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sixeyesonathiel · 2 months ago

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02 | kill switch

pairing — target!satoru x assasin!reader

synopsis : a professional assassin accepts a job to eliminate an ordinary high school teacher—only to find her target is gojo satoru, a man who eats gas station sushi with religious devotion and nearly dies walking to work. as days pass, she finds herself less concerned with completing the job and more preoccupied with why someone would want this disastrous man dead. or: when your target's worst enemy is himself and your professional detachment keeps slipping every time he almost gets hit by a bus.

tags — no curses au, crack treated seriously, dark humor, fluff for all the wrong reasons, assassin & target dynamic, self-destructive disaster man, implied nerdjo, satoru is a great teacher, moral ambiguity, reluctant caretaking, food aggression (affectionate), chaotic neighbors, near-death hijinks, emotional constipation, eventual smut, happy ending. art by @Leimiruu.

a/n : literally on my knees begging pls read chapter 1 first for maximum reading experience. there is like a HUGE plot twist at the end of the chapter that is already established her TvT

previous. | series masterlist. | next.

monday resumes with the low hum of fluorescent lights and the clink of ceramic mugs in the faculty room, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee, chalk dust, and something that feels like quiet defeat. outside, the sky hangs gray and unmoved, the windows trembling slightly with each passing gust of wind.

it’s half-past noon when satoru gojo steps in, the door clicking softly behind him, muffling the corridor’s distant echoes. he’s carrying something oddly tender in his hands, a sight that instantly unravels the usual rhythm of the room.

not a wrinkled conbini bag. not the metallic hiss of a boss coffee can opened like a lifeline. but a bento box—neatly packed, wrapped in a faded cloth patterned with delicate cherry blossoms, their pink outlines worn by time and weather.

nanami glances up from his paper, pen halting mid-sentence. his expression doesn’t change, but his brows twitch in the faintest of furrows. utahime, tea halfway to her lips, lowers her cup with a small clink and a narrowing of her eyes.

they watch as satoru lowers himself into a seat, movements loose but not without tension, fingers still curled protectively around the bento like it might vanish if he lets go.

“that’s not expired gas station food,” nanami deadpans, voice clipped, tone edged with disbelief. “who are you, and what have you done with gojo?”

utahime leans in, head tilted slightly. “did you actually cook something, satoru?”

he blinks slowly at them, eyes unreadable behind reading glasses perched low on his nose, the lenses catching the fluorescent glare. he tilts his head just a fraction and lifts the lid.

a puff of steam escapes, curling lazily upward. the smell of soy-glazed meat, tamagoyaki, and freshly steamed rice spreads through the room, rich and nostalgic, like something remembered from a childhood he’s not sure he had. his stomach answers with a loud growl, breaking the moment with comic timing. nanami snorts softly, hiding it behind his knuckles.

“some woman just gave it to me on the street,” satoru mutters, poking at a carrot carved into a sakura petal, its edges too precise for a rushed job. “told me to eat it and walked away.”

utahime’s mouth falls open. “and you’re just… going to eat something a stranger gave you? without question?”

“guess so,” he says, already taking a bite.

the room quiets.

his chewing slows. his eyes narrow slightly, as if tasting something beyond the food—a memory, maybe, or a question. he swallows, blinking once.

“holy shit,” he breathes, still chewing. then another bite. and another.

his chopsticks move with a kind of hunger that isn’t just about food—it’s desperate, almost grateful. he eats like someone who forgot what care tastes like, who’s been living on sugar and spite for so long he didn’t notice the ache. the table trembles as he scrapes the last of the rice, his posture uncoiling. his shoulders dip, jaw softening, the invisible weight he’s been carrying melting with each bite.

nanami watches in silence, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wants to say something but decides not to.

“so you’re accepting mystery bentos now,” he finally says, dry as dust. “that’s… new.”

satoru hums, licking a smear of sauce from his thumb with a languid motion that’s somehow both careless and deliberate.

utahime leans toward nanami, whispering too loudly, “i haven’t seen him eat like that in months.”

he pretends not to hear her, but there’s something in the set of his mouth, a faint upturn, that betrays him. he doesn’t speak. he just lets it linger.

when the bell rings, satoru walks down the corridor with a step lighter than usual. it’s not a bounce—too subtle for that—but there’s an ease to it, like gravity’s loosened its grip. his hands are shoved in his pockets, fingers tapping absently against his thighs. a student passing by flinches when their eyes meet through his reading glasses, but satoru just offers a half-smile, dimple flashing, and keeps walking.

in the classroom, something shifts.

the students sense it immediately. heads turn. whispers ripple like wind over water. he’s here, really here—not just a body in the room, but alive in a way he hasn’t been in weeks. his white hair catches the gray light filtering through the windows, glowing like a halo, though the strands are as messy as ever, sticking out at odd angles like he tried to tame them and gave up halfway.

he begins the lesson with a smirk, marker squeaking against the board as he scratches out an equation. his reading glasses slip down his nose, and he pushes them up with a finger, the motion lazy but oddly endearing. halfway through explaining derivatives, he draws a lopsided circle, then pauses, squinting at it like it’s personally offended him.

a student giggles. “sensei, is that a heart?”

he tilts his head, glasses glinting. “huh,” he murmurs. “guess it is.”

he doesn’t erase it. instead, he draws another, this one even sloppier, and a third that’s barely a shape at all. the class snickers, and he leans back against the desk, arms crossed, smirking wider.

“hearts are just broken circles, anyway,” he says, tone airy but laced with something heavier, like a truth he didn’t mean to let slip. “kinda like how this equation breaks down into simpler parts. see?”

he taps the board, and the lesson flows on, his hands gesturing wildly, voice rising and falling with a rhythm that pulls the students in. they’re not just listening—they’re with him, laughing when he fumbles a marker, nodding when he explains a tricky concept with a metaphor about digimon evolving. a girl in the back raises her hand, hesitant, and he answers her question with such clarity that her shoulders relax, her smile small but real.

the rain starts mid-lesson, a soft patter against the windows that matches the scratch of pencils. satoru glances outside, his smirk softening into something quieter, like he’s remembering the woman with the umbrella, the one who stood over him in the park and didn’t say a word. his fingers tighten briefly around the marker, a flicker of something—confusion, maybe, or longing—crossing his face before he shakes it off.

“alright, you gremlins,” he says, clapping his hands. “pair up and solve the problems on page 47. don’t make me regret trusting you.”

the room hums with movement, and satoru weaves between desks, glasses fogging slightly from the warmth of so many bodies. he stops by a quiet student, a girl whose notebook is a mess of eraser marks. he kneels beside her, elbows on his knees, voice low and patient as he traces the problem with a finger, drawing invisible shapes in the air.

“you’re overthinking it,” he says, tapping her pencil. “break it down like one of those hearts. simple parts, yeah?”

she nods, murmuring, “thanks, sensei.”

he gives her a smile—not his usual smug grin, but something soft, almost shy. “just had a good lunch,” he says, then adds, more to himself, “weird, right?”

the bell rings, and the students spill out, their chatter echoing down the hall. satoru lingers, erasing the board with slow, deliberate strokes, the hearts disappearing last. he adjusts his glasses, the lenses catching a stray beam of light, and hums the digimon theme under his breath, off-key but unapologetic.

by sunset, the school is emptying, the halls a hollow echo of footsteps and muffled laughter. satoru returns to the faculty room, swinging his bag over one shoulder like a kid playing hooky. his hoodie’s stained with chalk dust, his hair a chaotic mess from running his hands through it during class.

“you seem… chipper,” nanami notes, not glancing up from his grading.

satoru yawns, arms stretching overhead until his hoodie rides up, exposing a sliver of skin above his waistband. “must be food poisoning. giving me euphoria or something.”

nanami snorts, a rare crack in his stoicism. “normal people don’t get this happy about food poisoning.”

“who said i was normal?” satoru tosses back, slipping out the door with a lazy salute.

outside, the rain has stopped, leaving the air heavy with the scent of wet asphalt and roasted chestnuts from a nearby stall. the city hums—car horns, footsteps, the rhythmic blink of crossing signals. satoru notices things tonight: the pink haze of sunset smearing across glass buildings, the way his sneakers squeak on the damp pavement, the faint warmth still lingering in his chest from that damn bento.

he looks both ways before crossing, a small victory for someone who’s been flirting with death all week. he hums the digimon theme, louder now, earning a side-eye from a salaryman hurrying past. satoru just grins, dimple flashing, and keeps walking.

he catches his reflection in a shop window—white hair a mess, glasses slightly crooked, the faintest upturn to his lips. he doesn’t look away, just tilts his head and murmurs, “not bad, gojo. not bad.”

outside his apartment, a moving truck idles, the driver smoking lazily by the curb. satoru doesn’t spare him a glance, too busy fumbling with his keys, pulling out a candy bar instead. he sighs, tries again, and finally gets the door open.

inside, the apartment greets him with stillness, the kind that presses against the skin. he slips off his shoes with a muted thud, tosses his jacket over the couch, and spots the bento box on the counter, empty but clean. he rinses it again, fingers lingering on the faded cherry blossoms, the cloth soft and worn under his touch. he sets it to dry beside the sink, movements careful, almost reverent.

tonight’s dinner is instant ramen, the steam curls around his face, fogging his glasses, and he doesn’t bother wiping them, just eats with a slurp that’s louder than necessary.

he settles on the couch, legs folded under him, digimon flickering across the screen. his eyes grow heavy halfway through the second episode, the theme song looping in his head like a lullaby. he thinks about the bento, the woman’s sharp voice—eat it—and the way her eyes burned with something he can’t name.

by the time sleep takes him—mouth slightly open, glasses slipping down his nose, breath even—the crease in his brow has faded. the warmth from earlier simmers in his chest, a quiet ember that refuses to go out.

he sleeps through the night.

satoru wakes before his alarm.

no sharp trill slices through dreams today; there’s nothing to cut. his lashes flutter open, slow and cautious, like he’s scared to break something fragile. the ceiling looms above his modest apartment, morning light sneaking through the blinds, painting soft stripes across his pale face and the silver mess of his hair. strands jut out, wild and defiant, like they’re staging a revolt while he sleeps. but today—no storm rages in his chest. no ghosts lurk behind his eyes. rested. the word tastes weird, like a candy he forgot he liked.

he groans, stretching until his joints crack, arms flopping back to the bed. a yawn bursts out, raw and boyish, bouncing off the walls. his bare feet slap cold tiles, each step dragging him from sleep’s quiet grip. in the kitchen, the bento box sits on the counter, empty and clean, its faded cherry blossom cloth folded neat as a secret. he stares too long, eyes narrowing like it might spill gossip. yesterday’s gift lingers—not just here, but in the soft twist of his stomach. his gut growls, pissed off. he tries toast. it burns instantly.

he sighs—sharp, dramatic—watching the edges curl like scorched lies. he chomps it anyway, grimacing at the bitter crunch, each bite a small act of defiance. his eyes flick to the bento box. it’s sacred now. stupid, maybe. but sacred.

return it? probably. if he sees you again.

he snatches his bag, yanks a hoodie over his wrinkled shirt, and swings the door open—then freezes. you’re there, mirroring him from your doorway, clutching a tote bag like it’s a shield.

the hallway goes still. a breeze slinks through an open window, ruffling his hoodie and tugging a strand of your hair loose. it falls across your face, and you don’t fix it.

“you!” satoru blurts, pointing like he’s in a bad drama, his sleeve slipping to reveal faint scars like faded stars. his reading glasses—teetering on his nose—slide down, but he’s too busy gawking. his blue eyes, wide and bright, lock onto you, sparkling with surprise and a pinch of glee.

you flinch, spine snapping straight, fingers digging into your bag until your knuckles go white. your eyes dart from his face to your door, then back, wide and betrayed, like the world just pulled a fast one. “what the—why are you here?” you snap, voice sharp but wobbling, a flush creeping up your neck as you scowl.

“i live here,” satoru says, stepping forward, hair swaying like silver seaweed in a current. he squints at your door, then at you, like you’re a riddle he didn’t ask for. “wait. you live here now? next door?”

your jaw clenches, arms crossing, bag swinging like a pendulum. “yeah, so?” you huff, all prickly defiance, but your eyes flicker—panic, guilt, something. you moved in to keep him alive, to stop whoever wants him dead, and now he’s here, grinning like he’s got no enemies, and it’s screwing with your head. you’re not soft. you’re not attached. you’re just… doing this.

“…guess we’re neighbors,” you mumble, softer, your name slipping out like an afterthought. it lands between you, small and real, like a coin tossed in the dark.

he blinks, then nudges his glasses up with a finger, lazy but precise. “right,” he says, fishing in his bag until he pulls out the bento box. he holds it out, both hands, like it’s a holy offering, his smile crooked and sheepish, dimple winking. “your food saved my life yesterday. or at least my tongue.”

you stare at the box, then at him, scowl deepening as your face burns. “you looked like you needed something real,” you mutter, snatching it. your fingers graze his, a quick jolt like static, and you jerk back, clutching the box to your chest like it’s evidence. “don’t make it weird, okay?”

he tilts his head, mischief flashing in his eyes. “you been watching me eat?”

“no!” you bark, too loud, eyes popping wide as the flush hits your cheeks like a tidal wave. “i just—i saw you at the convenience store, alright? you were chewing like it was a death sentence.”

a beat. silence hums, loud as a heartbeat.

then he laughs—bright, sudden, spilling out like a burst pipe. he tips his head back, the sound pinging off the walls, glasses slipping again. his eyes linger on you as the laugh fades, softening to a smile that’s too warm, too real. “well,” he says, backing away with big, goofy steps, hands in his pockets, “see you around, neighbor.”

you nod, lips twitching into a grimace you can’t quite call a smile. the moment stretches, thin and strange, then snaps as you both turn, heading opposite ways. your heart’s pounding, and you hiss under your breath, “idiot. why’s he gotta be so… alive?”

satoru nearly walks into traffic on his way to work. he’s replaying the hallway—your scowl, your flustered snap, that loose strand of hair—when a horn blares, yanking him back. he stumbles, arms flapping like a startled bird, glasses fogging from his own panicked breath. “shit,” he mutters, then chuckles, picturing your disapproving glare. it keeps him on the sidewalk. the green man blinks on, and he struts across, grinning like you’re watching.

in the classroom, his students clock the socks right away. one’s black, grim as a funeral. the other’s neon yellow, a cartoon frog peeling off like it’s done with life. “sensei,” a girl up front says, head tilted, “you good?”

“never better,” he shoots back, flashing a grin so bright it startles him. he adjusts his glasses, lenses catching the gray light from rain-streaked windows, and dives into the lesson. chalk squeaks on the board, his hands dancing, explaining integrals with a digimon metaphor that makes no sense but lands anyway. he draws lopsided stars next to equations, then a heart he doesn’t erase, smirking when a kid groans.

“stars are just hearts with extra points,” he says, winking. “like bonus lives. keep up.”

he drifts between desks, rain tapping the windows like a soft drum. the classroom hums, warm with bodies, his glasses fogging slightly. he kneels by a boy struggling with a problem, voice low, patient, tracing the equation in the air. “you’re close. don’t let it scare you. it’s just numbers playing hide-and-seek.” the kid nods, and satoru’s smile is soft, fleeting, like he’s caught himself off guard.

mid-lesson, he glances outside, rain blurring the courtyard into a gray smear. your face flashes—sharp voice, flushed cheeks, clutching that bento like it’s a bomb. his fingers snap the chalk, a tiny crack echoing. the class snickers, and he tosses the pieces with a theatrical sigh. “too strong for this chalk,” he says, winking, but his chest tightens, like he’s swallowed a question he can’t ask.

faculty meeting’s a snooze. principal yamamoto drones about the new nurse, voice flat as old soda. satoru doodles—spirals, clouds, a tiny umbrella with your initials scratched beside it. he freezes, pen hovering, then scribbles it out, heart ticking like a bomb. nanami jabs him when yamamoto tosses a question his way.

“what? sorry, i’m thinking about…” he almost says your name, catches it, grins. “lunch.”

utahime squints, suspicious. “you’re weirder than usual. and that’s a lot.”

“low blood sugar,” satoru declares, whipping out a crumpled chocolate bar like it’s a sword. he unwraps it with flair, foil crackling like a bad radio, and scarfs it in three messy bites, cocoa smearing his thumb. he licks it off, ignoring utahime’s grimace, the room smelling of cheap chocolate and damp coats.

evening finds him at your door, fist raised, heart thumping like a stubborn drum. the hallway’s quiet, but he catches a hum from your place—kettle, maybe, or soft footsteps. it’s warm, domestic, and it twists his gut. he hesitates, fingers twitching, then drops his hand.

“not tonight,” he mumbles, slinking back to his apartment, steps heavy, like he’s hauling his own doubts.

his kitchen’s a disaster—takeout boxes piled like a drunk architect’s dream. he stares, something shifting, and starts clearing, wiping the counter until it shines. he grabs a dusty cookbook, spine soft as old leather, and flips to miso soup. he squints at the ingredients, glasses slipping. “who keeps dashi on hand?” he grumbles, ordering ramen instead.

he slurps noodles with loud, obnoxious gusto, broth splashing his hoodie. he wipes it with a sleeve, chuckling, the silence humming—not empty, but waiting, like a held breath. he thinks of you—your scowl, that electric touch, the way you snapped like he’s a puzzle you didn’t ask for. he laughs, a soft puff, and grabs his phone, scrolling digimon clips until his eyes droop.

sleep isn’t kind.

a nightmare unravels—suguru’s laugh, sharp as glass, shoko’s voice twisting into static. blood on his hands, warm and slick. he bolts awake, gasping, sweat soaking his shirt, chest heaving like he’s outrun death. his glasses sit crooked on the nightstand, glinting in moonlight.

satoru remembers the hit. why he hired an assassin. the blood.

he feels sick for grinning today. he lies there, hollow, staring at shadows crawling the ceiling. night presses his chest, heavy as a tide.

how many days left?

why do i want more?

meanwhile, you pace your apartment, the bento box glaring from the counter like it’s got dirt on you. you moved in to protect him—some jerk put a hit on a guy who wears frog socks and burns toast, and you decided he’s worth saving. but now he’s next door, grinning like he’s untouchable, and it’s messing with you. you’re not soft. you’re not attached. you’re just… doing the job. yeah.

“stupid,” you hiss, shoving the box in a drawer like it’s a crime scene. your heart’s racing, and you hate it—hate his laugh in the hallway, hate how his glasses make him look… human. you grab a knife, chop vegetables with vicious precision, each slice a wall against your feelings. you’re not here to care. you’re here to keep him breathing.

sleep skips you. you’re too busy listening for his steps, wondering who wants him dead, and why you’re so hellbent on stopping them.

wednesday begins with a mess.

satoru tosses and turns all night, long limbs tangling with the sheets in a restless war against sleep. sweat beads on his temple, and half-formed mutters slip from his lips as nightmares bleed into half-waking haze. by the time he finally dozes off, the sky pales with dawn, the world outside exhaling into morning.

the alarm screeches, but it barely grazes him. only when sunlight slices through the blinds, cutting across his face like a blade, does he bolt upright with a panicked gasp. his eyes dart to the clock. late.

he lurches out of bed, white hair a chaotic halo, sticking out like he’s been zapped. his movements jerk, a frantic dance of urgency—papers flutter to the floor like dying leaves as he shoves them into his bag. mismatched socks—one black, one with a faded pikachu barely clinging to life—peek from beneath hastily tied sneakers. his shirt, one sleeve half-rolled, the other flapping loose, billows as he sprints through his apartment.

no time for breakfast. no time for teeth. no time for mirrors. he’s a hurricane of chaos, long legs eating up space in reckless strides.

but then he sees you.

you stand at the bus stop, the calm in his storm, arms folded so tightly your knuckles gleam white, fingers twitching like you’re strangling your own nerves.

your eyes flick up at his ragged footsteps, narrowing into a glare that’s half disdain, half something softer you don’t mean to let slip. your hair catches the breeze, a strand falling across your cheek, and you huff sharply, swatting it away with a scowl. your spine stiffens, but your eyebrow twitches, betraying a flicker of amusement you’d never admit.

he skids to a stop, sneakers squeaking on damp pavement. his chest heaves, heart pounding like a war drum. he tugs at his shirt, a futile attempt to look less like a walking disaster, and runs a hand through his hair, only making the static worse. his reading glasses, perched crookedly on his nose, glint in the gray light.

“morning, neighbor,” he mumbles, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. it wavers under your piercing stare, like he’s been caught stealing.

“didn’t think you’d be the type to sprint to a bus stop,” you mutter, voice dripping with mock indifference, hiding the fact you’ve seen him stumble through life for days. your gaze rakes him, unimpressed. “you look like you got dressed in a blender.”

he lets out a breathless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, glasses slipping further. “yeah, well, mornings and i aren’t on speaking terms.”

you scoff, arms tightening, turning away like he’s a problem you don’t have time for. “not my problem,” you say, but your fingers twitch again, betraying the lie.

the bus rolls up with a hiss, packed and humid, reeking of overbrewed coffee and cloying perfume. somehow, in the crush of commuters, you end up side by side, your shoulder brushing his with every lurch. satoru flinches each time, like your touch is a live wire, his glasses fogging slightly from his own unsteady breath.

“where you headed?” he asks, voice cracking, like the question sneaks out without permission.

“your school,” you say, flat and clipped, eyes fixed on the window.

he blinks, glasses catching the light. “wait, my school? why?”

you open your mouth, then—

a jaywalker darts across the road.

the driver curses. brakes scream. the bus lurches violently.

satoru pitches forward with a yelp, his head smacking the seat bar with a dull thunk. his glasses slide halfway off, dangling precariously, and his bag spills, papers scattering like confetti across the grimy floor.

“ow,” he groans, dazed, one hand clutching his forehead, the other fumbling for his glasses. his hair flops into his eyes, a silver mess, and he blinks up at the ceiling like it might apologize.

your head whips to the window, eyes narrowing to slits, pupils shrinking to pinpricks. the jaywalker’s already gone, swallowed by the city, but your glare tracks the empty street like you could hunt him down with sheer will.

your jaw clenches, lips pressing into a thin line, and the air around you crackles with a lethal edge, like you’ve already planned his demise in fifty different ways. a nearby commuter shifts away, clutching her purse.

satoru, still rubbing his head, catches your expression and freezes. “whoa,” he mutters, voice soft with awe. “did you just… glare that guy into next week?”

“i didn’t do anything,” you snap, voice sharp enough to cut glass. but then you grab his arm, yanking him back into his seat with a strength that makes his eyes widen, his breath hitching. your grip lingers a second too long, firm and unyielding, before you let go like he’s burned you.

he stares, mouth half-open, as you lean in, your hand reaching up—slow, deliberate—to sweep his bangs aside. your fingers hover over the forming bruise on his forehead, your brow furrowing just enough to betray your worry. your touch is light but practiced, like you’ve patched up worse wounds in darker times.

“sit still,” you mutter, voice rough, laced with irritation you don’t mean. your eyes flick over the bruise, then away, like looking too long might unravel something.

he obeys, too startled to move, his heart tripping over itself. the closeness hits him like a punch—your breath warm, your fingers cool, the faint scent of your shampoo cutting through the bus’s stale air. his hands hover uselessly, not sure where to land, and his glasses fog again, blurring you into a soft-edged dream. he swallows, throat bobbing, and thinks, she’s kinda cute when she’s mad. then panics, cheeks flushing, because what the hell, brain?

“you’re really bad at not dying,” you say, pulling back, your scowl deeper now, like his survival’s a personal offense.

he laughs, a nervous, flustered sound, pushing his glasses up with a shaky finger. “thanks for, uh… keeping my skull intact.”

“don’t make it a habit,” you shoot back, crossing your arms so tightly your knuckles whiten again, your lips pursing like you’re biting back something softer.

the bus groans to a stop, the moment shattering. satoru scrambles to gather his scattered papers, stuffing them into his bag with all the grace of a toddler. you step off first, not looking back, your posture rigid but your fingers twitching like you want to turn around.

“so… why my school?” he asks, jogging to catch up, his sneakers squeaking on the wet pavement. his hair flops with each step, and he adjusts his glasses, still crooked.

“not exactly visiting,” you say, voice cool, eyes fixed ahead. “i’m the new school nurse.”

he stops dead, nearly tripping over his own feet. “wait, what?” his voice cracks, eyes wide behind his lenses. “you were just my neighbor yesterday! now you’re—what, saving kids from paper cuts?”

“life happens,” you say, shrugging, but your tone’s sharp, like you’re daring him to question it.

he blinks, then a grin spreads across his face, slow and delighted, his dimple flashing. “so i’ll see you every day now?” his voice’s too eager, too bright, and he catches himself, flushing deeper, ears pink as he tries to backtrack. “i mean, that’s—uh—convenient. for the students. who need… band-aids and stuff.” he rubs his neck, glasses slipping again, his smile wobbling between flustered and thrilled.

you stare, unimpressed, your scowl deepening as you mutter, “i didn’t move here for you, idiot.” your voice’s sharp, but your cheeks flush faintly, and you turn away, steps quickening like you could outrun your own lie.

satoru trails after you to the principal’s office, heart thudding, his bag swinging wildly. he keeps stealing glances, catching the way your hair sways, the way your fingers twitch like you’re fighting the urge to look back. he’s rattled, grinning like a fool, and he doesn’t even care.

by lunch, he shows up at the nurse’s office, balancing two sandwiches in one hand, a nervous smile tugging at his lips. he leans against the doorframe, trying for casual but missing by a mile—his hair’s still a mess, his shirt untucked, and his glasses are smudged, one lens catching the light.

“brought you something,” he says, holding out a sandwich, his voice softer, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to be here. “they’re not expired. i checked. twice.”

you sigh, long and suffering, but take one, your fingers brushing his just enough to make him flinch again. “you’re gonna be a pain, aren’t you?” you mutter, scowling, but your eyes soften for a split second as you unwrap the sandwich, inspecting it like it’s a trap.

he plops into a chair, unwrapping his own sandwich with exaggerated care, like he’s defusing a bomb. “just being neighborly,” he says, grinning, then launches into a story about a student who tried to “solve” a math problem with a drawing of a dragon. his hands wave, glasses slipping, and his voice sparkles, filling the tiny office with warmth. you eat in silence, glancing at him more than you mean to, your scowl softening despite yourself.

mid-story, you reach out, almost without thinking, brushing a stray strand of his hair back. your fingers linger near his temple, tracing the bruise’s faint purple edge. your touch is light, deliberate, but your expression’s pure irritation, like his injury’s a personal insult.

satoru freezes, sandwich halfway to his mouth, eyes wide behind his smudged glasses. his breath hitches, and his heart does a clumsy flip, like it hasn’t gotten the memo to stay calm. the room feels smaller, the air thicker, and he swears he feels your pulse through your fingertips.

a beat. two.

the bell rings.

he jolts, nearly launching his sandwich, crumbs flying like tiny comets. “shit—i gotta—uh—class!” he stammers, scrambling to his feet, his bag catching on the chair and nearly toppling it.

he stumbles out, still clutching his sandwich, and walks straight into the doorframe with a loud thunk. “i’m fine!” he calls over his shoulder, voice cracking, before disappearing down the hall, his ears burning red.

the afternoon passes in a haze. he keeps touching the spot where your fingers lingered, a goofy grin creeping onto his face every time. his students notice, whispering among themselves.

“sensei, do you have a girlfriend?” a girl asks, grinning like she’s cracked a code.

satoru chokes on air, flailing for his chalk. “no! definitely not! absolutely not!” he sputters, glasses fogging as his face turns crimson. the class erupts into laughter, and he tries to laugh it off, but his hand strays to his temple again, brushing the bruise like it’s a talisman.

nanami passes by, pausing to give him a slow, pointed look. “just be careful, gojo,” he says, voice dry. “you’ve been… fragile lately.”

the word sticks, echoing in his head. fragile. he forces a laugh, tossing his hair back. “me? indestructible,” he says, but the grin doesn’t reach his eyes, and his chest feels tight, like he’s swallowed a stone.

when the final bell rings, he lingers, pretending to organize papers that are already a mess. the school empties, halls echoing with fading footsteps, and he drifts back to the nurse’s office, heart ticking like a countdown.

“taking the same bus home?” he asks, leaning in the doorway, trying for nonchalance but betrayed by the way his glasses slip again.

you nod, grabbing your bag, your scowl firmly in place. “don’t make it weird,” you mutter, brushing past him, your shoulder grazing his just enough to make his breath catch.

the walk to the bus stop is quiet, easy, the air heavy with the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and roasted chestnuts from a nearby stall. satoru’s sneakers squeak, his hair flops with each step, and he hums the digimon theme under his breath, off-key but unapologetic. on the bus, he leans closer, his shoulder brushing yours deliberately this time, a shy grin tugging at his lips.

“you mentioned knives earlier,” he says, voice light, like he’s testing the waters. “weird hobby for a nurse.”

“i like craftsmanship,” you say, eyes unreadable, voice sharp but steady, your fingers twitching like you want to grab something—maybe him, maybe your own nerves.

he chuckles, low and warm, his glasses fogging again. “you’re full of surprises,” he says, and the delight in his voice is unmistakable, like he’s found a puzzle he can’t wait to solve.

at the apartment building, we pause at our doors, the hallway dim and quiet. satoru’s bag swings at his side, his hair catching the faint light from a flickering bulb.

“thanks for, y’know, making sure my brain didn’t leak out my ears this morning,” he says, tilting his head, his smile soft but teasing, dimple flashing.

“be more careful,” you snap, but your hand twitches toward him, like you want to check his bruise again. you catch yourself, shoving your hands into your pockets, your scowl deepening as you turn away. “i’m not your babysitter.”

he laughs, bright and unfiltered, the sound bouncing in the empty hall. “where’s the fun in that?” he calls after you, slipping inside his apartment. the door clicks shut, and he leans against it, staring at the ceiling, his heart racing like a kid who’s just dodged a bullet.

the kitchen gleams from last night’s cleaning, a rare island of order in his chaotic world. the bento box is gone, but its warmth clings to his chest, a stubborn spark. he stands there, stomach growling, and eyes the counter like it’s a battlefield. instant ramen’s on the menu again—his sad, familiar crutch, the fuel of a guy who’d scarf gas station sushi and call it a meal. but something shifts tonight, a tiny crack in his routine.

he grabs a packet from the cupboard, plastic crinkling under his fingers, and sets water to boil. the pot hisses, steam curling up, fogging his glasses as he hovers over it like a nervous chef.

your face flashes in his mind—your scowl, your careful touch, the bento’s carved carrots and tamagoyaki that tasted like care. his hand pauses, hovering over the ramen, and he glances at the fridge. there’s a single egg, tucked in the back, a forgotten relic from some optimistic grocery trip.

he snatches it, cracking it against the counter with a dramatic flourish, like he’s auditioning for a cooking show. the shell splits clean, and he drops the yolk into the broth, watching it bloom like a tiny sunrise, white threads swirling in the heat.

“look at me, adulting,” he mutters, grinning, his voice light but tinged with something heavier. the egg’s not much—not your bento, not a meal you’d nod at—but it’s something. a nod to the warmth you shoved into his hands, the care you hid behind a scowl.

he stirs the pot, the egg weaving into the noodles, and the steam carries a richer scent—not just salt and starch, but something almost nourishing. his mind drifts to his usual diet: expired soda, burned toast, candy bars wolfed down in faculty meetings. a pang hits, sharp and unfamiliar, like he’s waking up to how he’s been daring death to catch him. this egg, small as it is, feels like a middle finger to that. a choice to stick around.

he eats on the couch, legs folded, digimon flickering across the screen. the ramen’s hot, the egg silky, and he slurps with obnoxious gusto, broth splashing onto his hoodie.

he wipes it with a sleeve, grinning like a kid who’s gotten away with something. his thoughts keep slipping—to your lethal glare, your electric touch, the way you muttered “sit still” like he’s a puzzle you don’t want but can’t ditch.

“i’m in so much trouble,” satoru says to the empty room, voice warm with delight, glasses slipping as he tips his head back. the bruise on his forehead pulses faintly, a reminder of your fingers, and he touches it, smiling like it’s a secret he’s thrilled to keep.

sleep wraps him gently tonight, a soft haze. dreams flicker—your face, sharp and soft, your scowl melting into something he can’t name. when he wakes, the bruise doesn’t ache as much, and the egg’s warmth lingers in his chest, a quiet promise of tomorrow’s chaos.

tag list : @raendarkfaerie @inoluvrr @miizuzu @lolightrealm @whytfisgojosohot

plz comment if u want to be added on the tl xx

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fulcrum-art-fox · 8 months ago

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I know that’s how this kind of monarchy works but the Noxian soldiers watching daughter kill mother and going “cool you’re the boss now” was lowkey both terribly tragic and kinda funny like. you’re saluting her. poor Mel is holding her mothers corpse and you’re saluting her. she’s had to embrace becoming the wolf to defeat the wolf and you’re saluting her. she’s having the worst day of her life and you’re saluting her

#arcane #arcane s2 #arcane spoilers #mel medarda #s2 Mel #arcane season 2 spoilers

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obscuretobyfox · 7 days ago

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It's pretty widely known that in order to defeat Chapter 3's secret boss, you need to get S Rank on both boards, or pay 1500 Points to get into the room...

However, did you know you can still get in the room with the worst rank possible (Z rank)?

After getting Z Rank on either board, talk to this Zapper. He will give you access to a secret room on the right.

There's even a bit of implied Spamton Lore™ here if you inspect the posters and phone!

Go down the manhole and voila, you've made it to the room with the secret boss!

This is a neat way of letting players who aren't as skilled at the game get to the secret boss without having to get an S Rank.

(source)

#💗#toby fox #deltarune #toby fox facts #deltarune chapter 3 #z rank #s rank #secret boss #obscuretobyfox

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jennaflare · 1 year ago

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So Disco Elysium is the only game you've ever really liked

I get it! It's a phenomenal game with superb art and writing, and its themes are consistent and deeply explored. It sets a high bar for video games. But there are other really, really fantastic games out there. This is a list that is 100% my own taste of things that aren't necessarily similar, other than the fact that they're really fucking good. (A lot of these are on sale for the Steam Summer Sale until July 11 2024!)

In Stars and Time

In Stars and Time is a time loop game where you play as Siffrin, the rogue of a party at the end of their quest to save the day by defeating the King, who is freezing everybody in time! But something is wrong: every time you die, you loop back to the day before you fight the King. You're the only one who remembers the loops, so it's up to you to figure out why it's happening, and how to break out.

In Stars and Time is a heart-wrenching dive into mental health, friendship, and love. It's about feeling alone, and how awful it is when the people who love you don't notice (and how awful it is when they do). It's about falling deeper and deeper into your worst self and your worst tendencies, and how to come back from it.

The creator also did one of my favorite Disco Elysium comics ever, which is only tangentially relevant but worth mentioning.

Roadwarden

In Roadwarden, you play as the titular Roadwarden for an undeveloped and "wild" part of the kingdom. Monsters roam the forests and roads, and it's your job to keep people safe. On paper, anyway. Your real mission is to find out what is of value in the area, and how to take it from its people. How well you perform this task is up to you. It's an oldschool text-based RPG, and I take a lot of notes by hand when I play.

Roadwarden explores exploitation and industrialization by making you look in the face of your potential victims. You can only learn what your bosses want you to report on by getting close to the residents, after all. There are mysteries to be solved, secrets to be gathered, and hearts to win.

The Longing

The Longing is an adventure-idle game where you play as the solitary servant of a sleeping king. Your task is to wait for him, for four hundred days. Time in the game passes in realtime (for the most part). There are caves to explore, books to be read, and drawings to make.

The Longing is about loneliness and depression. It's about whether or not you decide to stay in that hole, and if you do, what you do with yourself while you're there. Maybe you'll wander. Maybe you'll stare at a wall. Maybe you'll just sleep until it's all over.

Papers, Please

Papers, Please casts you as a newly hired customs officer in a country that is rapidly tightening its borders as its fascist government tightens its fist. This game is stressful. Sometimes you intend to help out the revolutionaries when they asked, but then you got so stressed out trying to make your quota so you can feed your family and pay your bills that you didn't notice the name of the person they were hoping to contact while going through their papers. Sometimes someone puts a bomb in front of you and expects you to defuse it. Sometimes someone suggests you steal people's passports so you can get your family out, and with the horror you see daily, the idea tempts you more than you'd like.

Papers, Please is all about hard choices and testing your moral fortitude. Everything you do has consequences. Being a good person in this game is hardly ever rewarded, but not in a way that feels overly cynical. Papers, Please asks you what kind of person you want to be and what you're willing to sacrifice to get there.

The Return of the Obra Dinn

From the creator of Papers, Please, The Return of the Obra Dinn is a game where you play as an insurance investigator for the East India Trading Company. The ship the Obra Dinn has just floated back into port, its entire crew missing or dead. It's your job to figure out what happened aboard the vessel. For insurance reasons.

I don't know how to go into the themes of this too deeply without giving away too much, but the mechanics of the game itself make the game worth playing. You have a magic stopwatch that allows you to go back to the moment of a person's death, allowing you to try and figure out who (or what) killed them, and how. And the soundtrack is extremely good.

Outer Wilds

In Outer Wilds you play as an unnamed alien, and it's your first day going to space! Your planet's space program is pretty new still, so there's still lots to explore and discover on the planets within your system. There are ancient ruins from a mysterious race that once lived in your system, long before your species began to record history. Why were they here? Where did they go? How are they connected to the weird thing that keeps happening to you?

The fun of Outer Wilds is in the discovery and answering your own questions. The game never tells you where to go, and it never outright tells you anything. There are clues scattered through the system, and it's up to you to put them together and figure out your next steps. It's about the way that life always goes on, no matter what, even when it seems like the end of everything, forever. I'd recommend NOT reading anything else about this game. Just go play it. Seriously, the less you know, the more fun this is.

If on a Winter's Night, Four Travelers

In If on a Winter's Night, Four Travelers, you explore the circumstances of the deaths of four individuals.

This is a short one that took me about two and a half hours to play. If for no other reason, play it for the stunning pixel art. The game explores sexism, racism, and homophobia in the Victorian era and leans heavily into horror themes. Best of all: it's completely free!

Pentiment

Pentiment takes you to the 16th century, where you take the role of Andreas Maler, a journeyman artist working on his masterwork in the scriptorium of an abbey. When someone is murdered, Andreas takes responsibility for finding the culprit.

The game is set over 20~ years and you get to watch how Andreas' actions affect the village in various ways (who's alive the next time you come by, have people gotten married and had children...). It's an exploration of how the past affects the future, and what parts of that past we choose to keep or discard. It has beautiful art, and fans of both Disco and Pentiment often compare them.

Other games you might wanna check out

Night in the Woods, Dredge, Oxenfree, A House of Many Doors, Inscryption, Slay the Princess, Citizen Sleeper, Chants of Sennar, Loop Hero, The Cosmic Wheel Sisterhood, The Pale Beyond, Where the Water Tastes Like Wine, Elsinore, Her Story, Before Your Eyes, Pathologic (not delved into above because the venn diagram of Pathologic fans and Disco fans is basically a circle)

#disco elysium #pentiment #outer wilds #in stars and time #roadwarden #if on a winters night four travelers #papers please #the return of the obra dinn #the longing #video games #hoping so badly there are no glaring errors in this #made this because i have spoken to many people who Dont Play video games but liked disco

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queers-gambit · 2 years ago

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God's Plan

prompt: your boyfriend carries the worst parts of his job home, bringing to life one of your deepest-seeded insecurities. or when Carmy calls you clingy.

pairing: Carmen 'Carmy' Berzatto x female!reader -> pairing: Carmy x Peach

fandom masterlist: FX's The Bear

collection masterlist: Clingy Baby

word count: 3.3k+

note: she's short. she's to the point. author doesn't want to hear a GODDAMN THING about "glorifying" toxic relationships. shut the fuck up, eat your cereal, read the fic or just scroll away.

warnings: cursing, small angst, short fic, author mildly gave up, hurt with no real comfort, allusion to toxic family relationship, insecurity, not edited.

part two: Two to Tango

"Hey, what're you still doin' here?"

You glanced up from your computer, smiling at your coworker, "Just trying to get the study notes finished so they can be used for the analysis."

"Okay...? But you realize what time it is, right?"

You hummed, glancing at the analog clock, "Just about 7?"

"Yeah, so, go home," she chuckled. "Work's still gonna be here tomorrow."

"I'll see you then," you dismissed softly, watching her smile and turn away from your desk. You tried to get back into work, but the truth was, you felt overly burned out, but still wanted to work because it'd make you feel better being "good" at your job.

So, in reality, you didn't get home until 10:56 pm, yet still beat Carmy. You ate something simple, cleaned up, got a shower, and crashed into bed. You didn't know the time, but Carmy eventually came home; his arm heavy around you when settling for sleep.

You were the first up and out the door the next morning, just barely seeing Carmy when he got up for coffee. You managed a single kiss before rushing away, needing to get to work on time. When you got there, your entire morning was blocked for client meetings, then you took lunch, later, team meetings, and then the last hour or so of work was meant for individual recreation.

Another day of staying late, trying to finish work you thought was important. Another day of getting home late, missing your man, going to bed, and only seeing him the following morning.

However, this time at work, your boss told you that the analysis meetings were pushed back by a week... So, technically, you stayed late and busted your ass for no literal reason! And your coworker's entire cup of coffee spilled on you. And your Outlook email was under maintenance, so, you couldn't really work. And then, to top off a really shitty week, your car was hit in the parking lot and now had a huge fucking dent.

You were beat.

You were overwhelmed.

You were miserable, stressed, righteously confused.

You didn't stay late that night. Instead, you left at a normal hour and texted Carmy:

what time do you think you'll be off?

He replied when you got to your car:

maybe around 8?

You sniffled, nodding, answering:

okay, see you when you get home.

As you exited the parking lot, he replied:

what? you're off?

And you answered:

yeah, couldn't stand being there much longer. think you could get off a little early?

When you made three turns, he sent back:

i'll try, peach 💙

When you got home, you felt utterly defeated. Life felt like a never ending shitshow that refused to alleviate most of the stress you forced to endure. You were in tears by the time you got in the door, angrily stripping and getting a long, hot shower. You cried a little longer. When you got out, you got dressed in cozy shorts and one of Carmy's sweatshirts; going about a few household chores when you realized it was already past 9.

You didn't really want to, but you texted Carmy again,

hey, are you gonna be much later?

You made a simple meal, eating it in silence. When you were doing dishes, Carmy answered,

i don't know, going over menu items with syd. text you on my way home

You just went to bed, exhaustion from the week catching up to you.

Sometime later, you felt Carmy crawl into bed beside you. You were only half awake, but still turned over and nestled into his chest, hearing him sigh. "You're home late," you mumbled.

"Sorry f'wakin' you, Peach," he whispered, pecking your forehead. "You good, baby?"

"S'been a long fuckin' week," you squeezed him.

He sighed, "Sorry it was rough, Peach, but hey, hey, back up a little, 's kinda warm."

"But I haven't seen you."

"I know, but it's just warm. We'll cuddle in the morning, okay?" You only sighed and turned back over to face away from him. You resettled with your pillow, just settling when he asked in a hardened tone, "You mad?"

"No, Carmen, go to sleep."

"You sound mad."

"I'm not."

"I don't mean to piss you off, it's just been a long night f'me and I don't want to cuddle right now," he said in a sharp tone that made your stomach coil and churn.

"Shut up, I'm not mad, Carmen, go to sleep."

He scoffed, your irritation spiking. "You're really fucking mad 'cause I don't want you laying on me right now?"

"No, Carmen, Jesus - "

"Callin' me fuckin' Carmen doesn't help," he snapped.

You sat up and turned to him, "You want me to be mad? Maybe I'm a little pissed off that I've barely seen my boyfriend this week! Not like you've made an effort to speak to me, but I've had a pretty shitty time at work, too - so, excuse the fuck outta me for feeling disappointed!"

"Disappointed in fucking what, Peach? In not wanting t'cuddle right now?"

"Maybe, yeah! I'm upset, stressed out, maybe I just wanted some comfort, God! Now you're all up in arms, I just wanted to go to sleep - but no, you want to pick at me!"

"Oh, Jesus, fucking Christ! You couldn't just talk to me about you having a shitty week, you gotta be laid up on me? When the fuck did you get so Goddamn clingy and desperate for fucking attention? Huh? So fucking desperate for love? Sorry you had a shitty week, darling, but you're not alone in that. Sorry if it's fucking hot and I just want to sleep."

Feeling yourself fighting a losing battle because he wasn't listening, you just sighed, "Okay, Carmen."

He scoffed again, turning over to face away from you, "Know what? Fuck you, sweetheart."

You stared at his back for a long minute, feeling shocked by his words. "You can be such a fucking dick, you know that?" You snapped, standing from bed.

"And you can be a dramatic bitch."

"Yeah, that's me, the bitch you chose, huh!?" You rolled your eyes and nodded sarcastically; taking the blanket from the end of the bed, figuring he wouldn't miss it since he was so fucking hot. With only your phone and charger, you went out to the living room and crashed on the couch; covering up and crying quietly into a pillow from the overwhelming stress built in your chest. You felt guilt plunging your stomach, tearing it apart; feeling as if it were your fault for having physical touch as a love language.

Sleep evaded you that night. About an hour before your alarm, you called in sick and shut your phone off, resettling in misery as Carmy left the bedroom for work. You didn't move, never opened your eyes. However, they popped open in surprise when Carmen shoved your shoulder, "Hey."

"What?" You muttered.

"You're late for work."

"Called in."

He snorted, "Yeah, must be nice."

You didn't say anything else, feeling utterly defeated by his sharp words. The lack of response made Carmy pause and glance over at you from the kitchen, honest surprise coloring his system because he usually knew you to bite back. But you were quiet and still, the only indication you were even alive being the slow drag of your shoulders.

He let the door slam after he left for work, and you instantly sobbed. What you didn't know was that Carmy had come back, forgetting something mundane, and came to a halt outside the door when he heard you crying. He felt guilty, but Carmy wasn't usually one to confront problems; he instead ran away, like always.

After a night of exhaustion, you finally cry yourself to sleep.

When Carmy got home that night after work, he found you still huddled on the couch. After a look around, he realized you hadn't moved all day; nothing to eat, nothing to drink... He wanted to wake you but still felt so fucking irritated from his job that the idea of reconciling with you felt far fetched. So, he did what he did best and isolated himself by going to the gym for a few hours.

You still hadn't woken up when he got back.

So, he just went to bed; hating sleeping alone but hating his pride more because it refused to let him get up and go get you. Carry you to bed. Smother you in apologies. Beg for forgiveness. He was cold that night.

You were awake around 4 am.

The entire apartment felt as cold and aloof as your boyfriend. You felt so silly for still being there, knowing you paid for an apartment of your own, but liking that Carmy's place was closer to your work. And he never asked you to leave, in fact, the times you went home, he was calling you within hours to beg you to come back because he hated sleeping alone.

Whatever happened to that lad? The one who was so in-love with you that he would desperately ask you to come "home" to him? Who was this man now? Who called you clingy, desperate... A bitch.

You could only stand to make coffee, feeling powerless in this tension. You didn't want him to ignore you any longer, feeling like you'd drop to your knees for his forgiveness if it would end this feud; but you weren't so naïve. You spent several long minutes mentally prepping yourself for more anxiety, telling yourself you could handle the day if you just powered through it. Everything should be fine so long as you didn't do anything else to upset him, as long as you didn't do anything to warrant him yelling at you - again.

You finally decided on an emotion, since you could feel so many at any given point in time, and since this situation was one you've never encountered before. Carmy had brought forth one of your biggest insecurities and then smashed it in your face like punk-ass siblings did to your birthday cake. You decided you were hurt by his words, tone, and actions; you were hurt by the man you loved unconditionally, and that was a terrifying thought on its own. He was once a man you thought couldn't do any wrong, to now being a man you were unsure of how to even speak to; fearful, as you once were as a child, to upset him and create hostility directed at you.

Carmy often forgot he didn't have a monopoly on toxic, complicated family dynamics, but being that Mikey was still so fresh for him, you kept quiet about your own issues in an effort to be a loving, supportive girlfriend. Yet even while trying not to upset anyone, to create tension, you somehow managed to. You felt your heart and soul shrivel into a withered raisin when you remembered your family and how they constantly put you down; saying that nobody wanted a girl like you who tried, tried, and tried again only to fail. They thought you were damaged goods, treated you as such and always smeared your name in the mud whenever you thought you had found someone to love you and be loved by you.

All that trauma was rearing its ugly head now, making doubt sink into the cracks of your relationship. No matter how hard he tried, Carmy couldn't ever take those words back once they've been said, and he had to understand that going forward, this would strain your relationship. Taking anger and frustration out on you was inappropriate, putting a bad taste in your mouth; making you wonder how the hell you'd ever move past this when his words circled your head like water draining from the sink.

Sometime around 9 am, you were curled up on the couch with your coffee and a book; Saturday dragging by slowly to allow you the reprieve of being off work. The bedroom door opened and you held your breath; sweat breaking out on your brow; heart stammering in your chest. When he came out, Carmy didn't look at you, which allowed you to watch him. He made a to-go cup of coffee, then shouldered his backpack before heading for the door.

"Carmy?" You asked softly in confusion, "I thought you were off today?"

"I am," he replied stiffly, "but I gotta run errands."

You didn't have time to respond before he was storming out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him. You blinked in shock, confusion plunging your heart to your feet as you realized he didn't ask you to join him, in fact, he didn't appear to want to tell you his plans until you had to ask directly when he was walking out the door. You felt terrible, more tears swelling in your eyes at the discord your boyfriend prolonged.

Something in your heart snapped and you stood from your seat. With anger coursing through your veins, you turned into a miniature tornado and quickly started gathering whatever you could get your hands on that belonged to you. You had enough, you felt hurt, yes, we established this, but then the disrespect started to overflow out of your heart to color your blood. Never linger where you're not wanted, you should never tear yourself down to that level. Never should have to second guess yourself, either - especially in a space where you're supposed to be safe.

You started to wonder: is it clingy if you made dinner and saved him a plate? Is it clingy if you did his laundry? What about cuddling? Is that clingy? Well, apparently! What else are you wrong about? If you texted him? Asked his opinion? What about if you held his hand - is that clingy, too? Probably!

Physical touch and quality time were your love languages, but after this reaction, you wondered if everything you'd do from now on would be judged? Would you be crucified for showing your love? For trying to participate in your relationship?

All day, you moved your stuff back to your apartment. All shoes, clothes, purses, make-up, haircare and skincare products - any and all period products, too. You left fucking nothing; going as far as to lay face-down the photo of your two on his bedside stand. You'd of taken it, too, but you felt sick at the thought so you left it for him. Sunday night, you didn't return to his apartment, and Carmy didn't call to say goodnight; both figuring the other was still pissed off. Your Monday was long and annoying, but once it was over, you had to admit, it was strange returning to an empty apartment, heat up leftovers, eat while watching some Netflix show, and then crashing into bed - moving mechanically.

Days passed uneventfully, albeit, a bit sluggishly. And then, Thursday arrived, and with it, the shit that would hit the fan.

You were enraptured in this book by Anne Tyler called "Dinner At The Homesick Restaurant," and couldn't stop reading it. You nursed a mug of tea, the outside darkening with an approaching thunderstorm that would talk to you in the silence and send bolts of lightning to illuminate the city. A shrill ringtone then played, making you jump slightly and glance at your phone only to see Carmy's contact name and photo.

You stare at your phone for a long moment, and then, after convincing yourself that ignoring him would only add fuel to the fire, answered quietly, "Hello?"

"Peach? Hey, uh... Are you, um, still at work?"

"No?"

"Where are you, then?"

"I'm home."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am."

"I'm standing right here and you're not, baby, unless you got superpowers or something?" He chuckled nervously, hearing nothing on your end. "In fact, I, uh... I don't see any of your things. You move 'em?"

He'd never admit it, but your personal touch in his living space transformed it into a home; and now that they were all gone, he hated how cold, dreary, and grey the apartment felt.

"Carmy, I mean my home. You know? The apartment I still pay for?"

"Oh, well... Why're you there?"

"Why wouldn't I be? I had to bring my stuff back and leave it somewhere safe."

"It was safe here, Peach," he argued.

"Yeah, but it's your space and last thing I need is to be yelled at and insulted again for being clingy 'cause I left clothes at your apartment."

"Fuc'k's sake," You heard him hiss under his breath, bringing tears to your eyes. "You know I don't mind, I want you to leave shit here so it's easier on you to commute. Look, you know it's Thursday, right? Does our standing date night ring any bells?"

"Okay, but we haven't honored that in weeks? You know, 'cause you've been really busy."

"I thought we could get back into it tonight."

You sighed, turning the page in your book, "No, I don't think so, but thanks anyway."

He took a long pause, asking nervously, "What's wrong, Peach?"

"Nothing. Is there anything else, Carmen? I'm in the middle of shit."

"Oh, uh, n-no, I guess that's it. You comin' over tomorrow?"

"No. I told my brother I'd help him this weekend."

"But tomorrow's... Friday?"

"Yeah, that's how a calendar works. I have to travel to get to him," you scoffed.

"You didn't think to tell me?"

"Why would I?"

"You tell me everything! You don't think that's something I should know? That my girl's not even gonna be here this weekend?"

"Well, you're the one who said I was fucking clingy, remember!?" You finally snapped. "So, I'm giving you all that space you wanted!"

"Baby - "

"No, it's a great idea. We need space, Carmen; this isn't fair to either of us anymore," you spoke seriously, the line going quiet.

"What?"

"We need space from this relationship."

"I don't. I don't need space, Peach, baby, no, just listen, okay? I'm so sorry, I came home stressed out and I took it out on you. I'm sorry, I really am, this isn't what I want. Okay? I'm sorry. Just - come back home and we can - "

"No, you know what? I think I'm the one who needs this space," you snapped. "You said some pretty fucked up things, Carmen, that you can't ever take back, and now that I know, I can't un-know what you think about me. So, I need time to sort myself out."

"What're you saying? A-Are you breaking up with me?"

"Not yet, no."

"Baby, don't do this. C'mon, okay? I'm sorry, baby, I-I-I was wrong for what I said, I didn't - I didn't mean it! None of it, okay? Know I love you, baby, please, just come home, okay? I'm so sorry, I love that you wanna be close to me, I shouldn't've pushed you away. I'm sorry, okay? Please, baby, I'm so sorry. I need you, Peach, please. Just come home, we'll talk it through, I promise, no yelling - "

"I think you already said it all. Your words were 'clingy' and 'desperate'. Oh, and you also called me a 'bitch', so, I'd hate to be the bitch that makes your already stressful life all the harder."

"I didn't mean that - "

"I gotta go, Carmen, we'll talk later, okay? Goodnight."

He froze when he listened to those three distinct beeps that indicated you hung up on him. Confusion and hurt now seeped into the cracks of Carmy's heart; wondering when the hell he'd become so Goddamn self destructive to ruin the best thing he's ever had - you. The apartment might as well turned into ice with the way the light left, your departure suddenly haunting him.

When will these boys learn? The love of a good woman is rare, they'd only ever be so lucky as to think they deserve a woman like you. Nobody ever gets to guilt you for your love language(s) and then grovel for forgiveness. You deserve better, you deserve more; whether you could see that right now or not, you deserved to be loved in the best way for you. And sometimes, that means walking away from something you once thought was exactly what you wanted, but perhaps, never what you needed - call that God's Plan.

[ part two: ] Two to Tango

requesting rules and masterlist

The Bear masterlist

Clingy Baby collection masterlist

#carmy berzatto #carmy the bear #carmy x reader #carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x you #carmy berzatto imagine #carmy berzatto angst #the bear #the bear fx #fx the bear #the bear hulu #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x you #carmen berzatto fic #carmen berzatto fanfiction

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frenchkisstheabyss · 4 months ago

Text

|☾| 𝕔𝕒𝕝𝕚𝕔𝕠 |☽|

♡ Pairing: boyfriend!seungcheol x chubby!fem!reader

♡ Genre: fluff/smut/angst

♡ Summary: When your creepy coworker finally crosses the line your boyfriend swoops in to save the day, offering you safety and comfort in more ways than one.

♡ Word Count: 2.6kish

♡ Warnings: creepy coworker, someone pinches reader's ass, subsequently gets their ass kicked, angry cheol, lots of kissing, fingering, unprotected sex, rough sex, car sex, creampie, pet names (baby).

♡ A/N: This is a lil comfort fit requested to me by an anon. I hope that I did your request justice my darling 💜

“Cheol!” you scream, high heels scraping the concrete as you shuffle across the parking lot in pursuit of your boyfriend. “Choi Seungcheol, I know you hear me!”

When you called your boyfriend it’d been for comfort. You needed a shoulder to cry on, someone to console you, but you didn’t know he’d react like this. Part of you didn’t know that he could. Seungcheol’s your sweetheart, your teddy bear. He’s the loving gaze that you wake up to each morning and the gentle arms you fall asleep in at night. Your man would never hurt a fly. At least you thought so. The way he is now—jaw clenched, irises burning with rage—you aren’t as sure about that anymore.

“Vernon, get her in the car!” he shouts back to his best friend and an arm clasps around your wrist, dragging you back towards the car.

You turn to Vernon, pleading with him to do something. Anything. But it goes in one ear and out the other. You look back to Seungcheol in time to catch the moment he disappears through the doors of your job, out of your sight and completely out of your control. Defeated, you slip into the passenger’s seat without a fight, pouting as the door slams closed. You glance up at the rearview mirror and into the backseat where another of Seungcheol’s best friends sits with guilt all over his face.

“Sorry” Wonwoo mouths, apologizing for his lack of effort to stop Seungcheol in the first place. Not that he can blame him for the way he’s acting. Wonwoo would react the same way if his girlfriend called him crying because some asshole at work decided it was a good idea to touch her. He’d break his fingers. Every single one.

Your night had started out so well. The bar wasn’t as packed as it usually is. Mostly regulars and a few harmless college kids whose fake IDs were enough to get them in. Tips were steady, your favorite bartender was working, and your boss even agreed to cut you early to make it to your friend Hoshi’s birthday party. But if working at the bar has taught you anything it’s that things can change at the drop of a hat and it did the second your worst enemy clocked in.

To him you’re far from enemies, somewhere in his delusional brain you share a mutual crush, but in the real world a sense of nauseating dread overcomes you in his presence. You’ve told Seungcheol about him before. How he makes it a point to be in close quarters with you. Always making excuses to squeeze in beside you when you’re getting ice or putting in orders. How he insists on calling you pet names like “cutie” or “sexy” even though you’ve told him a million times how uncomfortable it makes you. Each time Seungcheol has offered to come handle the situation and each time you’ve insisted that you had it under control but tonight was a different story.

You’d been taking drink orders for a table, your full attention dedicated to making sure your indecisive patrons were double sure they knew what they wanted. All night he’d been making comments about how pretty you look dressed up for the party. “I bet your boyfriend can’t keep his hands off you” he quipped.

Apparently neither could he because as soon as you weren’t paying attention he thought it was the perfect time to pinch your ass. It happened so quickly. If not for the smile on his face when you turned around you might’ve thought it was a mistake but no. It was very intentional.

All you wanted to do was turn around and stab him with that pen in your hand but instead you ran to the bathroom, calling the first person you could think of. Your boyfriend. Seungcheol took his time listening to you, promising you everything would be okay and that this would never happen again. Fifteen minutes later he was texting you from the parking lot telling you to come out. If your shift wasn’t already over it was now.

“It’ll be fine” Vernon reassures you, now seated beside Wonwoo, “He’s got this.”

Staring out the window at the eerie stillness of the night, you wonder what exactly it is that he’s got. Your anxiety grows with the passing minutes. What’s he doing in there? Why isn’t he back yet? You get your answer when the door to the bar swings open and a body comes flying out, colliding with the ground like a slab of meat. Seungcheol steps out behind him, advancing on the man quicker than he can get up. It isn’t until he grips the back of the man’s head, dragging him towards the car, that you recognize it as your coworker. Seungcheol looks fine, same as when he walked in, but your coworker looks wrecked, his shirt torn and his nose bloodied.

You watch in horror as Seungcheol brings him right up to the window, dangling him before you like a broken doll. Vernon and Wonwoo avert their eyes elsewhere, pretending not to see a thing.

“Tell her you’re sorry” Seungcheol commands, tightening his hold and searing the man’s scalp in the process.

Your coworker sniffs back involuntary tears, blood trickling down his lips. “I’m…I’m sorry, okay?”

“And you’ll never touch her again?”

“And…and I’ll n-never….”

“Touch her…”

“Touch her again. Okay? Alright?”

Seungcheol looks at you, his anger softening, “Okay?”

You nod frantically, your heart racing, “Yes, okay.”

Seungcheol leans into the man's ear, dealing a final blow to his stomach. “If I hear you even looked at her wrong I’m gonna come back and break your fucking legs.” Turning him loose, Seungcheol watches as the man scurries back into the bar before climbing into the driver’s seat.

“Everyone good?” he asks, starting the car and flipping on some music.

Vernon throws him some wicked side eye. Everyone’s good except that guy. “Yeah, man. We’re good.”

Wonwoo nods in agreement, pulling out his phone to be involved in anything but this. “A thousand percent.”

Seungcheol takes your hand, petting the back of it with his thumb. He brings it to his lips, pressing soft kisses to your knuckles. You want to say something but you can’t. You can only stare in awe at the man before you. Whatever monster anger had turned him into has fallen back asleep, leaving only the boyfriend you know behind, but you can’t shake what just happened. Accepting your silence, Seungcheol starts the car, keeping your hand in his as you head towards your destination.

Your phone buzzes in your lap. A string of text messages from the bartender coming through.

✨💖 Dawn ✨💖 What the fuck was that? ✨💖 Dawn ✨💖 Did your boyfriend just kick his ass? ✨💖 Dawn ✨💖 Kinda hot. Ngl.

Seungcheol sneaks a look at your phone but you catch him, flipping it over to conceal the conversation. What the fuck was that? You don’t even know. Did your boyfriend just kick his ass? Without a doubt. Kinda hot. Not gonna lie. You’re ashamed at how much that strikes a chord. You’re not one of those girls who encourages violence. In fact, you never want to see Seungcheol like that again.

But was it hot? Was that level of protectiveness attractive? Did his angry face make you swoon? Did his arm muscles look especially delicious dragging a man across a parking lot? You squeeze your thighs together to quiet the feeling awakening between them. You’ve gone insane. Haven’t you?

You try to focus on something else. Humming along to songs on the radio. Watching the neon signs of local shops fly by in a blur of color as you speed down the road. Marveling at the glow of the moon and the stars dancing around it. But none of it seems to work and by the time you’re pulling up to Hoshi’s apartment the sprinkle of moisture in your panties is reaching borderline flood status.

“You guys head inside. We’ll be up in a minute” Seungcheol whispers back to his friends and they climb out of the car without a word, heading up to the party.

Seungcheol switches the car off, leaving the two of you alone in silence. He watches you for a moment but you only stare straight ahead. Too awkward to look him in the eye. He thinks you must be mad at him, that maybe he went too far, and the idea that he hurt you even a little bit makes him sick.

“Come here” he says, shifting his seat back to make room for you.

The way he taps his lap to call you over makes you fold in an instant and you find yourself climbing onto him, your knees tucked at his sides as he reaches up to cradle your face. He rubs your cheeks, looking up at you through a curtain of chocolate brown hair, and warmth radiates through your body.

“You mad at me?” he asks, as close to pouting as you’ve ever seen him.

“Why would I be mad at you? He deserved it” you say, your own anger at the man’s actions boiling to the surface, “I was just surprised to see you like that.”

“I don’t like being that way but when it comes to you…” he sighs, taking you in like he would some rare treasure, “I don’t know. I just lost it but I’d never be that way with you. I swear I—”

Pushing his hands away, you press your lips to his, refusing to hear anything more. “Baby, I know you’d never.” You lay your hands on his shoulders, lightly massaging them, and you can almost feel the tension melt away.

His arms come around your waist, his fingertips invading the space between your top and the softness of your figure. “Good. I just want you to feel safe with me.” He returns your kiss with another. Something short and sweet. “I’ll always protect you. Always take care of you.”

He pulls you closer, deepening the kiss and stirring up those feelings brewing deep inside of you. His tongue performs a beautiful dance with yours, tangling in a mixture of love and lust, building the heat between you. Seungcheol’s hands slide down your body, slipping beneath your skirt to knead the succulent flesh of your ass.

“Cheol” you giggle, his lips still on yours even as you speak, “Behave.”

“Mmm, I don’t think I know what that means” he teases, squeezing harder. When he does it grinds you down onto him, something stiff pressing back up against you.

You release the softest moan, rocking your hips, desperate for more friction. “We should go inside” you say more for yourself than for him.

Burying his face in your neck, he plants intoxicatingly slow kisses along your skin, your pulse racing beneath his tongue. You arch your back in response, giving him the perfect angle to sneak a hand between your thighs, stroking your increasingly needy pussy through your panties. His cock steels at the realization of how wet you are, the fabric so drenched that he can feel you clenching.

“You’re right, we should” he mumbles, looping a finger around your panties, his knuckle dragging along your slit, “But you have to get up first, don’t you?”

Your eyes fall closed as you bask in the tingly sensation his actions send rippling up your walls. You hold on tighter to his shoulders, your pillowy tits swelling against his chest. The absence of a bra makes it easy to tell how hard your nipples have gotten and he wishes to god that had enough room to take one onto his mouth, swirling his tongue around it until your eyes roll back.

“Get up? I can…mmph” you whine as his finger curls into you. One after the other until three of his dexterous fingers are stretching you wide, lazily pumping in and out of your tight hole.

Seungcheol slaps your ass making you jiggle around his fingers. Kissing his way up your chin, he finds your lips again, lapping up every moan you pour out. “Go ahead, baby, get up” he taunts, fingers moving faster, delving so deep into your warmth that he swears he can feel every part of you.

You bite down on your lip, your moans growing louder the harder you try to keep quiet. At the back of your mind you know you aren’t truly alone. There’s a party going on inside. What if someone else decides to show up and sees you like this? What if one of the guys left something in the car and comes back for it?

A million possibilities flow through your brain but more than that, more than anything else in the world, it's how good this feels. How well Seungcheol knows how to fuck you with his fingers. How hot he looks doing it. He gets off on pleasing you—the arousal soaking his boxers is more than enough evidence of that—and he can never hide how much he loves watching you. His beautiful girl. Dripping and moaning all because of him. All for him.

“Cheol…” you whisper, your fingers finding his hair, “Want you…inside…”

You can barely speak, already too drunk off his fingers to perfectly articulate what it is that you want, but for Seungcheol it’s enough. You never have to ask him twice. He gives you a few more pumps, harder and rougher than the others, before his drenched fingers pop free, juices dripping down your thighs.

In no mood to be patient, you sit back, hurrying to remove any barriers between you and what you want the most. His cock springs free, the head already wet enough to shine in the glow of the streetlights. It’s pretty enough to make your mouth water. So thick and well defined that you can’t resist running your fingers down it to admire the perfection of it.

Seungcheol coaxes you into a kiss, his hand around the base of his cock as he guides you up and onto it. He eases you down onto it a little at a time, not wanting to rush the glorious feeling of that first big stretch. When he finally bottoms out you’re left shivering, chills skating up your spine at the fullness.

“Fuck, you feel amazing, baby” he says, throwing his head back against the head rest.

His fingertips dig into your thighs as you lean into him, rotating your hips to ride his cock at every angle the limited space will allow you to. The car windows begin to fog up from the heat of your bodies, tucking you away in your own little world, and you let yourself get lost in it, forgetting about anything else other than the feeling of Seungcheol throbbing against your walls.

Resting his palm against your cheek, Seungcheol smooths the pad of his thumb across your lips, delicately petting them. “I love you” he whispers, the emotions welling up inside him threatening to overflow.

You truly are precious to him. When he heard you crying on the phone earlier he lost it. The thought of anyone hurting you made him see red. All he could think was to protect you no matter what that meant. Looking at you now he can’t bring himself to regret it. It’s not just the way you’re riding him, your pussy hugging him with all of its warmth. It’s the way your beauty shines even in the shadows, his love for you growing with every breath you take.

Placing your hand on his, you bring his palm to your lips and kiss it. “Love you too, Cheol. Love you so much.”

Your profession lights a fire in him that has his lips crashing into yours, his hips raising to thrust into you, an arm locked around your waist to keep you in position. Wave after wave of pleasure washes over you, consuming you until there’s nothing else.

“Cheol, aah, don’t stop” you plead, “So close.”

Seungcheol hammers into your sweet spot, sending you racing towards your high. Just as your walls begin to tremble he grabs your ass, lifting you up to leave only the tip of his cock pulsing in your core. “Cum for me, baby” he coos, slamming you back down and sending crashing over the edge.

Your juices cascade down his cock, nails digging into his shoulder as your walls cling to him. He cradles you in his arms, slowing his movements, letting you milk him of his own release. He coats your walls so deeply that you know you’ll be spending all night thinking of having him inside of you even when he isn’t and just imagining it is enough to get you hot all over again.

Keeping you close, he litters your face with kisses, whispering the sweetest praises as your body relaxes into his. You’ve never felt this loved by anyone. Never so safe and cared for. You have every intention to stay in this car as long as you can, finding heaven in the comfort of his arms, and nothing in this world could make him push you away.

#svt x you #svt x reader #svt smut #seungcheol x reader #svt fluff #seungcheol x you #seungcheol smut #seungcheol fluff #scoups x reader #scoups x you #scoups smut #scoups fluff #seventeen x you #seventeen x reader #seventeen smut #plus size reader #chubby reader

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mariasont · 7 months ago

Text

SMILING LIKE A FOOL - A.H

a/n: heyyyy home slices it's me back from the dead! finals are killing me, and this was my procrastination piece. needed to write about my bombshell baby! but surprise she's the one getting flustered this time! gasp!

(for those of you who saw me spell write like right NO YOU DIDNT!!!)

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

warnings: um none i think idk friends its been too long since i've done this

wc: 1.8k

The knock was more a formality as you nudged the door open with your hip, juggling a stack of neatly organized files and a coffee cup with a pink heart sticker on the lid (discreet enough that only Hotch should see). Your gaze naturally gravitated to Hotch first, as it often did, lingering just a moment longer than necessary as you offered him a subtle wink. He cleared his throat awkwardly, adjusting his tie as he muttered something inaudible under his breath, his hand half-covering his mouth, though the slight color rising to his cheeks did not go unnoticed by you.

"Hi, good morning!"

You rounded the table, a sway in your step as you approached Hotch's chair. Setting the stack of items in front of him, you leaned in, closer than strictly necessary, your fingertips brushing his shoulder lightly. Your hair, delicately scented with roses, grazed his jawline as you shifted. His posture stiffened, his expression unreadable, though you caught the subtle flare of his nostrils as he inhaled sharply.

"Sorry for interrupting," you said with a sweet smile that didn't match the glint in your eyes.

You weren't sorry, and the way Hotch's lips pressed into a thin line told you he saw right through the fib. When he leaned back, almost imperceptibly into your space, his shoulder brushed against your stomach. His muttered thank you was low and gruff, and it almost felt like an admission of defeat. You smirked, basking in the victory of knowing how effortless you could unravel the infamous Aaron Hotchner with just a touch and a perfectly polished smile.

You smiled warmly at the team before straightening, your perfectly styled hair bouncing as you rolled up the sleeves of your sparkly sweater. The conference room was always too warm, and today was no exception.

"Oh honey, you could never interrupt." Garcia was the first to butt in, followed by a few other sounds of agreement.

"Flattery will get you everywhere."

"Well, hey there, good looking." It was then that Morgan stepped into the room. His eyes sparkled as they landed on you, smile growing wider as he crossed the room. Without missing a beat, he slung an arm over your shoulder like it was second nature. "You feeling better?"

The past week had been a miserable blur of you twisting into every position imaginable to appease a stomachache that refused to budge. The first morning had been the worst — waking up suddenly, barely making it to the bathroom, and sparing Aaron's freshly washed sheets from catastrophe. For a brief, terrifying moment, your mind had spiraled to the possibility of pregnancy. But the nine-dollar test from Rite Aid had quickly put that fear to rest.

Before you could respond, Hotch cut in, "I told her she need to take more time off."

You gave him an exaggerated huff, placing a hand over your heart. "I'm totally fine, pinky promise."

Spencer, frowning slightly, chimed in, "When I asked for more time off to complete my latest paper on cognitive psychology, I had to justify every hour in writing."

Hotch ignored Spencer's grumble of favoritism (that was definitely true), clearly uninterested in entertaining the complaint. His gaze fixed squarely on you, his eyebrow raising as if to say, Go ahead, lie to me.

You edged closer, letting your smile grow sugary sweet. "Oh, don't worry about me, boss man! I have this weird ability to recover from sicknesses super quickly, like magic."

The blatant lie hung between you, and you could see in his eyes that he wasn't buying a word of it. That was part of the fun, honestly. He knew better. After all, he'd been there every step of the way through your so-called recovery. But still, his gaze lingered on you, jaw tightening as he swallowed back his words. He knew that saying too much would tip the scales, and he wasn't about to risk exposing what was to stay hidden.

In truth, you weren't exactly quick to bounce back from illness, autoimmune disease problems and all, but you didn't mind too much. Not when it meant you got the full Hotch Care Package. You savored the attention and coddling. He held your hair, made you soup, rubbed your feet, all without a single complaint. The man was practically a saint, and honestly, you were tempted to milk it just a little bit longer.

"Hotch can say what he wants, but the rest of us are just glad to have you back, princess." Morgan released your shoulder with a tight squeeze before nodding toward the others. "Hendrick found something on the Anderson case in the lab, wants us to come check it out."

You lingered by the table, watching them file out one by one, leaving behind a trail of disorganized files and lukewarm coffee in their wake. Aaron stayed behind, turning his chair toward you as if he'd been waiting for this exact moment. Once the coast was clear, you hopped up on the table, swinging your legs slightly.

You flashed him a smile, pressing your palms onto the table and leaning in just a little, coking your head to the side. He was watching you, of course, he always was. His lips twitched in that way you loved, forming the smallest smile, something that was becoming more and more common these days (which you proudly took credit for).

With a dramatic sigh that was probably a little over the top, you swung your legs around and plopped your high-heeled feet right in his lap.

"You know, Mr. Hotchner," you began, batting your lashes like it was second nature, "skipping the goodbye kiss this morning almost made me forget how much I really love your adorably grumpy face. Are you willing to have that on your conscience?"

Aaron let out a long sigh, gently easing your feet out of his lap, leaving them to swing idly. "You are going to get me in trouble."

You pouted, crossing your arms over your chest, the motion making his gaze linger on your tits before quickly returning to your face.

"Well, you're already in trouble with someone."

He raised his eyebrows, pretending to be clueless. "And who might that be?"

You blinked innocently, not aware that it was a rhetorical question. "With me, duh!"

Hotch stood, closing the small space between you, and just like that, your pulse was racing like you were in high school all over again. How did he still have this effect on you?

"Duh." He was teasing you now. You tried to glare at him, but it wasn't convincing, not with the way you were fighting the urge to grin like an idiot.

"So, are you going to make it up to me, or do I need to find someone else to keep my bed warm tonight?"

You arched a perfectly shaped brow, watching with barely concealed glee as Aaron's jaw tightened and his gaze darkened. He opened his mouth, ready to fire back, but you smirked and pushed further.

"Well, I'm sure Spencer or Morgan would be happy to —,"

You didn't even get to finish before his lips slammed into yours, silencing you with a kiss that made your heart flutter, and your mind go blank, forgetting every word you just said. The kiss was firm, yet urgent, as if he was trying to prove a point. You melted without hesitation, a giggle bubbling from your chest as your arms looped around his neck. His hands steadied you at your waist, and he pulled back, his expression had softened in that way that made him look ten years younger.

Still smiling, you pinched his side. "Mr. Hotchner! We're at work! Tsk tsk!"

Aaron exhaled a deep breath, pressing a fleeting kiss to your cheek. "I'll see you at home."

He straightened up and turned towards the door. You admired the view for just a moment, and you couldn't stop yourself from smiling — who gave him the right to look that hot while walking away? Determined not to be left behind, you quickly clattered after him, heels clicking (and probably echoing obnoxiously) across the floor.

"Also, can we order Chinese tonight?" You called out, pitching your voice a little louder as Aaron's annoyingly long strides widened the gap between you.

Aaron response was a familiar, low grunt, one of the many unspoken agreements in your relationship that you'd grown to understand. Translation? Yes, dear.

"Oh, wait!" you blurted out, fumbling with your phone as you tried to type out your thoughts before they disappeared like soap bubbles. "And face masks! Can we do face masks? And, wait, wait, wait —The Holiday! Can we watch The Holiday?"

You were juggling your phone, purse, and wild ideas all at once, scribbling your mental to-do list into your Notes app with one hand while the other flailed in an effort to keep balance. Aaron, still unbothered and impossibly composed, moved ahead like some well-dressed gazelle.

"Wait! I just had another idea —,"

Aaron came to abrupt stop. You let out a squeak as you barely avoided plowing straight into his back, his forearm shooting out to steady you just in time.

"Can we table this conversation for later?" he asked, that stoic voice doing absolutely nothing to hide his fondness for you.

You opened your mouth the protest that this was important, but he cut you off. "But yes, to all of the questions."

You gasped like you'd just won the lottery. "All of them? Even The Holiday?" You wiggled your eyebrows, grinning ear-to-ear. "I knew you loved that movie."

Aaron stopped you before you could say another word, his hand settling lightly on your arm as he leaned just a fraction closer. "No," he murmured, voice dropping low enough to send a shiver through you, "I just love you."

Your cheeks flared instantly, warmth blooming across your face as you blinked at him. "Oh."

Aaron watched you squirm for a moment, clearly enjoying your flustered state, far too smug for someone who'd just dropped the L word at work.

"I've told you I love you, haven't I?" He was teasing, knowing he had said it more times than you could count.

"Yeah, but you've never said it so... so loudly. And at work," you hissed, glancing over your shoulder as if someone might pop out of a closet and catch you.

He arched a brow. "That's loud?"

"For you it is!"

Aaron shook his head, laughing softly as he turned back towards the direction of the lab. "You're too easy to fluster. Go back to work before I decide to really embarrass you."

You were sure you had landed in a different dimension. You? Easy to fluster? You pressed your palms to your warm cheeks as you turned on your heel to head back to your desk.

But you were still grinning like an absolute fool the whole way.

taglist: @readergf @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179 @malindacath @freyy253 @broadwaytraaaaash @sunfyyre @sleepysongbirdsings @trulycayla @crouchingapple @navia3000 @aaronlovesava @bakugocanstompme @pansexualhailstorm @averyhotchner @looking1016 @everythinglizzy @sky2nd @messylxve @alexxavicry @yaykeira @spencerssatchel @candyd1es @storiesofsvu @pleasantwitchgarden @kodzukenmaaa @hiireadstuff @dilflover-3 @spenciesslut @phoenix-le-danseur-de-pole @deadofnight0 @sabmichell @jstcln @just-here-to-read13 @c-losur3 @wondergal2001 @oliver-1270 @ssahotchbabe @savagemickey03 @justanotherbimboslxt @imoonkiss @estragos @khxna @mxriesss @de-duchess @raysmayhem-72

join my taglist here!

#aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x fem!reaeder #aaron hotchner x fem reader #aaron hotchner x bimbo!reader #aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader #aaron hotchner x bimbo reader

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kxsagi · 4 months ago

Note

Heyyyy!!!! I have another request

So isagi or nagi (you can choose) want their girlfriend attention cause there studying for too many hours (they payed attention to them a hours ago) and they need 'break' really is just them wanting attention

Thanm you before hand!!!!!<3

“𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝟏𝟎𝟏”

a/n: anything for you princess 💓 includes both nagi seishiro & isagi yoichi!

“𝐩𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞”

you sit at your desk, surrounded by open textbooks, half-finished notes, and a blinking cursor on your laptop screen. the air smells like coffee and highlighters, and the only sound is the clacking of your laptop keyboard. you’re in the zone, your mind a well-running academic machine.

then a voice breaks through your focus.

“hey," nagi drawls, leaning against your chair, controller still in hand. "you've been at it for hours. maybe take a little break?"

you barely glance at him. "i’m fine."

he sighs dramatically, plopping onto your bed with a loud thump. "c’mon, you always say that. but what if this time, your brain actually needs a break?" his voice dips into something persuasive, something teasing. "what if your boyfriend needs your attention?"

your fingers pause over the keyboard. "you’re just trying to get me away from my work."

he grins, unbothered. "nooo, i’m trying to make sure my incredibly smart, incredibly hardworking girlfriend doesn’t burn out." he stretches, tilting his head at you. "and, okay, maybe i do miss you a little. can’t a guy be needy?"

you sigh, rubbing your temples. he’s relentless. always hovering, always looking for ways to pull you away, under the guise of self-care, of course. but you also know him well enough to see through the act.

“you don’t actually care about me resting," you say, turning in your chair to look at him fully. "you just want me to pay attention to you."

his eyes gleam. "you say that like it’s a crime."

you shake your head, exasperated but… amused. he looks so smug, sprawled across your bed, watching you like you’re the final boss he’s determined to beat. and, really, what’s a short break going to hurt?

with a sigh, you close your laptop. nagi’s face immediately lights up.

“there we go!" he grabs your hand, pulling you onto the bed beside him. "welcome back to real life, babe. we missed you."

you roll your eyes, but when he loops an arm around your waist and presses a quick, satisfied kiss to your temple, you think, maybe, just maybe, a little attention isn’t the worst thing.

“𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐚 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞”

you're sitting at your desk, posture perfect, pen gliding across the page as you annotate yet another chapter. your planner is color-coded, your notes immaculate, everything in its rightful place. the world beyond your studies is irrelevant.

well, almost.

because there’s isagi.

your boyfriend, a soccer star and a golden retriever in human form, currently flopped across your floor like he’s been defeated in battle.

"i’m dying," he groans, dramatically draping an arm over his face. "i ran, like, a thousand miles at practice today. my legs are jello. my coach is a monster."

you hum, unimpressed, as you flip to the next page of your textbook. "sounds like you should be resting, then."

"i am resting," he says, rolling onto his stomach, chin propped up by his hands as he stares at you. "but it’d be better if my girlfriend cared about my suffering."

"i do care," you reply without looking up. "i just have an exam in two days, and you being clingy isn’t going to change that."

"clingy?" he gasps, placing a hand over his heart like you've wounded him. "that’s crazy. i’m just a guy who wants five minutes of attention from the love of his life. is that a crime?"

you finally glance at him. he’s pouting, eyes big and pleading, the way he gets when he wants something. the worst part? you know exactly what he’s doing, and it still works.

"i just sat down," you say, though your resolve is weakening.

"you sat down nearly three hours ago, and you’ll be sitting all night if i don’t intervene." he pushes himself up and stretches, wincing dramatically. "look, babe, i’m a broken man. i need help."

you raise a brow. "help with what?"

he grins. "massage my leg."

you snort. "absolutely not."

“pleaseee," he whines, inching toward you. "i’ll never walk again if you don’t."

you shake your head, but before you can protest further, he suddenly collapses into your lap, stretching across you with an exaggerated groan.

“ah," he sighs, dramatically. "i see the light. this is the end for me."

“you’re the most annoying person i’ve ever met," you deadpan, but your fingers are already brushing through his hair, his favorite kind of attention.

his smirk is instant. "oh? then why are you petting me like i’m your favorite?"

you freeze, but he just tilts his head, pressing closer.

“don’t worry," he murmurs. "i won’t tell anyone that the academic weapon has a soft spot for her dumb soccer boyfriend."

you roll your eyes, but you don’t push him away. your textbook is still open, your highlighters untouched, but somehow, you think, maybe, this is the kind of break you don’t mind taking.

#blue lock #blue lock x reader #bllk #bllk x reader #isagi yoichi #isagi x reader #yoichi isagi #isagi yoichi x reader #yoichi isagi x reader #nagi seishiro #seishiro nagi #nagi x reader #nagi seishiro x reader #seishiro nagi x reader #nagi #isagi #distracting you 101

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dahlibae · 7 months ago

Text

BABYGIRL.

(wanda maximoff x fem!reader)

summary – today was the worst day of your life. everything you’d built seemed to crumble in an instant, leaving you hollow and adrift. but then there was wanda—beautiful, kind, and impossibly understanding. she didn’t ask for explanations or offer empty reassurances… just did what she did best as your girlfriend and also your mommy.

warning(s) – oneshot: hurt/comfort, mdlg, comfort nursing, nipple suckling, mommy wanda, reader needs all the hugs. (18+)

notes – hii, everyone. this is my first request ever and i’ve decided to make this a part of my unofficial mommy wanda series. i also think this is one of my fave pieces so far. thank you for reading! <3

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You stepped into the living room, exhaustion pressing down on you like a heavy weight. The soft hum of the house greeted you, but it felt quieter than usual. Normally, Wanda would be curled up on the couch, a cozy blanket draped over her lap and a book resting in her hands, waiting for you to come home. If not there, you'd always find her in the bedroom, lost in her novel but never too lost to look up and smile when you arrived.

Tonight, the couch was empty, so you trudged up the stairs, the day’s stress clinging to you like the dampness of your clothes. As you pushed open the bedroom door, the warm glow of a bedside lamp welcomed you. There was your girlfriend sat propped against the headboard, her book resting in her lap, and her eyes lifted to meet yours as soon as you stepped in.

“Hey, sweetheart.” She greeted, her voice soft as she set the book down. Her brow furrowed slightly as she studied your rugged state. “You look like you’ve had a hard day.”

You hesitated for a moment before shuffling toward her. She reached for you, her thumb tracing soothing circles over your knuckles, and tugged lightly, urging you to sit beside her, but instead of settling into her comforting presence, you slipped out of her hold. Without a word, you crossed the room to the wardrobe. The soft rustling of fabric filled the space as you stripped off your damp work clothes, their cold weight falling to the floor, not caring about your nakedness in front of the older woman. You reached for a familiar oversized top, one that belonged to Wanda—and still carried her subtle scent you noticed—as you brought it forward, inhaling deeply.

“What’s wrong?” She asked quietly.

You shook your head, chewing on your bottom lip as you searched for the words, refusing to look back at her. “Just everything.” You finally murmured, voice trembling, as you slipped the top over you. “Work, life—everything went wrong today.” The weight of the admission pressed down on you, and a sharp sting of embarrassment followed as you felt tears welling up, threatening to spill.

Today had been, without question, one of the worst days of your life. Nothing had gone right. Work had been a disaster—projects falling apart, deadlines missed, and criticism piling up. The disappointed look on your boss’s face wouldn’t leave your mind. Then, as if the universe wasn’t satisfied with your despair, a sudden downpour caught you unprepared. Soaked to the skin, you trudged home only to realise your headphones Wanda had gifted you were ruined beyond repair, forcing an expense you couldn’t afford. Each moment felt like another cruel twist of fate, leaving you drained, defeated, and wondering how much more you could take.

Wanda noticed your anguish, tears falling even if they were hidden behind your hands, and moved over to you. She cupped your cheek, her thumb brushing away a stray tear you had missed. “Oh, my love.” Her tone full of compassion. “Come with me.” She urged softly, pulling you towards the bed and into her lap.

And you couldn’t hold it back anymore—the weight of it all was too much. The disappointment in yourself, the crushing realisation that normal life felt like an insurmountable mountain, left you trembling. A choked sob escaped your lips, then another, breaking free like cracks in a dam. She wrapped her arms around you, her embrace firm yet tender, grounding you as you leaned fully into her.

After a moment, when your tears had finally stopped, you felt her hands under your shirt shift, gliding tenderly from your back to trace slow, soothing circles along your pelvis, up passed your breasts, and to your collarbone. Her touch was deliberate, grounding, yet charged with an unspoken intimacy.

“Baby,” she murmured softly, her voice a velvet caress that pulled your attention, “do you need Mommy to make you feel all better?”

Normally, words like these from her would ignite a fire, turning the world into a hazy blur where nothing else mattered. She had a way of consuming you entirely, of making you forget everything—even your own name and especially what had you so overwhelmed. Sex with Wanda always helped. But tonight, the pressure of the day lingered, sitting heavy on your chest, and even her gentle allure felt like too much. You turned your face slightly, unable to meet her gaze, the vulnerability too raw to confront.

“Not… not like that.” You mumbled, voice barely above a whisper, laced with a mix of exhaustion and nervous hesitation.

Her hands immediately retracted from underneath, but climbed back up to cup your face. She wanted you to look at her as you spoke, but she knew how nervous you were right now. It was clear that whatever you wanted was new territory for you both. And so, her thumb stilled on your cheek as she studied you closely. “Okay. Tell me what you need, sweet girl.”

Your throat tightened as the words clawed at the back of your mind, desperate to be spoken yet caught in the tangle of your hesitation. The thought had crossed your mind—a quiet, intimate need, something grounding and nurturing—but it felt too vulnerable, too strange to voice aloud. “I…” You started, the single syllable trembling before it broke apart. You lowered your eyes, shaking your head as your unspoken longing clung to your lips. Silence stretched between you, but her eyes never wavered from you.

Patience was one of Wanda’s greatest virtues.

“I don’t know how to say it.” You admitted in a whisper, the confession spilling from your lips like a fragile thread of truth.

“Just try, darling?” Wanda prompted, her voice a soft coaxing.

“But it’s… weird.” You replied, still avoiding her eyes.

She shifted closer, wrapping her free arm around your waist. “You can tell me anything. You know that, right? There’s no judgment here.”

You took a shaky breath. “I can’t, Wands. You’ll think I’m weird.”

Her lips pressed gently to your forehead. “Never.” She said firmly. “Not my baby girl.”

Deep down, you knew this was what you needed.

No other comfort would work.

The warmth of her words gave you the courage to continue, though your voice came out in a rush, barely above a whisper, “I… I was wondering if I could kind of play with your boobs… just for comfort.”

Wanda’s lips quirked in a small, understanding smile. “You already do that, baby.” She replied softly, though there was a curious tilt to her voice, almost like a question. Still, what she said was true. After sex, your aftercare often included her gently cleaning you up, then holding you close while you suckled at her breasts, finding solace in her warmth until you fell asleep.

“I know.” You murmured, your gaze dropping shyly towards her chest. “But it’s different this time, isn’t it? I don’t want sex. Just… that.”

The silence that followed made your stomach twist. Panic surged as you began to pull away, regret pouring out of you in a rush. “Actually, forget it. It’s stupid. I shouldn’t—”

“Hey.” She interrupted softly, her voice warm and steady, hands tightening gently on your shoulders, grounding you before you could spiral further. Her emerald eyes locked onto yours, brimming with nothing but love and reassurance. “It’s not stupid. And I don’t think it’s weird.”

“You don’t?” Your voice cracked, still unsure.

She shook her head, a soft smile tugging at her lips as she brushed a curl from your face. Her touch was tender, her tone even gentler. “No, sweetheart. I think it’s brave of you to ask for what you need.”

She cupped your chin, bringing your gaze to hers for the first time this evening. “And for you to tell me when you don’t want to have sex.” Her words melted some of your fear, but it was the warmth in her eyes that truly soothed the ache of doubt in your chest. “Plus, I like when you suckle on me.”

You blushed deeply at her words, and found her leaning forward to press light kisses all over your flushed face.

“You’re so cute.” She added with a playful lilt, finishing with one lingering kiss to your lips.

Still shy about the entire thing, you let her guide you backwards, making enough space for her to pull off her long sleeved top, before cradling you against her.

“There’s no need to be embarrassed about this.” She said, her fingers threading through your curls. “This is just for you, to help you feel safe.”

You rested your head against her shoulder, cheeks burning with embarrassment, but the moment her warmth surrounded you, all your tension began to fade. And you started at the crook of her neck, where her perfume lingered most intensely—a heady mix that would always soothe you. Your lips brushed the delicate curve of her collarbones, pausing to press soft kisses there, the contrast of firmness and tenderness grounding you in the moment. Slowly, you traced lower, finding the pliant skin of her chest, your lips and tongue gliding over her silken flesh in reverent exploration. You hesitated, vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to without the usual lead-up of passion to mask the intimacy. Still, you gave in to instinct, brushing your mouth over her heavy breast before gently taking a nipple into your mouth. The familiar act carried a different weight now, quiet and raw, leaving you feeling exposed but safe in her presence.

She carefully adjusted your position, guiding you to lie on your side as she leaned over you. The shift instantly eased the tension in your back, a welcome relief after being curled up in her lap for so long. She hummed quietly, fingers moving from your hair to your face, stroking your cheeks affectionately.

“Such a good girl.” She whispered, her voice low and soothing. The phrase, usually electric with desire, took on a softer, more tender note this time. Instead of igniting heat, it coaxed you further into your headspace, filling you with a profound sense of safety, as the worries of today floated away. And she held you as if nothing else in the world mattered, her hands continuing their gentle exploration, tracing over your jaw, brushing against your temple, and finally tucking stray curls behind your ears. “Let me see that pretty face.” She’d say, and each touch was intentional, a silent reassurance that she was there, grounding you in the moment. You felt her other hand drift down your back in slow, deliberate strokes, the rhythm lulling you further into her embrace.

“You’re so precious to me.” She murmured, her words wrapping around you like a warm blanket. Her thumb grazed the edge of your lips, pausing for a moment as though memorizing the softness there before her hand slipped back into your hair, cradling you closer to her chest, your nose flush against her.

You let yourself relax completely, melting into her as your lips lingered softly over her skin, not in hunger or lust but in need. A quiet, intimate need for comfort outside the bounds of what you knew. She seemed to sense it, tilting her head to rest her chin against the top of yours. Her breathing was slow, syncing with yours as the last remnants of tension ebbed away. The steady beat of her heart thrummed beneath your ear like a soothing melody, anchoring you to her.

“Thank you, mama.” You managed to say, exhaustion seeping into your bones, as sleep threatened to wash over you.

“Go to sleep, sweet girl.” Wanda replied, her delicate fingers against your skin also coaxing you into a deep sleep.

And when she spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper, it was as if the universe itself paused to listen.“You deserve to feel loved and cared for.” She said, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “And I’ll always be here to show you that.”

Her words hung in the air, wrapping around you like a shield against the world, finally carrying you into the peace of sleep, where you were cradled by the unshakable certainty of her love and comfort.

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#dahlibae fics! ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x y/n #wanda maximoff x you

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