#zzz lighter x reader

[xxgoldie]

wine drunk so I'm thinking about stumbling home to lighter after drinking w friends and he's trying so hard to get you changed into pjs and your teeth brushed and into bed but it keeps getting derailed bc you can't stop talking abt how much you love him and kissing him all over his silly face

[delphi-shield]

— 「 FLASH FIRE 」

lighter lorenz x reader — 2.8k — mdni summary: it’s reciprocal - lighter helps out with your car, you fuck him in the back seat. everybody wins. content: unprotected sex, forgetting to pull out, creampie, titsucking, hair pulling, brief mention of fisting.

You're running out of excuses.

You had traded favors and supplies for car maintenance for months now. Strictly business, at first, but the aimless teasing had quickly evolved into flirting, and the flirting had rapidly shifted to something more physical. Soon, your car became plagued with all kinds of problems, both real and imagined. Lighter had even let you get away with asking him to change your tail light. He didn’t even seem to realize what you were up to - not at first, anyway.

In reality, Lighter's had you figured out ever since you called him to check your tire pressure. You don't really need his help for most of this stuff, but he puts on a good show when he spreads his tools out in your garage. Your eyes always drift to his biceps when he hefts up the hood of your car. He braces a hand against the side, leans his weight into it, and you're torn between gawking at the way he peers down at the guts of your car, appraising, or the way his ass is squeezed into those jeans, hips cocked, heavy boots tapping against the garage floor.

It usually ended up in the backseat of your car -- or on the hood, or pressed up against the side. You had started stashing condoms in the center console.

“Need me to change your oil?" He offers one day, cutting off the way you're grasping at straws, floundering to keep him on the line. "It's about time."

Was it? You didn't know. You assumed he didn't either, figured he'd show up, check the mileage, and shake his head. Not quite time yet - but that's all right. He already came over, so he can find something else to work on.

But when he rolls up to your place he's got oil and a catch pan in hand. His jacket is discarded on the back of his bike, leaving him squeezed into a white tank top. He pats your arm as he walks by, eyes gleaming behind his sunglasses. Your surprise clearly delights him.

You plop into the back seat while he works, peppering him with offers for his service. Faint guilt swirls in your gut. You hadn't expected him to actually work on your car today. You could pick up his groceries when you ran into town, or help the Sons out with planning for Settlement Days. Each offer was barely considered, dismissed by a muffled ‘nah’.

It turns out the benefits of hooking up with Lighter include free car maintenance.

“You're all set,” Lighter says, slapping his hands against his thighs as he stands. He rounds your car to tower over you where you sit. Your legs swing, hanging off the edge, scuffing against the floor.

You spread your legs for him to step between — force of habit. Can't help but spread ‘em when Lighter steps up like that, when his hands brace against the top of your car and he sways down. He steps between your legs, nudging your knees wider with a powerful thigh.

“How am I going to pay you back?” You sigh dramatically, stifling a giggle. Lighter pretends to think for all of three seconds.

“A kiss?”

“That's all?”

“You're right. Two kisses.”

You grin. You can do better than that. You grab the front of his shirt and tug him down. He ducks past the door, laying you back against the seat. His kiss is languid, smiling against your lips as you laugh. You pull back to take his sunglasses off, noses bumping. You fold them closed and set them in the front seat, half-sitting up to reach.

Lighter takes advantage of the way you stretch, the column of your throat bared to him, ripe for his kisses to darken you skin. He sucks a mark beneath your jaw as you lay back into the seat. His hand slip up your shirt, palms lighting a warm path against your skin.

You roll up off of the seat, tits pressing into his chest. Lighter rolls your shirt up, separating from your neck briefly to fling your shirt outside of the car. His body covers your again, pressing you back to the seat. His scent, earthy and mouthwatering, infused with a tinge of oil and sweat, blankets you as he noses against the hollow of your throat.

You flip open the center console, searching sightlessly for a condom. Lighter works your bra off to paw at your tits, taking a moment to appreciate the weight in his palm before he latches on and sucks. His teeth scrape against your hardened nipple and you keen, back arching, pressing his face deeper into your breasts.

"Fuck - relax. Milk's not gonna come out," you grumble, free hand fisting tightly in his hair.

Lighter moans. He pops off one tit, dropping a sloppy kiss to the valley between your breasts. His knee slides up firmly against your pussy, grinding against you until you catch onto his rhythm and do it yourself. He's got that smug look on his face when he licks up your other, neglected breast, tongue lapping at your skin but lips never sealing around you.

You tug at his hair. Another moan, louder, more whiny. Your clit pulses against the seam of your jeans, and he finally commits to sucking your tits again.

Christ, you've got to find that fucking condom.

You sift through old receipts and miscellaneous bits and bobs blindly, struggling to find that elusive, crinkly little square. Lighter's hands slide down your sides, squeezing the dough of your hips tightly. He flicks the button of your jeans open, drawing his leg back to wiggle your pants halfway down your thighs. He palms your cunt through your panties and whines again, tremulous and pitiful.

"I'm so damn hard," Lighter groans. He drops his forehead against your collar bone, warm breath puffing against your skin. A searing heat blooms in your belly.

“Do you have a condom?” You blurt out. You can’t keep fumbling around like this - you need him now.

Lighter’s hand squeezes you, middle finger trailing against your clothed slit. He keeps one hand stroking your pussy while the other reaches behind him, patting the pockets of his jeans. He swears under his breath. His finger taps just over your clit - using your pussy like a damn fidget.

“I’ll pull out.” That’s his genius solution.

You should say no. You should offer to blow him, or let him fuck your tits, or anything other than the tried and true pull out method, but Lighter dips his fingers beneath your panties, presses the pad of his thumb against your clit and rolls. Sparks ignite in your veins. His finger teases your entrance. He only has to press gently into your before your greedy cunt tries to pull him deeper.

You grit your teeth. The promise of more makes you whine. Fingers won’t be enough. He could take his time finger fucking you open until he could fist you and it still wouldn’t be enough. You need his cock and you need it now.

“Okay,” you breathe out, face warming. You shouldn’t be agreeing to this. Even Lighter seems surprised. He picks his head up from your chest to meet your eyes, brows arched. You melt under his watch, body puddling against the seat. You roll your hips. His thumb stays steady against your clit, lets you roll yourself against his hand.

If he wants to ask if you’re sure, he loses the will when you squeeze around his finger.

He’s got more patience than you. Lighter presses kisses along your jaw, murmuring “okay,” as he slips down your body. He nips at your neck while his finger strokes through your soaked cunt. You try to spread you legs wider, to accommodate the fit of his hips, but your knees are trapped by your jeans, still hanging on for dear life.

You kick your foot and whine, your pants flapping comically. Lighter laughs. He struggles to pull them down further with just one hand.

“Hold still,” he murmurs, shifting awkwardly in the cramped back seat. His chest presses against yours, pinning you down with his weight. In the tight space, it’s impossible to escape his scent, his warmth, the hand toying with your pussy instead of shucking your pants off, winding you up.

You squirm beneath him, barely able to move. His laugh pools from his chest and into your.

“So fun to play with.” His voice is a rumble next to your ear. Your body tenses, skin feeling tight, flushed, stretched thin in anticipation.

“Hurry up,” you whine, jolting your hips up against his. He sucks a breath through his teeth.

It’s a heated blur. His hand withdraws from your pussy. He struggles with his belt long enough for you to wedge a hand between your bodies and try to help. It's finally open, his zipper barely down before you're shoving your hand into his pants to palm him.

He pushes your wrist away gently to pull himself free. The thought of taking him into your mouth makes drool pool in your mouth. You swallows thickly, swollen lips pouting. Eyes on the prize.

“Whatcha want?” Lighter leans back, his back hunched awkwardly in the small space of the back seat. He strokes himself slowly, his eyes fixed on your cunt.

“I want you shut the fuck up and fuck me.”

He taps the head of his dick against your clit, eyes lingering on the way he bounces it off your body, the way your thighs tense. Your struggle to stay still is plain as day in close quarters. Lighter grips the base of his thick cock. He slides himself through your folds, glistening tip nudging against your clit, each pass making you clench around nothing.

“Please,” you whine, smacking your head back against the seat. Your hands grip his biceps, nails biting into his skin.

He doesn't give you a chance to beg again. The fat head of his cock glides snugly into your pussy, the first inch frictionless and squelching. His fat cock catches, the stretch enough to make your breath sutter. Lighter plants a hand by your head, fingers dimpling the cushion. He pulls out, fucking himself deeper.

His forehead drops against your breast, chest near heaving. Lighter's hips stutter - barely restraining the desire to pound you into the carseat.

“You feel so fucking good,” he moans. He grinds into you, thick cock dragging against your walls, each roll of his hips sucking him in deeper and deeper until you can feel him in your stomach.

Your voice is caught in your throat, toes curling, knees pressing in, pussy trying to lock him in. You squeeze around him again and again, pulsing. Lighter bottoms out with one last, powerful roll of his hips, his restraint slipping, shuffling you up against the seats. Your cry out, pushing him back only to tug him closer, his face suffocated in your tits.

His hand slips down your spine, finding the small of your back. He angles your hips up, cock battering perfectly against a spot that has you crying out at each thrust, nails streaking red line against his biceps.

"Shit— shit," he pants, face buried into the junction of your neck, hips pinning you to the seat.

Lighter’s hips rabbit into you, fucking you hard and quick, lost in the feel of your gummy walls.

“Never going back to fucking condoms,” Lighter puffs out. Every thrust presses him against your clit. Tears prick at your eyes. Your mind blanks. You babble something incoherent in response. Your hand wedges between your body, rubbing frantically against your clit. “Feels so good. Not gonna last– fuck!”

Your dripping pussy has him in a vice grip, spasming as his hips drive into you again, again, again. Stars explode behind your eyes, fingertips clenching, chest too tight. His hips pin your hand against your clit. He doesn't draw back fully again, drags his fat cock hard and languid against the same spot over and over until all that tension unspools and the warmth spills over into your veins, onto his cock, coating your seats.

Lighter fucks you through it, voice pitching higher as his thrusts get sloppier, more desperate. He grumbles promises into your skin – gonna buy your birth control, baby, don't make me squeeze into a condom again, you feel too fucking good, holy shit, fuck, cumming—

You're already half-way to bonelessness, riding out the current of pleasure churns in you, when he floods your pussy with his cum. Spurt after spurt of his thick seed splatters against your walls. Your stomach flutters, eyes glazed.

Lighter's hips pump and sputter, staggered and stuttering, fucking his cum deeper into you. He leans his weight against you fully, muscled body pressing the breath from you. You don't know how you could be closer than this but you crave it, crave him, need more, need this to be unending.

Gradually, his hips slow. He comes down from his high, the whine in his voice pitching back to gravel. His cheek rests against your shoulder, hands flexing against your skin. You pet his hair idly, eyes shut, soaking in the bliss and the closeness.

His cock softens in your puffy walls, but his muscles tense with a sudden realization.

“Shit– I'm sorry,” he says in a rush, picking his head up to look at you. You only hum, confused, barely cracking an eye open. “I– inside. I didn't mean to–”

Oh. Ohh, fuck.

You swear quietly beneath your breath. Your teeth catch your lip, worrying it for a moment – but as fucked out as you are, brain still melted, it's difficult to muster panic.

You stroke his hair firmer, trying to urge him to lay back against you. His strength is evident in that moment when he resists your pull. The restraint in his touch is clear - and the threat of his strength has your aching clit twinging painfully. You were going to have to unpack that later.

“Lighter - it's fine,” you say. “I'll go to town later.”

“I'll drive you.” His tone brooks no argument. He pulls himself away from you, and the cold prickles against your flushed skin. You can't help but feel lost when he pulls himself out of you, pussy throbbing for the stretch of his cock - missing him already.

He tucks himself into his pants again, not bothering to zip back up. He bends, the curve of his tight ass on display. You sigh dreamily - nearly forget to react when he tosses you your discarded shirt back.

Lighter holds up a finger, chest still heaving and flushed, fluffy hair matted to his forehead with swear. He disappears from view, rattling around in your garage out of sight, before he comes back with a rag in hand.

"We should do this in a bed," you say, accepting the rag Lighter passes you. You inspect it carefully. No oil, no dirt - good enough for you.

"I think I can get a truck for an evening."

"What? No," You laugh. "Like a bed bed. With pillows, and blankets."

Lighter keeps his back turned to you, arms pausing mid-stretch. He rolls his shoulder, fluffs his hair - takes his sweet time turning back to face you.

Your stomach churns. Fuck. That was too much too quick. Sure, he just came inside you, but you were going to scare him off like this. He wasn't going to help you air up your tires ever again, much less fuck you–

"I can put pillows and blankets in a truck bed," he points out.

You huff a laugh, shaking your head. “I guess that's better than nothing.”

Lighter's lips quirk into a smile. He ducks back into the car, tapping your hip. You scoot back to make room for him. He lifts his arm, expecting you to curl up against his side.

“I'll drive you out for the sunset.”

“The sunset?” You repeat skeptically. You hadn't expected something so… sweet.

Lighter shrugs you closer. He tugs at a lock of your hair, teasing.

“Or for stargazing,” he counters, a hint of desperation sneaking in, cracking past his suave performance. “Whichever.”

You study him for a moment. He feels so unguarded in this moment, without the vestiges of the champion. He's just Lighter in this moment - just the man who fucked your brains out in the back of your car, who was at your beck and call for every stupid excuse you could conjure up just to see him.

“Both,” you decide. You nestle your cheek against his shoulder, eyes slipping shut. “If we stay long enough, we can do both.”

A guaranteed, precious few hours with him all to yourself. Your stomach squirms. You blame it on the feeling of his cum slipping out of you, pretend that your affection isn't burning you up from the inside.

Lighter shifts to kiss he crown of your head. His hand trails a lazy path against your arm, fingers warm, comfortable against your skin, his touch so different from the way he had pressed against you moments before.

One of these days you were going to get this man into a proper goddamn bed, but you'd settle for malapropisms until the time came.

[bunni-v1]

What do we have here…?

🍓Couldn’t get sending Harumasa nudes out of my head and then I saw @mini-ism post about Caesar going through Livhters phone and had Jimmy Neutron Brain blast. (My moots are so awesome and talented and everyone should give them love). Like... what DO they have on their phone, if anything? So that's what this is. Also took this as my chance to write for my favorite straight white cat boy Seth.

Tw: Nsfw; recording during sex; rough sex (all); somnophilia (Harumasa); breeding kink (Seth); bottom harumasa and seth; Mommy kink (seth); grammar errors (inevitable)

Info: Fem bodied reader (no pronouns i think? use of mommy though); Harumasa x Reader; Lighter x Reader; Seth x Reader; I tried to add plot but who am I kidding this is porn

Harumasa Asaba

The first time Asaba Harumasa asked to record you during sex, you declined. He'd wanted it so he could use it at work, during those days that he really needed you most. It's not like you were shy about your body, especially not with him. He'd seen you naked a million times and done more than just admire your body on numerous occasions. You just didn't want to do it, not with the risk of his very important friends possibly seeing them. The idea of sweet Sokaku sneaking on his phone and somehow finding the videos was mortifying, to say the least. The consequences afterward would probably be even worse, you'd never be able to look Yanagi in the eyes again.

So, you told him no, and who is Asaba to press you on something like that. Feminism was hot, or whatever. He just wanted to see what he could get away with. Little did he know he planted a seed in your brain that kept on growing and growing until, one night, you asked him if he was still into the whole recording you thing.

He wanted to say "No fucking duh." But instead, he smiled and nodded all cute-like, "Oh? I thought you didn't want to? Don't tell me you've been holding out on me now..." And thus began your unexpected obsession with making amateur porn.

Harumasa isn't an idiot, of course, he keeps everything in a hidden folder within a hidden folder, accessible via a password only he knows. (He would give up any chance at living a long life to keep Sokaku as far away from his porn stash as possible). It's surprisingly well organized, coming from him at least. Categorized by type (picture and videos), who was topping, and which kinks you indulged in.

His personal favorites, though, are saved in a separate folder within those already existing folders. They're his go-to when he's feeling so very pent up at work and needs release fast enough that Yanagi won't come looking for him. Like right now, the phone under the desk and the volume just loud enough that only he could make it out by straining his ears. A little treat for his hard work today.

The first one starts out with shaky camera work -- you'd grabbed and started recording in a hurry like you realized this one would make good content for him. (You were right, as usual). The sun is peaking through the curtains of his dark apartment, and with the light, he can just barely make out his sleeping face. You pan the camera down, and one of your hands is gently tracing along his slowly hardening cock, already free and begging for you to suck it. It jumps in your hand as you rub the tip, and then all of a sudden the camera flips and he gets to see your face. You have eyebags under your eyes and your hair is sticking out in several places with little bruises littering your collarbones. Just how he likes you. Shuffling follows and the camera jerks around awkwardly until it rests on his abdomen and refocuses on you, dick still in hand and eyes blinking innocently at the camera.

You tap the tip against your cheek a few times, Harumasa's hips pressing up into your hand as you do so. You smile a little at him offscreen, and it's almost affectionate until you swallow him down in one go. What you can't fit in your mouth you fist with your hand, bobbing in a perfectly trained rhythm that he knows would have him seeing stars. His hips awkwardly jerk, but you take him so well that it doesn't even bother you. The camera shifts again as Harumasa himself begins to wake up. A confused, "Oh fuck," is moaned out in the background, just barely audible over the heavenly sound of you sucking and swallowing him up. Then, your eyes flutter up, right as a hand fists its way into your hair. The video cuts shortly after that, leaving the rest of it up to his impeccable memory.

The next one is a bit longer, and honestly humiliating for him, but he can't get enough of it. Again you're holding the camera, but this time he is awake. It starts with your hand on his ass, marked with the harsh imprint of your strikes, bright and red and sure to bruise (it did). You make sure to get a good angle of yourself pounding him into the sheets, the sounds of squelching mixed with incoherent babbling from him something sinful. You glide your hand over his bare back, camera following along, then tug on his fluffy black hair. He lets out a pathetic whine as you push the camera into his fucked out face. Cheeks red, drool dripping down his chin, eyes watery and unfocused. It's all he can do to answer you when you finally ask, "You were a good boy today, weren't you Harumasa? Tell the camera how good you were today."

"Yessss, 'm a very good boy~" He hiccups out through your harsh thrusts.

You coo at him, pressing a little kiss to his cheek which gets him smiling like a moron in the video, "You know what good boys get to do, right?"

He visibly jolts in the frame, right as you wrap your pretty fingers around his swollen cock just out of frame. A whorish moan leaves his mouth as you pick up the pace, determined to make him cum. His whole face twists in pleasure as he cries out your name, releasing all over your fingers and the sheets. The camera flips, and you're giggling as you spread the covered hand playfully for the camera. "Such a good boy~" You hum, and the video cuts as you begin sucking each finger clean.

The last one he has, which is the only one where he's holding the camera, is his personal favorite. You're in the Section 6 office, legs spread out and perched wobbly on the arms of his desk chair. Miyabi, Yanagi, and Sokaku were all out for lunch and you'd been so sweet to bring him the one he'd 'accidentally' forgotten at home. His pace was fast and rough as he slammed into you. He preferred taking things slow, but even he had to admit he liked the thrill of a quicky in such an open area. One hand comes down to hold your thigh at a different angle, and you let out the squeakiest excuse for his name he'd ever heard. "I thought you didn't want them to see you like this... you're awfully contradictory~" He teases from behind the camera, not that you have it in you to do anything but whine at him. "What would Miyabi think of you..." He tuts, "and poor Tsukishiro might have a heart attack... how shameless can you be?"

He zooms in on your face, head thrown back and mouth stuck wide open with empty gasps just begging to become moans. Your body shakes as his thrusts become less fast and more rough, skin slapping against skin in the quiet office on the very desk he was scrolling through his phone. He can see his name form on your lips.

"Harumasa," Came Yanagi's voice instead, he jumps, quickly locking his phone and slipping it into his pocket, "I understand paperwork is boring, but scrolling on your phone is-"

"Unacceptable, I know," He sighs, "I'm getting to it I promise. Just... right after a quick bathroom break, okay?"

He's up and gone before she can respond, already deciding which video he should watch to fix his little issue. Oh! Or he could ask you for a new one right now, it'd been a minute since he'd gotten you masturbating.

Lighter Lorenz

Lighter didn't get the appeal of it at first. Why would he settle for videos and pictures when the real thing was so much better? Just didn't make sense to him, but sure, he'd let you do what you want. You were damn adorable with how excited you got when he said yes to another video or picture.

It wasn't until an extended period of time away from you that he realized how badly he was missing out. He was horny and you were too far away to do anything about it and no matter what he imagined he could not get off for the life of him. So, he caves and asks you to send one of those videos you'd made. It was probably the fastest he'd cum by himself since getting with you.

Lighter admits defeat, you were right, those videos are something else. Not nearly as good as the real thing, but close enough when he needed it. He's very selective about what does and does not get filmed though. There are some moments he wants to keep just between the two of you, no cameras or anything like that. However, once he gets into it he really gets into it, and those videos are cinema for amateur pornstars.

He keeps the videos and pictures in an unlabeled folder on his phone, not nearly as meticulous about hiding it as Harumasa or Seth might be. He didn't have the risk factor, the girls wouldn't go through his phone without asking first, and he wasn't careless enough to leave it out for others to dig through its contents. He also wasn't stupid enough to look through his little stash with others around, always waiting until he was completely isolated to look.

You were out for the night doing something or another for someone, too kind for your own good, leaving only Lighter and his hand to keep his dick company. He clicks open the folder, smiling to himself when he's met with pretty pictures of you.

He scrolls a bit, then clicks on a more recently recorded one. The camera is focused on your stomach, just low enough that he can see the flared red tip of his dick teasing your swollen clit. A deep chuckle sounds from behind the camera, followed by a grumpy little whine from you. He takes the hint, sliding his tip down and slowly dipping it into your drooling cunt. You let out the cutest squeal as he stretches you out, his hips angling up so his cock presses against your tummy.

The camera zooms in on the outline of his tip, pressing just below your navel. You babble something incoherent, and Lighter hums like it's the most interesting thing in the world. His calloused hand comes into view, tracing the outline with a low hiss. "Fuck, you feel me inside baby?" You mumble something out again, a much smaller hand sliding under his. He presses down as you trace a finger over him, and a whorish moan leaves your mouth. He ruts himself into you, hand pressing down so both of you could feel just how deep inside he was. Your body trembles with each hard thrust, and the camera work gets shakier and shakier the louder Lighter gets until it stops altogether after an annoyed groan — literally thrown across the room so he could focus more on you.

The next one he picks among a sea of delicacies is an older one, one of the first he'd agreed to make with you. The camera is set up on the nightstand, angled nicely so he could see your pretty tits bouncing with each thrust of his hips up into yours. You're wearing his scarf around your neck, and you look like sex incarnate hopping up and down on him.

His veiny hands grab at your hips, guiding each movement with careful precision. You're leaned back, head thrown to the sky as you call his name like a mantra. Each thrust makes your voice peak a little higher, the only thing louder being the slap of wet skin on skin. One particularly rough thrust has you keening, falling forward to press your sweaty face to his just out of frame. He can see your hips roll desperately into his own for all of a few seconds before his hands wrap around your thighs to hoist you up so he can bully his cock into your abused pussy. The whole bed shakes as the headboard slams into the wall, the camera tumbling to the ground forgotten as it records your brainless sobs over the sound of his brutal pace. A weird habit he’s noticed consistently in these videos.

He's close, he can feel it, as he strokes himself a little faster. Just needed the perfect thing to push him over the edge. He taps one of your personal favorites, citing it as 'the most fun' for you to film. In it, he is holding the camera down, you're kneeling between his legs, head resting on his thigh as your deft fingers play with his member. You smile up at him, sliding the bead of precum around the tip like a game.

He's huge in your hand, and it's a miracle you manage to fit your slim fingers around his fat cock. Slowly stroking down, then back up, your thumb sure to run over that vein that made his toes curl. You keep a steady pace, teasing him with the sweetest grin on your face.

"Feelin' good baby?" You purr up at him, amused at what is likely a very red faced Lighter.

There's an audible swallow, and the camera shakes as he answers, "Real good. Takin' good care 'f me."

You giggle, satisfied with the answer enough to lean down and start sucking on his balls. Your other hand scraped against his thigh, the muscles beneath tensing at the sensation. The sound of your sucking, mixed in with his little whimpers has him cumming prematurely, not that it stops him from fucking his hand through his orgasm. The video continues on like that, you teasing him to the edge and denying him his orgasm like a monster. Unlike then, he had quiet the mess to clean up now.

He thinks better of just cleaning it up, though. Instead snapping a quick picture and sending it to you with a little, 'Miss you.'

Seth Lowell

Seth is an incredibly polite, considerate, sweetheart who would never in a million years dream of asking to record you during sex. He might just be the most vanilla guy in all of New Eirdu, and recording seems... a little violating of your privacy. It's not something he considers an option.

Until one day, after a very long week where you and Seth hadn't seen each other for more than a few hours thanks to his work schedule. He's lying in the dorms, texting you about mundane tasks when you throw out how much you miss him. He obviously misses you too, and says so. You ask him if he would like to see how much you miss him, and the sweet thing he is the undertone goes right over his head. He expects a picture of you maybe pouting, doing something you would typically do together by yourself.

When he opens it he's greeted by you, two fingers deep in your own cunt, pretty juices glistening in the dim lighting of your bedroom -- oh god is that his shirt you're wearing? He short circuits, literally just staring slack-jawed at the phone for god knows how long until one of his buddies comes in and starts poking fun at him. He slams the phone down, and he makes it home in record time. That was all the convincing he needed from you to record your (rather basic) sexual escapades.

Seth does not save the videos, ever. They're all in your text chain, pinned there for easy access, but he refuses to keep them in his album. Way too risky for him with his family and his coworkers and... well... knowing himself. They're really only there for you, he doesn't have any free time to watch them and get off. He does, however like watching them when he's alone in the dorms for the night. Just a nice reminder of what he'll be doing next time he sees you.

Like this one, where the camera is pointed down on him, red-faced and teary-eyed as you ride him like no tomorrow. His chest is littered with little purple love bites, and your fingers splay out across them as you roll your hips deliciously against him. He whimpers in the video, shying away from the camera. The hand on his chest reaches over to flick his already too-hard nipple, twisting it a little. A giggle bubbles out of your chest when he keens.

"You like it when I ride you, don't you Seth...?" You coo, tracing your fingers over to the other nipple to give it attention. He nods with a whine, biting back his moans. You pinch him harshly as punishment, "Use your words."

He sighs, humiliated at the degradation, but swallows his pride and responds, "Yes Mommy."

He grimaces at his own voice, quickly closing out of the video to find something a little less... vocal. He settles on one where the camera is pointed down, you're wearing pretty blue lingerie. In this one, he's between your legs, ears flattened back as he gives you little kitten licks to your sensitive bud. The rough texture of his tongue makes your legs twitch, nearly closing on him, but fighting themselves back open.

He looks up to the camera, or more so past it, to look at you just begging for approval. Your hand comes into the frame, rubbing at one of his ears encouragingly. He lights up, taking the sign as his chance to swallow you down. He dives in like a kitten into milk, slurping and sucking with your hand guiding his movements. Your little sighs of approval get his tail curling up in the air behind him. Your little happy kitty, servicing you like the queen you are. “Good boy~” You coo so sweetly, and his tail twitches excitedly behind him.

He smiles fondly at the phone, was it weird to find it more cute than hot. Maybe he was too lovestruck. It didn't matter too much to him as he found one that you had favorited in the chat. He... didn't remember this one at all from the thumbnail, it got him curious.

The first thing he's greeted by is you face down in the sheets, his pale hand pushing your head into the pillows. Then he hears the wet slapping of skin, the camera following down to show where he was fucking you from behind. His entire abdomen is literally shimmering with a mix of your and his cum, the sticky white substance quite literally all over your back and his hands now that he was looking.

This was... he can't believe he had the mental capacity to think to record himself fucking you during his heat. His cock stirs in his pants, but he's too curious to stop watching before he screws himself over too much. The camera shifts as he leans over you, giving it a perfect view as he bites into the back of your neck. Your face is stained with tears, and your mouth is wide open with pleasure -- no sound escaped though, and Seth realizes that he'd fucked your throat raw in this video.

"Gonna fuck you full of my kits, wanna make you a real Mommy. That's okay, right? You wanna have my babies too don't you?" his rough voice mumbles into your skin, and you only nod in response, too fucked out to really do anything else.

He thinks the video will end there, but instead, the camera pulls up again as Seth pulls out. A broken, muted wail leaves you at the loss, but Seth ignores it in favor of recording your used pussy. Globs of cum leak out of it, down your thighs, and Seth's nimble fingers scoop it up and shove it back inside like in a trance. He clicks his phone off at that, way too flustered at the sight.

A frustrated sigh leaves his lips as he falls back into the uncomfortable bedding of the dorm. Great, now he was rock-hard and had no way of getting off. He had work in two hours, but there was no way he'd be getting any sleep like this. He frowns at his lock screen, a picture of the two of you together. You wouldn't mind if he came home and interrupted your rest that much, would you?

[mrpenguinpants]

Marbled Steps

— Marble requires precision, care, and the right tools for the job. Not so different from people. With too much time, stubbornness, and bandages, even the toughest exteriors can be chipped away.

— Lighter

Part 2: Stepping Stone Light spoilers for Lighter's backstory, I made up most of it. [Masterlist]

When I tell you how long I was uninterested in ZZZ until I got two-hit comboed by Lighter and Harumasa? I went a bit too crazy in the backstory but inb4 zzz rips my headcanon's away from me.

Lighter

When Lighter was first introduced to the Sons of Calydon, you knew he was bad news. It was written all over him. He had the dead-eyed stare of someone just coasting through life on autopilot, a man who moved because he had to, not because he wanted to. His knuckles—split, scarred, and raw—looked more like hardened sinew and calluses than anything resembling normal skin. It was the kind of damage that didn’t come from a single fight but months of them like his fists were tools and nothing more. And then there was his attitude—or lack of it. He didn’t talk much, hardly made eye contact, and moved with an almost mechanical precision. You’d met machines with more personality than that.

You were against him joining from the start. You didn’t care how good of a fighter he might have been or how Big Daddy swore he could be useful. There was something off about Lighter, something unsettling that tugged at the back of your mind like a warning you couldn’t quite articulate. But orders were orders, and Big Daddy’s word was gospel. So you swallowed your irritation, slipped on a pair of gloves, grabbed the man’s rough, battered hand, and dragged him toward your makeshift clinic without so much as a look back. The rest of the group had been watching the newcomer with wary curiosity, but you were more practical. There was no way you’d let those mangled hands spread whatever grime or infection he was carrying to the others. Your first moments with Lighter were marked by the stinging smell of disinfectant and cotton swabs as your audience.

After that disaster of an introduction, you rarely saw Lighter unless it was in brief, passing moments. He never lingered, never stayed to chat, joke, or even let himself absorb the group's chaotic energy. To him, everything seemed to boil down to business, payment, and the next job. He was like a ghost in the group’s midst, always there yet never really present. The Sons of Calydon had their share of larger-than-life personalities, the kinds of people who could fill a room just by breathing, but none of it seemed to leave an impression on Lighter. Everything they threw at him whether it was good-natured teasing, warm camaraderie, or even the occasional shouting match, bounced off him like rain drops against a stone wall. Not a crack, not a chip. For a while, you figured he’d just up and leave, disappearing into the wind in search of whatever suicidal purpose had brought him to this part of the Outer Ring in the first place. It seemed like something he’d do. Pack up without a word, leave everything behind like it didn’t matter, and press forward with the same hollow determination he always carried. And if you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t sure you’d miss him all that much. How do you miss someone who never really lets you know them to begin with?

That’s why the scene you stumbled onto one afternoon caught you off guard and shifted your entire worldview. You’d been walking along the outskirts of Blazewood when you saw a group of thugs closing in on someone. At first, it was hard to tell who they had surrounded, the Outer Ring was full of conflict after all, and gang scraps weren’t anything new. But then you recognized the familiar silhouette. Lighter. He stood in the center of the group, shoulders squared and fists clenched at his sides. The thugs spat words about how “sticking your noses into other people's business,” was against the Outer Ring’s unspoken rules, accusations sharp and heavy with menace. You didn’t catch every detail, but the gist was clear enough. The Sons of Calydon had made enemies and, apparently, Lighter had been dealing with them all on his own. That realization hit you harder than you expected. You hadn’t heard so much as a whisper about conflicts between the Sons of Calydon and the other gangs. Had Lighter been dealing with this on his own? Stepping into fights, taking the heat, and keeping the peace in silence while the rest of you remained oblivious? The thought gnawed at you, unsettling in a way that lingered like a bad taste. It was just like him, wasn’t it? To keep the dirty work quiet, never letting anyone see the mess he was cleaning up.

Naturally—because really, what else could you have expected—Lighter had won the fight, even with the odds stacked heavily against him. It was hard not to feel a flicker of awe watching him fight with nothing but his fists. His movements were raw and unrefined, a brute force approach that relied on instinct and sheer willpower more than precision. Still, there was something almost mesmerizing about it, the way he pushed through every hit like it was nothing, determined to end the fight as quickly as possible so he could move on to whatever errand he thought was more important. But as the group's medic, it made you insane. Watching him use adrenaline like some sort of makeshift painkiller, ignoring injuries that any reasonable person would be on the ground crying about, was enough to make your blood boil. Your medic bay was the only place in the Outer Ring anyone could trust to provide reliable treatment, and Lighter’s insistence on throwing himself into fights like he was made of titanium was testing your patience. Seriously, how the hell was he still walking around like everything was fine after taking a beating like that? The man was a walking contradiction—a fighter who refused to stay down, but also too stubborn to take care of himself afterward. Part of you wanted to stomp over there, shake him until some sense rattled loose, and yell at him to actually rest for once in his life. The other part of you wanted to drag him straight to your clinic and lock him there until he got the idea through his thick skull.

Once the fight was over, the thugs sprawled out and groaning, your patience had enough. You marched over to him, your footsteps heavy with purpose, and stopped just short of planting yourself directly in his way. Lighter, of course, didn’t react to your presence. He probably knew you were there anyway because, on top of being the stubborn wall, he just had to be creepy like that. His knuckles were red and raw, and the bruise already blooming under his eye told you he’d taken a hit harder than he could have if he just stepped back instead of going for that last swing. The blank look he shot you, like nothing was out of the ordinary, only fueled the fire bubbling in your chest.

“Come on, you’re done here,” you snapped, grabbing him by the wrist before he could so much as protest. The man might’ve been stronger than you, but you weren’t about to let him wriggle out of this one. Not today. “We’re going to the clinic, and don’t even think about arguing. You can walk on your own or I’ll drag you, your call.”

Predictably, he grumbled under his breath, his resistance half-hearted at best. You could see it in the way his shoulders sagged—he wasn’t about to fight you on this, not when he was already spent. Still, he made it clear he wasn’t happy about it, his muttered complaints trailing behind you as you led him toward your makeshift clinic.

“If you don’t let me patch you up, I swear to Big Daddy I’m ratting you out,” you warned, casting a sharp glance over your shoulder. “And you know the girls will overreact. I’ll even sit back with some popcorn and watch the fireworks if that’s what you want. So either you cooperate now, or you deal with them later.”

That finally got him to stop grumbling, though he shot you a glare that might’ve been intimidating if you weren’t already used to it. He let out a defeated sigh, dragging his boots as if to make the walk to your clinic as dramatic as possible. A groan escaped him as he muttered, “Whatever you say, firecracker.”

Despite the irritation brewing in your chest at the nickname, you felt a small flicker of satisfaction. At least he was coming with you—albeit reluctantly. You didn’t need to say it out loud, but deep down, you knew this stubborn idiot needed someone to force him to stop. To take a breath. To realize that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to carry everything on his own. And if that meant tracking him down to drag him into your clinic every time he came back battered and bruised, so be it. You've been meaning to work on your arm strength.

Of course, because Big Daddy had a knack, almost like a seer, for spotting the potential in people, Lighter eventually began to change. Slowly, he warmed up to the group, and something shifted in those dead eyes of his. A bit of light returned, faint at first, like the flicker of a dying match, but steady enough to notice. He loosened up, no longer wound so tight that you half-expected him to snap at any second. The coiled tension that once defined his every move started to unravel, replaced by something...well- alive. No longer waiting for someone to tell him what direction to throw his hands. Pieces of his old personality, buried under what felt like miles of dust, mud, and bad memories, began to surface. Little green buds sprouting where you hadn’t thought life could grow. It wasn’t anything dramatic, nothing you’d see in some triumphant moment in the movies, but it was there. Small things. Like the way he'd actually sit down beside you around the campfire rather than brooding in the shadows or how his shoulders seemed just a bit less rigid when you needed to patch him up for the nth time.

He still wasn’t good with names, though. Not at all. The nickname "Firecracker" had seemed to stick and you had rightfully assumed he didn't actually know your real name. But for everyone else? It was like his brain short-circuited whenever he had to recall someone’s moniker. He’d stumble over syllables, brow furrowed like it was the hardest battle he’d ever fought until he finally landed on something almost right. You remembered the time he’d called Caesar “Seasaw” one too many times. The sight of watching him fumble, all rough edges and misplaced vowels, had been funny in a way you couldn’t quite explain that you couldn't help but laugh. Funny, but also strangely endearing. There was something about seeing this man, this stoic fighter who seemed born to brawl, turning pink at the ears, tripping over words like a schoolboy, that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t completely unreachable.

That didn’t mean he stopped getting into fights. Lighter was still Lighter. He kept his demons close, dragging them with him like shadows wherever he went. His fists still led him places, often leaving him knocking on your door at all hours of the day or night. He’d show up with a split lip, scraped knuckles that looked like they’d been dragged across gravel and that same hollowed stare that never quite went away, no matter how much light he’d let in. You’d huff, muttering something about how you weren’t running a full-time hospital, but he’d just sit there quietly as you patched him up, his silence heavy enough to drown out the room. Even though he had never "lost", he didn't look like a winner. Still...it was an improvement that he was at least coming to you rather than hiding away to lick his wounds by himself.

Once, you’d joked that he must like the color of his blood with how often he bled for no good reason. You’d expected him to brush it off, maybe fire back some sharp quip of his own, but instead, he’d muttered—deadpan—that he’d thrown up a few minutes ago just at the sight of it. That shut you up quick. You’d stopped making jokes about his health after that. It wasn’t as funny when you realized how thin the line was that he walked every day, or how much of himself he’d chipped away just to keep going. Baby steps, you had to remind yourself. You weren’t sure what exactly you were hoping for—some grand breakthrough, maybe—but you knew better than to expect too much too soon. Every failed attempt at getting him to crack a smile felt like a loss, but you’d tell yourself it was progress just to keep from giving up on him entirely. You weren’t going to admit it out loud, but part of you had started to care. A little too much, maybe.

While it was a slow and steady climb, everyone eventually reached the top. Sure, you haven’t seen Lighter let out a full-blown laugh like the rest of the group does, and honestly, you think you’d be terrified if you ever did. The idea of Lighter laughing, really laughing, feels like something unnatural, like it’d crack the very foundation of who he was. But still, progress is progress, and you can confidently say that Lighter has earned his place among the Sons of Calydon. He’s become a part of your little-found family, even if he fits into it like a jagged puzzle piece. He didn't even run away this time when you tried to take a picture to commemorate this grandiose development!

When Billy was let loose to pursue his own journey, it felt like the end of an era. Billy had been the group’s champion, the one everyone looked to when the fights got hard or the nights got dark. With him gone, the question of who would step up next loomed over everyone like a heavy cloud. Although, wasn't the answer obvious? It wasn’t more than a few minutes before you found yourself vouching for Lighter. It made sense, didn’t it? He was the best, after all—undefeated in every scrap, a relentless force that never seemed to break no matter what got thrown his way. His fists were as reliable as clockwork, and if anyone could carry the title of champion, it was him. The decision came easy for the group. A few voices of agreement, some claps on the back, and it was done. Lighter himself didn't agree with the results of the poorly run election, a grimace on his face pulling his mouth at odd angles, but alas, once you get the ball rolling there was no stopping. But the moment felt big, even if no one dared to call it that. There’s something about the way a shift like that cements someone’s place in the group, making them more than just a stray taken in. Lighter wasn’t just there anymore; he belonged.

To mark the occasion, Burnice cracked open a can of Nitro Fuel and passed it his way, the group’s rough equivalent of a ceremonial toast. But it was when you stepped forward, holding out something small but significant, that the moment truly landed. A red scarf—fresh, clean, and carefully presented by you, their makeshift doctor. A memento from Billy, just with a few added accessories to fit the newly appointed champion. You weren’t sure if Lighter even understood the weight of the scarf, but he took it without a word. For a heartbeat, you swore you saw something flicker behind his tired eyes—a spark of gratitude and resolve, maybe, or something close to it.

And then it happened. A sound so quiet you almost missed it. A soft laugh, barely more than a breath, escaped Lighter’s lips. It was faint and rough, like a memory of laughter rather than the real thing, but it was there. It wasn’t the kind of laugh you’d expect—nothing loud or joyful—but it was enough to make the moment stick with you. You didn’t comment on it, though. You just smiled and stepped back, letting the rest of the group crowd around him with their half-joking cheers and pats on the back. For all his deadpan looks and quiet stoicism, Lighter was their champion now. And if the soft laugh was any indication, maybe—just maybe—he was starting to believe it too.

Really, that should have been your first warning. A giant, blaring signal complete with flashing red lights and alarm bells. Seeing those lips part in a husky, unguarded laugh that escaped before he could regret it, and watching that light—soft but unmistakable—return to his eyes should’ve told you everything you needed to know: the next few months were going to leave you an absolute mess. How you didn’t notice it sooner is beyond you. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe it was because you had your hands full, or maybe you were just being an oblivious mule. Either way, it hit you like a freight train one day: Lighter was… really handsome. Incredibly so. Unfairly so. As the medic for the Sons of Calydon, you’ve seen more than your fair share of half-naked men and women—enough that the sight doesn’t even faze you anymore. A bare chest is a bare chest when you’re stitching someone up or doing routine physicals. And for the longest time, that applied to Lighter too. If he stomped into your clinic bloodied and shirtless, you were all business. It was just work. Professional.

But now? Now that Lighter had started to loosen up, to let himself belong among the group, you were seeing him in a very, very different light. From playing along with Caesar's ridiculous scenarios, staying sober so Lucy could finally stop playing caretaker and let herself relax, to turning the radio's volume down when he noticed Piper about to drift off to sleep. Most importantly, there was no damn distraction to save you when he pulled off that worn biker jacket and undershirt during sparring matches with Burnice. It made sense, you told yourself. He didn’t want his clothes to catch fire. Burnice’s sparring matches weren’t exactly gentle, and leather jackets weren’t fireproof. It was practical, completely logical—nothing more! Certainly not a ploy to make you feel like you are on the verge of seeing the gates of heaven far too early. And yet, there you were. Frozen. Staring. Watching droplets of sweat roll down the sharp lines of his abdomen like they were defying gravity just to mess with you. Forcing yourself to look away was suddenly a task requiring herculean strength. And the worst part? Your brain didn’t even give you a fighting chance. It wandered without your permission, a little voice whispering things like “Oh, so that’s what a body sculpted by fistfights and bad decisions looks like...what were we thinking about again?"

You were trying to be professional—really, you were—but it was getting harder every single day. Case in point: Lighter had just dropped onto the bed inside the medic bay after another job, peeling off his jacket with that same maddening, careless motion he always had—like undressing in front of you wasn’t a one-way ticket to your complete and utter ruin. And to make matters worse? He didn’t even have any real injuries! There was one—count it, one—itty bitty little cut on the side of his hip. Barely even noticeable. You were convinced he’d probably done it himself just to have an excuse to bother you. How dare he. You dragged in a deep breath, squaring your shoulders as if preparing for battle. Because you need to make it clear, this was life and death for you at this point.

“Really?” you said, deadpan, trying not to look directly at him as he lounged with that infuriatingly calm energy. “You’re out here making a scene over this?”

Lighter tilted his head slightly, his expression neutral but with just enough of a smirk to drive you crazy, “Didn’t say it was bad. Figured you’d wanna check.”

“You mean this tiny paper cut sent you crying here?” You let out an exaggerated sigh, forcing yourself to focus on the tiny cut on his hip as if it were a serious injury—though you couldn’t quite bring yourself to believe that. It was just a scrap. A tiny thing. Yet, there he was, acting like he was on the brink of death. You fumbled with the bandages, your hands betraying you as they shook more than they should have. You stared at the spot, trying to ignore how absurd this whole situation was, but still feeling the pressure of his steady gaze. Your fingers weren’t cooperating, fumbling as you tore off a thin piece of tape. This was supposed to be simple, yet here you were, making a bigger deal of it than it really was.

“Still standing, aren’t I?” Lighter cracked one eye open to glance at you, and for a second—just a second—you thought you saw the faintest glimmer of amusement. This cheeky brat.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered under your breath, finally pulling out the smallest bandage you could find. You crouched beside him, determined to slap it on and get him out of there as quickly as possible. But of course, when you leaned closer to inspect the so-called injury, you realized your mistake. Lighter hadn’t moved an inch, his posture relaxed, like this was just another ordinary moment for him. That lazy confidence of his made everything worse, making it harder to ignore the sharp, defined lines of his stomach, the way his skin felt warm even through the faintest brush of your fingertips. Your breath caught for a split second, but you forced yourself to focus. You swallowed hard, trying not to dwell on the way your pulse was racing, and pressed the bandage over the "wound", not letting your fingertips linger on the soft skin, “There. All better. You’ll live to fight another day, champ.”

You stood up quickly, your movements stiff as you gathered the scattered supplies, and turned your back to him, half out of instinct, half out of necessity. You couldn’t risk him seeing the way your cheeks had flushed, the heat creeping up your neck and settling on your face like an unwanted mark. The last thing you needed was for him to catch on to how much he’d affected you. No, you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing. It would be far too embarrassing, and you definitely weren’t ready to face that kind of vulnerability, not with him, not yet.

Lighter let out a soft chuckle, the sound light and maddeningly soft. You hated how it seemed to echo in your chest, stirring something you couldn’t quite name. It'll be imprinting into the folds of your brain labeled specifically for his laughs because you were a psycho who did things like that, “Told you it wasn’t bad.”

“Next time you come in here for no reason, I’m charging you a medic’s fee. Double if you don’t bleed. Someone’s got to keep you in line,” you shot back, but your voice came out softer than you’d intended, almost warm. You couldn’t help it. The way the sunlight caught him just right, casting gentle shadows across the sharp planes of his face, made everything feel… quieter. For a beat, the air hung heavy between you, thick with something unspoken. His gaze locked onto yours, steady and unreadable, and you felt a strange, unexpected pull.

“Yeah, but if I fall, I know you’ll catch me and pull me back," Lighter’s voice was casual, but it was heavy. Af if he was stating a fact or a universal truth. He tilted his head back against the wall, the gesture almost too relaxed for these words, as if time itself had slowed down just for him. His hand brushed over the bandages you’d carefully placed, the motion languid and unhurried like he wasn’t just tending to a simple injury but savoring the quiet, the stillness between you. Each pass of his fingers over the bandages was deliberate, a slow rhythm that seemed to draw out the moment, making it stretch and linger like he wasn’t in any hurry to go anywhere. What the hell? What are you even supposed to say to that? This is so unfair, super unfair.

“Anyway, you’re good to go,” you said quickly, your voice a little more strained than you intended as you tossed the used wipes into the trash, taking a small step back. You found yourself brushing your hand over your ear, almost absentmindedly, as if trying to shake off the lingering warmth of the moment, or maybe just to steady yourself. You couldn’t quite tell. You checked for any heat under your touch, feeling a bit self-conscious, but the action didn’t feel quite as innocent as it should have. “Try not to get into another fight before dinner, would you?”

You can hear Lighter stand, stretching with a deep, satisfied groan that you definitely didn’t file away in your mental catalog for later, “No promises firecracker. Some fights come lookin’ for me. I'll save you a plate, but don't take too long or I'll eat it instead.”

You rolled your eyes, but despite yourself, you couldn’t fight the smile that tugged at your lips as you waved him away. Damn him. The way he carried himself, so effortlessly fitted into his bones, made your heart do that annoying little flip that you couldn’t quite control. The smile lingered longer than you wanted it to, and you hated how much he could still get under your skin. Baby steps, you'd tell yourself, but still progress.

It wasn’t as if you’d ever expected anything to happen between you and Lighter. Sure, Caesar liked to go on about destiny and how her romance novels always had similar plots, but that didn’t mean anything. You were fine with things the way they were—really, you were. Your feelings weren’t so ridiculous or territorial that you’d go snapping the heads off anyone who talked to him. In fact, you were glad that everyone thought of him fondly. He deserved that. He had a way of drawing people in, making them feel seen, and honestly, it was nice to know you weren’t the only one who appreciated that about him. Still, you just wished everyone would stop trying to play matchmaker. That, quite literally, would be the worst thing ever. Not because the idea of Lighter seeing you as something more wasn’t appealing—it was, and you’d be lying if you said otherwise—but because the Sons of Calydon collectively shared one working brain cell at best. The very thought of them trying to orchestrate a confession or some contrived romantic scenario was mortifying. Caesar, of course, was the ringleader of it all, constantly preaching her philosophy of bold, loud declarations of love, chest puffed up and voice ringing for all the world to hear.

And every time, you’d look her dead in the eye and remind her of the months she spent silently pining over her first love, fantasizing about confessions she never made until it was too late and they’d moved away. That love story had ended not with a bold declaration, but with an awkward goodbye and the realization that she never even liked them in the first place. Besides, the thought of your feelings being laid bare for everyone to see? If that ever happened, you’d find the nearest oil pit and swan dive into it without a second thought. The embarrassment alone would be enough to finish you off. No, it was better to keep things as they were, safe and uncomplicated, even if it meant ignoring the nagging thought of what could be. Some things, after all, were better left unsaid.

Burnice was only marginally better than Caesar. Sure, she wasn’t quite as loud about her “proclaim your burning love and passion” philosophy, but she had her own infuriating quirks—chief among them being her obsession with matchmaking. Maybe all that Nitro Fuel was starting to mess with her brain. She had an uncanny knack for spotting opportunities to stir the pot, and whenever the moment arose, she’d make a scene. Without fail, she’d find some contrived excuse to pull Lighter into your orbit, nudging the two of you together as if proximity alone would somehow spark a whirlwind romance. Never mind the fact that you already knew Lighter well enough—too well, really. You’d seen the man at his lowest, whining like a baby about heatstroke after stubbornly choosing to wear that ridiculous heavy leather jacket in the middle of a blazing afternoon. And yet, Burnice acted like you were strangers in need of a push, her attempts so blatantly obvious that you couldn’t look her in the eye for a week afterward. Those eyes of hers practically sparkled with mischief, and the memory of her smug expression alone was enough to make your skin crawl.

But what made it worse—so much worse—was that Lighter wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t oblivious to the madness unfolding around him, just tripping on the reason why it was happening. Perhaps it was an inside joke at your expense? You’d never forget the moment when he tilted his head, looking at you with that furious concern, about if someone broke your heart and if he needed to knock their lights out. It had been said with such casual sincerity that it had left you utterly speechless, your brain scrambling to decide whether to laugh, cry, or crawl into the nearest hole and never emerge.

Piper and Lucy, thankfully, had a more hands-off approach to the whole situation, though that didn’t mean they left you entirely unbothered. They understood, perhaps better than anyone else, how precarious the balance was. How one wrong step could send everything crashing down. Still, their restraint was only relative. Piper couldn’t resist her playful jabs, her slow teasing remarks always accompanied by that sly, knowing smile. And Lucy, ever the practical one, delivered her opinions with the sharp precision of a scalpel, cutting through your defenses whether you wanted her to or not. You half expected her to whip out a whiteboard filled with colorful markers. They had their arguments ready, like they’d been keeping a running list of evidence to throw at you. Piper, with her casual observations about how Lighter’s gaze lingered a little too long when you weren’t looking, and Lucy, with her unshakable conviction that you were too blind to see what was right in front of you. They’d remind you of the small, unmistakable gestures like the way Lighter’s posture changed when you entered the room, how his relaxed indifference seemed to shift into something sharper, more focused. They noticed how he always managed to save his best, most effortless smiles for you, how he’d offer help to you before anyone else without a second thought. Even your name, spoken in passing, seemed to make him perk up like he couldn’t help but respond to anything that revolved around you. Piper loved to point that out, making it seem like some grand cosmic joke you were too stubborn to get, while Lucy preferred to frame it as a ticking clock. To her, it was only a matter of time before someone else noticed him and decided to take their chances.

A gang of Thirens had made a pit stop in Blazewood, their arrival unexpected but surprisingly uneventful. They’d come seeking nothing more than a place to rest, not to stir up trouble, a rarity in and of itself. Kasa, seeing no problem in lending a hand, had granted them permission to stay, with the firm condition that they kept the peace. To everyone’s astonishment, they honored her terms without so much as a hint of hostility. It wasn’t often rival gangs showed even a sliver of willingness to cooperate, let alone behave like decent human beings. Rarer still were those who managed to charm the locals, but these Thirens were doing just that. Their easy smiles and polite demeanor had disarmed the townsfolk, who quickly warmed up to them. Laughter could already be heard echoing through the streets, strangers turned companions over shared drinks and stories.

But while everyone else seemed content to embrace the unexpected camaraderie, you were about two seconds away from dunking your head into the nearest barrel of cold water. It wasn’t the Thirens’ presence itself that rattled you, nor their good behavior, but something else entirely—an unspoken frustration simmering just beneath your skin. Your nerves felt frayed, stretched taut, and every moment of forced composure only added fuel to the fire threatening to ignite inside you.

You clenched your fists, trying to steady yourself, but the thought lingered: if you didn’t find a way to cool down, you might just explode like one of Burnice’s flamethrowers, leaving nothing but chaos in your wake.

"Wow, what's your workout routine? Your biceps are so defined."

Never mind cooling off, you were going to rip that lynx Thiren’s tail clean off and kick her straight to the curb before you even thought about dunking your head in cold water. The entire time she’d been in Blazewood, she’d grown bolder and bolder with Lighter, testing the limits of your patience with every sly remark and flirtatious gesture. At first, it was casual. A few light touches here and there, a fleeting brush of her hand as she laughed just a little too hard at one of his blunt jokes. You’d told yourself to let it go. She was a guest, after all, and the last thing anyone needed was unnecessary drama. But then she escalated. Full-blown wrapping her tail around his arm under the pretense of "measuring" the circumference of his triceps-to-biceps ratio? That was the last straw. If she was so curious, she could bring all her questions to you. You’d be happy to explain. Preferably while she was running as fast as her legs could carry her out of town.

Before Lighter can even begin to gently but firmly remove the tail from his bicep, another hand comes down with the speed of a strike, swatting the offending limb away with a swift motion—like a cat swatting at an annoying fly. And a cat would be the perfect comparison for how you look at that moment. Teeth bared, eyes narrowed, claws metaphorically out and ears flat against your head in pure, unfiltered territorial instinct. Your hand immediately shoots up to wrap around Lighter’s other arm, the one that hadn’t been tainted by the lynx’s touch, and you pull it to your chest, holding it possessively. There’s no mistaking the intent in the way you hold onto him, the clear message that this one’s taken so back off.

You and the lynx share a pointed, searing glare. Neither of you bothers to mask the silent standoff, both of you sizing the other up in the most primal way possible. There’s no subtlety in this, it truly is an animal kingdom.

"Sorry, miss, but I need to borrow my gang member for some private business. I'm sure you understand," you say, your smile wide and innocent, though the murder in your eyes is as sharp as a blade. You glance up at Lighter with a pointed, almost desperate look, silently urging him to come with you now. Whatever expression you're wearing—serious, frustrated, or somewhere in between—it’s enough for Lighter to nod and start to move. But just as he takes a step, that damn tail wraps around his arm again, yanking him back like some sort of trap. The lynx’s sly, satisfied grin tells you everything you need to know. She wasn’t done playing yet. You grit your teeth. The only thing left to do is bargain with Burnice and make sure that tail goes up in flames. "Accidentally," of course.

"I'm sure your other members can be asked. You're all capable, aren't you?" The lynx sneers, her ear twitching in agitation as her claws come out in warning. You raise your chin, turning your nose up at her in response. You’d like to see her try. If she thought she could take a swing at you without consequence, she was sorely mistaken. The tension thickens, and it’s all too easy to imagine how this might escalate. You can feel your hands already twitching to grab for her, ready to turn this into a full-blown catfight. But before anything hits the boiling point, Lighter tenses beside you. With a quiet, fluid motion, he frees his arm from both your combined grips, gently but firmly pulling away. It’s a perfect, almost effortless escape, and in that moment, he stands between the two of you like the undefeated champion he truly is. Even between two people crying for his attention, he manages to slip by with ease, a subtle reminder that he’s always in control of the situation.

"Sorry, doc's orders," Lighter says smoothly, his voice laced with a calm finality that brooks no argument, "If you need anything, ask any of the Sons of Calydon. Like you said, we're all capable. And if you’re looking to step up your workout, speak to the boss."

Then, as if to punctuate the moment, he places his hand at the small of your back, his fingers blistering hot against your skin. With a slight push, he leads you away, his steps measured and steady, pulling you effortlessly from the chaos. You resist the urge to glance over your shoulder, but a small, spiteful part of you can’t help but wonder what expression the lynx is wearing. Shock? Disbelief? Maybe even a twinge of jealousy? The thought of her standing there, seething with frustration, gives you a twisted sense of satisfaction. You imagine her, the confident, bold creature who thought she had a chance, now left standing in your wake. But, frankly, you’re too absorbed in the rush you’re feeling—surging through your veins like wildfire. The excitement of the moment, and the subtle victory. It’s intoxicating. You feel like you’re walking on air, every step of Lighter’s guiding hand filling you with a heady sense of power. Maybe seeing the gates of heaven early isn’t so bad after all. The thought flickers in your mind, but you can’t bring yourself to care. The world is yours now, and nothing, not even a scorned lynx, can take it from you.

"So, you wanna fill me in on what that was firecracker?"

And just like that, you’re plummeting back to earth, gravity pulling you in hard. What was that? Did you black out for a second? Did some other version of you just take over and make a damn fool out of yourself? When did you get so bold, so… possessive? Your heart pounds in your chest as you replay every move, every look, every gesture, and it makes you want to crawl into a hole and never come out. Mass hysteria, that’s it. That’s the best explanation. Maybe you’re just dreaming, wrapped up in some fevered nightmare. Any second now, you’ll wake up, face buried in a pillow, your heart still racing from the humiliation, and you’ll scream bloody murder into it, swearing never to think about today again. Or… maybe, if you're really unlucky, you’ll throw yourself into the nearest oil pit just to escape this entire disaster. Either way, neither outcome seems particularly comforting, and you’re starting to think maybe both sound equally tempting right now.

"Heat stroke-induced hallucinations. I honestly have no idea what you're talking about," you blurt, the words coming out quicker than your brain can catch up. You force yourself to sound blasé, like you don’t care like it wasn’t a big deal. But deep down, you know it’s a pathetic attempt at saving face. The lie slips off your tongue like water, but it’s as fragile as glass. Lighter’s response is immediate, a bark of laughter that fills the air around you, genuine and light, the kind that could make anyone laugh along, but at this moment, it only makes the pit in your stomach deepens. He knows exactly what you’re doing. He knows you—and here you are, pretending to be clueless.

The silence hangs between you both, a strange mix of relief and tension, and you can’t decide whether it’s a kindness from Lighter—letting you escape the awkwardness—or if he’s just as unsure of what to say next as you are. Either way, it's slowly driving you mad. You can feel your thoughts swirling, like a tornado of "What do I do now?" and "Did I just make a huge mistake?". Hell, you even jumped up from your seat and hissed like some wild animal. You glance at Lighter, his easy stride never faltering, the faintest hint of some satisfied smile still lingering on his lips. It's the perfect opportunity, he doesn't even look freaked out which means even if he doesn't reciprocate your feelings, he won't run for the hills. Lighter had followed you. He’d walked right alongside you, and then—he put his hand on your back. It’s still there. You can feel the warmth of it, his fingers almost too casual as they rest on you, a small gesture that has your insides doing flips.

Should you just go for it?

The thought of him being swarmed by others, other people constantly hanging around, making it harder to even get a moment alone with him, suddenly makes everything feel urgent. And the weirdest part? You can’t help but wonder if, for once, it’s your chance to actually get ahead of the chaos. But then there’s the other side of your brain, the one telling you to be careful. The one that reminds you that if this goes wrong, you’ll have to live with the consequences of letting things spiral out of control. It's all too much, too fast, but here you are, standing in the middle of the storm, unsure of whether you’re about to leap into it or run the other way.

Ah, screw it. Big Daddy didn't raise a quitter.

"Lighter, I—" You stumble over your words, your thoughts scrambling as you take a shaky breath, trying to summon the courage to say whatever it is that’s been building up inside you. For a moment, the familiar walls you’ve carefully constructed around yourself seem to crumble, and you feel the weight of it all. The hesitation, the fear, and your own uncertainty. You turn to look up at him, and your breath catches in your throat. He’s already watching you, eyes soft and steady, not teasing or playful as usual. This time, there’s something different, something deeper. Softer, quieter, more malleable. It’s as if he’s been waiting for you for a long time now. Is this what Lucy was referring to when your back was turned?

"Yeah?" he prompts gently, his voice low and coaxing, as if he knows you need a little push but won’t rush you. His eyes remain fixed on yours, unblinking and patient, making the air feel thick with anticipation. You hesitate, but only for a moment. The weight of his gaze doesn’t feel as heavy as it once did. Instead, it makes your heart race in a way that feels... almost comforting. You can feel the nerves slipping away, the words starting to form at the edge of your tongue.

"I—uh..." You pause, taking a steadying breath, and this time the words come easier, "I just wanted to say that... I don’t think I’ve said it enough, but I really appreciate you. More than you probably know. I know I don’t always show it, but...I-"

You glance up at him again, afraid of what you might see. Would he laugh it off? Or, worse, would he back away? Instead, you find his expression unreadable, but not unkind. There’s something in his eyes that you can’t quite place—a flicker of surprise, maybe, or understanding—but you don’t regret it. Not now. Not when you’ve finally let it out.

"I just wanted to say that I li-"

"Yo! There you both are! I've been looking everywhere for you!"

You jump away from Lighter as though he’d just set you on fire, a startled screech bubbling up in your throat before you force it down, stamping it out with all the dignity you can muster. Your heart pounds, and for a split second, you feel the world tilt on its axis. You whip your head around to find Caesar jogging toward you, waving her hand in the air like it’s just another day, completely unaware of the moment she’s just walked in on. Oh, sweet, oblivious Caesar...

"The Thirens challenged us to a friendly match! We can’t exactly go in without our Champion! You free to scuffle, Lighter? Oh, and if anything bad happens, I’m counting on you, Doc!" She beams at you both, her enthusiasm practically radiating off her, and just like that, you feel a little bit of the tension slip away. It’s impossible to stay mad at her when she’s looking at you like that. So full of excitement and energy, completely unaware of the chaos she just walked in on. Lighter, for his part, looks like a newborn fawn. His usual confident swagger seems to falter for a moment as he scratches the back of his neck, a slight blush creeping up his neck that he clearly tries to hide behind a forced grin. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly caught off guard by the sudden interruption.

"Uh, yeah, I’m in for a friendly match," he says, but his voice is a little too hesitant, a little too unsure. He glances at you like he's not entirely sure what to do next. “But, uh... firecracker, you're still good to patch me up afterward, right? Just in case things... get out of hand?”

He gives you a lopsided smile, and for a second, you almost want to laugh at how unlike him he seems right now. You can’t help but feel a bubble of laughter rise out of you as the sheer absurdity of the situation hits you like a ton of bricks. The way Lighter is standing there, all awkward and fidgety, avoiding eye contact and tripping over words. You feel ridiculous, and you can’t tell if you're cringing more at how completely out of character this is or at how you’re both so blatantly fumbling through it.

You’re definitely not the smooth, cool-headed person you thought you were.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll be there," you say, stumbling over your words like a clumsy fool. "Making sure you don't... uh, turn into a human pincushion, or whatever."

You wince the second the words leave your mouth. Human pincushion? Seriously? You could've come up with something better, but no, this is what happens when your brain turns to mush. You quickly look away, almost as if you're trying to disappear, but your cheeks are already burning, and there's no escaping it now. Lighter, looking just as silly, rubs the back of his neck in a way that makes him seem a little too much like a lost puppy. He’s not even trying to be smooth. He manages a half-smile, but it’s so awkward that it’s almost endearing.

“Right. Yeah, no one wants that. I’ll... leave the stabbing to the Thirens, I guess,” he says with a half-nod as if that makes any sense at all. It’s like the two of you are desperately trying to play it cool, but you’re both failing spectacularly. But then, like a breath of fresh air, Caesar’s cheery voice cuts through the ridiculousness. She grins, completely unaware of the awkward dance you two just performed.

"Great! Let’s go! We’re gonna show the Thirens who’s boss!"

And just like that, you both get swept up in her energy, still feeling a little bashful but grateful for the distraction. You chance a look at Lighter to see that he is doing the same, instantly averting both your eyes to the very interesting ground. Still, the top of the mountain is within sight.

Baby steps.

[r0-boat]

Please please I need him!!

ZZZ Lighter NSFW ALPHABET

Listen I know I'm writing for him before he comes out shut up!! Let me be Delulu and kiss him

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

He likes to hold you close and feel up your body, lay his lips on your skin and tell you how good you were. He likes to talk about everything you did to make him cum.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Your hips, something nice to grab onto soft or muscular he doesn't care He likes the feeling of his finger into your soft skin.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He likes to shoot his cum all over you and inside you but what really gets him off something he's kind of embarrassed about is seeing your face covered in his cum. It does things to him.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

One time the two of you play wrestled when you were being a brat and annoying him and he feeling his big hands grasped around your wrists and you're squirming body brushing against his Light got so hard.

It took him hours to calm down. And now all he can think about is manhandling you and pinning you to the ground like a real villain taking you by force with pure strength. It's not something he would ever do to you obviously.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Lighter has had partners before. So he knows what he's doing but he'd rather know what you like come on you can tell him he promises he'll be gentle.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

He likes when you sit in his lap His fingers digging into your ass or hips bouncing you up and down, where He can see your whole body and kiss you if he wants to.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He does goof off when he sees how stressed you are. He wants you to enjoy this as much as he is. To make you relax he'll make you laugh maybe crack a joke or two.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He shaves every now and then so he doesn't have to worry about his hair down there for a while when he's on the road or doing something else.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

He doesn't do it often but when he does Your heart will be so full to the point of bursting.

His favorites include late night rides under the stars before taking you. Massaging your shoulders before His hands start dipping lower and lower. Drawing you a warm bath and then slipping inside with you when you're not looking.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Lighter masturbates a lot, a lot more than he should. He can't help how he feels about you. Be prepared for a dick pic.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

I can see him like marking. Bite marks and hickeys and he'll make sure people see them. I can also see him liking restraints, Cuffs, rope or his own hands He wants to make sure you're nice and submissive.

He's a bit of a brat tamer as well.

He wants to degrade you but also praise you at the same time.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Doing it somewhere in public like an alleyway getting a rush at the idea of someone walking in on him taking you raw. But don't worry you're pretty little head He knows the outer ring like the back of his hand no one's gonna see you, The only person who gets to hear and see you like this is him.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Anything with risk involved. Something that really gets his adrenaline pumping. Whether it be fucking in public, breeding you, rough housing, or you sending a risky text. Catch him off guard and he'll be at your door in seconds.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He will not, under any circumstances. Share you with anyone. He doesn't like sharing.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He prefers receiving, He would love nothing more than your pretty little mouth taking more than you can handle his cum running down your overfilled mouth.

But He does not mind at all watching you ride squirm and scream his name on his tongue.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He apologizes if he slams his hips to roughly and to you sometimes he doesn't know his own strength. When he gets so caught up and how much and tight you squeeze him, he might go a little harder than he wants to. Sometimes he'll get carried away and start moving his hips faster.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Yes. He'll mess up your guts then send you off to your friends.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Oh he experiments anything to keep you on your toes. And when it comes to risky sex... He lives for it! What an adrenaline junkie...

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He's a fighter, He's fit and he tends to have more stamina which is good for him since he likes to force orgasms out of you like it's nothing not so good for you...

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He's okay on toys. He understands that toys can be used to tease you more or heighten your pleasure but he rather be the only one inside you. Maybe he could use it to fill your other holes.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He can't help that such degrading words slip from his tongue. He doesn't try to use them often. And he'll tease you till you beg. He wants to hear those sweet words and those cute little eyes fill with tears and you're quivering little lips.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Pretty quiet The most you'll get out of him is grunts stifled moans or growls.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Lighter can be pretty possessive as a partner. Mostly protective. And it kind of shows during sex.

Almost exclusively calls you pet names. But every now and then on rare occasions when you got him so worked up he will say your name.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Big cock with heavy full balls, it's thick veiny and uncut.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

He may not look it, He is always down to fuck you. He always wants to have you if he wants to he could use you everyday.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Can easily last a couple rounds and even then the first thing he does is shower after he waits for you to fall asleep.

[sakumz]

a/n : istg I didn't think I'd cry so early in the year, there goes my one month streak of not crying hjhj and when i cry IT WONT STOP anyways I wanted to write a new years fic but darn it! inspiration isn't hitting um anyways cw reader cries.

____________________________________________

[ l. lighter, a. harumasa, l. seth x gn reader ]

____________________________________________

when lighter decides to open up with you about his past at chesetopia, he wasn't expecting you to cry. was it too chessy? was it too early to tell you this? he thought you were ready since you were his long time lover or friend to lovers, well you were a long time friend of his to lovers.

um either way, he didn't want you beating around the bush about his past. sure idiots come up to him, wanting a fight and they bring up fragments of his past. when he looks back at you, you only tilt your head in confusion. not knowing what the idiot was sprouting.

he shoves the tissue box at your direction, offering to order you a pudding but you shake your head. calming your last tears as you finally look up at him. red teary eyes staring back at him.

" i-im sorry, " he falters at your face. you can't help but chuckle softly.

" no I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cry over your past. it's just so sad that you lost everyone and- " you feel another wave of tears floating back at the thoughts of him being alone. he quickly walks over to sit next to you, patting your back in an attempt to comfort you.

was this like a sad show to you? he can't help but laugh a little. he didn't cry over his past self nor would he ever expect someone to cry over it for him.

" hey, it's fine really. I'm no longer alone you know, since I've got you and the sons of Calydon. " he smiles at you as you feel your face flush.

" yeah, you're right. I'm glad you're all safe and sound! please keep living happy, " you press a kiss to his cheek as a subtle blush grew but he quickly clears his throat to calm down any racing thoughts.

" I can easily live happy as long as you're around. "

---

another playful argument with harumasa. who would've thought this one would send the other one crying. you sniffle at your desk beside him, aggressively rubbing at your eyes. you excuse yourself but harumasa grabs your hand, yanking you back to your chair. you glare at him as he can't help but smile at the awkwardness.

" haru- asaba. " you said sternly, yanking your hand away.

" if you need to cry, just do it here. " he says so casually, making you rage. did he not care? it's embarrassing to be crying in an office. no less with the chief and deputy chief around.

" I really hate you! " you slam your hands on the desk, making a run to the toilet as yanagi voice fades in the background.

you've splash water multiple times on your face to cool and calm down. sure he probably didn't mean any words during the playful batter but it did strike your nerves when he called you the weakest fighter in all of H.A.N.D! he's the weakest person alive in H.A.ND!? you've work hard to keep up with everyone at section six, your efforts should be complimented and recognised, not thrown away so simply. wasn't it impressive to use a sniper or wield two swords? there's missions where you got to use your beloved sniper, to shoot the etereals and clear the path for your chief.

with one last huff, you decide to finally exit the washroom. your soft heel clicks come to a stop, when harumasa grabs you. pining you on the wall with both hands caging you.

you look away, a pout on your face as his gaze softens.

" I'm sorry. " he starts.

" you better be, " you step his toes as he winches but he doesn't move.

" you're not the weakest fighter in all of H.A.N.D and its pretty ironic hearing it from the weakest human alive, " he laughs as you glared at him to shut up and he quickly stops.

" I know you've worked hard and! it was really a slip of the tongue. I didn't mean anything I said and I'm really sorry it got to you. you're so talented and beautiful and I love you so much. break up with me if you don't believe a word I said. " he let's go of you and you pretend to think for a moment. it's too easy to let him get away with this. it did upset you heavily and he deserves to learn a lesson.

" alright let's break up, " you walk away, leaving him stunned for a moment before he's dashing behind you.

" protect me miyabi and yanagi! " you ran behind them. as harumasa stops to catch his breathe.

" is this one of your games? " yanagi asks as you shook your head.

" he won't leave me alone! " you whined as miyabi looks at the dishevelled harumasa.

" I say, you both should make up to this. don't come back until you're both okay, " she sholves both of you out of the office. locking the doors behind.

" I really hate you, " you spat as he sighs. thanking the chief for giving him an opportunity. he forcefully drag you to one of the seating areas in H.A.N.D. you seat yourself in one of the sofa, big distance away from him as he laid on one of them.

" have you broken up with asaba, l/n? " a co-worker walked past as he winks at you.

" why, yes I have. " harumasa quickly sits up, upon hearing the flirts and what not.

" no we have not broken up! " he shouts at the co-worker as he pushes him away.

he kneels next to you, hand in yours as you look away. he really doesn't want to let you go.

" y/n l/n. we can't break up! what about the child we have? " you try to pry your hands but it's not working.

" that's your child! " it really did sound like one was having an affair, a really interesting drama that some colleagues can't help but eavesdrop behind the walls.

" asaba, let go of me. "

" no way, " he jumps to hug you as you're just stuck, hoping the sofa swallows you whole. this is so embarrassing.

" I don't want to break up, and I'm really sorry for everything I've said. you mean so much to me and even if you were the weakest or the strongest I would still protect you, " he pleaded with you, voice so soft and fragile it sounded like he's about the cry.

" get off me, " you croaked. a few tears fell but you managed to quickly calm down. he pulls away, shocked slapped to his face.

" I didn't mean to make you cry! "

" I'm not crying! I'm sorry... for being difficult, " he pats your head, fondness in his eyes. he really does and truly loves you.

" you're not the difficult one... "

" I'm glad you've got self awareness. "

---

to think you'll be bawling your eyes out over a sad romance movie with seth next to you at the cinema, asleep.

the male lead protects the female lead and dies a tragic death protecting her. he didn't get to say he loves her before closing his eyes. seth stirs awake at your hiccups and trembling body.

panics fills him as he turns to you.

" huh! what's wrong? y/n did you hurt yourself?! " his panic voice fills the whole cinema, as everyone turns to the two of you hushing and glaring for ruining the moment. the movie was about the end. you take his hand and excuse yourself out.

maybe watching a sad romance wasn't the best idea for a break.

" I'm fine, the movie was just... too bittersweet that it got me thinking if that was me and you. " the sudden thought was about to bring you to tears but seth quickly pull you into a hug.

he didn't watch much besides the part where both characters were introduced. a security guard meets a cute cafe waitress. you weren't a cute cafe waitress but a pretty pubsec officer like him!

" what happen? " he runs his fingers in your hair. you hum slowly.

" the male lead dies for the female lead. "

" I'd do the same but I'll try to survive in the accident too. " you deadpan how can he survive when it was a killer stabbing the male lead multiple times from the back as he shielded himself for the girl?

you pull away as you wipe your tears.

" the male lead was getting back stabbed... "

" oh! I'll apprehend the killer, you saw me do it before. " he smiles as you pat his head. sure he'll protect you, but he'll definitely stop any tragedies from happening first.

" the movie sucked, didn't it? " you asks as both exits the cinema.

" yeah, what a lame security... "

[mini-ism]

#— NAUGHTY.

pairings: lighter x afab!gn!reader [MDNI]

words: 1,630

synopsis: caesar finds some particularly compromising videos on lighter’s phone when she shouldn’t be looking.

warnings: p in v, hair pulling, accidental voyeurism, praise kink, filming, amateur porn, rough intercourse, biting, blow jobs, light degradation (he could never be unkind to u), unprotected intercourse, afab reader (gender neutral, no pronouns/feminine terms). 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

notes: crossposted to AO3. ive been procrastinating this post ha

caesar knew she shouldn’t be snooping through lighter’s phone like this.

not without his permission, of course. she was just curious, she swore, just taking a peek at whatever dumb images he saved. maybe some of cute bangboo, or screenshots of tight leather jackets he might treat himself to later.

there was the occasional obligatory photo of him and the girls they insisted he take, of course some jackets and sunglasses he was looking at in person, photos of adorable animals he encountered on the streets. one question remained persistent — where were the photos of you he had saved? she’s seen him look down at his phone to peek at your texts, saving the selfies you sent him. caesar snuck a glimpse of his phone in her peripheral, pictures of you with a treat, or holding up a peace sign with a mutual friend. she couldn’t deny the smile that spread across his face, despite whatever you and him were.

but, extraordinarily enough, his camera roll was terribly boring. her thumb scrolled further, noting the organized folders on his phone. “friends,” “cute,” and an unnamed one. if only caesar’s snooping stopped there.

mindlessly, half expecting nothing, the barrage of photos and videos loaded. so this is where he kept everything he had of you? how adorable. caesar chuckled to herself at the occasional dumb photo of either you or him, there was a striking one of him in pigtails. his face was red with embarrassment, arms crossed and pouting like a fussy child, his hair in two short and choppy pigtails on each side of his head. that was surely a look. the next picture was a selfie of you and him with ice cream, he didn’t know he had a bit on his face while taking it.

the photos ranged from photos of you beaming next to an adorable kitten, to sultry photos you sent him late at night, pictures of you on his lap, images of you kissing him. okay, now she should put his phone down and pretend she never saw anything. nope, never touched it, didn’t look at all. the nagging voice in her head demanded she keep looking, intrigue getting the best of her. it was cute, she thought, what’s the harm?

the next swipes displayed a string of lewd photos back-to-back, some of you in a suggestive pose or kissing his neck.

oh my god.

oh. my. god.

she kicked herself internally for not putting his phone down earlier, nearly choking on her own spit. there it was, on his phone screen, a video of his dick right in front of your face. thankfully the volume was lowered, she pressed the side button a few times just in case, silencing it entirely. the video continued to play, your head in his lap as he sat on the edge of his bed, your body to the side as he held the phone down to capture the lewd sight at an entirely different angle. you slapped his shaft against your cheek a few times, giggling with amusement as his heavy cock made brief contact with your skin. after a few strokes, you ran your tongue down his length, making your way back up with a kiss to the tip. your tongue jutted back out to give a few more licks to the slit, licking up as much pre-cum as you could.

lighter’s free hand cupped your cheek, stroking the jawbone on the side of your face that you previously teased him with. his thumb then pulled the fat of your lip, bringing it down with a motion before letting it go. you eagerly swallowed his cock, only managing to take in a good few inches. lighter’s arm draped around your neck and shoulders, allowing you to suck his dick with no assistance. caesar looked around a few times, ensuring she was totally alone before upping the volume enough for only her to hear.

immediately, she could hear the lewd noises of your tongue and mouth working, your dominant hand stroking the base of his shaft as your lips managed the rest. lighter gave a few gentle praises, urging you further, his low groan ringing in her ears as you gagged trying to take more than you could handle. the video ended after you came up for a breath, stroking his cock as it rested by your cheek, your gaze loving and playful. it glistened with a thick sheen of spit.

with a shaky thumb, she swiped over to the next video. this one was filmed by you, angling the camera downwards enough. it looked like you two were in missionary, lighter on top of you. his voice could be heard, hand ungloved as it snaked down to stroke his cock a few times. he didn't have his jacket on anymore, either, sporting a shirtless look. his body was incredibly scarred, but his skin carried its own handsome charm. she could decipher the last few words he said, “— relax, i’ve got you. ‘kay?”

her eyes flicked down to you, as his hand moved to pull your underwear out of the way. he didn’t even bother taking them off, tucking them in the junction of your thigh and pussy. everything from the midriff down was exposed as you kept your legs spread open for him. your breathing was labored and shallow, likely from arousal. his hand tugged you closer to him, lining himself up with you. as he slid in, he pressed his hand onto the skin over your womb, applying a firm pressure. caesar could hear your cries, whiny and needy, his thumb immediately offering a semblance of comfort by dragging along your clit. his other hand grabbed the underside of your thigh, starting to pull out. his movements were loving and deliberate, attentive to your moans and shakes. your hands struggled to keep his phone stable as he picked up the pace, “you’re doing amazing, keep taking me.”

the video after was in a different position, his phone returned back to its original owner. the other hand held your arm back as he plowed into you from behind, face down and ass up. only your sobs of pleasure and the sound of skin against skin could be heard. his camera was angled perfectly to capture the unfiltered action, his cock sliding in and out of you with ample ease. with a grunt, he pulled your arm again, fucking into you with brutal thrusts. caesar never heard lighter curse that much in a few seconds, not even when he was seething with unbridled rage or injured and battered. “fuck, yeah, you like that? i know you do. goddamn tight, can’t live without this dick.”

the next video had another angle, his phone propped up against something presumably on his nightstand. lighter had both hands on your hips now, rocking your body back and forth as he dragged his hips in and out of your cunt. she could hear the bed frame below you two creaking and thudding against the wall. he was hunched over you, muttering in your ear between breaths, some words unsavory and vulgar, others sweet and encouraging. “need me? you need me to fuck you? you’re doing so good. you won’t let go of me, even if i tried to pull out.” his chest and abs were covered in sweat, locks dampened from the intensity. his lips trailed kisses from your ear, varying in intensity as they went down your neck. he nipped the skin, sucking it with feverish passion, biting your earlobe as he tugged at the hair above the nape of your neck. lighter pulled tightly, savoring your throaty mewl, “you love me? you love it when i fuck you? come for me. show me how much you love it.”

you muttered a few unintelligible words, grabbing at the sheets beneath you as your body shook with fervor, tears welling in your eyes with each helpless moan. lighter pulled harder, fingers intertwined deeply in your hair. in an instant, you trembled harder and cried out. wiggling your hips back and forth, seeking sensation to ride out your orgasm. lighter pulled your head back by the hair, spine arching as he pulled you up, knees still on the bed. you sobbed at the loss of his length inside you, suddenly feeling empty. lighter whispered in your ear, panting and flushed, stroking himself quickly. “that’s it, let me hear you, can’t help but come on my cock.”

with a final, deep stroke, lighter came on the lower part of your back right below the arch. your shoulder blades were flush against his chest. caesar paused the video, heat much more noticeable on her face and through her body. her cheeks were burning red, heart racing at the taboo of watching two people have sex. people she would argue she knows quite well. she closed out of his camera roll and put his phone down, turning it off.

the carnal lust in those videos she saw just couldn’t leave her. should she return his phone, or take a cold shower? should she leave it be, or mention she saw them having sex on his phone? no, no, nothing! don’t say a word at all. she didn’t see anything, she didn’t look through anything compromising. caesar sat in silence for a few more moments, processing what she had just discovered, jumping in her seat as lighter returned.

“hey, did you see my phone?” he approached her as she sat, his phone still in front of her on the table, “oh, there it is. thanks, boss.” lighter didn’t seem to notice her pale and clammy complexion, easily going about his business, unlocking it to send a text.

“yup.” caesar could only muster an uncharacteristically weak thumbs up.

[roseyodditea]

early in a relationship with a sudden needy and touchy lighter?🥺

I told myself I'd get around to writing this after studying for exams and that was... TWO WEEKS AGO!?? WHOOPSIE!!!

Surprise Visit - Lighter x gn!Reader

Summary -> 700 words. Cute little wake up to a clingy Lighter. Warnings -> Not proofread. Written on little sleep. A/N -> I am so sorry this took so long to write. I'm an engineering major and had five exams in two weeks (I did good on all of them tho)

Lighter is a hard man to get close to. There are very few people he let closer than just an arms length away, like a feral alley cat. You had practically snuck your way in through his defenses with a few well placed pushes from Ceaser and one too many times Burnice “accidentally” left you two alone. It worked like a charm, of course, and before you knew it Lighter was taking you out on motorcycle rides under the stars, riding into New Eridu just to grab a coffee with you, and even upgrading his phone just so he could text you more consistently. 

You stirred awake at an hour far too early only to see a text from Lighter gracing your phone screen.

Lighter <3: “Busy today?”

Rolling over lazily to snatch your phone off of the nightstand, you squint at the light before tapping a quick reply.

You: “It’s too early to think but I’m pretty sure I’m free. What’s up?”

Lighter <3: “Can I come spend time with you?”

You thought for a moment. This was the third time this week he had asked to come to New Eridu. First it was wanting to rent a new movie from Random Play, then it was wanting to walk around around the river, and now it looks like he doesn’t even have an excuse. 

You: “Of course :)”

Shortly after sending the text, you fell back asleep, wanting to sleep until at least the sun came up. Your dream was disjointed and confusing, your body hot and uncomfortable when you woke up. You toss the blanket off of your shoulders clumsily, fist colliding with something. 

“Ow…” You suddenly jolt awake, looking over. “Lighter? Why…. How?”

“You didn’t answer the door. I thought I’d let myself in.” He rubs his nose where you had hit him. 

“The door was locked.” “I let myself in.”

“You don’t have a key.”

“I let myself in.”

“How?” You smile as you prop yourself up on your elbow, looking at the way he was laying on his back, an attempted respectful distance between you two. You broken the distance and reached out to touch his nose, making sure you didn’t actually do damage when you accidentally punched him.

Lighter melted under the touch, like a cat in the middle of a sunbeam. “I didn’t break anything, I promise.”

“Do I need to upgrade my locks?” You guide him to roll on his side so the bright light of the sun was behind him, highlighting his body in an almost angelic way. 

“Oh absolutely. Anyone with a cheap lockpick set can get in.” He drops his voice to a tone, not wanting to disturb the bubble of comfort around the two of you.

A comfortable moment of silence hangs in the air, Lighter looking at you with uncharacteristicly soft eyes, like you were the most precious thing he had. 

“When you asked to hang out, I didn’t know you meant as soon as I woke up. What are you running from, Lorenz?” You tease as you trace a finger down his jaw, feeling he had shaved his stubble off right before coming over. 

Lighter took your hand and kissed the pads of your fingers. “I’m not running from anything. I’m running towards you…”

He gives that genuine look, his guard almost entirely let down at this point. The words were borrowed, of course, probably from a book Ceaser was reading, but the fact he said it counted for a lot in your heart. 

“You’re hopeless.” You scoff and bring the blanket around the both of you, no longer caring how warm you felt.

“You like it.” Lighter immediately capitalizes on the closeness, holding you tightly against his chest, hiding his face in your hair. 

“I do… Quick little nap and then breakfast at the cafe?”

“Sounds perfect.”

**********

The ‘quick little nap’ turned into a several hour long nap, both of you feeling too safe and comfortable to even think about getting up. When you finally woke up for the last time, you were now on your back, Lighter’s head on your chest, the rest of his body draped over yours, arms tight around your stomach. You were trapped. 

“Lighter?” You nudge gently, trying to wake him up.

“No..” He squeezed tighter, hiding his face. “Please… let’s just stay like this… I need this… Need you…”

“Oh how could I ever say no to you?”

[bertieorangy]

Y/N : I’m serious! You look good, anybody would be lucky to have you, an—and you’re such a good person, like—

Lighter : So date me.

Y/N :

Y/N : what

Lighter : So date me.

Y/N : I mean I’m not…

Lighter : You said I’m a good person, so date me.

Y/N : yeah but—

Lighter, corners them to the wall : You said anybody would be lucky to have me, so be lucky.

Lighter, tips their chin up : Date me.

[queenendless]

○•°♡ GIFT ♡°•○

A/n: Dropped Phantom Parade all to play this game for my #1 man who is the reason being me playing a Hoyo game. Everything about him is too good to ignore. So forgive me for this writing dump.

~Also this is now an impromptu piece for his birthday today so happy birthday you beautiful man~

Pairing: Adult!Lighter Lorenz x F!Adult!Reader

CW: Kinda spoilers for the game, but basically fluff/intimacy with our dear Champ. My first time writing for Zenless and for Lighter so please go easy on me. I hope you enjoy.

“Hey there.”

Butterflies raced through you, nerves getting to you, as the sight of the Red Scarf Champion walked through the front door the moment you walked in from the parking lot, trolley filled with sealed boxes stuffed with new inventory.

“L – Lighter.” Your heart skipped a beat as his amused grin grew.

“Are the managers around?”

“No, they had to make an emergency run and won't be back for a while. Left me and Eous in charge in the meantime.” You avert your gaze, turning your back to him to focus on settling the weighty box at the top of the stack down on the floor, using your box cutters to pry it open, eyeing the newly obtained video tapes. A looming shadow enveloped you as a tape was presented right before you.

“In that case, here. I’m returning this video.”

“Thank you. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Actually, there is.” You gulped at how easy it was for him to take the second to last packaged box from the trolley and rested it on his bicep, literally flexing his strength for your eyes only. “If I asked you to go out with me, would you?”

Your brain screeched to a halt, winding back the reel tape, in the hopes of making sense of how you had gotten to this point.

The fact of the matter is, the past few weeks were spent readjusting to a new life in New Eridu on Sixth Street, bunking with the siblings, and working for them full time as compensation for all their aid, you had seen this man around Radio Play as long as you have been there.

Introducing you two to each other and explaining your situation, Wise and Belle exchanged knowing looks as Lighter offered his gloved hand for you to shake, your mesmerized gaze and smitten smile not going unnoticed.

And ever since then, every time he visited the store to either commission them or just to rent another tape, your nervous shy smile and waves resulted in his sole pupil peaking out over his shades twinkling intriguingly, lips curling, as he chuckled softly at your goofy self trying not to stare too much while nearly knocking into the store counter with packages still in your arms. Belle’s exasperated giggle filled the air as she tugged you in the staff room, Wise sheepishly apologizing on your behalf.

So how did all that come to this?

“Excuse me?”

The surprised look he gave had him clearing his throat, setting his box down, awkwardness showing through, featuring a new side of Lighter for your viewing pleasure. “Going out. D – Dating. With … me. Just you and me.”

“Uh … can I ask … what brought this on?”

“To be honest, being the Champion for the Sons of Calydon has always been my highest priority. It didn’t leave me much room for dating. But before, I never really thought much about it, believing that I had all I needed.” He fell so in tune with you, helping you unload and slide those tapes in the display racks, his shoulder brushing yours so slyly. “Despite the fans and admirers I’d gotten over time, I was never interested. Until recently, that is.”

The friction that came in, the air thick with such sexual tension, had you turning the corner to the other side of the display, stealing a glance at him, in between slotting in some tapes. “I see.”

He had on quite the bashful expression to get you going doki doki. That small red tint to his cheeks and him coughing into his gloved fist made you gush internally. “I am serious, though. I get that I can be stoic and intimidating. But just being around someone that’s as gentle and carefree as you kinda – no, really – lightens me up.” The sudden cringe got a laugh outta you, his lopsided grin got you blushing more. “Even your laugh is adorable. And that blush … I just can’t get enough of you.”

You got a tickle in your dry throat, ducking your head, remembering you still had his return tape in your grasp. A rom com. You then felt those leather bound fingers brushing yours holding said videotape. You flinched back at how close his face had gotten the moment you looked up.

“I can see I make you nervous. I don’t mean to … but I admit … it is kinda cute.” Pressing the videotape to your face to hide your flustered state was as futile as it was enjoyable to him. “And trying to hide your face just makes me wanna see it more.” His gentle yet firm prying, pulling the tape away and setting it aside, he grinned at spotting your pouting look. “I’m asking you, not as the Red Scarf Champion of the Sons of Calydon, but as Lighter … will you be my girl?”

The arrow did pierce your heart at his honest confession.

Oh, how can he be so cute and handsome all at once?!

The sudden tug on his red scarf by you pulled his face in, right into yours, as your timid chaste kiss met his lips. A few slow gestures had him curling against such sweet succulence.

“Yes.”

Your whispered consent got him going.

Such smooth swift movement swooped in like a blur, expected from a former boxer, as his arm draped snugly around your sides to make you spin at how easily you melted within his grasp. Your touch starved self never thought they’d ever be satiated, let alone by the very man you couldn’t help but fall for the day you met him in the flesh; his handsome, noble, honor bound self.

His gloved hand weaved through your hair, held the back of your head, pulled you gently closer, ready to make his own kiss go deeper. Your hum brought delight to his ears, sensually moving with your lips, to pull more pleased sounds out of you. Your hands trailed up his jacketed chest, careful when moving through the spiky details, brushing the nape of his neck, giving him goosebumps as your sneaky fingers gently but firmly massaging his skin.

“Keep turning me on like that … and I'll really never let you go.” His low purr surprised you as much as his seriousness did. “I mean it.” Your hand moved to cup his cheek, your thumb rubbing circles, as your other hand brushed through his dark teal bangs, velvety to the touch.

The deep hums he responded with by your actions had you smiling all dopey like. Your forbidden desire, your inner longing, seeped right into your core. “Then don’t.”

Your eyes dare peek open only to feel breathless by how that one lone green eye with scarlet encircling his pupil burned with such a primal longing; not unlike your own gaze.

In a moment, your back was flushed against the Staff Room door. His hands were on both sides of your head, keeping you caged, blocking the front door out of your sight.

Two firm pricks tugged on your bottom lip, carefully so as not to draw blood for his sake. The sight of his fangs brought shivers throughout you, his toothy grin bringing a beautiful blush out of you, licking your lips with enough persuasion to have you open up.

Running your hands along his back, your tongues danced together, sounds of wet lips smacking being heard had got Bangboo 18, 6 and Eous acting flustered as evidenced by their digital face screens, befuddled at how miraculously no one had entered the shop to see such the passionate public display.

Lost in the depths of intimate liplock for a while when puffs of heat were exchanged as you broke apart, taking in much needed air, his hazy eyes staring into yours with an added layer of tenderness.

“Getting light headed, are we?”

The cheesiness had you snort. “Quit it.”

His nose lightly brushed yours. “Thanks, by the way.”

Your petal soft peck to his cheek had his lips curling. “For saying yes?”

He nodded, his mouth whispering heatedly in your ear. “And on my birthday, no less.”

Your face glowed and your eyes swelled up all chibi like at this new revelation. “Aw, you could have told me that sooner, you know~!”

His eyes crinkled with mirth at your adorable self. “Well, now you know.”

The abrupt sound of the bell ringing followed by rough coughing had you two on edge as your faces turned to spot Wise raising a suspicious brow and Belle giggling quietly behind him as the siblings caught you red handed.

“We're lucky it's a slow day. Otherwise you two would be swarmed by Lighter’s fanbase. Especially if they saw your PDA.” Wise sighed with caution.

“Sorry we took so long. But Caesar and the others messaged us while we were out about the big news. Happy Birthday, Lighter!” Belle cheered.

“Thank you, manager.” He was able to keep a steady gaze, even as he pushed off the wall to give you some breathing room, but that did not keep him from your side.

“They also invited us to a party in Blazewood to celebrate~!” Belle was over the moon for it.

Lighter sighed, exasperated. “I told them they didn't have to throw me a party. But they insisted.”

“I guess we can close shop early today.” Wise spoke.

“ … Unless you two would rather be left alone right now~?” Belle teased.

Your head drooped in burning shame. “No, a trip would be fine, thank you very much.”

“This will also be your first time visiting the Outer Ring. If we're planning on spending the night there, you may want to pack some things.” Wise pointed out.

“Really? In that case, let me be your personal guide. The Sons of Calydon are gonna wanna meet you, after all.” The suave bow and taking your hand in his just for you to feel him smirking against your knuckles had you nearly get a nosebleed.

“Come on, Y/n. Let's get packing.” Belle dragged you upstairs by hand before that could happen.

And yet your dazy eyes looked back to Lighter whose burning gaze followed you, bewitching you further by his very presence.

By the time you girls got your bags packed, Wise was already in the driver's seat of the van with his stuffed bag and Eous in the back seat. As Belle got into the passenger seat, you approached Lighter as he straddled his motor bike, with your stuffed bag strapped to your back.

“Your chariot awaits, my lady~”

“Is that my pet name now?”

“And lots more where that came from. Now, you better hold on tight. It's gonna be quite the ride.” Snugly pressed against his back, you hugged his waist tightly as the engine roared to life. He leaned into your embrace as he took the lead with the Random Play van following shortly behind, going down the usual route, outta the big city and down the highways.

Resting your cheek along his spine, you become entranced by the changing landscape from buildings to the outback like land.

Spotting the town in the distance, he felt a bundle of anticipation and anxiousness in the pit of his stomach.

He's dating you now.

And he was gonna introduce you to his crew – his closest friends – his found family.

Wonder how that's gonna play out.

He hoped for the better.

After all, you are quite literally the best present he could ever receive, indeed.

[xxgoldie]

lighter x reader, alcohol (lighter is drunk, nitro-fuel is alcoholic here), otherwise just pure fluff

thinking about lighter, stumbling up to you, the smell of nitro-fuel on his breath (and his shirt - he'd definitely spilled some on himself earlier, though with how unstable he was standing, you were hardly surprised). a bit of a party atmosphere had developed around steeltusk's bar tonight, and lighter had definitely had more than he should have. you had barely joined the gathering for a few minutes, relaxing a bit further from the bar, but as soon as he'd noticed you, he had made a (very wobbly) beeline for you.

"(Y/N)."

his hands went to your shoulder, using you to stabilise himself, even though his weight made you stumble a bit too.

"hi," you laughed, a rare sight to see the champion so discomposed, though he was looking into your eyes with a slightly nervewracking seriousness through those shades.

"we should get married."

it took you a couple beats to process his slurred words. heat rushed to your face, one you hoped, if someone noticed, you could blame on the one drink you'd had so far. you searched his face for the punchline, or any sort of elaboration. all you found was a similar searching - he was waiting for you to answer. he was almost pleading with his eyes, swaying a little from the alcohol - this was absurd.

"you are so drunk," was all you could muster, chuckling in disbelief. lighter collapsed against you, arms wrapping around your neck and head on your shoulder, and you swore you heard a very uncharacteristic whine leave his mouth.

"you don't want to marry me," he pouted - just how many drinks had burnice given him, that lighter lorenz, infamous red scarf of the sons of calydon, was pouting?

"hey, i didn't say that," you comforted him, instinctively petting his hair in a way he seemed to enjoy. and it wasn't a lie - it was something you had dreamed about several times, but... "i just feel like you've skipped a few steps here, you know? we're just friends, lighter. and you really are very drunk."

he picked himself up from your shoulder to look at you again, but he was so close this time, the tip of his nose barely an inch from yours, his full bodyweight still leaning on you. for the first time, you really realised the position the two of you were in, and so publicly, the crowded bar not far away. but you couldn't quite get yourself to focus on them, not when there was so little space between you, and his stupid handsome face took up your entire field of view. the musky scent of his cologne cut through the smell of nitro-fuel and it made your thoughts brain spin even more, so you waited for him to say something. you doubted you could come up with any more coherent thoughts.

"what's step one?" he said eventually. you frowned, not sure what he meant. "what?" "you said I skipped steps. what's step one?" "to marrying me??" "yeah."

once again, you had to pause to process. was this his weird, misguided, honestly really cute, way of confessing to you? there was no way - but there was a sincerity in his gaze that went past alcohol. the best answer would probably be 'ask me on a date when you're sober', but he was too pretty to be considering best answers, and your mouth moved faster than your brain did.

"probably this," you muttered, then pulled him forward by the scarf, closing the distance between you. even drunk, his reaction time was instantaneous - you were the one to initiate the kiss, but his hands were around your waist so quickly it surprised you, pulling you somehow even closer into him. it was clumsy but full of heat, and you could feel his mouth form a victorious grin against yours.

when you eventually pulled away, though, your gaze was immediately drawn away from his to the rest of the sons of calydon, who were whooping and cheering from the bar.

"yes! i told you it'd go well, lighter!" caesar called, shooting you a wink. Lighter only responded to her with a thumbs up, his head returning to rest on your shoulder again.

"did you tell him to do that?" you yelled back, head still reeling from the kiss.

"so what? neither of you were gonna take the leap sober," she replied, and you realised she wasn't behind his words - not intentionally, anyway.

"he proposed to me!"

a round of shocked laughter from the gang, except for lucy;

"he WHAT?"

i truly had no idea how to end this. but like. i love lighter so so much but i especially love him being dorky and down bad. wc: 757

[delphi-shield]

— 「 BODYGUARD 」

lighter lorenz x reader — 2.2k summary: you're not his responsibility (not yet), but the guilt will eat him alive if he doesn't get your drunk ass home safely. content: lighter's pov, vomit, alcohol use, sappy lighter, jealous lighter beyonce's bodyguard is so him to me i can't do this anymore fellas

You call; he answers.

Some things in life are just that simple. Lighter tries to keep it that way for you.

You don’t normally call in the middle of the night, though. Lighter doesn’t mind – honest, he doesn’t. He had been tossing and turning since he laid down, passing the time by picking open old wounds, letting the regret sting the raw edges. It takes time to realize that the ringing isn’t in his ears, that he’s flat on his back in bed, not in the ring. He almost ignores the call, but when he rolls over and sees your name flickering back at him, he dives to pick up before the last ring.

You're silent on the other line, nothing but muffled talking and rustling against the microphone. All sorts of scenarios race through his head. You're stuck somewhere - trapped in a hollow, or cornered by a rival gang. His past has caught up to him, mired you in all this ick. His stomach turns.

Adrenaline works way better than caffeine and he’s known that for a while, but he wishes he wasn’t so familiar with the helplessness that grips him. Lighter sits up, swings his legs over the side of his bed, poised to run to you.

It’s nothing so serious. When you finally get your phone up to your face and greet him with a (too loud, too sloppy) ‘hey!’ it becomes painfully obvious. You're drunk. That's what all of this is about.

Lighter needles the details out of you bit by bit, trying to glean information from your ramblings. Stranded out in Badger Springs. You met some guy out there for a date, he went to the bathroom and didn’t come back. You don’t laugh when he offers to deck the guy, and he can’t tell if you’re really torn up about this or if you just didn’t hear him.

Lighter pinches the bridge of his nose. He exhales long and low, away from the mic. He shouldn't encourage this. Can't keep bailing you out every time you get yourself in a sticky situation. But the thought of you drunkenly stumbling around the Outer Ring, bumbling your way into real trouble, has him fumbling to get his arms through his jacket.

“Stay put. I’ll be right there.”

Badger Springs. Seriously? Why’d you have to go so far out? What was so wrong with getting a drink in Blazewood?

Irritation pricks at him, has his hands feeling staticky even when he grips the handlebars of his bike. You probably went out there so no one would interrupt your date. What, were you trying to hide it? Did the girls know about this? No. No way. You would have called one of them to pick you up if that were the case. Right? You weren’t trying to hide it from him, not specifically.

He has a long ride ahead to stew about it, to knot the meaning of your actions into ugly shapes and then smooth them out, only to twist it all up again another mile down the road. This wouldn’t have happened - he kicks the stand down on his bike - if he’d manned up, if he’d asked you to watch the movie he’d rented. (New release, independently produced, apparently based off some old civilization tapes that had only been spoken about in a scant few records - some horror flick called Seen that you had been raving about. Not his thing, but your eyes lit up when you spoke about it. He figured he could just watch you during the bloody parts.)

But he didn’t ask, and now he’s here, freezing his ass off in the middle of the night, parked outside this shithole bar, two towns over. The bar is a dump. Looks like your date couldn’t even take you anywhere nice. You’re off by yourself at the end of the bar, shoulders drawn in close, crowding over your drink. At least the regulars are leaving you alone. A quick look around tells him that there’s too many people in this place for it to be a quick fight, if it came down to that.

He strolls past tables and booths, lets his hand fall heavy on your shoulder. You jump, turning sluggishly to look up at him - eyes wide and red. C’mon - don’t tell him you’ve been crying over this prick. Your expression smooths the moment that you recognize him. 

“Lighter!” Your arms fling around his middle, squeeze him tightly.

The tide of adrenaline that he washed in on pulls back, drags his relief away. Anger shores up, quick and sudden. It soothes in another pulse of his heart; understanding. It's kind of flattering if he doesn't think about it too hard. You trusted him enough to come pick you up. Probably couldn't even think clearly - just knew you wanted to go home. Knew he would get you there, safe and sound. Not a bad prize for driving all the way out here; he tries to enshrine this moment in his memory. Later, trying to fall asleep in his room, he’ll feel like a sleaze for delighting in being your hero like this.

He pats the top of your head, takes advantage of the distraction to wave the bartender over, check if you’ve still got an open tab. He slips him a couple extra denny for the trouble, keeps you distracted and talking with carefully placed ‘oh, really?’s and ‘mhm’s.

"You're wasted, huh?"

“Not that bad.”

You sound confident. He steps back, lets you hop off the bar stool on your own. Lighter hooks a thumb in his pocket. He drums his fingers against his thighs, watching you sway back and forth in front of him. Your eyes are hazy and unfocused, looking in his general direction with a dopey grin on your face.

Pride feels better than anger. He latches onto that. You make it so easy to feel when you cling onto his arm, lean into him. He keeps you close, ignores the whispers he overhears about the Red Scarf. His step quickens. He’s not getting into any trouble, not when he’s here for you.

You struggle to keep up, all uncoordinated limbs, your head probably spinning. He helps you onto the back of his bike and passes you a helmet. He’d grabbed it on his way out - figured if you were as trashed as you sounded on the phone then it was better safe than sorry. He’s glad he did.

Somewhere along the ride home, you stopped babbling. He had felt your words pressed against his back more than he had heard them. He stops just before home to check on you. Can’t have you falling asleep. He doesn’t want to hear it about riding in with you all banged up on the back - he’d never let it down. He’d never let himself live it down, more accurately, but his bike starts back up before you hear that part.

Honestly, he’s almost positive you won’t remember much past when you first called him. That doesn’t stop him from treating you gently. He helps you off his bike, keeps your hand in his to guide you around stray milk crates and cacti that just seemed to leap into your path.

It’s just a little further. He’s almost got you back to your place when he hears it. That ominous groan. Your face pallid, cold sweat breaking out against your forehead.

“Gonna throw up?” He asks, big hand rubbing slow circles on your back.

You shake your head, the force of it knocking you off balance. You would have stumbled right into a cactus if he hadn’t hauled you into his side by the back of your shirt. (Like scruffing a kitten, he catches himself thinking. Cute.)

He tries to guide you to the closest trash can, but you can’t quite make it. Your legs are quaking, all the strength sapped from you while you expel that contents of your stomach into one of Old Demir’s flower pots. He gathers your hair back from your face gently, caging it all in one hand to rub your back with the other. Somewhere between gentle coos of ‘there you go’ and ‘let it all out’, he manages to make out your garbled apology. You thread it between heaves, between sobs, but he catches it all the same and shushes you for it.

“All better?” He asks when the dry heaving has stopped. You nod slowly. The tiniest whimper he’s ever heard drifts from your lips. He knows from experience that much more movement than that will hurt.

Lighter sighs. The scent of your perfume curdles with the stench of vomit. He arranges your hair back as best he can, trying to replicate the way you had done yourself up - all pretty for another man, he remembers. You wipe your mouth on the back of your hand, and he pulls the end of his scarf free.

“No, Lighter–”

Your hands are clumsy. He dodges your attempts to stop him easily. He clicks his tongue and swipes the vomit from your chin. “Don’t worry about it. This scarf has seen worse.”

It’s about time to get it cleaned, anyway. Add that to his growing list of chores.

You’re moving slower than before. He tucks you into his side to give you some more stability. When you pause at the steps to your place, he sweeps an arm under your knees, cradles you close to him. He had expected a protest, or an apology - something in line with the rest of your behavior this evening, but you curl closer to him. 

It’s a fumble to find your keys - shifting your weight from one arm to the other until he finally finds them in your back pocket. He knows your place well enough to dodge the shoes left in the entrance way, to step around the box that sticks out into the hallway from your bedroom. He settles you into your bed, rolls you onto your side - just to be safe.

Lighter keeps watch for a few moments, making sure you’re not going to roll onto your back, pressing the back of his hand against your sweat-chilled forehead. Once he’s certain the worst has passed, he leaves to fill a glass of water for you. Your eyes are half-open when he gets back. He draws up a chair, tries to figure out how to ask if you want his help changing into something more comfortable without sounding like a creep.

You rip that idea from his head when you blindside him with a question.

“D’you think it’s my fault?”

“Course not,” Lighter answers before he can even put together what you’re asking. “Everyone has too much fun sometimes. Don’t beat yourself up over it. You’re not even gonna remember this.”

“No, I mean…” You curl tightly around your pillow. He could have sworn he heard a hitch in your voice. His heart lurches. Christ, you can’t start crying now. He can’t take it. “Why would he just leave?”

Lighter has to remind himself not to pull a face. Not what you need right now. He’s already said too much. He’s just going to wind up upsetting you more. He wants to tell you that guy is a douchebag, that none of it had been your fault. The guy just wasn’t man enough to be upfront. That was all.

“I just don’t think I’m meant for this,” you whisper. His train of thought crashes abruptly. "Like– love, and stuff.”

“You’re so much fun to be in love with,” Lighter says, and if you were sober you would clock him for just how quickly he did so, “and someday, someone’s gonna see that.”

“How do you know?”

Because my heart feels like it’s buckled into a roller coaster and I can’t figure out if I’m having fun or if I’m scared shitless. Because I’ve got eyes. Because it’s you.

He can’t say any of that. Not now, while you’re shivering and small, a little bundle of raw nerves that he rescued from some dump. Christ, you really are a kitten right now. He chucks your chin with a knuckle, his smile twisting to something bittersweet.

“C’mon. You should know not to bet against me by now.”

For the first time since he got you through the door, you smile. Barely there and flimsy, but you’re only just clinging to consciousness. Your cheek presses back against your pillow, eyes slipping shut.

“Thanks, Lighter,” you murmur.

You’re out cold within the next minute.

Lighter lingers overlong. He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be in your room while you’re passed out like this, but he can’t bring himself to rise. His shoulders hunch, expression dropping, stomach churning. Through your window, dawn is just beginning to break. The Outer Ring is bathed in a cool blue light, the horizon tinging purple at the edges.

You have a hell of a morning ahead of you. He runs a hand down his face and forces himself to stand, to get his day started properly. Another sleepless night. Maybe the next time he finds himself awake, staring at the ceiling and tormenting himself, he’ll call you first. Maybe he’ll do it before anyone else has a chance to.

Lighter locks your door on his way out and tucks the key under your mat. He should act. He should tell you.

He walks back to his place in silence, resisting the urge to grab his phone, to text you and say let me know if you need anything.

Maybe one day.

[bunni-v1]

Requesting for a scenario with my best boys Lighter and Harumasa(feel free to add more if you want)<3 where reader tries to Kabedon them to try to fluster them!!

I feel like it’d work with Harumasa but Lighter will only be slightly flustered before somehow turning it around and it ends up with him pinning us somehow

Kabedon…

🍓I’m gonna be so fr, I hate Kabedon. That shit makes me cringe so incredibly hard UNLESS it’s like ur getting scolded or smth. Then it’s super fuckinf hot. I’ll give these a try though, it’s too classic to pass up on lol. These are short.

Tw: None

Info: Lighter x Reader; Harumasa x Reader; Fluff; Headcannons

Lighter Lorenz

-I’m gonna hold your hand gently and tell you this, but good luck doing this to him.

-It’s not like he’d hurt you or anything, but Lighter is big. He’s big and tall and very very hard to catch off guard. You’d have to conspire to get this done.

-Lucky you Burnice lives for causing chaos. It was probably her idea, honestly. The idea of Lighter all flustered as you pin him to the wall was too funny for her to pass up!

-With the right distractions and timing, you can easily press Lighter up against the wall with a big smirk. One arm next to his head, the other pressed against his cheek.

-You honestly didn’t expect much of a reaction out of him, but the tips of his ears turn a bright cherry red. He’s positively adorable!

-Unfortunately, you don’t have a plan after that. So you and Lighter are stood there staring at each other, faces getting incredibly hot the longer you’re pressed against him. (You can hear Burnice giggling in the background, but it’s hard to pay attention to when you have the hottest guy in blazewood under you.)

-Eventually he clears his throat and gives you this halfhearted smirk, trying to play it cool like you hadn’t just defeated him in one fell swoop.

-“Aren’t you bold?” He’ll purr, a little shaky, “If you wanted to hold me close, all you had to do was ask.”

-Ah, he was smooth.

Asaba Harumasa

-I’d argue that Harumasa is a pretty tough person to fluster, at least outwardly. He’s got a solid foundation and plenty of confidence in himself, so word play and flirting just doesn’t work on him. (Not with the silver tongue of his, at least.)

-If you wanted to see Harumasa flush, you’d have to do something more extreme. Something that he couldn’t easily flip the script around on you with.

-Obviously you picked the Kabedon. It’s a classic, and even if it doesn’t work, Harumasa would take it in stride anyway. That’s just the kind of guy he was, after all.

-You wait until he’s already resting near a wall, not wanting to take him by too much surprise. He was still a trained agent, if you spooked him too much he might just throw you across the room.

-He sees you coming from a mile away, of course, but humors you because he thinks you’re cute when you’re scheming. He does not, however, expect you to press him up against the wall with a victorious smirk.

-It certainly does fluster him, for all of five seconds, then he’s smiling that award winning smile and pressing his face closer to yours. “Aren’t you confident? Did you really think this would work on me?”

-He won’t tell you, but it definitely does work. A little too well if he’s honest, his heart rate skyrocketed so high he’s surprised he didn’t keel over and die right there.

-You’ll pout at him, foiled yet again by his cool demeanor. It’s really a shame that you have no idea how much of an effect you’ve got on that heart of his. You’re way too cute for your own good, don’t you know?

[mrpenguinpants]

Stepping Stone

— A stepping stone is something that helps someone advance or achieve something. He thinks his first push comes in the form of a disinfectant wipe.

— Lighter

Word Count: 17k

Part 1: Marbled Steps Light spoilers for Lighter's/Billy's backstory, I made up most of it. [Masterlist]

Thank you all for your support and love for the first part! I made this for the fans and yeehawkitty. I don't know your @ but thank you for the generous kofi tip. This is for you (and just in time for Valentine’s week). I love this goofy man way too much—why does every fic I write keep getting longer and longer? The 20k word fic was a JOKE.

The first step of Lighter’s new life was sharp, clean, and tinged with a faint chemical sting. The wet synthetic fibers of polyester, soaked in a solution of water and hydrogen peroxide, smeared against his hands. He had a complicated relationship with disinfectant wipes. On one hand, they were cheap and reliable—a passable replacement for when he ran out of clean soap and water. On the other hand, the cold residue they left behind, clinging to his skin like a snail’s trail, always made him uncomfortable. He’d never liked getting anything on his hands, especially stains. The frosty bite of the air burned as much as it chilled, creeping into the tiny, still-healing cuts on his fingers. Each swipe sent a sting through his nerves. Yet, he didn’t flinch or make a sound. He’s endured far worse. By comparison, these superficial paper cuts felt almost affectionate. Instead, his gaze shifted upward from his reddening and sticky hands to the gloved ones holding the cloth. White gloves—pristine, clinical, indifferent to the nuances of patient care. His supposed new doctor, polished and bright like a freshly unwrapped scalpel, hadn’t even bothered with introductions before whisking him away to this sterile corner.

A thought crossed his mind—maybe all doctors shared a natural disregard for bedside manners, no matter where they came from.

"Are you even listening to me?"

He hears more than feels the wet slap of the disinfectant wipes landing against his cheek, the damp fabric seeping into his skin and snapping him back to the present. Lighter blinks, his eyes momentarily lost as his memories of the past rush forward in a disorienting blur—like a tangle of white noise, punctuated by the fractured, flickering remnants of TV-static pixels.

"Well? Anything to say for yourself, mister?" Your voice is still as blunt as ever, even if your tone has been weathered down at the edges. You still wear the same frown on your face, your gloved fingers warm even when pressing into this skin far too harshly, as though trying to carve your very will into his face. This time, he doesn’t hold back the shiver. The involuntary tremor courses through him, his shoulder shaking as he hunches over himself as if you've sucker punched him in the stomach. Gone are the days when he could sit still as a rock, his body locked tight, immovable while you carried on with your work. Now, he lets himself act like the brat you keep calling him.

The overdramatic shiver pulls an equally exaggerated huff from you, your breath heavy. You peel the wipe from his skin with two fingers, tossing it into the garbage without a second thought. The sound of it hitting the pile of paper is strangely final, a soft but definitive splat. Even after all this time, your bedside manner could still use a little more warmth, a little more tenderness. A small, cynical part of him wonders if that’s the way you like it. But then, maybe that’s part of the charm.

"Uh..." He paused for a moment, trying to wrack his brain for what you had just said before deciding to take a trip down memory lane. From what he remembered, Caesar had invited him into a friendly spar with the Thieren gang that had rolled into Blazewood. You, as their resident doctor, had tagged along just in case any injuries came up. Naturally, it was a complete stomp for the Son of Calydon—they were on their home turf, and it would have been embarrassing if they lost. Then, you had dragged him to your clinic to patch him up, still glaring daggers at that lynx. As soon as you’d pulled out your supplies, the scent of alcohol and hydrogen peroxide had sent him tumbling into the wormhole of the past—until you pulled him back. You’d always been good at that.

He looks up at you, noticing that small notch in your eyebrow that signals your impatience. He can’t help but let out an awkward chuckle, his voice a little shaky around the edges, "Sorry, firecracker. I must have spaced out. What did you say?"

That earns him a pinch on the cheek—one he absolutely deserves, but ow, it stings more than he expects—as you unleash a full-on lecture. He catches only bits and pieces of what you’re saying: how it was supposed to be a lighthearted spar, but he somehow kicked it into overdrive, treating it like a life-or-death battle. How he acted recklessly, for no real reason again, just to look tough. Seriously, who was he even trying to impress? That lynx?! No way, right?! The whole thing wrings out a restrained laugh from his chest, one that’s barely contained, escaping his chest like an unexpected exhale, which only makes you turn an even deeper shade of red.

It’s a striking shade—not quite as searing as the flames that roar from his gauntlets, yet no less radiant. Not as gentle as the sun sinking into the horizon, yet still rich with warmth. Bright, warm, and spontaneous, sparking to life in an instant. Just like a firecracker. He’s always loved firecrackers. They’re fleeting, reckless things—blazing across the night sky in bursts of chaos and artistry, ephemeral yet unforgettable. A single spark, a brief eruption of light, and then—gone. But for that one moment, they demand attention, carving their brilliance into the dark.

At first, he found it irritating—how quick you were to switch gears into anger, flaring up over the smallest things. It reminded him too much of the people he used to work for, the ones who barked orders and hurled insults with spit-flecked fury, who would rather scream and hound him for their lost denny's. It was always the same. The bite of their words, the suffocating heat of their rage. Huffing and puffing, throwing around threats like execution orders over a few misplaced words, as if fear alone could squeeze blood from a stone. The bloated heads of collectors who reeked of whiskey and cigar smoke, who saw him as nothing more than a machine to be wound up with a crank, a weapon to be pointed in whatever direction they pleased.

Red, the shade of their fury. The shade of control, of pressure, of commands spat between bared teeth. He hated it. Hated them. Hated the way their voices rattled in his skull long after they were gone, the way the weight of their expectations coiled around his throat like a noose. He hated it so much that even the color red started to make him sick to his stomach.

And then came the blood.

Dark, dried beneath his fingernails, sinking into the creases of his knuckles. Bright, blinding under the harsh glare of stage lights, soaking the floor, painting his world in a shade he could never wash off.

What a revolting color it was.

"Hey... are you okay? I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so worked up."

This time, there’s no sharp sting of another wipe smacking against his face. Instead, warmth. A palm cupping his cheek, fingers hesitant yet steady as they brush against his skin. You tilt his head from side to side, scanning his face with knitted brows and that same look of quiet worry you always get when you think something might be wrong. Your eyes flicker over his, tracking every subtle shift, every flicker of movement. You must think he hit his head again. That all the times he’s spaced out on you, all the delays in his responses, must mean he’s nursing a concussion. Never mind that he wasn’t even hit during the spar.

"It’s nothin’, firecracker. No need to apologize. I’m the one who spaced on you twice," he says, trying to play it off with a half-hearted smile. But the look you shoot back tells him you’re not buying it. Still, you let it go. Your reservations fall along with your hand, which drops to rest on your hip as your gaze sweeps over him, sizing him up.

"Well... if you say so. Regardless," you spin on your heel, turning your back to him as you start packing your supplies back into the white medkit, your face carefully turned away from his, "Good job as always, champ. Another tally on the chalkboard of ever-growing victories."

He watches you move around the room, each motion deliberate yet just a little too stiff—like you’re forcing yourself to focus on the task at hand rather than the person behind you. After being in this room with you for so long, he sees it all, every subtle sign: the way your hands linger just a moment too long on each item as you tuck them back into place. Even when your eyes flicker toward him, it’s brief—a fleeting connection, like the burn of a matchstick snuffed out too soon. They dart away almost immediately, finding refuge in the sterile white walls or the cold steel of the counter. Your back remains turned, shoulders taut with unspoken tension, the rigid lines of your posture starkly visible through the thin fabric of your uniform.

His gaze drops, drifting downward to his own hands. Water trails down his fingers in slow, deliberate paths, the droplets gathering at his knuckles before slipping free and splattering against the tile floor. Each impact is soundless, vanishing into the quiet that fills the room. He watches them fall, his mind oddly detached, as if the sight of the tiny ripples on the ground might somehow offer an answer he doesn’t have.

He knows he should say something—anything—to cut through the silence. The words sit heavy on the edge of his tongue, poised yet unwilling to make the leap. He opens his mouth but finds it dry, the courage he thought he could summon crumbling into dust. Instead, he lets the moment stretch, the quiet growing louder with each second, his hesitation feeding its weight.

And still, your words from earlier linger. They echo in his mind, looping endlessly, burrowing deep into the corners of his thoughts like a quiet hum he can’t shake.

"I—uh..." You pause, taking a steadying breath. He's never seen you this nervous before, "I just wanted to say that... I don’t think I’ve said it enough, but I really appreciate you. More than you probably know. I know I don’t always show it, but...I-"

He can feel his palms begin to sweat, a creeping heat against the back of his neck that's slowly traveling to his ears. Sure, any compliment you manage to wrestle out of your vocal cords makes him puff his chest up in pride and cower away in a corner, but those are usually accompanied by sincere eyes that drill into this mind. But this time, you're not even looking at him as you push each word out. Is this...?

"I just wanted to say that I li-"

He rises to his feet with an easy, practiced motion, the leather of his jacket rustling as he swings it over his shoulder in one fluid sweep. The weight of it settles against his back, familiar and grounding, but it does little to ease the charged atmosphere lingering in the air. His hand reaches out, brushing lightly against the edge of the doorframe. For a moment, his fingers linger there, his touch hesitant, almost tentative—considering. Turning ever so slightly, with a slow inhale, he finally speaks.

"Back then, before Caesar interrupted us… what were you going to say?"

You freeze, fingers suspended mid-air, caught in the limbo between the impulse to respond and the overwhelming urge to pretend you never heard him at all. The moment stretches between you, thick and charged, pressing heavily against the walls of the room. With a sharp inhale, you force yourself back into motion, grabbing a pen and scratching hurriedly across the paper. But your movements are too rushed, too shaky, and your fingers falter as the pen slips from your grasp and clatters to the floor.

You don’t look at him. You can’t. But he always will and has.

He had a suspicion—an inkling of what you were going to say before Caesar’s interruption crashed through the moment like a battering ram. But suspicion isn’t certainty. And if he misreads this, if he takes one step too far in the wrong direction, the duck-tapped connection between you might collapse. There might be no coming back from this.

And yet, in all the moments he’s spent replaying your words, your gestures, your lingering glances, one truth remains constant: you have always been the one to reach out. The one steady hand that kept him from slipping off the tightrope he’d walked for so long. No matter how precarious his balance, you made sure he never fell alone. Even from the very beginning, when the distance between you was wider than words could bridge, you had taken his hand.

In other words, it's time to make a leap of faith.

-+-+-

The sun hangs low in the sky, just as orange and dusty as he remembers. It reflects off the sand in the Outer Ring so well that it's burning his eyes to a painful degree, but he keeps his gaze on the horizon. When the door—both metaphorical and literal—was kicked open, accompanied by a letter declaring his debts cleared and his ties to the underground ring severed, he wasn’t sure what to expect. What would greet him on the other side? Another fist to his face? A wall of steel, glass, or concrete? Instead, he finds himself here, his supposed benefactor—a red boar with a wild mane of white hair—rambles on in the background, introducing him to his gang of bikers. Their leather vests catch the sunlight, their laughter punctuated by the occasional roar of a motorcycle engine. It’s mostly white noise to Lighter. The words drift past him like the wind carrying dust through the air. He catches the gang name though, or at least he thinks he does. The Sons of...something. It’s hard to care. Whatever they call themselves, it’s not important. What is important is the fact that, for the first time in a long while, no one’s breathing down his neck or throwing him into another fight. For now, at least, he’s free.

He doesn’t know whether to be terrified or to breathe a sigh of relief that, despite all the days spent in the dark, the surface remained the same every single day: normal, routine, and steady. A quiet rhythm of life he once had, back before everything shattered into glimmering pieces and neon blackholes. Back before survival became a battle against shadows, where even his memories felt more like jagged shards than whole reflections. For a moment, he wonders if there’s a name for the psychopomp who escorts people back to the land of the living. Just as Charon ferries souls who’ve received their funeral rites across the rivers Acheron and Styx, shouldn’t there be someone to guide the return journey? Instead of meeting a comforting figure, he finds himself staring into the judgmental gaze of someone who clearly doesn’t want him back among the living. Their white gloves are already curling around his wrists, alive with the faint mutterings of grime and viruses. His first steps up the mountain begin with the acrid sting of disinfectant in his lungs and the sterile touch of cotton swabs.

His new, albeit temporary, abode is deafening. It’s the kind of noise that settles deep, like the muffled pressure in his ears before a swallow makes them pop. Irritating, constant, and inescapable. While it’s undeniably better than the Underground Ring—anything would be an upgrade from that hellhole—it carries a similar kind of noise. The loudness doesn’t come from roaring crowds or fists slamming into flesh this time, but it’s loud all the same. One individual, in particular, seems to embody that more than anyone else. She’s impossible to avoid. The self-appointed ringleader of every bad idea, she lugs a spare tire around like it’s some sort of shield. No matter how careful or quiet he tries to be, she always seems to spot him whenever he attempts to sneak away. Everything about her is loud—her gestures, her laughter, even the way she stomps her boots against the ground as she barrels toward him. Today, she’s waving her arms wildly, yelling at the top of her lungs about a “top-secret mission” to hoard bottles of shampoo. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t even ask why. He simply nods curtly, a silent agreement that spares him from the inevitable round of coaxing or, worse, shouting. His compliance earns him a hearty slap on the back, the kind that might’ve staggered him once, but now he barely feels. It’s as if the years have dulled his senses, leaving his body numb to gestures that should’ve felt like camaraderie. He follows her, trudging along as she chatters endlessly, her excitement filling every quiet gap. He doesn’t particularly remember what they did—only the overpowering smell of flowers and artificial fruit. The sweetness of it clings to the air, thick enough to choke him, cloying in its intensity. It lingers in his nose long after the bottles have been stashed away in her “secret” hiding spot. Later, when she moves in for another slap on the back, he dodges it with practiced ease, retreating into his own corner of blood, dust, and dirt.

You would think that, by now, he’d have acclimated to the constant assault of different scents around him. The shampoo that the girls in the gang seem obsessed with has started to lose its overwhelming sugary fragrance, so at least he no longer has to clamp a hand over his nose every time one of them passes by. Small mercies, perhaps. Yet, for all the tolerance he’s built for floral and fruity aromas, there are two scents he’s never been able to endure: blood and chemicals. Unfortunately, he finds himself in the breeding ground for both every time he even slightly nicks himself. A shallow cut on his thigh is nothing to worry about, not even enough to draw a single drop of blood. Yet somehow, he finds himself dragged to the clinic more often than anyone else. He’s certain it’s on purpose. The first time was sheer coincidence, or so he told himself. But every subsequent trip has felt deliberate, the way you grab his arm and hauls him back to that room. The doctor knows.

The realization makes his fingers twitch. It’s not the kind of tremor born of nerves, but a frustration that simmers low in his chest. His eyes glaze over as he tries to block out the sensory onslaught—the stinging scent, the white gloves, the faint hum of machinery in the corner. The irritation builds until it’s nearly unbearable, clawing its way up his throat like a scream he refuses to let out. He wants to punch something. To throw his whole weight into a single, bone-rattling motion—just to expel the tension coiling inside him like a tightly wound spring. Because if he can’t, he knows he’ll be left alone with his thoughts. And that might just be worse.

"You need to take better care of yourself," the doctor says, lightly pressing onto the outside of the cut and looking up at him to see if it causes any pain. There isn’t any. For something this small, there never is. He only spares you a glance before returning his blank stare back to the wall in front of him. The beige paint is chipped in places, tiny cracks crawling up the wall. You should transfer the funds for his bandages in exchange for a renovation. He hears you huff, the mumblings of someone annoyed that their help, which was never asked for in the first place, is going unappreciated. It’s not the first time. Probably not the last.

He hates people like that. People who peacock around with signs practically screaming, Look at me! I’m doing the right thing! I’m a good person! They expect gratitude, praise, maybe even a pedestal to stand on for their noble efforts. The thought makes his jaw tighten.

He hears you sigh again, the sound filled with the same familiar annoyance that he's come to expect. That passive-aggressive pity that lingers in your words when you complain to others about him. "He’s impossible," you'd said, more than once, "won’t listen, won’t cooperate, and doesn't even appreciate the help.", and that you have no idea what he's even doing here. At least he can agree with you on that last part, he doesn't know what he's doing here either in this town full of loud voices and cloying sweetness. He doesn't know how to stomach it.

He can feel your eyes roam over his stiff posture, the set of his jaw, the way his shoulders are pulled so tight they might snap. As if you can practically hear Lighter's inner thoughts through his silence, those unspoken words hanging thick in the air. It's all part of the same stubborn routine, you'll push and prod hoping to find any cracks to sink your fingers into and Lighter will have them patched up and reinforced.

"You know," the doctor continues, a faint trace of irritation creeping into your tone, "I can't keep fixing you up if you keep running into trouble. I’m not a miracle worker."

Lighter doesn't even twitch, just stares straight ahead. He's learned very early on that if he stays still and shuts up, he'll be left alone sooner. He doesn’t need this. Doesn’t need any of this. People like a doctor—like you—always trying to help, always wanting to fix things that aren’t broken. It’s infuriating, how you all think you know what’s best for him. He hates it. And yet, here he is, with a gash that needs tending, caught between the impulse to tell you to shove it and the weight of some unspoken guilt that settles in his chest. He really wants to punch something.

"Yeah, well," he mutters, his voice a low rasp, "Never asked for your help."

The words escape him before he can claw them back, slipping through the spaces before he even realizes they’re there. Small cracks, just wide enough to betray him. Involuntarily, he braces himself. His muscles tighten against his bones, his bones harden like reinforced steel, locking in place to protect the fragile machinery inside. His lungs compress his heart, squeezing it so tightly it feels like it might burst. Those flimsy walls he’s built—made of tofu and paper mâché, laughably weak—begin to tremble under the weight of the wrecking ball swinging his way.

He closes his eyes, holding himself perfectly still. Waiting.

"Yeah, well," you mimic in that same stubborn tone, "you shouldn’t have to."

There’s a pinch at his cheek, light but condescending, like he’s a child in need of scolding. Then the scent of disinfectant reaches his nose, sharp and sterile. Oh. Right. He was bleeding there. He hadn’t even noticed.

“Bullheaded brat,” he hears you mumble just before the door clicks shut behind you.

His first loss doesn’t begin with a fight but with a long, crumpled list shoved into his hands by a short blonde girl wearing a helmet with a metal spike sticking straight up. What was her name again? Luke? No...that was a boy’s name. Luca? No, another boy's name. She’s bossy and dishonest about her feelings, but at least she’s straightforward about what she wants. It’s easy working with her—she doesn’t waste time on small talk, which, in this gang, is practically a miracle. He doesn’t bother checking the list, already stuffing it into his pocket as he swings a leg over a spare bike lent to him for this job. With a sharp roar of the engine, he takes off from the Outer Ring, hoping to escape before anyone else can shove more responsibilities onto his plate.

That, as it turns out, is his first mistake. Sitting at a pit stop on the side of a dusty highway, he finally pulls out the list, intending to glance at it just long enough to plan the quickest route. But as his eyes skim the items scrawled across the page, a sinking realization hits him. He doesn’t know what half these things are. What even is a “Carlishe”? The words blur together, a mix of illegible handwriting and bizarre requests. There are addresses written next to each item at least—small mercies—but the real kicker is that all of them are located within the city. That almost makes him want to turn the bike around and head straight back to the Outer Ring. Almost. Instead, he exhales sharply, runs a hand down his face, and glares at the list like it personally wronged him. He can already feel the headache building.

The city is obnoxious. The constant stream of bodies rushing to their destinations, the screeching of tires against uneven roads, and the blinding flashes of lights from signs and advertisements assault his senses. He pulls his hair in front of his eyes for the nth time, brightly coloured spots popping in his vision and a stinging in the back of his eyes. His skin feels prickly, as if hives are crawling up his arms, the overstimulation setting his nerves on edge. The worst part is the lingering stares. Schoolgirls in matching uniforms clutch their backpacks in one hand, covering their mouths with the other as they whisper to each other. Giggling erupts between stolen glances in his direction. Then there are the men, distracted by their phones, who only notice him in passing—before stopping mid-step for a double-take. Their eyes dart from him to his bike, suspicion clouding their expressions, and they hurry away like he’s about to rob them on the spot. He already wants to leave. The city doesn’t need to say it outright; it’s made its message clear enough. He doesn’t belong here. He’s out of place, and he’s most certainly unwelcome.

He moves a hand to cover his nose, inhaling deeply to scrape up the lingering scents of rust and dust clinging to his gloves. His fingers tremble, his palm damp against the fabric, as he struggles to anchor himself to something—anything—other than the crushing tightness in his chest. But everywhere he turns to, he see's the same friends laughing as they bump shoulders. The bark of a dog as a little girl with a pink bow in her hair chases after it. The scent of lemonade from a nearby stand run by an equally bright yellow pill-shaped bangboo. He presses his thumb harder against the bridge of his nose, a feeble attempt to distract himself from the rising pressure, like invisible walls are closing in on him. His breath comes in short, uneven bursts, his lungs clawing for air, desperate for a relief that refuses to come. His stomach twists violently, and a bead of cold sweat slides down the back of his neck, tracing a shiver along his spine. Everything feels too close, too loud, too much.

He’s panicking. He knows it. The sensation rises like a wave, crashing over him in slow, unrelenting force. He can feel his heart pounding in his throat, the pulse thudding in his ears, drowning out everything else. His hands start to shake more violently now, his grip on his face slipping, the instinct to get away, to escape, clawing at him from the inside. He tries to steady himself, but the dizziness sets in, blurring the edges of his vision. He can’t breathe. His chest is so tight he can’t expand his lungs, and every shallow gasp makes him feel like he’s drowning. The sensation is too familiar, too real. He’s been here before. Too many times. His back against the dirty fighting ring and the glare of stage lights replaced with billboards and concrete sidewalks.

"Lighter? What are you doing here?"

His head snaps up, eyes wild and frenzied, to see you hovering beside him. He hadn’t even realized you’d gotten so close, and the sudden proximity sends him reeling. Before he can jerk back—crashing into his bike and sending it toppling over—your hand shoots out, gripping the lapels of his jacket. His heels dig into the concrete, his hands bracing against the seat of the bike as if it’s his only anchor, but it's your grip that really holds him steady. For a second, the world blurs around him, the noise of the city dimming, and all he can focus on is the warmth of your hands, firm and solid against the fabric of his jacket. The air feels too tight, like there’s not enough room to breathe, and yet, you’re there, keeping him from falling, keeping him steady—

His heart races, the pounding of his blood echoing in his ears, his pulse thudding hard against his ribs. He doesn’t know why, but this—this moment—feels too intimate, too close. He’s not used to anyone seeing him like this: exposed, stumbling, stripped of his usual defenses. He’s always been good at keeping his distance, but now, with your hand on him, everything feels just a little too raw. Too real.

It reminds him of the past. Familiar faces flashing by. The hands that reached out to him before being swallowed in the Hollow.

His hand shoots out before he can stop it—so fast, it feels instinctive, reflexive. By the time he registers what he’s done, it’s too late. In the next blink, you’re on the ground, a startled expression etched onto your face, and his arm remains outstretched, frozen in place from when he shoved you away. The air between you feels heavy, suffused with a tension that wasn’t there before. His chest tightens, and for a moment, he doesn’t know whether to apologize or double down, his fingers curling as if trying to grasp at an excuse that won’t come.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have touched you so suddenly," you say instead, your voice softer than usual. There’s no anger, no accusation, just a calm sincerity as you dust off your pants and straighten up, "Are you okay? Do you need anything?"

He blinks, your words catching him off guard. For a heartbeat, he almost doesn’t know what to say. Okay? No, he’s not okay. Not really. His mind races, trying to piece together an answer but he comes up empty. He swallows hard, the dryness in his throat making it difficult, and his eyes flicker away, unable to meet your gaze.

“I—” His throat feels tight, the words tangling together before they can make it out. He glances at you for a brief second, but the weight of your gaze is too much. He shifts his eyes down, focusing on the cracked asphalt beneath his boots, as if it might somehow offer him an escape.

“Yeah,” he mutters finally, the word rough and hollow, unsure if it even makes sense in the context of this moment, “Just—yeah.”

The silence that follows is thick, stretching far too long, like a rubber band about to snap. He can feel the weight of your unspoken words, the way you hesitate, lips parted but still holding back. You want to say something—he knows it—but for some reason, you don’t. Then, with a sharp breath, he shifts his weight and pushes himself back upright. The bike beneath him wobbles, the kickstand threatening to buckle before he catches it with his foot. He grips the handlebars tightly, the rough leather of his gloves creaking as he steadies the machine. His movements are jerky, uncoordinated, but they’re enough to keep him moving, even as his mind stays caught in that lingering moment between you.

“I should go,” he says, his voice low, clipped, refusing to meet your eyes. It sounds less like a statement and more like a command—to himself as much as to you. The words carry an undercurrent of urgency, as though he’s trying to escape the unease curling in his chest. He takes a step back, the motion stiff, like he’s physically shaking off the invisible tether between you. The space between you grows heavier, a palpable weight neither of you acknowledges. He doesn’t wait for a response. His hands tighten around the handlebars of the bike, knuckles pale against the leather of his gloves, before he mounts it in a quick, practiced motion. The engine growls to life, a sound that vibrates in the air but doesn’t quite drown out the tension.

And then he’s gone, the tires kicking up dust as he speeds away, leaving behind the moment, the words unsaid, and you. By the time he returns to the Outer Ring, his pockets are empty, the list crumpled in his jacket, untouched. It’s his first uncompleted job.

It’s painfully awkward for the next few days after his brief run-in with you in the city. He avoids the clinic and stays far from the supply depot, the memory of your touch and your too-soft words still too fresh, too unsettling. He doesn’t know what he expects—maybe a reprimand, maybe nothing at all—but when another girl, the perpetually sleepy one, quietly takes over the task of resupplying, it leaves him reeling. She doesn’t ask why, doesn’t mention you, just takes the list without so much as a glance his way. And yet, there’s an uncomfortable heat crawling up the back of his neck, behind his ears, and it sits there like a stone lodged in his gut. Did you say something to the rest of the gang? Did you mention what happened? Complain about him, the same way you’ve done before? It wouldn’t be out of character; he’s overheard you once or twice. Still, even with all that, he wants to believe there’s a line you won’t cross. Some kind of unspoken doctor-patient confidentiality. Because if there isn’t…then why? Why did you help him? Maybe it was just instinct. Maybe it wasn’t about him at all. Maybe it was for the town you actually care about, the place you’ve chosen to carve out a life in. Or maybe it was just reflex—what anyone would’ve done in your place. But you haven’t sought him out. You haven’t hounded him down, haven’t dragged his name through the dirt as far as he knows. And as long as you don’t, as long as you leave him alone, he can continue avoiding you. He can pretend the encounter didn’t happen. As long as he doesn’t get hurt again, as long as everything stays peaceful, he doesn’t have to face you—or the echoes of the past you unintentionally stirred.

His momentary spiraling is cut short by the sound of a cough, sharp and deliberate, pulling him out of his tangled thoughts. Lighter’s heart jumps, startled, and his leg jerks out, knocking over a chair with a loud clatter. He flinches at the noise, muttering a curse under his breath. God, he’s slipping. Pushing the hair out of his face, he glances toward the source of the cough. Through his squinted eyes, he spots...ah. Right. This was Billy. The supposed "Champion" of the gang. Hard to miss, honestly, given that he’s an Intelligent Construct. Plus, the flaming red scarf that trails after him is impressionable and Billy doesn’t look like anyone else here, his artificial frame and polished demeanor sticking out like a sore thumb among the ragtag crowd. And just like that, Lighter’s stomach sinks. If Billy’s here, then maybe—no, definitely—you must’ve said something. Of course you did. This is it, isn’t it? The prelude to him being kicked out. Again. Another mess, another failure, and now he’ll be chased out in a hail of bullets and gunpowder, all because he can’t keep his head straight for five seconds.

But instead of drawing a weapon or delivering some scathing speech, Billy does something unexpected. He holds out…a pair of tinted shades. Lighter stares, not entirely sure what to make of it. The glasses dangle in Billy’s hand, the Construct’s posture as casual and unbothered as ever. A present, Billy's voice perfectly smooth and indifferent, something the doctor picked up on a visit to the city. Lighter blinks, his mind grinding to a halt. A…present? From you? Why? For a moment, all he can do is stare at the shades, the reflection of his own dumbfounded expression staring back at him in their lenses. His brow furrows as his gaze catches the faint tint of the redish brown color across the glass, cool and distant, like a barrier between him and the world. They don’t look cheap—quite the opposite, actually. Which only makes it worse.

The weight of the gesture presses against him like a slow, sinking tide. He doesn’t know what to feel. Gratitude? Embarrassment? Suspicion? All of it tangles into a tight knot in his chest, a strange and unfamiliar discomfort he isn’t sure how to deal with. His fingers twitch at his sides, and for a split second, he debates leaving Billy hanging, ignoring the outstretched hand entirely. But the weight of of Billy’s unreadable gaze, feels heavier than his pride. Slowly, hesitantly, Lighter reaches out, his movements stiff and mechanical. The shades slide into his hand, the smooth metal and cool glass feeling foreign against his skin. His grip lingers a moment too long, like the act of accepting them is something monumental. As if he's taken the first step up the mountain.

Billy is… nice. He’s nice. Lighter can’t deny that, even if the word feels a little too plain for someone as unique as him. There’s something disarming about Billy—a balance between his quirks and his sharp edges that somehow works. Goofy around the edges, with a kind of restless energy, yet precise and almost unnervingly focused when it counts. He’s one of those people who can make awkward silences feel like they’re meant to be there, and Lighter finds an odd sense of peace in that. Maybe it’s because they share similar roles in the gang, both of them tasked with carrying responsibilities with more firepower. Or maybe it’s something deeper—something about their personalities that clicks. Lighter can’t quite put his finger on it, but there’s an ease to being around Billy, like slipping into a pair of old boots that still fit just right. For the most part, Billy is quiet, observing the world around him with that detached, almost mechanical calm. But when you hit the right topic—when you find the one thing that sparks his interest—he lights up like a firework. He’ll start talking, words spilling out in a stream of excitement that’s almost contagious. Lighter has seen it happen before, usually about some obscure mechanical part he needs for upgrading or a tv show about righteous knights who battle against evil. It’s the kind of rambling that could easily be overwhelming, but somehow, it’s not. Somehow, it’s endearing. There’s something genuine about the way Billy’s enthusiasm bubbles to the surface, something that makes Lighter’s guarded demeanor chip away just a little.

What he isn’t prepared for is how his carefully planned baby steps keep turning into leaps of faith. Normally, after every job, when the gang gathers around a bonfire to celebrate—loud laughter, music blaring, and drinks flowing—Lighter sticks to his routine. He’ll slink back to wherever he came from, or at most, brood in the shadows with his back plastered against a dark wall, far away from the chaos. It’s safer that way. Easier. But this time, something feels different. When Billy nudges him with an elbow and gestures toward the sagging couches that have clearly seen better days, Lighter hesitates. He considers it, just for a moment. He could shake his head, retreat to his corner, and Billy wouldn’t hold it against him. And really, Lighter’s presence won’t make or break the party. A couple swigs of Nitro Fuel and everyone will be too drunk to notice who’s around, passing out in ridiculous sleep positions before the night’s over.

His gaze shifts toward the bonfire. The flames lick and crackle, embers glowing as they begin to dull. Behind his tinted shades, the fire isn’t as vibrant as it would be without them. The reds, oranges, and yellows are muted, softened, like looking through a filter. Yet, for once, he can look at the fire without feeling that sharp, throbbing pain behind his eyes. It’s a small relief, and for a moment, he feels almost… normal. His attention drifts upward, scanning the circle of people sprawled out around the fire, laughing and arguing over meaningless things. And then his eyes land on you. You’re slumped over on one of the couches, gesturing animatedly as you rant about the ever-growing stream of patients flooding your clinic. Your voice is tinged with frustration, though it’s more exasperated than angry. Something about how you haven’t had a proper break in days. That explains why he hasn’t seen you lately.

A strange realization settles over him, tugging uncomfortably at the back of his mind. He never thanked you. For the shades, for your help in the city—for anything. The thought gnaws at him, not enough to be overwhelming, but enough to make him pause. He’s not good at expressing gratitude. Hell, he’s not even good at feeling it most of the time. But as he watches you flop back against the couch with a tired sigh, a flicker of something unfamiliar stirs in his chest. It’s not guilt exactly, but it’s close. Maybe tonight, for once, he won’t retreat into the shadows. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll take that next step.

He pointedly ignores the jolt you give when you feel the weight of the couch dip beneath him, the speed with which your head whips around to confirm what he knows must look impossible. Lighter—of all people—is sitting there, arms crossed stiffly over his chest, his gaze fixed on the fire like it owes him money. He doesn’t acknowledge you. Not directly, at least. He’s almost thankful for the heat radiating from the bonfire because, with any luck, you’ll mistake the redness creeping up his ears for reflections of the flickering light bouncing off his tinted shades. It’s not nerves—well, maybe a little—but mostly it’s the awkwardness of being in your presence when he’s not glowering at you from afar or brushing off whatever comment you’ve tossed his way. This is...new territory.

A tiny, traitorous part of him kind of wants to sneak a glance at you. What expression are you wearing right now? Are you gaping like a fish, shocked that the infamous recluse has willingly planted himself within six feet of you? Or worse—are you wearing one of those disgusted looks, the kind you save specifically for when he gets under your skin? He isn’t sure which would be worse, but the curiosity lingers.

For now, though, he keeps his head stubbornly forward, his jaw tight and his arms tense, as if he’s bracing himself for a punchline to some joke he hasn’t caught on to yet. The fire snaps and crackles before them, and the raucous noise of the gang around the bonfire continues to fill the air. Still, the weight of your attention burns heavier than the heat of the flames, and it takes all his willpower not to fidget under it.

...

It wouldn’t hurt to look. Just a quick glance, nothing too obvious. If you’re gaping at him like a fish out of water or pulling that disgusted face as if you’ve bitten into a lemon, then that’s a clear enough message: he’s severely miscalculated and he’ll never make that mistake again. Maybe sitting here was the wrong choice after all. His arms uncross slightly, just enough to give him the excuse to shift his weight, to tilt his head ever so slightly as if he’s adjusting his shades. His eyes flick to the side—just for a second—to gauge your reaction. It’s subtle, but enough to see if there's any tension in your shoulders, if your lips are pressed together like you’re trying to decide whether to call him out or let it slide.

To his surprise, there’s no disgust, no annoyance, not even a smirk that says, Really? You’re here?. Instead, there’s something else, something brighter. Maybe it’s curiosity, or perhaps a flicker of surprise that he’s dared to sit this close to you without his usual defenses up. Like you're struggling to contain yourself before you're about to burst. Whatever it is, it doesn’t scream “wrong choice” the way he expected.

You look...elated. That’s…new.

It throws him off balance in a way he’s not prepared for. That small spark in your eyes, the faint lift of your lips—it’s not the reaction he anticipated, not in a million years. His stomach twists, not in the way it does when he’s bracing for an argument or a fight, but in that strange, uncomfortable way that happens when the ground feels weightless beneath his feet. He swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry, and forces his gaze back to the fire, hoping the crackling embers will right him. He focuses on that, grounding himself in the heat of the burn, anything to avoid thinking about the expression he just caught on your face. He’s not sure he’d know what to do if he kept looking. He shifts slightly, crossing his arms tighter over his chest as though that will make him feel less exposed. He hopes he looks composed, even though his pulse is racing faster than he’d like to admit. For a moment, he almost regrets sitting down. But you’re not yelling at him—or worse, walking away.

For now, that’s enough to keep him rooted in place.

Man, he really wants to go back to his secluded corner.

“Lookin’ good, Lighter,” you say with a cheeky grin, your eyes curving into crescent moons that mirror the one hanging high in the night sky.

His fingers twitch against his arms where they’re folded, and he huffs, barely glancing your way. He knows you’re teasing, but the warmth behind your tone doesn’t feel mocking—it feels...light, playful in a way that doesn’t dig under his skin.

Still, he can’t help but mutter, “Don’t push it,” though the sharp edge he tries to add falls embarrassingly flat.

The firelight dances in your expression as your grin widens, and for a moment, he’s caught between the glow of the embers and the curve of your smile. It’s not like he’s never seen you smile before—he’s seen plenty of them, but those were always directed at other people. Always at your patients, your friends, or anyone else who wasn’t him. But now, the warmth in your expression is unmistakably meant for him, and it throws him off balance. It feels strange, foreign even, like the weight of something he’s not sure he knows how to carry. He doesn’t know what to do with it—this quiet kindness you’re offering, unspoken yet undeniable. His eyes flicker back to the fire, but the warmth of your gaze lingers, pressing against him in a way that feels both comforting and unnerving. He crosses his arms tighter over his chest, trying to ground himself, but it’s hard to ignore the way his pulse picks up, betraying the calm exterior he’s trying so hard to maintain.

“C’mon,” you tease, leaning back against the couch with an exaggerated stretch, your grin sharp and playful, “I don’t give compliments for free, you know. You could at least say ‘thanks.’”

He exhales through his nose, his lips twitching into something close to a scowl—but not quite. There’s no real bite behind it, just an attempt to shield himself from the moment you’ve trapped him in.

“Thanks,” he mutters, voice gruff and low, like the word scrapes against the edges of his pride as it slips out. Your laughter, loud and unrestrained, bubbles into the sky, It doesn’t feel like you’re laughing at him, though. There’s no edge, no smug satisfaction—just genuine amusement, warm and fleeting, like the explosion of firecrackers.

Belatedly, he notices that the leather of his gloves has lost its scent of rust and dust, replaced by the lingering traces of overpriced shampoo and motor oil. He should probably mind the shift, but he doesn't, not as much as he thought he would. In fact, there’s something oddly comforting about the contrast, like a quiet marker of his unexpected immersion into this world. It's strange, but in a way, it's been a long time since anything felt so familiar. Still, for as much time as he spends in your clinic, he's surprised he doesn’t walk away smelling of antiseptic spray. Maybe it’s because he’s never been your patient, but he wonders if it’s more than that. Maybe it’s because he’s become such a regular fixture in your clinic that the place itself has started to seep into him. It’s a funny thought, one that crosses his mind every time he enters your doors to see you putter around in that rhythm you've built for yourself. He watches the way you navigate the clinic, how you hum quietly under your breath when you’re absorbed in something, and how you somehow always know just when he’s lingering near the doorway. It makes something warm stir in his chest.

Aside from him, you don’t seem to have many patients to tend to. Billy doesn't exactly need regular checkups, given that he's more machine than man, and the rest of the gang is often off on other assignments or busy with their own affairs. Now, though, he notices something that’s been creeping up on him—he’s stopped avoiding you at every turn. At first, it was a conscious effort. He’d slip out when you weren’t looking, retreat into the shadows of the clinic or take a walk to avoid running into you when you were... being you—a healer, a talker, an enigma he didn’t quite know how to handle. But now? It’s different. You seem to be everywhere he goes. Your presence is subtle, but it's there—your voice drifting from one corner of the clinic, your footsteps moving purposefully down the hallway. And he’s... used to it. More than he ever thought he’d be. The awkwardness he used to feel is slowly dissolving though there’s still a part of him that’s wary of what it means. He’s learned, in his own way, to appreciate the way you move, the way you’ve managed to fit yourself into his world.

It manifests in small moments—subtle, fleeting, but undeniable. It happens when he sees your fingers blindly reach for something on the counter, and before you can even finish your motion, he’s already sliding the object into your palm. The first syllable of your sentence leaves your lips, but it’s already too late; he’s finishing your thought, speaking the words as if they were his own. Even when you glance at something, then back at him, there’s a strange, quiet understanding. He doesn’t need you to say anything more; he can read the flicker of your thoughts in the way your eyes linger, in the soft shift of your gaze. It’s almost too intimate for him to process, this unspoken bond. His instinct is to push it away, to retreat back to the isolation he’s known for so long. But there's something strangely comfortable in it—something that makes him feel a little less alone, a little less like he's always on the outside, watching the world pass by. It doesn’t make sense, but it doesn’t feel wrong either.

He doesn’t exactly know what to make of it—this strange dance, your steady rhythm next to his stumbling between the two of you. It’s like walking through a fog, not sure if you’re heading in the right direction but trusting the path enough to keep moving forward. There are still moments when he feels like he’s on the edge of something. He’ll catch you looking at him just a bit too long, those small moments of curiosity. What’s even more surprising is how much he’s starting to do the same with you. He doesn’t always understand you, doesn’t always know the right things to say, but when he catches you working, lost in your thoughts, focused on a task, he finds a strange sense of peace in it. It’s a new thing. Before, he’d find any excuse to walk away, but now, he lingers. He stays in the space, watches the way you move with a quiet concentration, and feels that flicker of something—maybe curiosity, maybe even admiration.

He can tell you're starting to loosen up around him, too. Even when he doesn’t respond to what you say in the way you'd hope, you don’t seem to take it to heart like you used to. There’s no hint of irritation, no sharp edge to your words. You don’t push, don’t demand more than what he can give, and there’s something about that that makes him feel... safer? Less like he has to keep his guard up at all times. Bits and pieces of his old personality—those little flashes of the person he used to be before everything became so fractured—are starting to creep out from under the heavy layers of his walls. They find their way to the surface in quiet moments, in the brief pauses between conversations where you almost catch him smiling at something you've said, or when a wry comment slips out without him even thinking. It’s as if the parts of him that used to retreat into the background, hiding in the shadows of his old self, are slowly being coaxed out.

He’s holding two tubes of lipstick, one in each hand, squinting like he’s trying to decipher some ancient code. Burnice just had to be unspecific when she said she wanted to try a new color, an "orange sunset” apparently. What does that even mean? The shade of a fiery sky? A pumpkin? Tangerine? He has no idea, and it doesn’t help that both of these lipsticks look exactly the same to him. The store's bright fluorescent lights glare down from above, making his head throb. He adjusts his glasses, still firmly planted on his nose despite their dimming effect on vibrant hues. Without them, he’d probably be seeing stars. But he can't exactly turn back now. Piper is out of commission, and the rest of the gang conveniently claims to be busy with other duties—though Lighter suspects they’re all just finding excuses to dodge responsibility. That much becomes clear when Lucy shoves a crumpled list into his hands, a smirk playing on her lips like she knows exactly how this is going to go. The paper’s worn and hastily scribbled, the ink smudged in places, and as his eyes scan the contents, a wave of déjà vu washes over him. Yep. He still has no idea what any of these things are.

"Orange Sunset, my ass," he mutters, comparing it to the other like some kind of makeup detective. One might be slightly redder, or maybe it’s just the lighting messing with him. Why does anyone need this many shades of orange anyway? From the corner of his eye, he catches a clerk staring at him, probably wondering why some scruffy guy in tinted glasses is agonizing over lipstick like his life depends on it. He ignores them, sighing as he tries to recall Burnice’s exact tone when she made the request. Did she sound sarcastic? Was this a joke? Because if it was, it’s on him now.

He lets out a deep sigh, the weight of his confusion finally settling in. Yup, he's throwing in the towel. This whole "getting the right shade" thing? It’s beyond him. He has no idea what the girls were thinking when they handed him that list. Honestly, he figures he should just wait for you to come back from the pharmacy across the street. Maybe then, you’ll know exactly what to get, and they won’t think he’s the worst at shopping ever.

Before he can wallow in his lack of makeup knowledge for much longer, he hears a snicker, followed by your voice, "You want to try some on? There are testers available, but I wouldn't recommend putting them on your lips. Cross-contamination and all that."

He turns just in time to see you walk into the store, a white folded bag in hand. You pause for a second, your hand pressed against your face like you’re hiding a smile. It's the same expression you made when he approached you with the invitation to come with him back to the city, eyes glued to the ground the entire time. Lighter places the two tubes of lipstick down, his unamused expression deepening as he shoots you a look.

"What’s with that look?" you tease, clearly amused. "I personally think you'd look great with a bit of color. We can even ask someone to do a color match for you and find your foundation shade."

“I think they’d rather kick me out,” Lighter mutters, his eyes flicking down at himself like he’s seeing his mismatched appearance for the first time. He shifts uncomfortably, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched in a defensive way, "I look out of place."

"On the contrary, I think you need to get your eyes cleaned out." Your voice is teasing but there’s an edge of affection in it, the kind that’s almost imperceptible if you’re not paying attention. The kind of teasing that cuts just enough to be fun, but not enough to wound. Lighter shoots you a glare, but he knows it’s probably not landing the way it used to. It's a hollowed one, more of a reflex than anything intentional. He’s not sure if it’s because you’ve grown more used to his stares or if he’s just losing his touch altogether. Either way, he can tell by the way your grin stretches across your face that it doesn’t bother you as much as it once would’ve.

He’s not entirely sure how he feels about that.

"Look," your hand unconsciously reaches out to tug him down, and, almost without thinking, he follows. He bends down slightly, tilting his head so he’s eye level with you, the close proximity sending an unexpected jolt through him. He's suddenly hyper aware of your fingers curling against the leather of his sleeve, how your breath warms against his cheek, and just how close your face is to his even when you're looking at everyone around him.

“You’re practically out of one of those dramas where the rugged boyfriend goes out to get his girlfriend’s 'personal needs,'” You lean in closer, your voice dropping to a whisper in his ear. There’s a mischievous glint in your eyes as you tease him, almost too easy to notice. You lower your tone, dropping your words like a soft secret into his ear, “I’m sure every girl here is living vicariously through this."

You pause, eyes scanning him up and down with that smirk still tugging at the corner of your lips. It lingers for a moment, like you're reading him, sizing him up, before your words hit him, “I’d say you’d also fill the single dad role, but you don’t look old enough for that typecasting.”

Lighter blinks, a confused frown flashing across his face. He has no idea what you’re talking about, but the way your eyes twinkle suggests it's something... positive? At least, he thinks it is. It's hard to tell when your teasing tone is wrapped up in that playful spark.

Before he can even try to sort it out, you give him a light pat on the back, the action unexpected and almost fond, “Seriously, we’ll find your lost sense of humor soon."

While the days in the Outer Ring are hot and sweltering, the nights bring a biting chill, driving its residents indoors, where only Nitro Fuel and dim lights keep the cold at bay. The boss had invited him to join her and the rest of the girls for an after-party celebrating their new champion, but he’d waved them off, telling them to go on ahead and promising to join later. That promise hangs in the air now as he walks alone down an abandoned street in Blazewood, the quiet pressing in around him. The scarf around his neck feels heavier than it should. He’s never worn one before, and the fabric’s coarse brush against his skin almost itches. Yet, despite the unfamiliar texture, it’s warm. His fingers trace the small ornament stitched into the cloth, a detail meant just for him. It’s new, like so many other things, and he’s still trying to process it all. Everything around him has shifted so suddenly. Billy’s departure—soaring to new heights yet still tethered to the ground somehow. His own unexpected promotion to the forefront. The chaos in between. It’s overwhelming, surreal even, like being thrown into a story he doesn’t quite know the script for. And this scarf, with its peculiar weight, feels like a silent reminder of it all. He glances down at the ornament again, feeling the smooth metal beneath the pads of his fingers. It’s strange, having a physical marker of his place here.

When he first joined, he thought of the gang as just another boxing show, another carousel of passing faces he’d forget as soon as the next fight rolled around. A means to an end, nothing more. Look at him now. He almost wants to pinch his younger self’s cheek—just like a certain doctor does, though she insists it’s to “keep him humble.”. Nowadays, his title as the undefeated champion is only rivaled by how many times he can dodge Lucy's fists whenever he unconsciously picks her up. It’s become a routine—her standing on her tiptoes, stretching for something just out of reach, and him swooping in before she can so much as grumble. She's quick with her jabs, but he’s quicker. The footwork he once honed in the ring is now reserved for avoiding the creaky spots on the painted wooden floorboards—Piper’s after-breakfast nap is sacred, and waking her up is a crime punishable by death or, at the very least, her pointed glare. His “losses” pile up bottle by bottle, courtesy of Burnice’s sticky fingers and her talent for swiping extra Nitro Fuel. She always claims victory in their drinking contests, though he’s the one stuck carrying her home afterward. And sure, maybe he hums her favorite song while walking her back, but if anyone asks, he’ll deny it outright. Then there’s the boss, still as loud and demanding as ever, though now he shoulders the oddly specific responsibility of keeping her stash of romance novels a secret. It's a heavy weight, in a way, but he’d take a hundred bruises in the ring before he’d let anyone find out about her guilty pleasure. It’s funny how things turn out. What started as a pit stop, just another stepping stone in his aimless journey, has become something he wouldn’t trade for anything. Each quirky routine, each odd connection, has woven itself into a life he never expected to want. Yet, some things still remain the same.

His posture relaxes as he soaks in the occasional breeze, letting it cool his skin before he comes to a stop. It’s the usual fanfare—snickers and the grating sound of metal pipes dragging through the sand, a clear attempt at intimidation. He sighs, cracking his neck and adjusting his glasses with a practiced air of disinterest. Pulling his scarf up to cover his nose, he glances over his shoulder toward the group that’s been loitering on the outskirts of Blazewood for the past week. They don’t look particularly tough, their mismatched outfits and lack of coordination betraying their inexperience. Probably a newly formed gang, he guesses, especially since there’s no sense of camaraderie between the members. They’re all bravado and no bond—lone wolves forced to share the same pack. He straightens up, hands slipping casually into his pockets as he sizes them up. There’s no need to get too worked up over this. He has a party to attend.

A simple scare should have been enough to send them running for the hills, leaving the town in peace. At least, that’s how it should have gone. It should have started with a few taunts, the kind that barely even register on his radar. It should have escalated with the rival gang growing annoyed and one of them jumping the gun, rushing at Lighter with more ego than skill. It should have ended with him throwing two well-placed punches toward the leader, the crackle of fire igniting briefly in his gauntlets, enough to remind them who they were dealing with. And it should have concluded with them scattering like leaves in the wind, Lighter strolling back to the after-party with a few extra bottles of Nitro Fuel as a peace offering for showing up late—though he knows full well the girls wouldn’t have minded.

That’s how it should have gone.

But then one of them had to open their mouth.

The words hang in the air like a bad omen, laced with an ill-advised threat toward a certain doctor. And for the first time in a long while, Lighter feels something snap.

The familiar burn of anger flares in his chest, spreading like wildfire. His fingers twitch at his sides, curling into fists without thought. The world around him blurs, his focus narrowing to the gang member who had the audacity to speak your name. He doesn’t hear the rest of their jeers; all he can hear is the pounding of his own heartbeat.

For the first time in what feels like forever, Lighter sees red.

"Lighter! Lighter, stop! Jeez, pull yourself together, you bullheaded prick!"

Your voice cuts through the haze, sharp and grounding, like a lifeline dragging him back from the abyss. There’s a lot of blood. Too much. It stains the ground, splattered on his knuckles, pooling beneath the poor bastard who dared to run his mouth. The smell is what finally does it, sharp and metallic, twisting his stomach into knots. He stumbles back a step, his chest heaving, his mind reeling. His breaths are short and shallow, his vision swimming.

And then there’s you.

You’re always there—always managing to catch him at his worst. Always steady when he’s falling apart.

"Hey, hey, easy there," you say, your voice softening as you approach him. You raise your hands in a calming gesture, palms open, careful not to startle him further, "Look at me. I won't touch you but look at me. Right here, okay? Watch."

You inhale deeply, motioning with your hand as if to guide him.

“Breathe in…”

He follows, though his breath is shaky and uneven.

“Good, now breathe out,” you continue, exhaling slowly and mimicking the motion with your hand, “Good, good. You're doing well. One more time.”

You repeat the steps, your tone patient and measured, until Lighter’s chest stops heaving and the ringing in his ears fades. The blood-soaked street feels a little less suffocating, the weight on his chest a little less crushing. The sharp tang of blood begins to fade, replaced by the sterile cleanliness of your presence. His hands, still trembling, drop to his sides. The fight in him has ebbed away, leaving exhaustion and shame in its wake. He doesn’t meet your eyes, doesn’t say a word.

His first day and he's already gone and screwed it all up.

“Jeez, you really did a number on him. We’ll need to patch him up,” you mutter, crouching down to get a better look at the poor sap sprawled on the ground. Blood’s still dripping, his fellow gang members already fled with their tails tucked between their legs, but he's still breathing. You glance over your shoulder at Lighter, who’s standing there frozen, his fists clenched and his face an unreadable mask, “Come on, I don’t have the arm strength for this."

Lighter doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. His shoulders are rigid, his gaze fixed somewhere far away, like he’s trying to make himself disappear. He's never reacted like this in a long while.

You sigh, standing up and stepping closer. Slowly, you reach out, and after a moment, he lowers his head, his posture deflating. His muscles tense as your hand makes contact, but he doesn’t pull away. Your fingers find his cheek, and with no hesitation, you pinch it. Hard. He flinches, more out of reflex than pain, and you feel the corner of your lips twitch upward.

“There,” you say, your tone lighter now, patting the same cheek you just pinched. Your thumb smooths over the faint red imprint left behind, and for a moment, the tension in his body seems to ease. It’s not much, but it’s enough to break through the fog in his head. His shoulders drop a little further, his fists unclenching. He lets out a breath he doesn’t realize he’s been holding, the weight of your touch grounding him just enough to find his footing again.

"What's got you so scared?"

A lot of things, if he’s honest. Despite the cool and rough persona he wears as Lighter, the undefeated champion of the Sons of Calydon, he’s scared of more than he’d ever admit. He can’t stomach the sight of blood—it churns his insides and makes his skin crawl. He’s painfully awkward in social situations, fumbling through conversations like a rookie boxer tripping over his own feet. He still messes up Caesar’s name sometimes, even though he’s been around long enough to know better. But none of that compares to the fear that grips him now. He’s petrified of losing the people he cares about—again. That fear sinks its claws into him and doesn’t let go, dragging him back to memories he’d rather bury. It’s why he builds walls, high and impenetrable, around all the words he never got to say. They sit there, locked away, heavy and suffocating, so he doesn’t have to face them or the pain they carry. What if those walls break? What if he lets you see what’s inside? Would you stay? Or would you run, leaving him stranded in the mess he doesn’t know how to fix? Worse, what if admitting he needs help means losing the little control he has left? It’s easier—safer—to keep everything hidden. But as the silence stretches on, he wonders how much longer he can keep it all locked away.

"Yeah, well," you mimic in the same tone of voice, "You shouldn't have to."

Lighter realizes, a little too late, that he’s been neglecting the plaster and glue holding his fortress together. For a long while, he’s tuned out the sounds of crumbling debris and the sharp groan of widening cracks. He’s gotten so used to it, the noise faded into the background, like an annoying hum he could ignore. But when he finally looks up, his so-called fortress isn’t much of a fortress at all. It’s rubble now—scattered cobblestones barely clinging together, a patchwork of failure. And yet, for the first time, he doesn’t feel the urge to grab a hammer and pickaxe, mix the concrete, and start stacking the stones again. It all seems like too much effort for something that’s bound to collapse, no matter how carefully he tries to build it. What’s the point of piling up walls that are only going to be torn down again? For once, the more obvious choice feels… freeing. Maybe he doesn’t need to patch up every broken piece or keep retreating behind what’s left. Maybe, just maybe, it’s time to leave it behind entirely. Time to walk up and out of the wreckage, away from the shoreline where he’s been stranded for too long.

He knows it’s inevitable. For the undefeated champion, he sure has been folding a lot. It’s embarrassing, really. He’s so screwed. Somewhere along the trek up the mountain, he tripped over a branch and fell onto the untraveled path—and somehow, somehow, he’s done the one thing he swore he’d never do again. He’s in love. Opening up to the Sons of Calydon, letting them see into the tiny fissures of his heart—that was one thing. But this? This is overkill. The worst part is that his body has decided, after years of running on autopilot, that this is his standard default. The switch to turn it off has rusted over, and now he can’t budge it even a little.

He’s grateful for his glasses; otherwise, everyone would know how his eyes always seem to linger on you, even when you’re all the way across town. How he quickly sits up straighter, crossing his arms over his chest, whenever you enter a room. How he moves his red scarf to cover his mouth when his lips start to curve too high, almost like a chipmunk’s grin. How he breaks into an awkward sweat when he offers you help, terrified that you might reject him—god forbid—because if you do, he’ll spend the whole night replaying it in his mind, over and over, like a broken record. And how Piper, knowing exactly how to get under his skin, will casually say your name just to watch him freeze, making his heart race all over again.

Before, when he decided to lie to himself and shove his emotions down deep, it was easy to embody that indifferent attitude. Now? Now things are different. When you tug at the ends of his sleeves, when he instinctively bends down to hear you whisper some teasing remark about his opponent, he can't help but let out a soft huff of amusement, his lips curving into a small smile he can't quite hide. When he's lounging on the couches during their many parties, arm sprawled out across the backrest, and you join him, leaning against his side, he used to barely register it, continuing to watch the festivities like it was no big deal. But these days, it’s all he can focus on. The way your proximity affects him, the subtle shift in his attention when you're near. And then there are the check-ups. Don’t even get him started on those. He’s been half-dressed around you more times than he’s been fully clothed, and now, suddenly, his body decides it wants to get embarrassed? It’s as if his mind finally caught up to what’s been going on, and he’s not sure if he’s more frustrated or flustered.

What’s even worse is that he can tell you’re different now, too. He’s been in your orbit for so long, circling around the same familiar path, mostly because you’re always there, pulling him back when he drifts too far. You refuse to let him wander off, not entirely—like you’re always keeping an eye on him, tethered to him somehow. But now, it feels like the strings are fraying. While he's finally starting to push forward, to test the limits of whatever's been silently building between you, you’re pulling away. And it sucks. It sucks in a way that gnaws at him, this dull ache in his chest that he can’t shake off. He wants to reach out, to bridge the gap, but it’s like he’s fumbling in the dark, and you're slipping through his fingers, even as you're right there.

As much as Lighter wants to give you 100% of his attention, he hasn’t gotten a wink of sleep. It's only a matter of time before the girls state an intervention and it doesn’t take long for them to corner him. No escape routes left, no way to dodge the inevitable. They close in, their grins wide and knowing as they make sure he has nowhere to go but to surrender. He tries to play it cool, shifting his weight from foot to foot, but the tension in the air is thick enough to cut with a knife. Finally, after what feels like hours of relentless teasing and subtle pressure, the words tumble out of him. Their champion—Lighter, the undefeated and untouchable—had been crushing hard on their doctor. Sure, it took two hours of wrangling and dusty clothes, but in the end, they had their win. If you could even call it that.

"Wait, wait, officer, wait!" Lucy shouts, her voice filled with exaggerated disbelief. She even stamps her foot for emphasis, and her helmet slips askew from her dramatic movements, adding a comical touch to the scene, "You mean you're in the 'we might be more than friends in the feelings department, but still not in the confirmation phase' period? That's the most iffy period!"

"I guess so..." Lighter mumbles, still stuck on the floor beneath the combined weight of Burnice and Caesar. He’s desperately trying to worm his way out of their hold, but it’s no use. The girls share a look that he’ll never quite understand—because apparently, women have this telepathic connection that they all seem to possess. They turn back to him, wide-eyed, as if they’ve just uncovered some huge revelation.

Ah. Those were the wrong words to say.

"Whaat?! What is this new development?! Why didn’t you tell us?!" Lucy’s voice rises an octave, as her eyes gleam with excitement. She practically jumps up and down, trying to process the new information like a live-wire.

"When? Where? Who?!" Burnice fires off her questions faster than Lighter can even blink, leaning in so close that her face is dangerously close to his. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated with the thrill of gossip.

Then, Caesar clamps her hands on his shoulders, her usual carefree demeanor replaced by something much more serious. The intense gaze she locks onto him is a complete mismatch for her typical bubbly personality, making Lighter feel an unsettling tension.

"Are you being blackmailed?" she asks, her voice flat.

It was the wrong decision to let the girls know that he was crushing hard on the new hire. It started innocently enough, but soon enough, they forced him into their room for what they called a "girls' night," and it quickly escalated into a marathon of magazines with increasingly specific titles. He had barely survived the first few issues, which ranged from "How to Tell If Someone Likes You" to "What to Do When You're an Emotionally and Socially Repressed Individual Who Hasn't Felt the Touch of a Woman and You Don't Want to Come Off as a Creep and Get HR Involved." What the hell kind of magazine even has a title that long? Did the author do that by accident? Was that intentional?

All in all, what he's learned is that he needs to be more talkative, but not too much—just enough so he doesn’t seem like he only cares about himself. But also, he’s supposed to ask questions about you and show interest in your hobbies, but not too many questions because that could come off as probing. And then there’s the smiling part: he needs to smile more, but not too much teeth or it'll seem intimidating, but just wide enough so it looks natural.

He thinks he's going to ask Lucy if she can use his head as a baseball.

"That was... a lot sadder than I thought it would be," you say as the credits roll, the melancholic piano score lingering in the air like an unresolved question. The weight of the story hangs between you, tangible and heavy. It was a tale of two ill-fated lovers who never managed to align their lives, perpetually missing the timing needed for their relationship to truly blossom. And just when it seemed there might be hope, everything unraveled into a hollow, bittersweet ending—one slowly succumbing to corruption, and the other staying by their side despite knowing how it would all end, sacrificing their own happiness just to hold onto the fleeting moments they had left together.

The credits roll, but Lighter doesn’t really notice them. He leans forward, elbows digging into his knees, his hands clasped tightly together. The darkened screen in front of him might as well be a blank canvas—his mind’s elsewhere, swirling around the movie’s ending, still echoing in his chest.

It’s funny, really. The story hit close enough to home that it should’ve left him with that familiar ache, that gnawing feeling in his gut like it always did in the past. Two lovers caught in a cycle of bad timing, one slipping away while the other stays behind, trapped in a choice they can’t undo. Yeah, it should’ve made him feel something, some kind of sorrow or regret—but it didn’t. He just feels… fine. Maybe that’s what’s bothering him. He knows he should feel more, but he’s been through too much of that pain before, and he’s not that guy anymore. Not the guy who drowns in what-ifs and could-have-beens. He’s learned how to move on. He’s learned how to survive the worst things life throws at him. A shift beside him brings him out of his thoughts. He glances over at you, your form curled up against the couch, arms wrapped loosely around the pillow. You’re quiet, almost unreadable, but there’s something about you that makes him feel like he’s not alone in the room. Like somehow, without doing anything, you’ve managed to pull him from the edge of his thoughts and into this shared silence.

For a moment, he wonders if he should feel more disturbed by the movie, or maybe feel bad about how unaffected he is. It’s odd, like something’s wrong because he’s not torn up about it, because he's not emotionally wrecked. He glances back at the screen and sighs, but it’s a different kind of sigh. It’s not regret. It’s relief.

Maybe the truth is, he’s finally found some peace with himself. Sure, he’s still haunted by some old ghosts, but they don’t have the same grip on him. He’s learned to live with the scars, to accept that he can’t control everything. He thinks that’s what the movie tried to say in the end—about choice, about letting go, about moving forward even when it’s hard. He watches you for a moment longer, his gaze lingering just enough for him to realize that you’re not just here, you're with him. That’s enough for him. That’s all he needs. He’s grown. He’s fine. His fingers twitch, still resting against his knees, but for the first time in a long time, he’s not holding on to anything.

"Yeah," he finally says, his voice low and a little rough, "It hits harder than you expect, doesn’t it?"

"I don't know... I think the ending was kind of lame," you say, your voice cutting through the lingering weight of the movie’s somber tone. You shift slightly in your seat, trying to find the right words to explain. "If I were stuck in the Hollow, I think I’d want to run out and keep living on in their memory, you know? Like, make it mean something. If I knew I was the reason my lover passed... I’d be kind of pissed."

Lighter, leaning back on the couch with his arms crossed, raises a brow at your comment. His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer than usual, as though he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking or not. When he speaks, his voice carries a faint hint of amusement. "So, dramatic sacrifices aren’t your thing, huh?"

"It’s not that," you reply, shrugging as you glance at him, "I just think... if someone gave up everything for me, it’d feel wrong to waste it. Like, what’s the point of their sacrifice if I just give up too? I’d owe it to them to live a life that’s worth it, to make something out of it."

You glance away for a moment, the weight of your own words settling in. It’s a thought that’s been with you for a while, ever since you first realized how fleeting everything really is. People sacrifice so much, sometimes without even realizing it, and you’re not sure how you would handle knowing someone gave up everything for you. Could you live with that? Or would the guilt eat you alive? There’s a deep part of you that’s always felt that need to honor those sacrifices, even if it meant carrying the weight of their legacy on your own shoulders. You meet his gaze again, but this time your expression is softer, less defensive. It’s not that you’re opposed to the idea of sacrifice—far from it. You just want to make sure it isn’t in vain. And sometimes, it feels like the best way to show gratitude is to keep moving forward, no matter how hard it gets.

"I think you're a tiny bit biased," Lighter teases, tilting his head slightly, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and curiosity,

"What about you?" you counter, leaning forward just enough to rest your arms on your knees. Your gaze lingers on him, expectant and challenging, "If you were in that position, what would you do?"

Lighter’s breath catches for a split second, and he shifts his posture, suddenly aware of the weight of your question. It’s a simple enough question, but the way you ask it—intense, unwavering—throws him off balance. His mind starts to race, torn between deflecting and actually answering. He leans back, crossing his arms loosely over his chest, trying to buy himself a little more time to come up with something smooth, but his usual quips feel hollow now. He takes a deep breath and looks away, out toward the window where the dirt and sand stretch on for miles. For a moment, he’s quiet, too quiet. The easy confidence he usually projects feels distant, and the silence stretches longer than he’d like.

It’s not that he doesn’t know what he’d do—he does. But the idea of voicing it out loud, especially now, with you watching him like that, makes him hesitate. He knows it’s supposed to be a simple hypothetical, but everything feels like it’s loaded with more meaning than it should.

"I’d like to give it a try," he says at last, his voice lower now, "The notion of dying for love."

You blink, momentarily stunned by the unexpected sincerity in his voice. For a split second, the usual teasing edge in his tone fades, replaced by something deeper and more vulnerable.

"Huh, really?" you ask, your brows lifting in genuine surprise, trying to piece together the shift in the atmosphere between you.

"Yeah," he responds, his posture shifting as he crosses one leg over the other, the usual air of nonchalance creeping back into his demeanor. He leans back just a little, the teasing grin returning to his lips, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s a flicker of something, a hint of something he’s trying to keep buried beneath the surface, "Why so surprised, firecracker?"

You can’t help but smile at the nickname, but the weight of what he said lingers in the air, pulling your focus. You take a breath before speaking, your tone soft but firm, almost as if you’ve been carrying the thought for a while. Your voice holds a quiet certainty, a belief that resonates with something deep inside you, "I don't know... I feel like you'd do everything you could to save the person you care about, or at least keep living in their memory."

His gaze falters for a moment, something flickering behind his eyes as your words settle in. It’s as though the impact of your statement lands heavier than he expected, like it cuts through the layers of his usual defenses and hits a raw nerve. It stings, more than he cares to admit. There’s a strange ache in his chest, a tightness that only grows as he processes your words. He’s not sure why it’s affecting him like this, but it’s almost painful how close you always are to the truth. How easily you manage to sift through all the rubble, the chaos, the noise inside his head, and find the small, hidden pieces of gold buried deep within. It terrifies him a little, how you seem to understand him without him even having to try. How you can see past the walls he’s so carefully built. He just hopes you don’t notice how tightly his jaw is clenched, or how his chest feels like it’s about to cave in.

"Besides," you add, your voice softening as you meet his gaze. "I don’t want you to die. I’m sure your lover would think the same."

"I’ll try my best," he says with a half-hearted chuckle, though his voice betrays something deeper, something unspoken. "But, uh, no guarantees."

"Then, for both our sakes, I hope you never fall in love."

Ah…you might be a bit too late on that.

-+-+-

"I've fallen in love with you."

The words crash into the silence, sending a jolt through you that leaves your heart thumping erratically in your chest. You spin around, your eyes wide with surprise, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, time seems to stretch out. It takes him a beat longer than it should for him to realize what he’s just said, the weight of it sinking in like a stone. The vulnerability in his words suddenly hits him full force, the tension between the two of you thickening in the space that’s opened up.

The words slipped out before he could stop them, an unexpected ease in their release, and now they hang in the air, heavy and undeniable. His heart stops for a moment, watching you, eyes wide like you've been struck by lightning. Everything seems to slow down, every detail in the room—how the light falls on your face, how your breath catches—feels magnified, as if the entire world hinges on this one, fragile moment.

And then it hits him. He actually said it. His stomach lurches, the realization settling deep like a rock in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t mean for it to come out so clearly, so openly, and now the consequences of his words hang over him like a storm cloud.

The silence that follows is deafening, and every second that ticks by only seems to stretch the space between you both, making it feel like the world is holding its breath. He scrambles mentally for something—anything—to undo it, to take the words back, but it's too late. They're out there, raw and exposed. His pulse pounds in his ears, and suddenly the room feels too small, too suffocating. Did he say too much? Too little? Was it the wrong thing to say?

He watches you, frozen in place, his chest tight with uncertainty. This is it. The moment is already unfolding, and he can’t change it now. It’s out there, hanging like a thread between you both, waiting to unravel. He waits for you to speak, but the longer the silence drags on, the more he wonders if he’s just made the biggest mistake of his life.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, and his eyes can't seem to pull away from you. Every inch of him wants to speak, to say something, anything that might undo the tension creeping up his spine. But nothing comes. His mind is blank, his throat dry, and he can feel the weight of your stare, both curious and uncertain. He half expects you to run, to say something that would make everything snap back into place, to laugh it off or tell him he’s out of his mind.

But you don’t.

Instead, you stand there, still, your gaze not wavering. There's a moment where the world feels impossibly heavy and yet so, so fragile. His heart beats faster in his chest, a frantic rhythm he can’t control. His palms feel clammy. The longer you remain quiet, the more he feels like he’s hanging off a cliff, just waiting for the ground beneath him to disappear.

But then, finally—finally—you take a breath, and the tension breaks, if only slightly.

"I…" Your voice is soft, hesitant, as if you're still weighing the words that should follow his confession. It’s a quiet exhale, but it feels like it’s shaking loose everything that’s been keeping you both in place. He watches you carefully, hanging onto every word, his heartbeat slow and deliberate now, the heavy silence between you hanging in the air like a fragile glass ornament about to shatter. What is she going to say?

"Are you dying?" you say and the world both tilts and rewinds, before sparks appear and it falls off the record player. He sincerely doesn't know how to respond to that. So he does the next best thing, honesty.

"Not that I'm aware of, I feel like you'd know that best doc."

"Ah sorry. That was the wrong thing to say. I...I didn’t think you’d…" you trail off, eyes flickering to the floor briefly before meeting his again, something unreadable flashing in your gaze, "I didn’t think you’d say that."

His chest tightens. It's not a rejection, but it's not exactly a declaration of reciprocation either. The uncertainty in your voice makes him want to take a step closer, to close the distance between you two, but he's terrified. Terrified that if he moves, he’ll push you further away instead of bringing you closer.

"I didn’t either, I didn't plan for this," he admits, the words slipping out almost without him realizing it, "But yeah. I really like you."

"Oh..." you interrupt gently, your voice a mix of hesitation and something softer, more understanding, "... how long?"

Lighter freezes for a moment, the question catching him off guard. His eyes flicker toward the floor as he grapples with the weight of it, the answer to something he'd never really considered before now. How long had he been feeling this way? How long had he kept this locked up, buried under the surface?

"How long...?" He repeats your question, his brow furrowing as if he’s just now realizing the depth of the situation. He takes a deep breath, letting the air settle in his lungs before speaking again, the words coming out slower this time, as if he's trying to find the right ones, "I don’t really know... a while. Longer than I’d like to admit, I guess."

He glances up at you, his gaze a little hesitant, but there’s something in it that wasn’t there before. Maybe it’s the vulnerability that’s starting to seep through, or maybe it’s just the raw honesty in his voice. Either way, he can’t help but wonder how much longer you’ll stand there, waiting, as if expecting him to unravel in front of you. Your eyes search his face for any sign that you’ve said the right thing, that you’ve cracked open a door he might have kept shut for so long. But you just stand there, waiting for him to continue, your expression soft, almost... hopeful?

"You didn’t think I’d feel that way, huh?" Lighter asks, his voice betraying a hint of surprise, as if he’s been caught off guard by his own admission. He lets out a slight, self-conscious chuckle, trying to smooth over the tension that still lingers in the air. It’s a bit forced, a little too casual, like he's trying to disguise the weight of the words he just shared. He rubs the back of his neck, his fingers brushing against the cool skin there, clearly unsure of what to do with himself now that the silence between you has shifted. "Guess I’ve been a little good at hiding it." He shrugs, though it’s more of an awkward gesture than anything else.

You study him for a moment, watching as he fidgets, his eyes darting away for a moment before he looks back at you, like he’s unsure of whether to keep speaking or leave it at that. It’s almost endearing how out of place he seems, trying to hide behind the nonchalance he’s so good at, but it’s not enough to mask the vulnerability creeping in at the edges.

"But... now that it's out there..." he trails off, as though the weight of his own admission is still sinking in. His voice falters just the slightest bit, and for a second, it’s like the walls between you both crack just enough for something real to slip through.

"Yeah, now that it's out there..." you murmur, your voice quiet, almost contemplative, as you let the moment settle. It’s like something you both knew but hadn’t fully allowed to surface until now. The air feels different, almost lighter, as if the unspoken tension that had lingered between you for so long has finally found a release. Neither of you moves, both caught in that delicate pull of the moment. There’s a strange sense of stillness, as if the world outside of this room has faded away, leaving only the two of you in this quiet, shared understanding. You don’t need to say anything more, not yet. But something has changed, something deeper than words. And neither of you knows exactly where to go from here, but it doesn’t feel as scary as it did before. It feels... natural, in a way. Like it’s been building without either of you realizing it.

For once, you both just sit there, letting the silence stretch out, but it’s different now. It’s not uncomfortable, not loaded with awkwardness. It’s the kind of silence that follows when something unspoken has been finally brought to light, and neither of you feels the need to rush to fill it.

Lighter clears his throat, his awkwardness creeping back in. "So, uh..." He scratches the back of his neck again, looking anywhere but at you. "I was wondering... since, y'know, we’ve, uh... gotten that out of the way..." He pauses, clearly searching for the right words, but they don't seem to come easy.

He exhales slowly, the air caught in his chest like he’s about to dive into cold water. "Would you maybe... want to go out sometime?" He stammers, his eyes flicking up to meet yours for a split second before darting away again. "Like, on a... date? Not that I'm... asking you to or anything... it’s just... y'know, if you... want to."

You blink, surprised by the words but not exactly sure how to respond at first. It’s a question that catches you off guard in the best possible way, and you can feel the butterflies stirring in your stomach.

"Yeah," you say, your voice slightly higher than usual, betraying the nerves building up inside you. "I... I’d like that. A date, yeah."

Lighter’s eyes widen for a moment, as though he’s trying to process your response. Then, his face flushes, a mixture of relief and embarrassment flooding him all at once. He clears his throat again, looking anywhere but at you, as if he’s trying to escape from the awkwardness of the moment.

"Alright, then. I’ll, uh... figure out the details." He shuffles awkwardly, hands in his pockets, clearly trying to regain some composure. Then, without another word, he turns on his heel, stiffly walking toward the door.

You, too, turn away at the same time, and the two of you end up facing the door, like a pair of statues frozen in your own awkwardness. Lighter grips the door handle, pausing for a second before pulling it open. His feet move on autopilot as he steps out, but as soon as the door closes behind him, he’s hit with a wave of relief that comes crashing over him. He sinks to the floor, his back against the wall, hands pressed to his face as he lets out a groan, half-exasperated, half-relieved.

"Oh god," he mutters under his breath, his cheeks burning. He’s never been this embarrassed in his life, but at the same time, the pressure that's been building in his chest all this time lifts just a little. The nervous excitement of asking you out still lingers, and he laughs softly at himself. "What did I even say?"

On the other side of the door, you stand frozen, heart still thumping wildly in your chest. You let out a breath, shaky but relieved, and press your palm to your face. You feel like your entire body is buzzing with both excitement and embarrassment. That was... ridiculous. But at the same time, there’s this goofy grin spreading across your face, and you can’t stop it if you tried.

You lean back against the door, smiling to yourself. "Oh god," you murmur to yourself, eyes sparkling with a mix of nerves and happiness. "What just happened?"

And on both sides of the door, there's nothing but a goofy, content smile and the lingering sensation that something has shifted between you two.

---

Not necessarily a tag list, but I remember you were all asking for a part 2. Here is your part 2 lovelies.

@thelocal-idot @yaoduriaa @justlilpeaches21 @fawn-kitten @seraphina02

[r0-boat]

ZZZ Lighter "just the tip" Lorenz

Drabble

Lighter X Gn!reader

Cw: unprotected sex, creampie.

He presses his body against you quickly, trying to shave off as much of His clothing as possible. Hungry and eager, he takes you right there in the middle of the desert. Making sure to lay you down on his leather jacket before clawing at your clothing.

You can see Lighter's sweaty body, his lopsided shades as those piercing olive green eyes look down at you. He cannot wait a single second to be inside you. And you couldn't anymore. Your mouth was on his lips as soon as your pants were off. A hot messy kiss that left Lighter wanting more. As soon as you broke away you remembered something. Something extremely important.

"Baby condom..."You managed to gasp out as his hungry mouth find yours again. His hands digging into your sides holding you still as his cock grinds against your clothed entrance feeling your damp underwear getting more and more soaked with his precum and your juices.

He tilt his head back getting lost to the friction of his swollen cock sliding against wet cloth separating him from you

"Lighter condom." You've grown a little louder. Lighter hums before reaching for his wallet. He keeps his hips grinding against you as he rifles through his wallet and then his jacket pockets.

No condoms....

"Shit..."Lighter growl. He would rather be a dead man than stop right here when the mood is so right when all he could think about is being deep inside you.

"just the tip, babe, I'll pull out, I promise."He mutters into your shoulder, sliding your underwear to the side. Not wanting to wait a single second more to take off your underwear. Plus you are wearing your nice pair, and who is he to deny a little bit of eye candy.

You should have been suspicious of a man who can barely remember the names of certain people to pull out of you. But with your brain so clouded with lust, you didn't have any second thoughts as he pushed the tip inside you.

Light thrusting slowly turns into deeper fucking as he drills you into his jacket. He even flips you around to fuck you from behind your nails, digging into His leather jacket.

You feel so good. Your warm, wet, tightening walls were something that he might get addicted to.

The last thing on his mind was pulling out. When he got close, going by muscle memory alone, he slammed as deep as he could, exploding inside you. Relishing in the way your walls squeeze and milk his cock in a vice grip.

Lighter has the memory of a goldfish, but he'll think about the irresistible feeling of being inside you without a condom. Every time, he goes to grab one

[sakumz]

Hii! I really like your writing style, would you be interested in writing a headcanon or scenario about a man in ZZZ acting a bit possessive toward his partner, if you don’t mind?

a/n : hellooo and I'm sorry it took awhile to write this (wanted to post on vdays but I forgot) hehe

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[ wise, lighter, harumasa x fem reader ]

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--- wise

he can't help but feel a little jealous when he sees you, his beloved be a little LITTLE too touchy with his lovely sister. why are you patting her head when she's done something good? must you really give her hugs too when you say goodbye? are you dating her or him?

today. he just can't stand TODAY! he was supposed to be having movie night at your home, why is belle here? she said she'll help bring over snacks and be done with it. someone's gotta handle the store, you know yet she's here, yapping mid way through the movies and even feeding you popcorn. he leans closer to you. heck you can even hear his breathing if you focus a little more on him. just as he's about to drape an arm over to your shoulders, you stand up.

" what's wrong? " belle asks as you grab the now empty bowl on her lap.

" it's almost half empty and we're barely halfway through the movie. I'm gonna get more popcorn, just stay put you two! " wise sighs heavily as you disappear into the kitchen.

" why are you doing this? " wise heaves a huff as belle tries not to laugh. has he caught on?

" because I like her- "

" she's my woman you know! I got to her first. "

" but she clearly likes me more, " as you walk back to your spot.

you were pulled into a hug, your bowl falling flat as your brain malfunctions.

" no she doesn't like you as much as me! she's mine. " he hugs you tighter as the room falls eerily quiet.

" of course I like you as much as her, what's wrong? " belle and you can't help but burst out laughing.

" then why do you keep- " you turn to kiss him, pulling away quickly as belle snaps a photo of wise flustered face.

" you don't have to be so possessive over me, I'm yours you know. " you smile as wise hugs you once more, burying his face in your hair to hide his smile.

--- lighter

" come on sweetheart, I'll treat you a hundred times better than that red scarf, " the man next to you stirs as you giggle.

lighter took you to this random bar after a long motorcycle ride. who would've thought a few talking about your day to a stranger would lead to him hitting you up.

you feel lighter's shoulders tremble a little, next thing you know. more sweet words spilled from the drunken guy led to the glass lighter was gripping hard to spill.

" aw look at what sunglasses did, he splashed a little on your dress. here let me wipe- " the man took the serviette, ready to pat your dress dry as lighters hand came flying towards his own.

" I'll handle this and I'm sorry for your dress. " he takes the serviette from the man and wipes the part he ruined. his frown visible.

" see sweetheart, I'll treat you a hundred times- "

" better than me, but I'll punch you a hundred times to get it through your thick skull that she's not interested. " lighter spat as both you and the drunken man were left speechless. the man couldn't help but run with his tail between his legs.

" thank you for that but you know, a hundred is countable and my love for you is so much more than that. " you kiss his cheek as his sunglasses fall slightly from the bridge of his nose, exposing his shock filled green eyes.

--- harumasa

who would have thought harumasa would ever have a stand off with his long awaited rival. your possessive cat.

must your cat really stick by your side the moment you come home? he's there as you make dinner, eat (the cat sits on an empty vacant seat), crash on your couch, bed and when you go to the toilet? must he really wait outside...

harumasa sighs as he watches the cat follow you like a lost child. when you make dinner and press a kiss to your cats head. dont think harumasa missed the part where you steal pieces of meat and feed it to that cat!

" come on, can't I cuddle my girlfriend? " he spat at the cat as he pulls away from the hug and your cat is quick to steal a spot on your lap.

" just let my baby be, you don't see me complaining when your cat acts needy to you. "

" that's because she NEVER acts needy! " he points an accusing finger at you as you laugh.

to say the least, he really hates your boy cat. when you arrive at H.A.N.D with your cat in a carrier, why did nobody stop or toss your cat out? you said you've just collected him from the vet during your break and everyone was fine with it.

why did soukaku release your cat from the carrier? your cat was sitting on his seat, right next to you as miyabi and soukaku pats and compliments how well behaved and adorable he is. yanagi couldn't help but laugh when a co worker said your cat would've been a better partner than harumasa himself. WHAT!?

" CAT! your mother is my woman and you're second place in her heart, get it in your little fur brain or I'll just have to make you! " he grabs the cat, glaring directly as your cat gave the most nonchalant uncaring look to him.

" he's just a cat, don't get jelly. " soukaku says as she pulls the cat away from him.

" I am not jealous! " he spits.

" don't be possessive then, " miyabi says from behind him as he slumps on his chair.

" you're number one in my heart so dont worry about a cat. he won't replace you, besides. we already made plans for a vacation so you won't feel the presence of that cat for a week, " you rub circles on his hand as a faint smirk tugs at his lips.