwards trying to charm you. He knows you already like him exactly as he is. Flaws and all.

It’s unfortunate that his conversation with you ends almost as quickly as it begins.

You’re quickly swept away by some other gentlemen - your dance card full of potential suitors.

It annoys Satoru greatly though he isn’t quite sure why. Obviously, Satoru knows that he enjoys your company and he likes being around you so he’s angry that other people are taking your attention… right? That’s the reason. What else could it be?

Satoru’s thoughts were interrupted with a sharp elbow to his side as he exclaimed quietly, “hey!”

“You were pouting.” Suguru says.

“Was not.”

“Oh, you definitely were.”

Satoru grumbles to himself, annoyed.

Suguru chuckles quietly in response.

“What do you think of (Y/n)?” Satoru asked suddenly.

Suguru ponders briefly, “she’s a little like you.”

“Really?” Satoru raises a brow curiously, “I personally thought she was more like you.”

“How so?”

“She’s good at understanding other people and she cares an awful lot more about what other people think about her than she lets on.”

Suguru hums thoughtfully, “everyone cares about what everyone thinks.”

“I don’t.”

“That’s because you’re weird.”

“Hey!”

“It’s true,” Suguru gives Satoru a closed eye smile, “you’re weird but not super weird. A little weird.”

Satoru rolls his eyes, “like that’s so much better.”

“Let me put it this way,” Suguru explains, “you don’t care about what everyone thinks but you care about the thoughts of people that are important to you.”

“Isn’t that how everyone should think.”

“Oh, most certainly.”

Satoru knows that Suguru is mostly just entertaining him at this point. His words always have some hidden meaning to them (that Satoru is usually too lazy to dissect) but there are points when he simply says something to entertain Satoru. Suguru has always been thoughtful like that; it’s one of the reasons why Satoru has always liked him so much.

He thinks that that might be why he likes you too.

You make his heart race and his stomach feel all fuzzy.

But it isn’t until several years later, when you’re a debutant freshly minted and prepared for your first season, that Satoru realises why.

---

The Moment

Satoru is surprised when he sees you sitting by yourself early one spring morning.

Staring off into the distance in the middle of a hill that floats down into a lake.

Fluffs of dandelion seeds float around haphazardly in the air. Almost like snowflakes amidst the cool spring air. The melodic chirping of birds fills the air, though Satoru personally has never been a fan. Many of his classmates had written poems about the birds before. Talking about flight and freedom alongside a musicality that comes so naturally to them compared to humans.

It’s unusual for women, especially young girls who are in search of a husband, to head outside by themselves where any man could just stumble upon them without a chaperone. Satoru bets that you had woken up bright and early just so that you might be able to have a moment alone.

He almost feels a little bad to intrude on your moment alone.

He imagines you don’t get very many.

But he approaches you nonetheless. His heart tugs him towards you much like how a child pulls their parents down the aisles of a candy store. Eager and excited.

“(Y/n)~” Satoru says your name sweetly, liking the way it flows off of his tongue so easily. Thinks that it tastes so much better than some of the sweetest things he’s whispered to others.

You don’t bother turning to look at him as you would have done if this had taken place in the presence of others, “My Lord.”

“Satoru.”

“You really do love saying your name,” you tease, as he takes a seat beside you. He makes a face as the bottom of his pants get wet from the damp grass upon contact. His usual reaction would have been to jump up and scowl. He usually hates any uncomfortable feeling and does anything he can to avoid any such sensations but forces himself to bear with it as your warm shoulder brushes against his own. Well the sleeve of your dress brushes up against the dress-shirt but this is close enough for him. Besides, his pants are already wet now so he can bear with it for a little longer.

The two of you stare off into the distance, staring at the lake.

Satoru notices that you’re still in your nightgown. It’s light and flowy, similar to the clothes you used to wear when you were young. Hot stuffy dresses are what’s most popular now in women’s fashion and being a proper lady of good origins you do your diligence in following the fashion trends. Strangely though, the thought of your subtle acts of rebellion bring a smile to his face. It’s so subtle and detached from the main parts of society yet so much louder than you’ll ever realise.

He bets that your mother would be furious if she found that you were outside and alone with an unmarried man. Furious if you came back with the bottom of your dress soaked from the morning dew and rain.

You probably don’t care though.

Your attention is much better spent on the lake in front of you. (Satoru personally thinks that your attention would be even better spent on him.)

He doesn’t bother to look at the lake he’s already seen hundreds of times in his life.

This is where he and Suguru used to play pirates. Where he’d first been tossed into the lake when the two of them were horsing around and where he had crawled out of angrily. Where he’d caught his first frog and made his first (mud) painting.

This was the lake of his childhood that he loved oh so dearly.

But right now, he found that he’d rather look at you.

The baby fat you had on your cheeks back before he had left for Eton is gone. It makes you look more mature. Less like the girl that made fun of him and more into the woman that would send light teases his way. Makes you seem less like the girl who always carried around picture books and into a young woman that reads intellectual novels that dive into the human.

He’s a little sad. He had quite a fondness for the young girl that managed to make him mad with the single raise of an eyebrow. It’s almost like the loss of someone important to him. Someone he didn’t know that he would miss as much and a version of you that he would never get to say goodbye to.

But, he finds that he has a fondness for the you that’s sitting beside him now.

He wouldn’t go as far as saying that he likes this version more than the young child you but he would admit that this version was much more… exciting to be around. Almost like a mystery that he was working to solve.

A smile pulls at his lips when he notices a book in your lap.

“What’re you reading?” Satoru asks, pointing to the book in your lap.

You brush the cover of the book gently, “Pride and Prejudice.”

“Suguru read that book once.”

“Have you?”

“No. Besides, Suguru said it was just a boring romance novel for women anyways. Says nothing that we don’t already know.”

You smile as you nudge him playfully, “do you let Lord Suguru’s opinions dictate all of your own decisions, My Lord?”

“No,” Satoru pouts, “but I’ve never liked reading much anyways. It’s easier to let him do the reading first. He knows what I do and don’t like. Besides, I don’t want to waste my time reading something I wouldn’t even like.”

Finally, you turn to look at him. To the untrained eye it would be a look of indifference. But to Satoru, your self proclaimed childhood best friend, your expression is one of amusement. From the way your eyes crinkle in the corners slightly to how you sit up more straight ever so slightly and the subtle twitch of your lips. Plus, the most obvious and dead give away to anything, your eyes. They look at him, lingering on his face for a moment longer than they linger on anyone else's as you respond with a soft, “and what do you like to read, My Lord?”

“Comedies usually.”

“Like?”

“Twelfth Night.”

You raise a brow delicately, “Shakesphere?”

Satoru places a hand on his chest, feigning offence, “are you implying that you think I wouldn’t like the works of one of the greatest writers and minds of our time?”

“Oh, I’d never, my Lord,” you eyes crinkle in the corners, “I was simply surprised. Most men I speak with prefer something more contemporary like Wordsworth or perhaps something practical and sensible like a book on agriculture or architecture. They consider things like Shakesphere to be mere entertainment.”

“So then are you implying that you think I have the taste of a woman?”

“And who would you consider yourself akin to then, my Lord? Duke Ceasiro?”

Satoru makes a face.

You chuckle softly in response, “you must admit, the two of you share a certain resemblance.”

“I am insulted on every level, (Y/n).”

“I’m sure you are.”

“I am!” Satoru exclaims, waving his arms above his head, “I am most like the honourable Sebastian.”

“Ah yes, Viola’s twin brother.”

Satoru nods.

“Well, he’s certainly an opportunist.”

“Would you not marry a beautiful woman that you just met and is seemingly in love with you?”

You hum softly as you ponder on the idea.

Satoru remembers how he had dragged Suguru to the play house that day. He had originally gone because there was a particular woman that he wanted to promenade with after but had actually found the show to be quite enjoyable. Suguru was absolutely furious with him but even he had a few chuckles at some moments.

“What was your favourite part about Twelfth Night?” You ask, leaning against him.

“The love triangle.”

“Well, it certainly isn’t the traditional kind of love triangle.”

“A true love triangle, I’d say.”

“The kind you’d like to find yourself in?” You tease.

Satoru shrugs in response.

From where Satoru sat he could see a small group of birds gathering around. They reminded him a bit of the Ton. So easily swept up into a single moment and conversation without much consideration about the world around them. Much thought and consideration is never put into everything else that this world has to offer.

“What kind of stuff do you like to read?” Satoru asks.

You smile, “you mean apart from the book in my hand?” Satoru can tell from the way you lean back away from him with a gleam in your eyes that you’re teasing him.

So he decides to tease you back.

He leans in towards you with a grin, “you and I both know you’re only reading that because it’s popular. It’s not what you actually like to read.”

“And what do you think I like to read?”

“Wouldn’t have asked if I knew the answer.”

“Alright, I’ll bite, Satoru.”

He beams brightly when you say his name.

“The last thing I read for my own enjoyment was, Thomas De Quincey’s, Confessions of an Opium Eater.”

Satoru’s jaw drops, “the drug addict poet?”

“Most writers struggle with addiction.”

“What do you like about De Quincey’s works?”

“He wrote quite a particularly thought provoking piece about the human mind. Looking into the subconscious.”

“Oh?”

“He writes, ‘dreams are the unconscious mind finishing the halted thoughts of the conscious.’”

“A Romantic for sure.”

You beam, “oh, most definitely.”

Satoru thinks that this is the first time he’s ever seen you smile in such a way. If he weren’t already sitting he would have fallen flat on the ground. His heart would have stopped in his chest and he likely would have fallen to the ground and died only then to be once again revived by your beauty.

He thinks that this is where humanity must have peaked. That there will never again be someone that looks as beautiful as you do when you’re smiling. That no one will ever hold such a place in his heart that you do.

He leans towards you with a lovesick smile, “I’m going to marry you.”

You cough a little, “excuse me?”

His smile doesn’t falter, “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

“Why me?”

“You understand me.”

“Hm?”

“You see the world in a way that everyone else doesn’t and you see me for who I am. Not who everyone else thinks that I should be.”

“My Lord-”

“Satoru.” He corrects.

“Satoru,” you lean away, “don’t you think you’re being a little hasty? We’ve barely even had a full conversation since you came back from school.”

“And?”

“You barely know who I am.” You look hesitant, the mask you always wear slipping as if you’ve never worn it before.

He takes your hand before you can bolt off (he hopes that it comforts you the same way it comforts him), “I know that you understand my loneliness. You know how it feels like for the whole world to want you to be a certain way. You’ve perfected the way of living from the way you move to the smile on your face to be exactly what society expects of you.” He feels as though his heart is beating a million beats a minute.

Your expression shifts a little.

Going from hesistance -

- to surprise.

And then suddenly Satoru doesn’t know what it is that you’re exactly thinking right now. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen this expression on you and it worries him a little. His heart is fluttering in anticipation.

Satoru doesn’t think he’s ever been in such an uncomfortable situation before.

Well… there was that one time where Suguru had hidden Satoru’s favourite riding helmet as payback for something stupid he said earlier. In an attempt to make it seem like he wasn’t bothered, Satoru had gone off with a different helmet and messed up almost everything. Nothing seemed right. His horse, even though it was his favourite steed that he had ridden since he was a boy, just wasn’t listening the way it usually did. He actually almost fell off his horse twice (and actually did fall off once while in the middle of getting on).

Yeah, Satoru thinks, this feeling is a little something like that.

“Satoru.” You hold his hand tightly.

“Hm?”

“Be here with me.”

“I am here.”

“Stay in the moment with me,” you say softly, “your mind keeps drifting elsewhere.”

Satoru’s heart flutters as he smiles down at you fondly, “okay.”

Yeah.

He’s most definitely falling in love with you.

No.

He has fallen in love with you.

He’s going to marry you.

Openly, fall in love.

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru x reader #100 ways to fall in love

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eneablack · 1 year

Text

when i first shifted to my fantasy dr (part 1)

i shifted to this dr in the past and i made a google doc about it because i wanted to send it to my friends but now that i have this account i can share the experience with y’all too :)

i recently shifted there again and wanted to share that too but i thought it would be better to post this one first as it explains more about my dr.

i’ll just copy and paste the document but it says that it’s too long so i have to split it into two posts.

so here we go.

OKAY SO I don't know where to start because I'm still freaking out okay. first of all, to shift, I simply set the intention to wake up in that specific reality (which I called “fantasy reality” because I didn't know what other name to give it) and went to sleep without doing anything else except visualising some parts of my dr house. the next morning i felt something on my face like someone was holding my face in their hands which scared me because i went to sleep alone and usually no one wakes me up but then i remembered it could be mom since we had something to do that morning. only that it wasn’t mom- opening my eyes I was hella shocked, I can't even explain what I felt after seeing that I had neteyam in front of me (yes, I added him to the script of this reality too), after all these months of pure agony (and I'm not kidding) I was finally in front of him and him in front of me. i immediately tried not to act weird but it was super hard so after he asked me if i was sick i told him i had a very weird nightmare and i still had to recover. the fact is that in this reality where I shifted he is not a blue alien but a "human" version (not so much human because he's an elf) and god, he was beautiful, the most beautiful person I've ever seen in my life. at that point he seemed kind of worried about me because i was staring at him the whole time in silence trying to realize what had just happened so to avoid freaking him out more i told him i was so tired again and fuck, he laughed and then he fucking kissed me. to say that I exploded at that moment is an understatement, but let's overlook it. we got out of bed and started getting ready because, from what I understand, we had decided the night before that that morning we would go to my best friend's café (her name is auri and she is a fairy) and it was initially strange to realize that I had wings on my back (they are not so big anyway, that's why I didn't even feel them at first) and I immediately wondered how the fuck do I put a shirt on 🧍🏼but in the end I wore something all shredded. auri (one of my best friends) was so energetic, she never stopped talking but it didn't bother me. then my other friends yuri and will joined us (it’s will byers lol, i added him to the script after watching stranger things this summer). and will is a faun here 😭 he is truly a love, the sweetest and kindest person i know. I'm writing too much maybe I should cut it a bit, i’ll try to summarize from now. in the afternoon comes my favorite part: my work. in this reality I am half fairy half witch, which is a rare gene there (i scripted so because i wanted to be main character), in fact I am almost the only witch in the village apart from my mother and grandmother. so I went home to prepare a potion that someone had asked me for, they had to spray it on the garden that would make the crops grow well. meanwhile, while I was working on my table/altar, neteyam was working on a wonderful painting (that’s his job) which represented the image of the ocean at sunset with a ship in the centre. it was incredible, he was so talented. after i finished the potion i had another customer that day who ordered me a tarot reading so i went to her house (customers often come to my house but it is more usual for me to go to them). she was a young fairy and lived with her mother. as soon as I arrived they were both very kind and asked me if I wanted something to eat or drink before the reading, I said maybe later but they insisted so they made me sit down and gave me a slice of lemon cake (y’all it was so good) and some tea made by them.

(go to my next post for part 2 cause i can’t fit the entire text here for some reason)

#shifting realities #reality shifting #shifting #desired reality #success story #shifted #shifting stories

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moss-bride · 1 year

Text

The lie of human kindness

Ren Hana x fem artist reader

1/3 chapters

She's covered in paint and hates the crusted splashes it left on her skin.

The garage her neighbors so kindly allowed her to use is a bit tight but she can't complain. This is the first time she's had a space outside her bedroom.

No. Not when there are so many artists out there that empty the living room of their dingy apartments to make their works.

She needs to make a trip to the hardware store to buy paint thinner and rounded tip brushes. She writes down her supplies on a notepad when her phone rings, the screen flashes to that familiar name. It causes a burst of nervous enthusiasm

to her most constant buyer.

She answers. "Mr Fox! What did you think of the photos I emailed you? Would you like to change anything? I'm finished with the base so by this Thursday will be your last chance to make edits." she's babbling. Something that happens often in their conversations

"No, it's coming out perfectly! " the smooth voice replies. He continually has nothing but compliments for her work. It makes her a little worried he's too afraid to give her criticism.

Which is silly because a person wouldn't spend as much as he did on a work that isn't perfect. Right?

In her doubt, she almost doesn't hear his next words. "I was wondering if you'd like to accompany me to a gala."

"Me?" she's speechless for a moment. Unsure of what to say. "I…" The schedule in her notepad is empty as it's been since first started. Between work and … Work, time for clubbing is rare and she finds she hates the loud noise of clubs unlike some women her age.

She doesn't have to flip the page to know her time slot is open. Yet she hesitates. Having one on one time with Mr. Fox as his partner at a party with people she doesn't know is a daunting thing to consider.

"I'd love to go, Mr Fox but I don't exactly have proper clothes for a fancy party."

"I'll send you some!" he chirps. Ever the supportive fan. There goes her one reason. He often reminded her of a favorite uncle

She's honored that he would consider her so promising at her craft that he would show her off to acquaintances. Reminds herself that these are rich friends that could potentially commission and buy.

This is an amazing opportunity to network. She shouldn't be so wary! nonetheless, her heart frets in her chest. She chews her lip. "I don't know if I'm comfortable being in your debt like that."

"Don't sweat it. Consider it an investment for how big a splash I envision you'll make for the scene."

The easy grin of his is palpable through the phone.

he's always talking about culture, movements, and postmodernism. "Just knowing I'll be part of fostering such an artist is enough." she knew he would say something like that.

She doesn't know how to respond. Another thing that happens frequently between the two of them. Her eyes stare out the garage window. "I-"

Mr. Fox refuses to take the beginning of her stuttered refusal. "Perfect! I'll send someone to pick you up. Bye-bye." The tone rings and she's staring at the ended phone call in shock.

She shouldn't be upset with Mr. Fox, oftentimes he was the lone benefactor to her works and he's a kind man. There's no malice to his intentions, in fact, he's looking out for her by doing this.

Yes, there are skeevy men, people in general, in the art world that take advantage of others. She has heard of their predatory moves from forums and community posts.

But Mr. Fox was not one of them. She is fortunate to have met him so early in her career. An enthusiastic client is hard to come by.

On the day of the gala, a black expensive model car is sent to wait for her on the street, while she is climbing down the stairs, embarrassed to sit on the spotless leather seats inside. Neighbors gawk as she climbs in with her plain day clothes. Some wave as she leaves.

The ride to Mr. Fox's home is long. Perfect to recite her manners.

She printed out business cards and brought her satchel, a big green bag full of 'sketches' (finished works made to seem effortless), and her necessities. Keys, wallet, wipes for her glasses, and chapstick. She rustles through the items to make sure she has everything before the car starts driving.

Slowly she watches the apartments become brighter, luxury apartments, then comes a bit of suburbia, then the gated ones, the big mansions with obnoxious features and long driveways.

These people love their privacy.

When they arrive she's almost asleep, forehead pressed against the window. The driver wakes her.

The front of his home is as beautiful as she imagined. Not the ugly McMansions that she saw on the way but an elegant building with manicured trees and a welcoming structure. Not too showy and with the right amount of architecture to give taste.

Clutching her bag protectively over herself she gathers her courage and follows the butler.

There are people in uniform doing chores around the place. Maids and servers that work for him. Gosh, even their professional uniforms make her feel underdressed. They scurry to put together any final preparations for the party. White tablecloths are set

No one's here yet. She might be a little earlier than expected.

When Mr Fox emerges from the upper doorway she breathes a sigh of relief and allows her shoulders to lax. He calls her name and warmly greets her. A smile displaying his sharp canine. "Ready for the big day?"

She gives a shaky confirmation in an attempt to appear confident but he sees through it and chuckles. Clasping a hand on her shoulder as they walk into one of the wings.

"You can get dressed here."

She looks around the well-furnished room. There's a bathroom connected to the far side. A spacious bed and draped on top, wrapped in plastic must be her dress.

"I'll be out in a minute."

He makes no motion to leave, she thinks that he is scanning her body from top to bottom. It makes her face heat.

She laughs. "I'm fine Mr Fox, you can go now."

He stands there for a moment then clears his throat and adjusts his tie. "Of course!"

He's about to shut the door when he pauses and motions her close. "Before I leave…." He snatched the lenses off her face. "You won't be needing these."

"My glasses?" she's unsure about him taking them. Everything is blurry, her eyesight is poor, barely above the legal limit to be considered blind.

He sighs. "There. Much better."

"I don't have contacts on…" but he already shut the door. A small click sounds. She should call him back and ask for them more firmly….

Instead, she lets the issue go. Later she'll explain how important they are and ask for them back.

The dress that Mr. Fox had handed her feels airy. Light as a feather and lacking the weight of material. She takes a bit of it in her hand and squints to her best ability trying to test if it's see-through. But that's just her right? It must be the draft. It is a bit cold.

Underwear

Oh gosh. He really considered everything for this night. Mr Fox is nothing if not thorough but She doesn't need it. Her own underwear will be fine. And this level of planning is a bit unsettling.

she notices how delicate the garments are. Expensive. Did he put a lot of thought into her underwear?! She shakes that thought away. Feeling ashamed for associating it as creepy.

Slipping the dress over her head she struggles for it to settle around her chest.

The dress doesn't fit with the padding of her bra. She should have worn a strapless adhesive for tonight instead of a pushup.

With much consideration she forgoes the bra since the gown is long and flowing, It should cover everything. There's a shawl to go along with the outfit and she's insanely grateful.

Next, she turns to the vanity. Huffing an exasperated breath at her smudged image.

Everything's so smeared. Edges bleed into each other.

On the desk, there are blobs of what must be a hairbrush and makeup. All new and unused. She does her best in thirty minutes and is blind as a bat. Utilizing muscle memory to do most of the work. She chooses to leave her hair down instead of clipped back from her face as it usually is when working.

With that the effect is nerve-wracking. She feels like an entirely different person. A real Cinderella moment.

A knock sounds and they announce that people have begun to arrive.

"I'll be out in a minute!" she can't see the result. She'll trust Mr. Fox to inform her if her makeup is uneven.

Deep breaths. The lightness of the material makes her anxious again. However, they are waiting for her outside. She can't disappoint.

She slides into the heels and opens the door. Peeking out the hall. "Mr. Fox?"

No sign of the slight redhead. Instead, his bodyguards stand outside. Two of them as a unit. One is a big bald man to the left and a shorter, blond to the right. Hard lines of straight shoulders with no-nonsense

She smiles at them. "Nice to meet you."

They offer polite greetings but little else. She learns their names are Rhino and Roo. They sound like fake names, silly nicknames likely, but she doesn't want to make them uncomfortable by asking for real names.

They have been so nice in guiding her.

The cool wind brushes her legs as she walks down the stairs, sliding her hand on the wood railing. It's like a scene from a movie!

She hears him before she can see him. At the bottom of the stairs waiting for her to descend.

His words make her feel naked. There's an underlying heat to them. "You look ravishing." her heart hammers at the thought of what his expression looks like now. Maybe it's a good thing she can't see because his face would leave her a stuttering mess.

"It's a beautiful dress." she bashfully gazes at a corner. The heels add height to her, making him four inches shorter but she never minded being taller. She stays at his side, enjoying the smell of his cologne. He's so warm. "You're very handsome yourself ." His suit is a deep burgundy with black accents. Lapels clean cut and hugging the waist.

Fox's voice resonates with a playfulness she hasn't had the pleasure of noticing before. "Are you flirting with me?"

She rears her head back and says, embarrassed. "Of course not. I don't mix business with pleasure." He chuckles at that.

He wants to be the exception.

A guest comes up to them with a steady tap of no doubt expensive shoes. "Fox, who is this gorgeous lady you are keeping to yourself?"

Mr. Fox introduces them. " She's the creator of paintings you see on my walls."

This man is blond with deeply tanned skin. If she had to guess he's a corporate type. "Fox here talks quite a bit about your talents."

The older man grins over the rim of a glass as she shoots him a look. He's all 'I told you so.'

Her art unnerved most people and to discuss it so openly

Human suffering plain to the eye. They only see that pain. Not the beauty in their panicked stares. White straining, turning pink with shocks of red worms until they become bloodshot.

She paints that freedom. A study of human anatomy to remind everyone what they are. What will come.

Death is her inspiration, there is beauty in the midst of suffering angelic or from hell.

"Deserved flattery. Your images are visceral. Gut-wrenching." god the flattened is too much, she could get used to being complimented. "I did not expect such a sweet lady would be behind this gruesome work."

She laughed. "Never judge a book by its cover."

Talks and talks about a variety of things that go on in her life, and acts amazed at the news of his vacation to Jamaica. Then other guests join their conversation. Mr Fox is marching her from one acquaintance to the next and she knows she should be writing down names and information. Telling when she's open to commissions. Yet, all she could register is Mr. Fox beside her and his chuckling puffs when she says something funny.

She tries her best to be funny to hear it again and again.

An endless stream of beautiful guests that are interested in her work and admire it is refreshing to be around. The shame and secrecy of having to skip around the subject of her art gets tiring

Hiding her muse is tiring, Death and the human form is the subject of her imagining and here they are celebrated.

When the evening is getting late he walks her to a patio, brushing past breezy curtains of red. The cool wind is a godsend on her hair.

He hands her a glass of wine and cups his own elegantly. He's so at home among the fortune and excess. She wishes at that moment for her phone, the way he looks is a divine masculine aura. He could be on the cover of a men's magazine.

"To our partnership."

She takes the offered cup and sips. Smiling softly at him as the burst of flavorful red wine spreads on her tongue.

He's gazing at her in the dark, illuminated by the orange glow of the light from one side and the soft pale of the moon on the other. "What is it?"

His eyes must be keener than hers to see in the shadowy night. Does he notice her flushed shoulders and nervous tick? She's woozy from the drink already.

"I'm lucky to have met you, Mr. Fox." She tucks a strand behind her ear and is about to do the same to her other ear when she feels the warm pad of his thumb tuck it for her.

A polished claw gently scrapes her scalp.

Even with her blurry vision, the flaming orange flicker to his eyes catches her own. She tilts her head into the touch.

"My family and friends think what I draw is terrible. Satanic and devil worshiping, even." she gives a sardonic laugh. "I couldn't ever show them my sketchbook. No one wants to order family portraits from a gore artist. I didn't have anyone. But you…and the people here …understand."

Her admission gets her a sharp glimpse of teeth. A pearly fang. "Horror and shock are things to be celebrated, people scare easily on such subjects."

She's breathless as his nail slides against her brow. 'Exactly."

She tries to take a step to him and she stumbles in the heels. Falling forward. His grip tightens on her arm. Without it, she would have face-planted. She laughs. "I don't feel very stable." without another thought she shucks them off, her bare feet flat on the floor.

"It's alright." he supports her with a surprising amount of strength. She wraps her arms around his waist and buries her face into his neck. Without her heels, she's back to being two inches taller than him. Chest to chest.

She doesn't know she is being drugged. He can feel her pebbled breasts

"What happened to not mixing business with pleasure?" it's a husky whisper

She leans into his palm and closes her eyes. "You're not business. You're my friend." her only friend in this city. Her arms pull him closer for a hug. She pours her gratitude into her grasping arms, squeezing hard. Her friend…Who supports her and makes her feel appreciated.

It's easy to kiss him. She's intoxicated and forgetful of how intimidating his aura can be. The pit of nervous butterflies that she gets at meeting his eyes is gone, replaced by her need to share how much she feels for him. Laying three pecks on his lips after. The tenderness of each peck overwhelms him.

He's unresponsive. Horrified, she attempts to step away, about to utter an apology. Yet his hands refuse to let her go.

"I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable," she says in a sudden moment of shame.

"Shh. Let's get you home." he tightens his jacket at her neck. It's laughable really, her shoulders are a bit ticker and it fits over almost like a shawl.

"I want to stay with you," she mumbles against his skin. She kisses him again and this time he opens his mouth. With the first touch of tongues, she made a sound filled with need.

His breath is ragged and hot on her bruised lips.

"That's not a good idea…"

He's struggling with a decision she's not privy to. Muttering silent words in displeasure, smoothing his hair down with a right hand. She tries to hear what he's saying but her wine-drunk brain can't zero in on his meaning. Is he alright?

"Please, Fox." She both does and doesn't know what she's asking for

He pushes her away and she tumbles into the arms of Roo. For a slight figure, he has surprising strength.

She wants to dive back into his arms but the blond holds her still. Mr. Fox turns away. A growl threatened his words. "Go home."

#ao3 fanfic #x reader #fanfic #the price of flesh #ren hana #dead dove fic

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thefrenchydude · 11 months

Text

Murderous Lust - Chapter 3 (part 1)

(Had to divide it, too much work :''') sorry, the other part will come out this week) (AND I didn't had the time to correct it neither ;-; sorry, I will do it soon.) (AND I will also complete some part of this chapter soon)

As they continued their journey deeper into the mountains, Reader's unease grew. The city of Auroria was gradually fading from view, and Reader couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding. His gaze remained fixed on the distant city, almost as if he feared it would vanish in the blink of an eye.

Lex, ever perceptive to Reader's emotions, noticed the growing distress in his beloved's eyes. He tightened his embrace around his love, drawing him closer, as if to shield him from the mounting anxiety. With a tenderness that only deep love could inspire, Lex caressed Reader's arm in an effort to bring warmth and comfort in the chill of the mountain air.

Reader sighed softly, leaning into Lex's touch and finding solace in his embrace.

— I just can't shake this feeling, Lex. Reader admitted, his voice tinged with worry. Leaving the city behind like this, it's unsettling.

Lex pressed a gentle kiss to Reader's temple, his concern evident in his eyes.

— I understand, my love, he whispered reassuringly. But remember, I will stay by your side at every moment. Nothing can happens to you.

Reader slowly calmed down.

The winding mountain road led Reader and Lex higher into the magnificent mountains, where the air grew crisper, and the world seemed to be painted in hues of green and gold.

All around them the plains stretched as far as the eye could see. Reader had never traveled too far from the city. In fact, he'd never been out before. Too scared? No, just not suicidal. If the city was safe enough, the surrounding area was much less so. Reader had heard many stories of cargoes being attacked by demons. There were always few survivors, and the rest were often used as meals by demonic entities. And the kings did nothing about it. They had sworn to protect the city, not what layed around it. So the city had to adapt, trying to produce everything itself: fields for food, factories… Outside deliveries were rare and always very rough.

Reader was already thinking about how he could bring this problem to the kings, imagining that he could talk to them, which is no guarantee. Perhaps they invited him just to be polite, so Lex wouldn't end up alone.

The gaze of the two monkeys came back to him.

Lex tightened his embrace. Reader relaxed.

o0o

They crossed the water curtain and were led to the reception halls, where they knelt before their majesties Sun Wukong and Macaque. Immediately, Wukong raised his voice and ordered them to stand up.

Without waiting, he announced the start of their audience. Well, Lex's, since Wukong asked Reader to wait outside the courtroom. His voice had become softer as he spoke to Reader.

Lex gave Reader a reassuring look and Reader took a step back, worried at the thought of having to leave his side. Eventually, he left the room.

The doors closed, leaving Reader alone outside.

o0o

Wukong was struggling to contain his impatience.

It was just them now.

Him, Macaque and the homewrecker who'd stolen their peaches.

They wanted to break his neck, break every bone in his body for daring to touch what belonged to them.

But Macaque was right, they should try to approach the peaches slowly. Just as they had done in his other life. Killing Lex and stealing Reader would provoke many years of hatred and conflict. Especially since they were married. Not for long, Wukong thought, clearly annoyed by what the worm was telling him. He was discussing the future of the lower town, as if he cared. They'd already destroyed this village, they wouldn't mind doing it again. It would have saved them from having to go and save their miserable lives when the demons entered the city.

— Your Majesty? asked Lex, uncomfortable with the king's gaze, which grew darker and darker as he spoke. Is there something bothering you?

Wukong hated the sound of his voice. Oh, how he wanted to take his staff and bash that worm over the head to make his brain burst.

It took all his patience and strength to answer a simple "no" and not to jump at him.

Macaque, who was clearly more capable of restraint, remained silent as a grave. He watched Lex, wondering "why did Reader choose him?".

o0o

Not wanting to give in to the anxiety that was killing him, Reader decided to wander the corridors of the palace cave. But walking didn't help him to calm down, in fact quite the opposite. That's when he saw an opening to the outside. The same one they'd entered through before.

Reader decided to take a deep breath of fresh air and went to the gardens.

The gardens were magnificent. Peach trees rested in the vast, peaceful grounds. Reader wanted to taste the fruit, but didn't think it wise and refrained.

Then a chirping sound caught his eye: little monkeys were stirring, watching the newcomer from the branches. Little rhesus monkeys, Reader thought, remembering what he'd read about this mountain.

He watched them for a moment. The sight of being so cute soothed him. For a moment, he felt at peace - not completely, he couldn't forget that his husband was alone and so was he.

That was before Macaque arrived and greeted the reader.

Taken by surprise, Reader jumped up and turned a panicked gaze on Macaque, who immediately tried to reassure him. Assuring him that he hadn't trespassed and that he doesn't meant any harm.

Reader really couldn't hear him coming, and it bothered him a lot. He didn't like being surprised.

Macaque sat down beside Reader. He remembered the first meeting with Peaches' first reincarnation.

Macaque talked to Reader. At first, Reader was very uncomfortable. But somehow, as the conversation progressed, he managed to relax.

The two of them ended up speaking frankly to each other, Reader even taking the liberty of making a few jokes which always drew a sincere laugh from Macaque.

At one point, Macaque paused, his gaze fixed on Reader's right hand. Macaque gently grabbed it and pulled it closer. There was a mark on it.

— Ha, it's a birthmark.

— It's shaped like a bite mark, marveled Macaque.

Macaque was on the verge of tears. It reminded him of the first time they met...

After that, the two continued chatting.

o0o

Wukong came slowly towards them. He'd learned from his mistakes - for once - this time, he wouldn't be landing right in front of Reader. Last time that had frightened him. No, this time he'd settle for a less remarkable entrance, walking right up to him.

Reader tensed, but didn't panic.

He'd simply asked where Lex was, and Wukong replied that he'd sent him to write down all his ideas and plans for the city.

They talked for a long time, and by the time they'd finished, it was dark.

Before going to dinner, the two kings asked Reader if he wanted to visit the palace.

He wanted to decline. Politely. Claiming he had to get back to his husband's side. But it would have been impolite to refuse, and it would surely have affected their relationship with Lex.

Perceiving his hesitation, the kings insisted, assuring him it wouldn't last too long.

And so Reader agreed.

They went from room to room. There were so many, Reader suddenly felt as if he was in a labyrinth.

As they walked, the three of them were having a wonderful time. The kings were so friendly with Reader that he even forgot what they were : Powerful demons king.

They ended their visit in one of the palace's largest rooms.

— The vault?!? exclaimed Reader.

Mountains of wealth stretched far beyond view.

Wukong puffed up his chest, a flamboyant, charming smile on his lips. He knew this room would amaze him. Who wouldn't be fascinated by so much wealth?

— Several thousand years of treasures and relics have been amassed here, Macaque explained, caught by Reader's look of wonder.

Wukong moved closer to Reader and put his hand on his shoulder.

In reality, Wukong was burning with the desire to simply grab him, put him in the pillows nest, cover him with kisses, mark him with his burning bites, hold him against him, make him his own.

— Your Majesty? Reader asked, seeing Wukong blushing.

Wukong cleared his throat.

He had to stick to the plan. To make Reader fall in love with him and Macaque.

The visit finished, they walked to the diner room.

— If it's not inappropriate, may I know a little more about the one you loved? Reader asked, feeling quite at ease.

Wukong still remembered the sound of crushed bones as the demon devoured Reader's remains. A few seconds, just a few seconds, and they'd lost everything. It would never happen again.

Macaque told an idyllic version of their life with Reader, omitting the kidnapping, the fights and her horrible death.

The meal went by without Lex, who must still have been busy.

Then he was shown to his room, a single bed, where he would sleep alone tonight.

Reader slept extremely badly, he was used to Lex's arms holding him close.

At dawn, the sun awoke Reader.

A monkey guard came to inform him that Lex was leaving for the city. An emergency. So urgent that Lex hadn't even had time to notify Reader of his departure. Lex would return as soon as the emergency was resolved.

Reader felt very worried and alone. What could this emergency be? Had Lex arrived in town safely?

Someone came to inform him about breakfast.

(This chapter, story and au, is inspired by the Twice as bad au from @semisolidmind) (I hope y'all liked it, sorry for the delay again, have a great day/night)

#lmk mk #monkie kid #fiction #yandere wukong #twice as bad au #murderous lust #sorry for the mistakes #i'm still french

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pollenallergie · 1 year

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@luvrsbian Here’s prompt 14 for Billy! Thank you so much for your request!! <3

Waking up in the morning

Prompt 14: “I had a really bad dream. And it seemed so real.”

Waking up without Billy lying in bed next to you has swiftly become such a rare occurrence since the two of you moved in together a few months back. Mainly, that’s because he’s hardly ever awake before you are; the man could sleep for 24 hours straight if you let him. So, it’s eerie to wake up to find the left side of your bed empty, the mattress devoid of the slight Billy-shaped indent he leaves behind on that side when he sleeps, the sheets lacking the warmth they absorb from his skin in the night. Perhaps it’s irrational, but waking up like this, without Billy by your side, causes a jolting feeling of worry to spike in your chest. That worry pulls you out of bed, even though your fatigued body would much rather stay cuddled beneath the cotton sheets.

“Billy,” you call out, your sleepy, hoarse voice echoing throughout the off-white walls of your flat. You’ve always wanted to paint those walls a different colour, maybe a light jade or a soft cornflower blue, but, unfortunately, that would be a breach of your rental agreement. So, instead, you’ve settled for hanging copious amounts of artwork and pictures on the walls using removable sticky strips.

Only now do you register the sound of your Flaming Pie vinyl playing in the other room, which currently serves as Billy’s at-home studio. You smile to yourself as you hear the murmurs of Paul McCartney’s soothing voice seep through the thin walls. Certainly, nothing too horrible or tragic is going on, not if Billy’s listening to such a soft, relaxing album, right?

You exit your room and walk the few short steps over to Billy’s art studio, gently rapping your knuckles on the open wooden doorway to alert him to your presence before crossing over the threshold.

“Billy,” you call out softly, “what’re you up to?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs nonchalantly, though his trembling tone and occasional sniffles betray his true emotions.

“Bill,” you coo as you walk over to him. Once you reach him, you gently nudge his shoulder to encourage him to turn around to face you, and when he complies, your heart breaks at the sight of the fresh tears flowing down his flushed cheeks. “Honey, what’s wrong?” You ask him, your voice soft but cracking with concern and compassion for your distressed lover.

Billy shrugs again as if trying to convince himself that whatever’s upsetting him so much isn’t truly worth all this fuss. Meanwhile, the back of his hand rubs harshly against his already red and irritated nose; it’s a tick that happens often but occurs much more frequently when he’s upset. He exhales shakily before mumbling his reply, “Had a bad dream,” as he uses the long sleeve of his henley to wipe away his tears roughly. The grey cotton fabric is abrasive against his delicate skin, turning it red with an irritated flush that matches the one on his nose.

“Oh, Billy, I’m so sorry,” you respond, the space between your brows pinched up with somber concern and your tone soft, gentle, and coloured with sympathy for your boyfriend. “How long have you been awake?” You ask him before gently kissing each of his red cheeks.

“Woke up at a quarter past three. Tried going back to sleep, but I,” Billy sighs shakily, “I couldn’t get myself calmed back down again.”

At his reply, you can’t help but let out a little sympathetic whine before asking, “Why didn’t you wake me?”

Billy frowns as he replies, “You seemed so peaceful, sleeping like you were. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

You scoff at his response, though not unkindly, before telling him, “Billy, you can always wake me up, you know that. I’ve told you that before,” you remind him.

“I know,” he murmurs, sounding much like a kid who’s just been reprimanded by his mum, as his tick kicks up again. You frown at his tone; it hadn’t been your intention to scold him.

“I’m sorry, Billy,” you console him as you wrap him up in a warm hug, careful not to get any paint on you from the brush that he’s holding.

“It’s okay,” he breathes softly, tossing the paintbrush aside so that he can cling onto you the way he’s wanted to all morning.

“No, it’s not. I’m sorry for being mean,” you apologize as you nuzzle your face into your boyfriend’s neck, your arms wrapped around his shoulders so you can hold him close.

“You’re not mean, dove,” Billy tuts gently, “Y’just care.”

You chuckle softly at his words as you agree, “Yeah, I do. I care so deeply about you, Billygoat.”

Billy smiles warmly at your silly nickname for him as he rubs one of his big, warm hands soothingly down your back.

“D’you wanna talk about it?” You ask him suddenly, referring to the wretched nightmare that had taken him from your bed this morning.

He shakes his head softly, the hair at the nape of his neck rustling against the collar of his henley as he does so, before replying, “No, it’s silly. It just- it seemed so real.”

“Billy,” you coo comfortingly, “baby, it’s not silly if it's upsetting you like this.”

Billy sighs, gnawing at his bottom lip and rubbing his nose again before softly confessing, “It was my dad,” he sniffles, his emotions getting the best of him, “he- erm- I was little again, and he was- he was hitting me and,” Billy pauses to hiccup, the sorrowful sound making your heart break all over again.

“It’s okay,” you whisper reassuringly as you gently pull him impossibly closer, lowering your arms to wrap around his waist and slipping your hands beneath the fabric of his shirt so that you can rub soothing circles on his back with your fingertips.

“There were all these people there, watching, but- er,” Billy pauses to exhale a quivering breath, trying to calm himself, “none of them were helping me; they were just,” he cuts himself off with a heart-wrenching sob.

“Oh, Billy,” you whisper hoarsely, feeling intense emotions claw at your throat and sting the backs of your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs, letting you know that he won’t be able to finish, that it’s too hard to speak about this.

“No, no, honey. It’s okay. I’m sorry,” you protest, turning the tables on yourself, feeling incredibly guilty for making Billy feel like he had to talk to you about his nightmare when it was still clearly weighing on him so heavily.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat softly, solemnly, as you pull back just slightly to look into his beautiful, sad brown eyes. You cup his warm cheeks in your palms, soothingly caressing the skin there with your thumbs as you rise to your tippy toes so that you can place a gentle, comforting kiss on his forehead.

Evidently, Billy needs the closeness right now because he soon wraps his arms firmly around your waist and pulls you into him, gently crushing your front against his own, whimpering meekly and sniveling as he buries his head in the juncture of your neck.

“You’re okay, angel,” you reassure him as you soothingly sway the two of you from side to side in tandem with the rhythm of Little Willow.

“I’m here. I won’t let anyone hurt you,” you promise Billy, knowing that he needs that reassurance from you but is too hesitant ever to ask for it directly, even from you, the person who, according to him, he trusts most in the whole world.

The two of you remain like that for quite some time, wrapped up in each other and swaying gently to the music as you whisper much-needed words of comfort and consolation to your lover while he hides his face in the juncture of your neck and cries openly. Once Billy’s mighty sobs have calmed to quiet sniffles once again, you pull away just slightly so that you can look up at him once again. You flash him a warm, reassuring smile as you gently wipe away his shed tears with the soft pads of your fingers.

“I love you,” Billy murmurs as he leans forward to warmly kiss your forehead, doting a couple on your cheeks, too, for good measure. You sigh blissfully as you luxuriate in his affection.

“I love you too, Billy, so much,” you reply before pulling away and gently grabbing his warm hands, intertwining your fingers with his own as you carefully pull him towards the doorway. You chuckle softly at his confused yet still fond and delighted expression before explaining your actions by softly saying, “C’mon, big guy, let’s get you some breakfast.”

He giggles at the silly term of endearment you’ve just used as he follows you to the kitchen. As cliché as it is, Billy would follow you anywhere.

#ask and i shall reply #gwen <3 #billy knight stuff #billy knight #billy knight x reader #billy knight blurb #billy knight x you #billy knight strike #billy knight fanfic #billy knight thoughts #billy knight fic #billy knight fluff #billy knight whump #billy knight fanfiction #comfort fic #whump fic #moots my beloved <3

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