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ozzgin · 25 days

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Yandere! Werewolf Headcanons

I've been stalked by the guilty feeling that my Romanian Werewolf boy got a lot of backstory but not much romance or interaction. So there you have it: some headcanons featuring the ancient Beast, a post-kidnapping sequel.

Content: female reader, obsessive behavior, monster romance, mild NSFW at the end, ridiculously older yandere

You followed the gargantuan stranger back into the city, leaving the bloodbath behind as if it was just a distant dream. Admittedly, you’d expected to be dragged into some mountainous cave or an abandoned mansion, not the cozy - albeit a little dusty - apartment on a main, historical street. On second thought, he did function as a human outside of his monstrous escapades, so it made sense. “Is this your place?”, you sheepishly asked while he wiped the thick layers of blood off him. “One of them, yes”, he answered curtly. “It’s central”, you remarked, trying to make conversation. “Well, I didn’t know about it back then. It’s been a few decades.”

Your ears perked up at the words. Gazing at his features, he didn’t seem necessarily aged to you. The deep creases contouring his face felt more like a sign that he’s lived sorrows beyond most people’s comprehension. “How old are you?” You finally asked as curiosity replaced your initial fear. He abruptly stopped his movements and leaned back, brows furrowed in deep contemplation. “I’m not so sure anymore. I was born in the 80s”, he concluded. “That’s not too far back, is it?” You inquired, this time more relaxed. “80 BC, I meant. You do the math.”

He freshened himself up as you counted the millennia on your fingers, frowning in confusion. He chuckled at your intense focus, then quickly looked up into the mirror. When was the last time he smiled like this? The reflection was a foreign sight to him. “We’ll get you everything you need tomorrow”, he continued, still in a daze. What a strange idea, having someone to speak to after an eternity. And suddenly, it occurred to him just how rusted his communication had gotten: “I’m so sorry, I haven’t asked for your name once”, he said, embarrassed. “It’s (Y/N). And you are...?" Might as well introduce yourself to your benevolent captor.

The dreaded question. How did they call him back in the day? He hasn't had anyone spell it out for him, nor did he feel the need at any point to say it himself. Why would he? He hadn't anticipated meeting you. With pursed lips, he searched his mind. Eventually, from the depths or memories, from days of yore, it made its way back: "Daos."

Given your first gory encounter (where he quite literally murdered everyone else), you were surprised to find out he's otherwise a calm and polite individual. Well, he's had centuries to mature, you suppose. You've also noticed he has that rather old-fashioned chivalry to him. He's very attentive despite his stoic demeanor, and often follows with acts of service.

"You're insulting me. I can carry this myself with ease", you'll argue. "I never doubted you can. Nonetheless, it is my wish to do it for you."

As the days pass, your reluctance seems to vanish as well. In fact, you've become particularly cheeky, encouraged by his warm, unperturbed behavior. Maybe you haven't gotten the worst deal out there, after all.

"You know, you talk like an old man", you've teased him once. He was visibly taken aback by your statement, and you could discern a faint blush on his face. "Do I? My apologies, I haven't spoken to anyone in a long time. I'm not familiar with modern speech. Have I embarrassed you somehow?"

He spends his free time reading, though he will frequently take you on walks. It's an interesting affair to say the least. You can feel the curious eyes of the passersby and hear their not-so-discreet whispered gossip. You can't truly blame them: Daos is enormous even as a human. He towers above everyone else with his imposing appearance. To match, his voice is deep and coarse as a result of not using it much until recently.

The ancient werewolf is a living history book. If asked, he will narrate to you important events or details you might be curious about regarding his culture. Once, when he'd been in a good mood, he even shared fragments of his life before turning into a creature. He'd been a high-ranked Dacian warrior, spending his days training or fighting. He still remembers the flag he carried with bitter fondness, yet another irony to his fate: a wolf-headed serpent. It was meant to showcase their way of life; barbarians with no fear of death. They'd greeted the Roman Empire with nothing but a sword and a shield, no shred of doubt.

He might've been betrayed by his people, but the pride remains. The pride of a soldier who's never known defeat. You learned quickly that his beastly form doesn't count as a significant change by any means, save for appearances. The man has brute strength even as a human. You'd once strayed from his view, and a stranger approached with a daring whistle, gawking you up and down. Before you could react, Daos clawed him by the throat. You heard the twist of the skin and the creak of the bones giving in to the immense pressure of his large hand.

"It's the second time I have exposed you to such unpleasant sights", he said, discarding the body as if it was any other garbage. "Forgive me, but I will not have you disrespected like this."

He is very much aware he's taken you away from the world out of his own selfish desire. The fact that you accepted it is more than he could ever ask for. That's what he keeps telling himself, even as his eyes wander to your lips whenever you speak. Or as his hand lingers a moment too long against the curve of your back. Or as he hungrily takes in your scent whenever you're nearby.

He might be unhealthily possessive of you, but Daos will never do anything against your will. No matter how obvious his urges are. In fact, no amount of flirting or teasing will shake his resolve. You will have to be very direct with your approval.

Once the reality settles in, he'll become extremely affectionate, bordering on obsessive. To think he could have you in every way possible. Oh, he's waited thousands of years for you. All the suffering, the loneliness, the anger, they're stripped of any meaning now that he has you.

The city strolls at an awkward distance have since become a habitual excuse to hold your hand and show you off to the mortals. The quiet evenings of passing time with a book now include your merely noticeable weight cuddled into his lap. You didn't expect him to be this adoring. Being touch-starved for millennia counts as one reason, naturally, but there's more to it, so much more. And it all leads back to you.

He is a little taken aback when you ask him to do the deed in his werewolf form. "Don't be foolish. I can't overcome my instincts as well when I'm a creature. I could harm you", he'll lecture you. "Besides, you can barely take it as it currently is", he'll add, smirking at your baffled expression. It seems he's picked up on your cheekiness.

After a lot of pleading and waiting for the right moment - when he's ravaging you in a daze - he finally agrees. True to his word, his tune instantly changes. The tender hold turns into a desperate grasp sinking into your skin, and the thrusts become irregular, almost frantic. His drool cools your burning cheeks as you hold onto the coarse fur, feverish and overwhelmed.

His golden eyes rest on the small human squirming underneath him, and suddenly, he can't help but notice: you have the perfect birthing hips.

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lvlyghost · 8 months

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I love your stories so much I can't 😫😍😍❤️

Could you maybe write a angst to fluff ghost x reader story where the reader gets injured badly while ghost is on her side the whole time in the hospital while she is unconscious and he's having breakdowns and anxiety and all really angsty stuff and when she wakes up she comforts him and all is fluffy and maybe a bit smutty 🤭

No More Stars Left to Count

PAIRINGS: Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

SUMMARY: Few things made Simon break down. Almost losing his girl takes a toll on him.

WORD COUNT: 1.6k

TW: Smut! MDNI! Angst, hurt, comfort. Injuries. Panic attacks. Grammar mistakes just the usual... Do not read if you're under 18.

A/N: I'm actually quite happy with this one🥹🩷 Enjoy Anon! This is my first time posting smut and in another language so sorry in advance if there are mistakes! Corrections are appreciated ✨🐝

Masterlist✨

Simon's head rests on his left hand, his eyes bore into your fragile body. Several machines are attached to you, helping you breathe, pumping meds into your system. He doesn't deserve you by any means. He doesn't deserve your trust, your laughter, your body.

All he can think about— as his brown orbs can't find the strength to look away— is how miserably he had failed to protect his team. To protect you. It's been twelve days and you still don't show any signs of waking up; it wasn't abnormal for you to not wake up. The damage inflicted to your body had been great. Simon thought for a painful moment he had lost you for good. The woman he cared for. The woman he utterly loved.

He swallows hard.

There aren't many things that'd scare him. He's simply seen too much. But this? Was this truly his destiny? To lose everyone he loved? His family and now you?

He inhales sharply, his free hands traces your inert hand, tracing soft patterns on your pale skin littered with cuts and bruises. That very hand he adores to hold when you were together. He blinks, memories from your last night together flooding his brain as he sinks further down the chair, adjusting the hoodie over his head.

The night before leaving for the mission in Romania.

"No, wait look Simon! Give it to me!" You chuckle, under the covers, both of your bodies remain warm. It wasn't unusual that Simon couldn't sleep so he'd often come into your room and spend the night with you. "There." You pointed out. Your hand and his hand stretched out in front of you, slowly you touch his, spreading out your palms comparing hands. Your eyelashes flutter at the mere sight of his big calloused hand outsize yours, completely engulfing it. You splay out your fingers until they're intertwined.

His breath catches in his throat. He loved how small you were compared to him. He wanted to protect you from everything even from himself, but you had refused to leave him when he tried to push you away.

"Come here." He grabs your arm pining you down and under his gargantuan body. You squeal, laughing at the sudden change of position; Simon sets his body between your legs. Your arms rest on his sides, layers of muscle tensing under your touch. Tilting your head back, eyes meet the dark sky outside the window.

"Look at them." You mumble, Simon lays a kiss on your neck taking advantage. He loves the feeling of your steady pulse on his lips. "The stars are so bright tonight." He hums absentmindedly, hands coming to grip his blond locks.

There's a fire burning in your belly and the ache between your thighs when you feel the tent forming through his grey sweatpants.

"Need you, love." He grumbles. His hands undress your bottom half making you gasp.

"Simon..." soft pink lips kiss your body. Your chest, your stomach... until he's lost between your legs. Mouth lapping at your wetness. You squirm under his touch, it's intoxicating. It feels like you might combust. The fire running through your veins, the goosebumps on your sensitive flesh as you clench around nothing. Unable to resist it you grab him by the arms. "You know what I need." In the blink of an eye two bodies intertwined moving desperately chasing the sweetest end together. He murmurs soft encouraging words in your ear that sent shockwaves through your veins, Simon couldn't possibly be more deep inside you, hitting that sensitive spot that made you want to scream, nails digging on his back, surely leaving red marks that he would proudly show tomorrow.

The purple and orange that tinges the sky outside filters through the window, casting an ethereal display of colors around this room that hides away the few moments you get to spend with him as you finish together; feeling impossibly more in love with him.

"It's clearing already." You point out. Simon looks up from your eyes, albeit reluctant to miss the beautiful shade of your orbs. "No more stars left..."

He kisses your forehead, then bumps his nose against you before he finds your mouth.

"There'll be plenty more to count tomorrow, sweetheart. I promise."

But you're not counting them as he promised the night before. Instead he's shouting orders like an enraged man. Heart beating out of his chest, you were so close to the evac point with your squad. Five minutes ago he had squeezed your arm and kissed your temple before urging you to get in the land rover from the SAS. Only to watch it blow seconds later. His heart stopped and then the ringing in his eardrums.

It was an ambush.

And as the rest covered him he rushed to you.

The blood. Crimson blood all over the bodies. He knew what this meant.

"Sergeant!" He forces his body to move, dragging you by the straps of your combat vest to take cover behind one of the vehicles. He knows he shouldn't be moving you like that, but right now he can't think of anything else than getting you out of there... "Bloody fucking hell!" He roars.

What was that feeling, like his soul was being ripped apart...?

Releasing a shaky breath, Simon squeezes your hand once again careful not to hurt you. The IV in your hand too foreign. It's too much. The sight, the memories of the vehicle flying through the sky...

The pit in his stomach grows, a wave of nausea and uneasiness hitting him all of the sudden. Simon stands on wobbly legs, taking one last glance at you he steps out the ICU. Crouching down he yanks the balaclava from his face. Why was his chest so tight, and his vision filled with blackness? The incessant ring on his ears is real. Fucking real. It was supposed to be a nightmare... this thing pulling him down.

"Come back to me baby." He pleads in a hushed tone although he knows you can't hear him. Simon lifts his hands to find support on the wall in front of him. He breathes as much air as he can through his nose, tries to blink away the black dots.

"Lieutenant Riley?" A feminine voice wafts through the empty hallway reaching him. He holds out a shaky finger without even looking at her.

"Leave..." he warns.

"Sir? I...-" the nurse hesitates.

"Now!" He barks.

She scurries away but not before calling the doctors and the Captain to the med wing.

Simon stays there until his ragged breathing evens, he then goes back to your room, deep down he hopes—prays— that your eyes will open when you hear him. But you don't. He sits again on the couch where he's tried to sleep, tossing the mask away from him. His throat bobs, what's happening to him? It burns. The door creaks open revealing a concerned John who looks at him in disapproval.

"This isn't going to help anyone Simon." He scolds him.

"What do you want Price?"

"You need to sleep. And for... just for the love of God eat something son."

"Not until I know she'll be fine."

Price sighs closing the door behind him.

"She wouldn't want this." Even then, Price doesn't want to look at you. This had taken a toll on everyone. But Simon wasn't handling it well. Rubbing his eyes he scoffs. "Come on go get some rest I can stay."

"No." Both men stare at each other not wanting to back down. "I'm on leave you don't get to tell me what to do Price."

John crosses his arm.

"I'm worried Simon. I want her to be okay too. We all do."

Simon's jaw clenched, hands balling into fists. They don't really know. They don't know, can't comprehend the extent of his love for you.

"What if this was your girl? Would you leave her fucking side hm?"

A tense pause electrifies the air as the two glare at each other, oblivious to the other person whose eyes are tearing.

The beeping sound increases as your heart rate goes up. Two pair of eyes snap to the sound. Your hand tries to snatch the oxygen from your face, but Simon darts out with dread plastered all over his features. You faintly hear John calling the doctors.

"Easy, love. Easy..." he soothes you. Stopping your hands from moving. Your body is in too much pain, tears slip down your cheeks, once again Simon grits his teeth. If he could he'd take it all away. "Don't force yourself you're..." he trails off. "You're hurt."

It feels like you're body is being torn apart. The drugs are slowly leaving your system.

"What happened?" your croak out, throat dry and inflamed. He sits bringing the glass of water to your lips not before removing for a brief moment the oxygen mask. You take a small sip and thank him with a weak smile.

"Ambush." He explains. Hating that he can see the images all over again in the back of his mind. "Thought I lost you."

More tears well in your eyes, as weak as you feel you reach out your hands tracing his jawline and cheekbone. He closes his eyes, and finally breathes again, with you touching him he feels alive again. He wants nothing more than to go home with you.

"How many nights..."

"Twelve..."

The doctors rush in but before they drag him away you say:

"That's a lot of counting we've missed."

A press of his lips on your forehead, a silent promise to never let anything happen to you ever again. Even if it mean giving his own life for yours. He would do it any day. Better him than you.

"We've got the rest of our lives, love."

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astroboots · 7 months

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PUNCH-OUT LOVE 2

Artwork by @guruan

LOST AND FOUND

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Word count: 3.2k

Summary: You're sent on a wild goose chase for your missing handbag in the Lost and Found section and find something else instead: Miguel O'Hara.

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist

[Previous Chapter]

The stage is empty.

The gargantuan defeated Knock Out King, all 340 pounds of him was loaded on a stretcher minutes ago. He was lying face up as if he was taking a restful nap on a hammock while he was carried out into the crowded noise of fascinated and hushed whispers.

The ring lights are dimmed down now and most of the crowd have gotten to their feet and are pouring out of the stadium.

You're still glued to your seat, the hard plastic of the chair, bruising against your tailbone. But despite the discomfort you make no moves to get up. You're too busy staring up at the evacuated stage, reliving the scene that had unfolded before your very eyes minutes ago.

The swift motion of punches flying through the air, evaded with precise dodges. The refraction of ring light bouncing off brown glistening curls. The sheen of sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat as he closed in and landed the final blow that had his opponent reeling back and crashing to the ground.

"You alright?"

You snap out of your thoughts at the familiar voice, and find yourself blinking up at a pair of inquisitive eyes.

"You look completely zoned out, like you're on a different planet.”

“Sorry, Jess,” you say, “I’m– I was distracted.”

Standing on her feet, Jess gestures towards the exit in the back of the arena. "Should we start heading out? Gonna be a real pain in the ass grabbing a taxi in this crowd, we better hurry"

With a brief nod, you rise in your seat, feet wobbly and a bit out of balance as you file out of the arena in the crowd.

Maybe it's the heat in the arena, overcrowded as it had been mere minutes ago, but you feel like you're sleepwalking. Even as you're physically leaving the stadium, your mind is still left behind, sat in the front row seat, staring up at Miguel O'Hara.

The flash of knuckles as O'Hara's fist connected to his opponent's jaw. Watching the other man's bottom lip wobble as spit flew out of his mouth seconds before he landed in defeat.

Your veins still thrum with adrenaline. Your heart thumping in excitement. You can't contain the rush of emotions that swells in your chest.

That was amazing... He was amazing.

Still in a daze, you’re acting on muscle memory as you follow Jess out into the lobby, until you reach the outside and are standing in the back of a long and seemingly unending line for a cab.

"Shit, Uber prices have surged like mad," Jess is muttering next to you, frantically swiping at her phone.

She's cursing away, trying for every alternative taxi app: Lyft, Via, Gett, with little success.

You're only paying her half-attention.

Standing under a canopy of the parking zone, you're staring up at the evening above, but you’re not really seeing the light-polluted starless city sky. All you see is the sharp focus of mahogany eyes as they turned in your direction and settled on you. You can feel it still. The intensity that resided in them, burrowing into your skin and has made a home in you. An itch that you cannot scratch that is consuming you from within.

"Hey!"

The sharp sound breaks your concentration. "Did you hear me at all?" Jess asks.

There's a terse impatience in her voice that means she's probably been calling for your attention a handful of times by now while you were zoned out.

"No. I--sorry," you say sheepishly. "What were you saying?"

"Can you try getting on Uber? I have a shit rating there and no one will accept my requests."

Nodding absentmindedly, you reach for your handbag slung across your shoulder. Your shoulder feels awfully light, and you swipe at empty air before you realize, there's nothing there. You're not wearing your handbag.

Crap.

"Did you leave your handbag inside?" she asks.

You revisit your steps. You last remember having it on when you sat down and hung it on the back of your seat. You were so out of it when you left the arena, you don't think you ever picked it up.

"I think I left it inside, I'm gonna head back in, I'll be right back."

“Alright, but hurry!” she shouts after you as you run back inside.

Without the tight squeeze of having to manoeuvre your way through the impatient crowd, your journey back into the stadium is a much quicker one than when you entered before the game.

Everywhere you go is empty this time around. The glitz and glamor has completely faded.

There is a strange atmosphere in the arena in the aftermath when it's devoid of people. Your footfalls echoes and bounces of the walls, and you become aware of your every movement.

You rush through the rows hurriedly, eyes scanning the plastic seats even before you have reached your own previous seat.

When you finally do, there's nothing there.

Shit.

On stage, there is a member of the cleaning staff, mopping up the grimy sweat and grubby soap from the squeaky vinyl floor.

"Excuse me," you ask, and the man ducks up to stare at you. "You wouldn't have happened to see a handbag that was hanging here would you?"

"Check lost and found," the man says brusquely as he continues to sweep the stage unbothered by your presence.

That’s seemingly the only thing you are going to get from him. He doesn’t pay you anymore attention, even as you shift your feet to try to catch eye contact and regain his attention to ask where the lost and found section is. It doesn't work.

After two awkward shuffles, you decide to take your luck elsewhere. You make your way back down the row of seats in the hopes you might find an usher who can point you in the right direction.

But the corridors are even emptier now. The only people wandering down the aisles are not paying you any notice and actively avoiding any eye contact you try to establish in order to initiate a conversation. In other words, they’re behaving like New Yorkers do in New York.

You sigh, trudging along another dimly lit hall when you spot a tall lanky man munching on a half eaten donut. He’s clad in slippers and a pink bathrobe with the most angelic looking cherub baby, bouncy curls and all, strapped in a BabyBjörn to his chest.

You’re not entirely sure that he works here, or that he would have any better idea than you at finding the Lost and Found section.

The only reason you decide to approach him anyway is the bright security badge in big bold capital letters reading “VIP ACCESS” hung around his neck.

Gently you tap him across the shoulder, and the man turns around.

His eyes go big and rounded, pupils dilated with shock at the sight of you as he stares down at you. “Oh holy shit!”

The man seems high.

Shaggy hair and unkempt scruff on his jaw, wearing sweatpants over a stained t-shirt. He certainly looks the part of a stoner, save for the part where he has a literal child strapped to his chest.

“Sorry," you try politely. "I lost my bag and the custodian said I should go to–”

The man in front of you nods enthusiastically, but you get the sense that he’s not really taking in the words you are saying.

“Yeah, yeah! Of course,” he interrupts. “Right down the hall. You won’t miss it, it’s the only room there”

You peek down the hallway he’s pointing you towards. Except you can't see down the passage he’s suggesting you take because there is an obstruction. Two in fact. Two mountainous security guards standing shoulder to shoulder to block anyone from going down that route.

That doesn’t seem right.

Why would a Lost and Found section be so heavily guarded?

“Are you sure that’s correct?” you eye the bodyguards cautiously, trying be polite about the obstacle the two large men blocking the said hallway presents. Especially when they are only three feet away and definitely within hearing range.

Luckily, stoned as the overly friendly man in front of you may be, he seems to catch the drift without any further hints from you.

“Oh right!” He grabs the security badge hanging around his neck. “Take this,” he says and drapes it over your head with dramatic flair as if he’s rewarding you with the honorary city keys.

The two men part as you approach. You feel like you are Moses, the chosen one, and the red sea is parting before you.

You look back one more time, and in the sliver of space between the two security guards you see your friendly stoner flash you an amicable salute in your direction as the angelic looking baby waves at you with a squeal.

“Good luck,” he shouts over to you.

Strange man.

You continue down the hall, to the flickering of the glaring fluorescent light that is entirely too bright as you reach the only room at the dead end of this hall.

It’s odd. Why would a communal space such as a lost and found section be so damn hard to find and this heavily guarded. Why on earth would anyone need a security pass just to reach it? Is this some elaborate scam run by the boxing organization? Do they make massive winnings from reselling spectators' left behind belongings on Ebay? Because otherwise this seems like exceptional poor planning on the architect’s part. Either that, or the friendly stoner pointed you in the wrong direction… which seems like the most probable option.

For a second, you contemplate turning around to find the man again and ask him if this really is the right place. But Jess is waiting. She must be either pissed or incredibly worried at how long you’ve taken already. A twinge of guilt pass over you, you're hoping it's the former rather than the latter.

Shaking your head, you open the door and the first sight that greets you are rows after rows of oldfashioned lockers standing like sentinels.

There are no boxes here. No junk items of lost wallets, or jackets. Instead all you see is the vision of the man standing several feet away from you. His wide impressive back filling up the space of the empty room as he looms over an open locker.

“Parker, I told you I’m not in the mood.”

You freeze, shoes stuck to the floor as if the soles have set in with industrial cement to the tile.

It doesn’t matter that you can’t see his face, or that you’ve never heard him speak before. You’d recognize that perfect silhouette in a heartbeat after tonight. A man of proportions so exceptional, you’re not entirely sure he’s a real flesh and blood human.

It's a presence so large that even in this changing room he looms so tall, you swear he must have to duck to not hit his head against the ceiling.

He seems like he’s sprung out of the imagination of a 13 year old boy’s idea of what a Superhero from the Golden Age of comic books should be.

Miguel O’Hara.

In front of you, he slowly rises, straightening his posture. Somehow, and you don’t understand how that’s physically even possible, he grows even taller with the movement.

It’s like the scene out of Jurassic park when the Velociraptor is inches away and approaching. Even as you watch him slowly turn to face you, you’re too frozen to flee out of the room. The only thing you find yourself doing is breathing harder and harsher. Until it’s too late and he’s turned fully around, facing you.

O’Hara stands unmoving, towering with the presence of a monolith.

Even though you’re clearly not the person he was expecting. Even though you’re clearly not this Parker person he thought he was speaking to, he’s not saying anything. His face is stoic, not betraying a hint of emotion. The sole clue that he’s even registering your presence is the way his perfect arched brow arches.

He doesn’t say a word. Just stands there, just as still as you are, eyes locked on you.

He is assessing you, you realize. Stern, sharp and penetrating eyes, starting from the tip of your toes, up the length of your legs to your shoulders until his assessing stare lands at the crown of your head.

It’s the same focused and unwavering attention you felt on you from across the stage not even half an hour ago when you were sat in the rickety plastic chair and he was standing in the boxing ring.

Electricity sparks, bright and sharp, along the surface of your skin until every hair stands at alert at his attention.

“I’m so sorry. I think there’s been a mistake”, you try to explain. “I lost my bag, and I asked where the Lost and Found section was and for some reason some random pothead told me to come down here.”

You flash the badge at him. “They gave me this and nobody stopped me, I didn’t mean to interrupt you in your… uhm….”

Your eyes land on the trickle of water that’s pooled on his neck. The wet sheen of his brown curls fresh out of the shower, then drift lower.

More bare skin. Your sentence trails off mid-word. Words slurring at the tip of your tongue. It feels heavy in your mouth and syrupy, like you’ve been given the good stuff at the dentist and you lose track of what it was you were trying to say.

His skin is tanned and marred with black-brown bruises, a testament to what his body has been put through. Somehow every inch still manages to look impossibly soft and you are itching to skim your fingertips all over him.

Your eyes linger on his bare chest and hard stomach. He’s only clad in a towel. It modestly wraps around his narrow hips, and you catch the sparse trail of hair that graze down below his navel and every single one of your brain cells is erased of any coherent thought.

Then he finally breaks the silence.

"What did you think of the fight?"

You blink up at him at his question. Did you miss a sentence while you blacked out? You must’ve. How did you go from walking into the wrong room-- interrupting and invading someone’s private space as he’s come right out of a shower-- to him asking you a casual question as if this is nothing out of the ordinary and you’re just sat across him at a cafe to catch up? How is he not calling security to throw you out of here?

And what does he mean, 'what do you think?'

What are you supposed to think about it? You know nothing about boxing.

Wracking your head, you try to think of something clever to say that doesn't make you sound like a complete novice. You're replaying videotapes of boxing matches from your childhood, grasping at phrases used by announcers during the fight.

Words like footwork, technical knockout and roundhouse punch flit through your mind, but you don't know how to string them together into sentence that sounds remotely half intelligible.

In front of you, O'Hara tilts his head to the side as he observes you. Your fingers tingle from the attention of his focused gaze on you. In all of your life, you can't ever recall being this affected by a man just looking at you.

Shit, he's still waiting for an answer isn't he? He's still looking up at you with those expectant narrowed eyes, waiting for you to answer. You open your mouth, blurting out the first thing that comes to your mind.

"I liked it. It was like a dance."

The moment the words leave your mouth you regret it. Your cheeks burn with heat.

Oh god. You sound like a brainless moron.

What an incredibly ditzy thing to say. Why not just compare him to a fucking mime or a tap-dancer while you're at it?

You're better than this. But you blame your lack of cognitive functions at how the sight of this half-naked man has incinerated every last one of your brain cells.

You brace yourself for him to laugh you out of the locker room. But he doesn't. Instead that stern expression on his face breaks. His full lips curve into a small, disarmingly sweet smile.

The smile softens his features. His brown eyes go warm when he looks up at you, brows rounding and no longer tense. It's nothing at all like the angry sharp lines etched into every line of his face when he was on stage, fists braced for a fight.

"Yeah?" he asks, so much more soft spoken than you had expected a guy of his size to be.

Still out of sorts, you nod your head dumbly at him. "Yeah."

The smile on his lips grows. You don't know if it's a trick of the light, but as dim as this gray and dingy locker room is, it seems to go a little bit brighter with it. He looks at you with a nostalgic familiarity that is reserved for a longtime friend.

Oh god help you. He's not just scary, and alarmingly handsome in a way that makes him belong on the glossy covers of GQ. It's so much worse than that... he's cute.

You physically shake your head to snap yourself out of it.

Get a fucking grip. You’re meant to be on a seemingly futile journey to find your handbag, not a prowl to get your rock offs.

Oh shit.

… Except that's what this is, isn't it?

That’s why he hasn’t chased you out of his room.

That’s why he’s trying to make small talk.

Why he’s asking you what you thought of the match.

He thinks you're a groupie. Some starstruck boxing fan, that's wormed their way past his manager to get a backstage pass and a chance to ride the boxing champion. You should probably say something to correct his misunderstanding...

You look back up at him. That warm and unassuming smile that's still there on his face.

Yes. You should do that. Speak up and explain the situation. But for some reason you don't. You stand there in place. Mouth parting and closing like a dumb goldfish, unable to find the words to explain the situation.

Until a terrible whisper of a thought enters your brain. What if you don't...

It lasts entirely too long. Two whole seconds before you remind yourself that it would be wrong for one. Because that would be operating under false pretenses.

...

Except would it though?

There is no membership to join the council of groupies that you need to apply for beforehand. There's no harm and no foul here.

After all, whether you're a groupie or not, if you're both willing adults, then what's the problem here?

...

The problem is that it would still be a lie, and you'd know.

Your mind is playing ping pong in the thought process.

It's like there is a tiny angel sitting on your right shoulder and a miniature devil on the left.

You look peer up at him again, biting down on your lip at the sight before you. All dark eyes and tanned skin and pouty lips. Shit.

The devil and angel may be in disagreement about the ethics of this situation, but here's the thing, they are in complete and total agreement over one thing.

Both of them want to fuck him.

To be continued.

A/N: Guys guys so sorry it took forever. Life has been wiiiiild as of late. I have quite a few WIPs going on at the moment and having a bit of a think about which ones to continue/prioritise so if you do want to see more of this one please let me know! Let me know if you enjoyed this, if you want to see more and what you would like to see.

Big thank you to my bestie Guruan who made the beautiful art banner for me. This is my treat to her because I'm unable to send her icecream in person.

And of course as always all my love and gratitude. If I could I would give her my heart on a platter: @thirstworldproblemss I got a bit stuck on how to get these two in the same room together and she helped me plot this chapter. Thank you for always letting me rubberduck things with you.

#miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara fanfic #miguel ohara #miguel ohara x reader #oscar isaac #spider man: across the spiderverse #across the spiderverse

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abibliophobiaa · 1 year

Text

Bad Idea - s.h. x f!reader

note: thank you to @crappymixtape for the initial prompt that started this fun little fic. <3

summary: steve happens upon you while you're reading a smutty book and chaos ensues.

warnings: oral (f receiving); p in v smut -- that's all, really (18+); barely edited, slightly rom-com vibes, so do not take this seriously (haha).

“I got a bad idea. How 'bout we take a little bit of time away?”

A fan blows in the distance. The low hum is a constant drone, offset by the sounds of your quiet breathing and the gentle turn of a yellowed page in your book. You’ve been sitting in your window nook for hours, the weather too hot outside to linger for too long.

Your fingers halt on your current page, eyes glancing out your bedroom window.

Summer burns bright outside. The sky is a bright blue, smiling down on all those who thrive beneath it, its golden sun winking on full display. Your bedroom window is parted enough to allow air to filter in, the sounds of birds chirping greeting your ears. Across the yard is the Harrington backyard. Their pool glints blue and bright beneath you, lounge chairs filled by his parents now back from whatever business trip they’d been on, glasses of champagne already in hand.

Steve’s mother soaks up the sun, all long, lean legs, wide brim sun hat, oversized glasses, and the diamond ring on her finger that seems gargantuan even from here. You catch the sight of his father, stark dark hair like his son’s, leaning over to press a kiss to his wife’s lips before settling down on the chair beside her.

Steve’s nowhere to be found, but you know that’s always the case when they’re home. He’s likely on an errand, trying to stay away from the home, trying to cut all interactions to a bare minimum. Because he’s twenty-two and still working at Family Video, he’s twenty-two and should have more in his savings, should be taking on the family business, should be thinking about his future, should be—

Your attention is drawn by the sound of children’s laughter. The neighbor’s kids have shoddily drawn a hopscotch grid onto the ground, the sound of their sneakers knocking against the warm concrete audible even over the low hum of the cars that slowly slide on past.

And there, in front of your home, you catch the all too familiar sight of Steve’s BMW, and that pretty head of dark hair as he clambers out the driver’s side door, sunglasses perched atop the bridge of his nose.

Your eyes return to your book, knowing you have approximately sixty seconds until he’s in your bedroom and making himself at home. The main characters, two best friends oddly enough, are about to finally cross over a line of no return. You’ve read it enough times to know what comes next.

Nathan will tell Cora he loves her and she’ll tell him the same. He’ll grab her in his arms, pull her close, and kiss her until she’s breathless…

“Hey.”

And there he is, all fitted denim and a striped tee shirt that shows off how generous the years have been to your best friend. Long gone are his gangly limbs of boyhood. Now he’s all corded muscle, finely hewn, high cheekbones, that lovely jaw, dark eyes and his goofy smile that has your heart somersaulting as he plops down against the sea of pillows near your headboard.

“Hey,” you reply, eyes shifting back to your book.

It’s not unusual to sit in silence like this. In fact, he pulls one of your Cosmopolitan magazines from your bedside table and glances down at the woman with gorgeously blown out hair, shifting over onto his stomach. You both read in silence, your ankles hooking over one another as the scene in your book changes and suddenly Nathan and Cora are kissing in the back seat of his car, a little hot and heavy, wild and dirty, groping hands starting to remove clothes.

Your hand comes up to curl around the back of your neck, wiping at some of the sweat pooling there, both from the way Nathan’s hands slide underneath Cora’s shirt and slide along her breast, and the heat spilling in from outside.

“Are you okay?” He asks, head lifting from whatever article he’s likely not even really reading, hair flopping with the suddenness of the gesture.

You close the book for a moment, thumb holding your place, and offer him a nod. “Anything good in there? I don’t even know why my mom orders them; I don’t even read them.”

“So you’re saying you didn’t read this article on ‘Ten Ways to Please Your Man?’” He chuckles, turning the magazine to show you. “Really riveting stuff. I’ll cut this one out for you.”

“You’re such an ass,” you snap, though your voice breaks off into a laugh at the end. You never really can stay mad at him, not when he looks at you like a lost puppy in need of attention. All round dark eyes, elbows on your bed, lip jutting out just so. “Stop pouting. It’s not a good look—and don’t make any corny comments about how all your looks are good looks. Don’t you give me that face, I’ve known you since we were eight.” His look of incredulity falters, those lips of his curling into a smile because he knows you’re right.

Your eyes drift back to your book, picking up right where you left off as Nathan’s fingers unbutton Cora’s jean shorts and he helps to slide them down her thighs, fingers exploring every new inch of exposed flesh.

“Want to go to a movie tonight with Robin and Eddie? We all have off, might as well,” Steve muses, flipping the page of the magazine, and then flipping it again when he realizes it’s only ads for some clothing brand. “They want to see Dead Poets Society, and I remember you said you wanted to see it last week.”

Nathan’s fingers slide beneath the waistband of Cora’s underwear, asking for permission to touch her in a way no one else has. Your knees press together involuntarily, hand coming to rest over your swiftly beating heart, suddenly very grateful for the fan oscillating in the corner of your room.

“Did you hear me?” Steve asks, rolling over onto his back. His head dangles upside down over the edge, face immediately growing red like a tomato, your head shaking at him. “I asked if you wanted to go to the movies with Robin and Eddie later.”

“Oh…” You swallow as Nathan’s fingers start a slow drag along Cora’s center, making her writhe and moan in the back seat of the car, the sun setting and bathing everything in pink and orange shades that dance along his skin with dappled light. “Y-yeah. Sounds good, Stevie. I’d love to.”

You settle back into a comfortable silence. Steve still hangs upside down, tossing a tennis ball you must have left on your floor up into the air from your brief stint trying to play. Couples tennis, minus the fact the two of you weren’t a couple. But he thought it would be funny, and you’d long decided you would give everything at least one chance before ruling it out.

Your eyes drift back to the page, resuming where you left off, right when Nathan slides Cora’s panties down her thighs and asks if he can taste her. Your breath catches, and Steve rolls back over to look at you, brows furrowed high on his forehead in concern.

“Are you okay over there? Seriously. You’re breathing all funny and you’re barely here right now as it is,” he worries his lip between his teeth, those dark eyes of his meeting yours from across the room.

“I’m okay.” You glance down at your lap and tap your book. “You just walked in as things were picking up in my book.”

Maybe it’s not the right choice of words in retrospect. Maybe you shouldn’t have mentioned it at all and instead played it off like, yes, yes you were feeling a little under the weather because of the heat. But you don’t, and it’s the small fumble over your words that has Steve pushing himself upward to sit on the bed, head tipping lightly toward your floppy paperback.

“What are you reading anyway?”

“Nothing,” you mutter, sliding your bookmark into place. You press your book onto the cushion beside you, arms coming to curl around your body, shoulders shrugging. “Just a book.”

“You already said that,” he replies, throwing one foot over the edge of the bed, followed by the other. You shift further against your nook, your book sliding beneath a pillow as your hip bumps against it, obscuring it from view. “What kind of book is it?”

“Adventure,” you say quickly, turning a bit to meet him as those hands come to rest on either of your shoulders. “You haven’t hugged me today.”

“I know what you’re doing,” he says, but he appeases you anyway, his face inches from yours as he bends down to fold you against him.

You hum against his chest, relishing in his warmth, when you ask, “And what is that?”

“Trying to distract me.”

“I’m not distracting—”

Your words are cut off, because Steve’s hand reaches swiftly behind you to curl around the edge of your book and tug it close to his chest. The shriek you let out frightens even yourself as you rush after him, arms curling around his waist and sending him hurtling down against your bed. The book skitters toward your headboard, but that’s the least of your worries right now.

The only thing terrifies you more than him reading the scene that comes after where you left off is the way you’re sitting on top of him. With a slow, horrifying clarity, you take in the room around you. Thighs splayed on either side of his hips, your hands pinning his arm closest to the book above his head, and his hands reflexively against your hips. His chest rises and falls steadily beneath your palms, those dark irises rounding around the edges, his fingers clutching into the belt loops on your shorts.

You both look at each other in silent panic. Because this is your best friend. This is over ten years of friendship lying beneath you. It’s the boy who has seen you scrape your knees learning how to ride a bike, sat next to you on the swings at the park, was there for your first heartbreak. Because he’s the boy you were there for when it then happened to him with Nancy, the one you walked around town with after dark on a warm day with cups of ice cream in hand, the one you told everything to, who knew you best, the boy you snuck your first beer with, and fought off monsters from the Upside Down alongside.

Luckily, he seems to come to the same revelation just as quickly, shoving you off him onto the mattress, hands coming to dance along your ribs until your sides hurt from laughing so hard. A foot comes out to kick him in the thigh when his hand slides out above you, and you hear the familiar slide of your paperback against a blanket.

“Not fair!” You growl, watching him lean back on his haunches, book tucked into his shirt that he’s then tucked into his jeans. “That’s disgusting. You can keep it now. You’re sweaty.”

“I just showered.”

You huff. “Still. Why do you care about what’s in it so much?”

“I wanna know what’s got your panties in such a twist,” he says. Your heart thuds in your ears, throat bobbing with a thick swallow. “Are your panties in a twist? Is that why you’re all out of breath?”

“Steve,” you warn, though there’s no malice in your tone, only hesitancy. You curse yourself inwardly.

His voice drops into a whisper, “Is this a sexy book?”

You want to throttle him. Want to wrap your hands around his shoulders and shake the look of pure and utter delight off his smug features. Only you don’t. You sit there and watch as he slides off your bed and stretches his arms above his chest, which outlines the rectangle hiding against his skin all the more.

It’s then you remember: Steve Harrington hates books. Hated them in high school so much that you had to always read them for him and give him your breakdown of what happened, and you know for a fact he hates them now. The likelihood that’ll change brings you some peace. Confidence rising, you lean back onto your palms, grinning widely up at him.

“Movies at eight then?”

He arches a brow at your sudden shift in demeanor. “Uh…yeah, sure. I’ll pick you up at seven thirty.”

Everything will be just fine.

Only it’s not.

You learn quickly that, though Steve’s hated every book given to him thus far in life, he absolutely devours this one.

There are certain fears that have always lingered in the back of your mind throughout the years.

The first being the worry one day Steve would find out about your years-long crush you’ve had on him. The feelings that have lingered way longer than you ever intended for them to. And it’s not like you hadn’t tried to push them aside; you dated other people, put yourself out there, all to take your mind off of it. It always works…initially. That is, until he does or says something that has you falling all over again, wondering if he’d ever feel the same—wondering if he’s ever felt the same.

But this isn’t a romcom movie, and not all stories like these end up in a relationship, and you had already accepted that…for the most part. If there’s any hope, it’s more like a small flame. A tiny flicker. Nothing noteworthy or remarkable to see here.

Your second fear is the newest one. The fear that Steve would read the book you’d allowed him to sneak out of your house a week ago—actually read it—and unleash a new kind of petrifying hell on you and take actual pleasure in your demise.

It starts over Eddie’s place. He’s got an apartment with Robin now, a dingy little place you’ve always thought they should move out of, but theirs all the same. Robin and Eddie are picking out a movie while you and Steve stand in the kitchen, getting various bowls and trays ready with chips, candy, popcorn, and drinks.

Neither of you has said anything about the book catastrophe. That night, you’d gone to the movies as planned and even shared a soda together, your shoulder pushed against his like nothing even happened. You figured he’d torture you a bit, keep the book for a few days, and give it back with your bookmark exactly where you’d left it.

But he still hasn’t returned it, and when you ask him for it in the middle of Eddie’s kitchen he only shrugs and says, “I’m actually reading it again. I think I skimmed it the first time; I want to make sure I take it all in. Every word, and, you know, every inch of it.”

You glance his way out the corner of his eyes. On a good day Steve’s odd, to say the least. It’s one of the many things that endears you to him and has made you love him as much as you do. Right now, however, he’s all flushed cheeks and wide smirks, looking very much like the cat who swallowed a canary.

“Why are you smirking?”

You shuffle about him to reach into one of the kitchen cabinets in search of a scissor. You snip the corner edge off of an M&M bag and pour some into a bowl, watching him the whole time.

His smug self reaches down to grab a handful of your freshly pourn candies and plops a few into his mouth. You’re about to reprimand him when he moans around the mouthful, saying, “You taste so sweet, baby.”

Your throat dries. It’s worse than the Sahara Desert. Sandpaper slides across your vocal cords, your mouth opening and closing to try and form sentences. Words. Vowels. Anything would be better than the fish-like gape you’re left with, eyes widened in absolute horror.

“What did you just say?”

He turns to face you, his hip pressing against the countertop. Another M&M is lifted to his pursed lips, tongue sliding over it before pulling it into his mouth, his voice low as he repeats slowly, “You taste…so sweet…baby.”

Your eye twitch is your only response.

Your personal hell gets worse, if that’s even possible, two days later.

It’s a particularly balmy June day. Luckily, Steve’s parents are once again out of town, leaving the two of you behind to do whatever it is the hell you want to do. The both of you had settled on a pool day. Just the two of you lounging on floats, smelling of suntan lotion, your cherry chapstick freshly smacked against your lips, and soaking in the sun’s rays.

You’re on a round float in particular, arms spread out beside you, fingertips dancing along the pool’s surface. Music blares from a speaker in the distance, your warm beers long forgotten near the lounge chairs covered in your colorful towels.

You still don’t have your book back, but you can’t find it in yourself to ponder on it. Not like this, not with the water dancing along your skin, chilling your sweat-slick body, bobbing along the water without a care in the world.

“Should I make burgers or hot dogs?” Steve asks when the sun starts to set a bit and the humidity in the air lessens.

You slip down into your tube now, legs kicking in the water, arms propped up over the plastic edges. He treads water in front of you, hair slick against his head, face tanner than it was earlier that evening. He’s even got new freckles along his shoulders, dark against his golden skin.

“Can you do both?” You grin, reaching forward to poke at his cheek. “Please?”

“You’re lucky I like you,” he says, moving to go swim toward the shallow end of the pool where the stairs are.

You’re lucky you’re holding onto a float, because you’re pretty sure you would have momentarily choked under the water at the sight of his form disappearing beneath the surface, long legs kicking in that red bathing suit. Those strong arms of his slice into the water, perfectly practiced motions from the summers he spent life guarding.

You’re so rendered immobile by the sight you briefly forget it’s a scene that happens in your book. A moment when Cora realizes she’s physically attracted to her best friend. Only you differ from her in the fact that you’ve known Steve Harrington has been gorgeous for years. If that isn’t enough, though, when his body slowly walks up the stairs and he turns around to face you, your cheeks burn hotter than the sun could have ever warmed your skin. Because he slides a hand up onto his hair, bicep and abdominals rippling and on display.

Is he moving in slow motion? No, he can't be. Can he? What the actual fuck is going on?

“I’m onto you, Harrington.” You drag a thumb along your throat in a warning.

He only laughs and flexes his arm once more, asking innocently, “Whatever do you mean?”

You’re going to kill him. You’re going to actually have to kill him.

Over the course of the next few days Steve ups his antics.

It’s diabolical, you’ll give him that.

You make a mental note to talk to Eddie about it, because the dramatic flair practically screams his influence.

One of the days he wears a button up in the middle of your kitchen and offers to wash your dishes. Slides his sleeves up over his forearms so you can see all the tendons rippling as he moves (you almost pass out). Unbuttons the collar of his shirt complaining of heat to show that dark hair spattering his skin (you walk into the fridge).

Another day he takes your hand and dances with you like Nathan and Cora do in one of the chapters, spinning you round and round despite your initial protests, to something exceedingly romantic for your best friend’s tastes.

On the third, he accidentally brushes up behind you while you’re grabbing a board game from your closet and you feel the firmness of his chest against your back. You have to pray, something you haven't done in a long time, to keep yourself from doing something you might forever regret, because when did Steve get so muscular?

The fourth day brings soft serve ice cream, which is usually an innocent, non-sexual experience. Until, that is, Steve starts trailing his tongue along it. Little kitten strokes at first, long swipes through cream, the occasional slurp. And that’s all fine and dandy, something you can deal with, until he moans and you have to threaten him with the garden hose (after contemplating using it on yourself to cool off) because you’re not sure if you're about to combust into flame or kiss him square on the mouth and ask him to reenact his performance with the ice cream for real this time.

The fifth, while you’re minding your own business and actually trying to restock the tapes at Family Video, he plants dirty quotes from the book around the place. The two of you play games all the time. It gets you both into more trouble than you’d ever really like to share or admit, but this one is bolder, more evil than any that have come before it.

You’re torn between loathing him and loving him more for it.

And while you don’t particularly enjoy your job there, and really only use the pay to help you put yourself through college, you also don’t want to have to explain to Keith why there’s dirty talk written and hidden in parts of the building. You can picture him firing you already, fed up with Steve’s and your constant antics.

In the break room. I want to taste you.

Attached to the employee bathroom mirror. Let me hear those pretty sounds.

On a back room shelf. You feel so good around me. Feel how deep I am?

Inside one of the cup holders in your car (must have snuck that one while you’d been in the bathroom) I want you to fuck me so hard that I forget my name.

He’s proud of himself, laughing whenever you make a point of ripping up the paper loudly in front of him, letting the shreds drop one by one into a trash can. In actuality, though, your insides are fluttering from the words he’s chosen and you don’t even want to think about the way your thighs clench together or how you feel wetness pool inside your panties, so you decide you need to do damage control.

“So what you’re saying is he’s torturing you?” Robin asks at the conclusion of your debrief.

Her and Eddie sit across from you on the couch, watching wearily as you practically burn a hole in the carpet from your constant pacing. It’s been like this for a half hour. You frantically tell them all the ways Steve’s been haunting your every waking moment. How you’re feeling things you’ve long since tried to suppress.

You’re pent up.

A rubber band ready to snap.

You’re just afraid of what happens when that moment comes. Afraid of what you’ll do, what you might want.

You can’t voice it, let alone allow yourself to think it.

It would be a bad idea.

“Yes!” You nearly shriek, throwing your hands up in the air.

“You two share a single brain cell, and it’s actually quite amusing,” Eddie says.

It’s the only thing he’s said the whole evening, and you pause to whirl around and face him. “What did you say?”

“The two of you,” he says evenly, hooking an ankle over his knee. “Share a combined brain cell.”

“That’s rude,” you snap, narrowing your eyes.

He laughs, glancing over to Robin. “Are the two of you ever going to, oh I don’t know, act on your feelings? I thought it was because of all the shit with the Upside Down. But we saved the world, remember? So what gives?”

“I’m not following…”

Robin interrupts, all wild hands and frantic speech. “You two dinguses like each other. And stop with the ‘we’re best friends’ bullshit you feed everyone. The two of you are dancing around each other and have been for years now. Why not…talk it out and see what happens? You’re clearly feeling some sort of way over this weird little game the two of you are playing this week.”

But the two of you are best friends. You’re not Nathan and Cora. That kind of stuff happens in your books. Those fated relationships, destined to be at a young age.

You know how to separate fact from fiction.

Steve and you are fact, and you don’t want to dabble in fiction when it comes to him.

Right…?

Tears for Fears blares through the speaker system, Family Video empty save for the two of you. The ‘OPEN’ sign on the door has already been flipped to ‘CLOSED.’ You’re meant to be going through new releases for Keith and unpacking them from the boxes laid out in the back room. He’s already told you where he wants them placed, which movies to arrange on certain shelves for different occasions.

Your pencil scratches along paper, calling out the names of movies to Steve, crossing out a box to confirm you received all the titles the business was expecting. It’s tedious, and you’d rather be doing just about anything else, but it takes your mind off the tension swirling in your gut over your ‘Steve situation.’

Neither of you have spoken in a bit. More so because you don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to address the elephant in the room: the fact you like him, want him, and have been struggling to remind yourself that this game you’re playing is only a game. It’s a dangerous line to walk, even scarier to tread. On one side, the safety of friendship, and on the other is the unknown.

So you return to your tapes, the shadowed in boxes, the methodical strokes of pencil against paper. It’s another ridiculously warm day. You curse the shoddy air conditioning system Keith never calls in to get fixed, hands sliding down the sides of your skirt, grateful for the slight breeze that tickles your ankles with every movement. If Steve’s warm, he says nothing of it, only picks up the pace with going through the inventory and closes up the box once you’re finally done.

“We just need to double check the back room is clean and then we can lock up,” he says. Your head lifts abruptly, having gone so long without hearing his voice it almost shocks you.

“Oh, yeah. Right. Coming,” you tell him, clipping your pencil to the board and sliding the whole thing onto the shelf beneath the counter.

Steve’s shoving the box onto a wooden table when you join him, your eyes doing a cursory scan about the room to make sure everything looks to be in its proper place. What you don’t expect to see, however, is your book resting in your pocketbook on the chair you left it atop of.

Steve follows the line of your gaze and chuckles. “Figured it was about time I gave it back.”

You lift the tattered old thing in one hand and flip through the pages. He’s moved the bookmark all the way to the back, and you know he’s read the whole thing. Satisfied with its condition, you tuck it back into where it belongs and lean against the wooden table, palms curling around the edge as you shift to face him.

“You done teasing me?” You ask pointedly, head tipping to the side with a little smirk. “Even I have to admit that was a cruel game.”

“Why was it cruel?” He steps closer, the already small room shrinking even further.

“You were making fun of me.”

“No I wasn’t. I liked the book,” he admits, the corner of his lip twitching upward. “I just had one question the whole time I was reading it.”

“Yeah? What’s that?” You’re genuinely curious, leaning back further against the table.

Steve takes another step closer, dark hair bouncing with each movement, those eyes dark and kind. “You’ve written down all the dates you read the thing in the front. So I assume it’s your favorite. Why is it your favorite?”

It’s…not a bad observation. If anything, it has your blood burning a bit, heart starting to flutter faster in your chest. Still, you keep your cool, shrugging your shoulders in reply.

“Come on now, since when do we keep things from each other?”

His hand drops down onto the wood beside your hip, his chest nearly pressing to your knees where you sit. Your feet kick mindlessly back and forth, brushing against his shins, skirt fluttering around you.

“I like the plot,” you admit, popping the 'p' for emphasis, trying to look anywhere but his face as you continue, “I like the idea of two people who already know each other trying to see if there’s more between them.”

“Cora and Nathan are best friends.” It’s not a question, but a fact. You nod, watching his other hand drop onto the other side of your hip. “Is that why you got all hot and bothered in your bedroom? Why those notes made you squirm?”

“Don’t be an asshole.” You cross your arms over your chest. “It’s a book.”

“Is that all it is?” He asks, looking into your eyes with an unfamiliar intensity. You want to hide from it, but it dredges up something new in you. Something bold and dizzying. “If it’s just a book, tell me that’s all it is and we’ll close up and go home.”

You don’t say anything for a while.

How could you? How could you admit that the reason it’s your favorite is because it’s about two best friends falling for one another? How could you admit you dreamed and hoped maybe one day it would be your reality with him? How could you admit you wanted to taste him, touch him, feel him for years now?

Steve moves to head back toward the main room when you make your choice.

“Steve?”

He whirls around on the spot, eyes searching your face. He rushes back over to where you’re sitting. Your hands slide up tentatively into his, testing the weight of them in your palms.

You exhale a deep breath, “Kiss me?”

There’s no moment of question. No hesitance behind his gaze when he curls a palm around the side of your face and swoops down to kiss you soundly on the lips. It’s not slow and sweet like in the many movies you’ve seen and books you’ve read. Instead it’s an urgent, hurried thing. His hands slide around your hips and draw you closer to him, your thighs parting to make space for him, mouths licking into one another hungrily, years of pent up emotion spilling into the spaces between you.

It’s a nip of his bottom lip here, the gasp from you when his mouth slides along your cheek in search of your jaw, sucks below your ear in a way that has you clutching at his shoulders, dragging him closer. Fingers pinch into skin. Frantic hands slide over your Family Video vest, his mouth forming the quiet question of “Can I?” And your head is nodding, heart thundering. He slips it free from your form and touches at the hem of your shirt hesitantly.

“You can touch me,” you rasp out, hands clutching around the edge of the table. A callused palm slides up and along your skin, dances along the curve of your breast, right over the rapid thrum of your heart. “Stevie…”

He’s kissing you again, hand sliding out from underneath your shirt and instead rucking up the sides of your skirt. A gust of cold air hits the tops of your thighs as he bares you to him. You watch those fingers that have held you all these years, have tended your wounds, soothed away your worries, drag along your flesh. Up over the curve of your thigh, the curve of your hip, and down again.

“I want you to touch me, Steve. I want you,” you whisper against his ear, curling an arm around his shoulder and shuddering into the side of his neck. Those fingers slip down the front of your panties and trail a dangerous path from your slick center to your clit, teasing lightly, circling where you want him most.

He hums pleasantly. “This all for me, pretty girl?” He’s smiling to himself at your quiet cry, tracing the same pattern once more before dropping down onto his knees to help you slide them down and off your legs. “Are you sure?”

“Pleas—” Your voice breaks off into a moan. That taunting mouth of his licks a deadly path from your entrance to that sensitive nub, rendering you at his mercy. He slides one of your thighs up and over his shoulder, the other held out to open you further to him. “Just like that, just like that.”

He licks into you, murmuring into your skin about how he’s wanted you like this for years. Dirty sounds of your slick meld together with your gasps and whimpers, fingers reaching down to grasp at hair, tugging hard, hips grinding involuntarily into his face.

“Steve!” Your head falls back at the white hot flash behind your eyes when that first finger slides in all the way to the knuckle, a sinful slide in and out of you that has you craving more. More fullness, more something, more Steve, until you’re whining pathetically. The second finger joins the first, stretching and sliding against skin, working in tandem with the flat of his tongue against your clit.

You come with a cry of his name, body bowing over the top of his head, fingers a tangle against his scalp. He continues to lick and pump into you through your orgasm, his other hand holding tight against your hip you’re sure you’ll have bruises come morning. But you don’t care. You don’t care at all. You grip the front of Steve’s shirt and drag him upward to your mouth, tasting yourself on him. His tongue glides over your own, moans mingling in the spaces between you.

Your hands work on his jeans next, needing more of him, his mouth moving languidly over yours. Shaky hands slide the button through the hole, fingers pushing down the zipper, the desperate wiggle of fabric down his thighs so he can kick himself out of them. You waste no time sliding him out of his boxers, hand pumping him once, twice, before he’s sliding on a condom fished from his wallet and asking you how you want him.

It’s how you end up sliding down to the edge of the table, his fingers dipping into your slick heat, still sensitive from your orgasm, his cock straining against your hip when he drops down to kiss you once more, whispering, “Are you sure? Need your words, pretty girl.”

“I want you…I’ve wanted this, Steve.”

You feel him nudge at your entrance, so full and thick it has your eyes rolling slightly at the first delicious stretch. Your arm curls around his shoulder to drag your chests closer, gasps mingling, the hand curling around your hip gripping tighter while he sinks inch by inch into you until he’s buried to the hilt.

He rocks slowly against you at first. A slow, torturous drag in and out. In and out. Until you’re whimpering steadily into the quiet room, ankle curling around a hip, drawing him closer. Always closer. It’s a slow build up. Face pressed into his chest, hips rolling in tandem with his, relishing in his sounds rumbling deep within his chest.

It’s Steve, you remind yourself.

Steve, your best friend in the world, rocking into you, chasing your peaks together. He's whispering how pretty you are, how good you feel, praising you. He murmurs ‘good fuckin’ girl’ against your mouth when your head shifts and you kiss him greedily, a messy tangle of lips, tongue and teeth.

“Faster, Steve,” you plead, eyes pinching shut.

His hips snap harder against yours, his grunts and groans filling the space, driving the table to knock against the wall, sending the box of new inventory hurtling to the ground. Neither of you can be bothered with it, hands clutching against clothes, mouths tangling, wet skin slapping against skin, lurching closer and closer to the edge.

Steve’s laying you back against the table, chest crawling over your own, mouth like a brand against yours, your hair fanning around your head. He curls a forearm under your lower back, tilting your hips, the new angle hitting that part of you over and over and over again that makes your vision grow white around the edges. Your whimpers of his name spurring him on, your thigh crooked over one of his elbows, drawing him closer, deeper.

Steve comes seconds after you do, face red and chest heaving, gasping at the way your body clenches around him. Kisses you in between broken cries of his name falling from your pretty lips.

Your thigh slides back down from around his elbow. The other thigh slowly drops back down against the wood, skirt bunching indecently around your hips, his chest heavy against yours. Your fingers come up to brush along his hair, humming when he leans over to kiss you once, twice, and then slides off of you, your body immediately missing the feeling of being full of him.

You dress and clean in silence. Little awkward chuckles spilling here and there as he helps you slide your underwear back on, head disappearing beneath your skirt to teasingly nip at the inside of a thigh. Your hands help to smooth his unruly hair back into place. It’s a gentle slide of fingers together when you both make your way out to his car and slip inside, the cheeky grin from him when he leans over the center console and smacks a kiss against your cheek, making your skin burn ablaze.

“Want to go get food? Maybe a milkshake,” he suggests, curling a hand around his steering wheel. “On me.”

“Like a date?” You muse, watching his hand curl around your own to draw your palm to his lips for a slow kiss into the center.

“If you want it to be.”

Steve and you open up at Family Video the next day.

Your late night plans the day before in hindsight may not have been the best idea either of you had in a while, but seeing him early that next morning with his sunglasses perched on his face and his lips eagerly seeking yours over the center console had made it worth it.

You’d spent the evening huddled over a basket of fries, talking about your feelings, about giving things a try, constantly touching. Hands, cheeks, shoulders, legs. You craved it all, this new need to be attached at all times, butterflies fluttering in bellies, grins tugging at faces. Later it had been chocolatey milkshake kisses under the stars at Lover’s Lake, a new world of exploration at your fingertips.

Presently, Robin and Eddie mill about in the distance, looking for a movie for your usual Friday night in, the two of them calling various movie titles over to where you and Steve work behind the countertop.

“How about Heathers?” Eddie asks, just as Keith barrels out of the back room, looking red in the face and on a mission.

“Looks like you two—” he points between you and Steve. “—did some rearranging in the back room last night. That wall you dented and then tried to hide behind the table, however you managed that, I don’t know…but yeah, you’ll be paying for it. And the stack of movies on the floor? If any are busted, I’ll dock both your pay for them as well. Count your lucky stars I’m not firing you both.”

He’s gone back the way he came, leaving you standing beside Steve, your mouths open, eyes rounded in fear.

Steve mouths, “We forgot to clean up the movies…”

You turn into his chest to hide, mortification burning your face.

Robin and Eddie smirk, high-fiving amidst the movie displays.

#steve harrington smut #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x female reader #steve harrington x f!reader #steve harrington x afab!reader #steve harrington imagine #my writing #luna's writing

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matchadobo · 4 months

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KIDD; birthday present

wc: 1567

summary: name asks kidd what he wants for his birthday and she would grant anything, kidd says he wants to use a remote controlled v1brator with name.

warning/s: fem reader, overstimulation, VERY NSFW 🔞 i was sweating while writing this 🥰, s3x toys (v1brator only), partial voyeurism, kidd being rough 👀

"you're lucky it's your fucking birthday, you bastard...!" you cursed under your breath, hot under his touch. kidd had you sit between his legs where your entire frame was engulfed by his gargantuan size. his human arm never left the span of your thighs, fingers tracing the edge of your legs where your inner thighs meet. his metal arm played with your hair, each contact of the steel spreading goosebumps across your skin. you were too sensitive yet this bastard took his time playing with you.

you once asked kidd what he wants for his birthday and you'd grant him anything. and the smartass thought outside of the box and wished to play with you with a remote controlled vibrator. when you first heard it, you felt mishearing that last part once more, the one involving his wish. you took a moment to process whatever bullshit he wished for you to do. and as a loving girlfriend, who asked what he wanted for his birthday, and promised to grant it—you are now squirming under him, rubbing your thighs together to ease the pleasure, throwing your head back by the crook of his neck to feel any sort of friction with him as you looked up at him with utter desperation; your eyes lewdly saying 'please', inching his thick fingers closer to your clit but he just snatches his hand away as he clicks his tongue; mumbling 'not yet, princess' while he enjoys himself with you.

he nibbles at your ear, inhaling your lust. he languidly drags his tongue down the column of your neck, placing a gentle kiss near your jaw. "so good, you sound so good, name." he sang, golden eyes glowing with pure arousal and delight from your needy state. he rolls the lever of the remote a notch higher than 5. he bit his lip, watching you shut your eyes tight as you hang your head low to hide your face. you pushed yourself further into your lover's torso, feeling up the hardness of his length from your rear. "why are you looking down, baby? if you don't act normal and start acting all vulnerable for me, the crew might witness the slut that you are when i bend you down by the table and fuck you so hard you'll see the goddamn universe." he growled against your ear, his breath raising the hairs on your skin. he sounded gibberish to be honest, you were too lost at the ecstatic pleasure on your cunt. your fucking panties are soaked it's embarrassing! but he likes it like that, all dirty and fucked up for him.

"d-doing this a-at the deck wasn't p-part of your w-wish- aah fuck...!" you fisted kidd's pants, clawing at his scarred arms. you cursed at him, your nails digging by his pale skin. the marks your fingernails left was like a badge of honor for him.

"i didn't specify anythin', did i? plus, ain't it funner this way?"

"i-it's only fun f-for you, i-i'm at my limit." you grunted, grabbing a glass of water cuz you feel like fainting.

"hm? didn't i hear your pleads for more earlier? the drools on your mouth's sayin' otherwise, shortcake." he taunted, playing with your hair. "don't back down on your word now, aye?"

you glared at him deeply, you feel your eyes dig on your sockets. he raised the notch higher once more and you choked out a moan that got heads turning. kidd only snickered, looking at you endearingly as you covered your flushed face once more.

"i s-swear i'll g-get back at y-you for this...!" you pledged, composing yourself as you fixed your position at your seat.

"why, bunny? what'll you do? take control?" he cocked a brow, humor coating his tone. despite his taunts, he left kisses on the surface of your skin as he embraced you tighter.

"o-oh i got f-fucking plans, eustass." you growled through gritted teeth, trying to regulate your breathing. you're starting to sweat as you shifted friskily in your seat at the increasing amount of pressure on your core, strands of hair started to stick on your face. amidst your threat, kidd found it in him to smile and hook the hairs stuck on your forehead back to your ear. he held your heated cheeks by his callous hands.

"that's cute, i look forward to it." he once again littered your face with kisses, the pigment from his lips spreading on your face uncontrollably. "since you're so feisty, why don't we see where that getcha?"

once again, he raised the level once more, the vibration sounded a lot more prominent now and you were starting to lose distinction between dream and reality. you let out a low moan, eyes piercing through his globes. begging him continually to give it to you, to fuck you.

as it reaches 10, you can feel your insides shaking uncontrollably. you had to grab the edge of the table for support as you heaved out breaths of filthy grunts. you slurred your words, you're not even sure what you're saying yourself. all you wanted was for him to finally give it to you.

he held your chin between his index and his thumb, holding your attention deeply. "darling, i won't be able to give you what you want if you slur your words like that."

"p-please f-fuck me a-already, p-please love." you reached over to touch his face, planting your lips to his grinning ones. "i-if you have to do it r-right now, i-in front of e-everyone, p-please just h-have your w-way with me." you said trying to get a hold of yourself.

his eyes darkened before nodding, kissing the edge of your face. "got it."

he draws his hands closer to your sopping cunt, sliding his hands down your skirt into your soaked panties. he slithered his fingers from the side into the crevice of your core, rubbing it from your clit as he kissed your open mouth. slutty moans escaped your lips at the contact, vibrating through his mouth.

"such a shameless little whore you are." he slid one finger in, letting your body go limp as you completely rest your weight to him, head weakly lying on his shoulders as he hooked his finger inside your folds, curling inside as his nails tickled your sensitive spots. "be a good girl for me and take it, aye?"

he slid in one more finger, relishing on how you contort your face into pleasure. he started moving his fingers in an unholy pace, you pressed your lips together to stifle your moans, drumming your feet by the wooden deck. the combined stimulation of his fingers and the vibrator has left you dumb and drunk.

"p-people are l-looking," you whispered under your breath, but you didn't want him to stop, you want him to stimulate you more. the more shameful it became, the more you approached your climax.

"aye. show them how good i make you feel, bunny." he bit on the lobes of your ear, sliding in the third finger. your squelching became more audible. "isn't it crazy how dumb you're becoming with just my fingers? what a good little slut you are, i might really bend you by the fucking table now."

it sounded horrifying to think that the crew will witness how filthy you two are, especially when kidd dicks you down by this very table everybody was drinking on. but your cunt and mouth had betrayed you as you give one more nudge of approval for his actions, begging a slutty little 'please' after his suggestion.

so your face was now slammed down the wooden table, the drinks that held it shook upward at your impact. the crew had their heads turned at the noise and saw you with your ass up for your captain as kidd started unbuckling his belt. some had mumbled 'oh god' as a wince made its way to their faces as they dashed away from the scene, while some was too stunned and had witness the first seconds of your filth.

kidd raised the frills of your skirt and moved your panties to the side, he gave his length a few pumps as he savored the flushness of your cunt as it dripped wet. he gave a look around the deck, a few rookies were too stunned to speak, the crates they were carrying dropped as food spilled on the floor. kidd didn't hesitate to fuck himself into you while some crew members' eyes were glued into the both of you. your moans emanating sinfully across the deck.

"it's my birthday but y'all are enjoying yourself too, huh?" he smirked, pushing your body further down so he can get deeper. "fuck outta here rookies. don't look at my woman." he growled, magneting some heaps of metal to cover up the both of you and have a makeshift room to yourselves.

"i-i'm surprised you're not into voyeur?" you grunted, looking back. his length mercilessly drilling your cunt open, girthy and throbbing inside you. he leaned closer, grabbing a hold of your neck and pulling your body to an upright position where he fucked you while you stood up.

"can't have 'em having thoughts about you like that," he replied, pace speeding up. "i'll use you up like the fucking slut you are the way i want to, aye? ain't that your plead, princess?"

first time writing voyeur?? HANDBSBSBSBBS this is the modt sinful thing i wrote ever 🤣 kidd's making me do things. i rushed this while in school!! 😩

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iisasarcasticlittleshite · 1 year

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We've created a monster (Brothers x MC)

In which the brothers find out that they've created a human with zero self preservation or reasonable fear of demons.

This rattled around in my head all morning, I just had to write it. Is it good? Probably not, but it exists and I like it, so there ;P

Sort of implied polyamory, possessive and protective demons.

If by some miracle anyone likes this sort of longer, random fic, please let me know, I'd be happy to write more little scenarios like these.

Warnings: none

Since arriving in the Devildom, MC has moved within the same "social" circle. They talk to the brothers, Diavolo, Barbatos, and the other exchange students. They've had no real need to move outside of that up to now.

They're civil with other demons, but the interactions are extremely limited and always under the watchful eye of someone they know and trust.

Even Luke's presence would be enough to dissuade any demons from getting ideas around the human who does not have magic rolling off them in waves.

Most are aware of their pacts with the lords and steer clear.

But demons aren't exactly known for riskless behaviour.

On the one day out of hundreds MC walked to class alone, wanting to get ahead on something, a demon of envy singled them out in the broad hallway.

He's big, tall, though still has nothing on Beel, and snaps vicious sharp teeth at them as he backs them into a wall.

'Humans like you shouldn't prance around a demon's home unguarded, not flaunting all those pacts.'

MC recognises that look, and cocks their head curiously. 'Levi wears envy better, you ought to practise in the mirror a little more.'

He takes one gargantuan step forward, letting loose a roar that threatened to shake loose bricks out of the walls.

Still, MC didn't flinch, didn't even take their hands out of their pockets. 'Stop that, it's too early for that kinda noise.'

'I am going to KILL you!'

Snorting, MC finally bothered to lift one hand from their pocket, tugging gently at the bonds of their pacts to find the magic they wanted. It wouldn't be much, really.

'No. You're not.'

A flick of the wrist, a muttered word, and the demon felt his body become too heavy to move, almost too heavy to breathe. He commanded his limbs to carry him, demanded that his magic answer his call.

Neither obeyed. None but his eyes, who watched the infuriating waif tuck their hand back in their pocket and carry on with their day, walking around him like he was an inconveniently placed statue.

'You thought you could scare me? I live with Lucifer and Satan you dipstick.' MC huffed, glancing at their watch and hurrying away, lest they lose their head-start on the day.

Just out of sight, Asmodeus had recorded the entire ordeal, fully ready to step in and protect the human (or better yet, set Satan on the bastard), and instead, finding himself capturing a side of their little MC none had seen yet.

He sends the video into the brother's group chat, and immediately all of Devildom breaks loose. Lucifer demands the offender be sent to him for punishment, until Asmodeus reminds him that the bastard is still frozen in the hallway with a smug selfie.

Instead, the eldest pulls everyone from their classes, including MC and calls an emergency council meeting. He doesn't even wait for Diavolo to be in attendance, so urgent is his need to address this.

Mammon had found his way to MC's side and is glued to them like a protective hex, he'll go nowhere, and will not be told otherwise, Levi and Beel take turns hovering at their other side, the elder glowering like a gargoyle while the younger hooks a finger in the edge of MC's pocket and follows them around like a lost puppy.

MC does no more than go with the flow, as usual. They slide under Mammon's arm and teases him for turning red despite his focus on protecting them.

Once everyone is seated, MC finally asks the question.

'So, what's this about? Never thought I'd see you endorse us all missing class, Lucifer.'

'We're here to talk about the incident this morning, MC.' Lucifer began as calmly as possible. His blood still boils that anyone would dare try and harm his human simply because his back was turned. 'The envy demon, did he hurt you?'

'Oh, him? No, didn't even touch me. Is that why Satan looks ready to butcher someone?'

The avatar of Wrath is living up to his name, he's quietly glaring holes into the floor and no one dares interrupt him.

'You don't seem to realise how much danger you were just in, MC.' Lucifer broaches carefully, unwilling to trigger his own temper even though MC can clearly see it in his eyes. 'You dealt with it cleverly, but if that had been a smarter demon, one who struck without you knowing-'

MC pondered his point for a moment, rolling their bottom lip between their teeth. 'What would happen to a demon that killed me? Like the one today, if he had actually done something.'

A crash filled the room, Satan's magic lashing out, pushing him into his demon form as the very thought of anyone laying hands on what is clearly his sent him spiralling.

His brothers jump back, while MC, jumps in.

They're in front of him in seconds, big eyes speaking of kindness and love, and though the wrath still boils in his belly, his magic stops writhing for blood.

'Breathe, I'm right here.' MC reminds him, not daring to touch until she feels the pact bond settle. 'It's not going to happen, yeah?'

'It almost did, and you're not nearly as worried as you should be!' Belphegor snapped. 'You're human, anyone could-!'

'He was one idiot with a death wish, and he couldn't even lay hands on me when I was alone. Who the fuck do you think is going to go for me with you guys around?'

They have a point, that doesn't settle the unease in the room, and it shoes as Satan nuzzles into their hair, pressing his chest to their back.

He's the last one to show physical affection in front of anyone, let alone Lucifer, but the need to touch them outweighs his pride, clearly.

MC lets him cling on, and carries on the conversation without missing a beat, gently rubbing their thumb over the back of Satan's hand.

'But, you really weren't scared. Not even a little.' Beel uttered softly, big eyes shimmering with worry. 'He looked right at you and told you he'd kill you.'

'And? Most of you have said that to me at least once, hell, one of you succeeded.'

The youngest flinched, MC threw him a smile.

'Honestly, who in the demon King's name is gonna scare me, when you guys can't?'

Realisation dawned on them then, spending all their time with the 7 Lords of the Devildom had completely desensitised MC to demons.

If they could stare down Lucifer on a rampage, throw themselves between him and someone he means to kill, who the hell is supposed to be scarier than him?

Lucifer voices the point aloud, and Asmodeus breaks into laughter, soon followed by Leviathan.

'That is kinda funny.' Snorted the third-born. 'I think we broke MC.'

The twins soon join in, and MC felt Satan's chest tremble and he settled his chin atop their head, now free of his demon form.

'Guys, this ain't a good thing!' Mammon wailed. 'If MC ain't scared o' nothin', what's stoppin' 'em from just walkin' into Cerberus' mouth or somethin'?!'

'Uh...common sense?' MC added dryly. 'Not being afraid of dying doesn't make me want to die, dipstick.'

'Hey!'

'Which brings me to my next point, when did you learn to call on all our magic at once like that?' Lucifer swiftly interjected. 'Solomon said he's taught you nothing but basics.'

'I'm in school, you know? I don't get good grades for decoration. I knew it wasn't worth summoning any one of you so I just grabbed all the threads at once and squeezed.'

'Honey, you're telling us you had a demon threatening to kill you and just...winged it?' Asmo concluded.

The human merely shrugged. 'Pretty much.'

'...we've created a monster.'

Part 2

#obey me x mc #obey me shall we date #drabble #headcannon #obey me brothers x mc #obey me mammon #obey me satan #obey me lucifer #obey me #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me leviathan

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pinkanonwrites · 2 months

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Thinking about the concept of cloth or soft things in general being considered luxury to cybertronians, and just imagining one using their holoform to enter a bedroom for the first time. There a big soft berth that sinks under their weight, an entire pile of warm insulating plush fabric, and even more small soft pads that they put their heads on! Could you imagine their reaction to a carpeted room? They even put soft things on the ground they walk on! It would be like looking at one of ridiculously luxurious mansions that are so loaded up with fancy things that it almost looks like a parody

This conjured up a little idea in me with ROTB Mirage, enjoy!

"Watch your shoulders on the-!"

CRUNCH

"...Door frame." So much for getting your deposit back. Mirage shot you a crooked grin, brushing some of the sheet-rock dust off of his shoulder pauldron.

"Sorry 'bout that, sweetspark. No big deal, you can patch that up no problem!"

When Noah had told you that Mirage was able to change his size you had only partially believed him. After all, according to his own stories, the Mirage that was barely larger than Noah in Peru had also had several significant pieces blasted off of his gargantuan frame. And yet, here he was. Fully repaired, mass-shifted to a mere seven-and-a-half feet tall. And sure, he still had to stoop to avoid taking out your ceiling fan. But here he was, in your meager apartment.

It was an equally unfamiliar locale for Mirage himself, having only caught peeks of your living quarters from the alleyway outside. The shag carpet was plush under his pedes, ridiculously soft to the touch. And sure, he'd owned a few of his own garments back in the Towers, in pre-war time, but it still paled in comparison to your room with its thick curtains, fluffy carpeting, and the dozen or so plush organic creatures littering your bed.

"Do you wanna listen to something? You can sit on the bed, if you want. You're probably too big for my desk chair." You were already rifling through your tapes, gesturing to the bed with your free hand and currently oblivious to Mirage's wide-optic stare. He took a careful seat on the edge and Primus, the entire mattress sunk and molded around his bulky frame. It was heavenly. He took one of your stuffed animals between his servos and squeezed, marveling at the squish.

"Man, I can't believe y'all live like this!" He laughed, draping himself backwards onto your bed with a warning creak. "It's comfy, that's for sure. But I don't think I could sleep on somethin' like this. It might swallow me up mid-recharge. And what's with all these little soft organics?"

"Says the guy who sleeps on the floor of a garage. I'd have aches in muscles I didn't even know existed." You pressed Talking Heads 'Speaking In Tongues' into the player with a familiar click, the beginning lick of Burning Down The House echoing through the tinny speaker as you flopped down next to Mirage. "And you're strangling Hello Kitty. They're cute, and soft, and that's kind of all there is to it? Kids like to play with them, too."

"Huh! Cute. Seems like your style. The whole hab seems like your style, actually. All soft and shit. " He handed you back your slightly-dented Hello Kitty, letting out a lazy ex-vent as his arm wrapped around your shoulders. "Well what should we do now?~ You got me all the way up into your berth, aren't you gonna do somethin' about it?"

You barked out a laugh, turning your head to see Mirage's playfully smarmy grin aimed down at you. "Was that your ploy? Show off your cool alien shape-shifting just so you could get in my bed?"

"That depends. Is it working?~"

"Maybe.~"

#transformers #transformers x reader #x reader #mirage #mirage x reader #tf mirage #rotb mirage #rise of the beasts #pink chat #anon

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silkscream · 4 months

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CHAPTER 2: HEAVEN CANNOT WAIT FOREVER

ੈ✩ gojo satoru x reader, geto suguru x reader

He feels you shake. Earth-shattering, the feeling of you. Like you’re breaking the sky for him. It roots something deep inside him that wasn’t there before. Something blooming between violence and gauzy ecstasy. It knots his stomach until he breaks, too.

ੈ✩ chapter cw/tags: smut (18+ mdni), virginity loss, protected sex (yay!!), fingering, satoru is annoying

ੈ✩ wc: 4.4k

ੈ✩ a/n: SMUT TIMEEEEE! one of my fav chapters just because it's so sweet. title is from the first taste by fiona apple. i'd love feedback <3 if you just comment about updates i will summon mahoraga on you.

playlist ✸ read on ao3 ✸ series masterlist

July, 2008

In front of you, the Gojo estate sprawls out. It's oversized and sukiya-style, adorned with gardens full of hanashobu. When you were younger and more naive, you daydreamed that your wedding ceremony would happen in such a place. The idea makes you feel silly now.

You now find the gargantuan display of wealth a bit repulsive, despite growing up here.

The emerging summer heat makes the back of your knees feel sticky already. You had opted for a simple shirt dress, light and linen, and robin’s egg blue, thinking Satoru would like the color.

God, this was stupid. He wouldn’t be paying attention to the color of your dress — he’d be much more concerned with what’s underneath. The thought makes your stomach flip, birds and wasps flurrying in your diaphragm. The kiss you’d shared hadn’t left your mind for days. You wonder if it was the same for him.

You're surprised that he's there to greet you himself. Otherwise, you would've let yourself in. He smiles at you, looking unfairly handsome in a black t-shirt and sweatpants. He’s not wearing his sunglasses.

“Look who decided to show up.”

You hum in greeting, brushing past him to move toward the stairs.

“Eager, are we?” he teases. “You didn’t even get me flowers.”

“You have a whole garden of them outside.”

“They’re much prettier when you arrange them, Twigs.”

He cocks his head to the side, eyes lingering on an ikebana sitting on the foyer table. You had arranged it last week. You sigh, immediately regretting your decision until he pushes you lightly on the small of your back. His cologne is sharp under your nose. Has he always smelled this good?

It didn’t occur to you that Satoru would ever wear cologne. He’d always smelled like plain soap, white musk. Boyish sweat after he’d play in the courtyard with you.

You follow him up the long staircase and into his bedroom. It’s plain as it always was — neutral colors and traditional paintings on the walls, courtesy of his mother. The only difference is that a king-sized bed replaces the tatami mat he’d preferred as a child.

You try not to look at him, instead, inspecting the bookshelves. You'd read half of his stack by the time you were twelve. Since then, it seemed that Satoru didn't continue an interest in reading the same way you had.

There’s a small photo peeking out of a book — you recognize the top of your head. As you pull it out, you see the two of you grinning in front of a lake. You are eight years old, freshly toothless, and your pigtails are unruly.

“I miss your braids, you know,” Satoru murmurs. He laughs when you jump a bit at the realization of his presence. The coolness of his palm settles on the nape of your neck. You used to tease him about that — how he’d stalk the hallways like a cat and catch you off guard. You thought he’d ought to wear a bell.

“You just liked tugging on them to piss me off.”

“You’re cute when you’re pissed off,” he shrugs.

You wonder if he can hear the echoing brag of your heart. You can’t blame the heat for how you feel, with his house being the perfect temperature of all times. He’s so casual in his T-shirt compared to you. You’re briefly self-conscious about whether your dress is tacky or garish. Too feminine with its floral pattern. You hadn’t worn the thing in years.

As if he’s read your mind, he calls your name and tells you that he thinks you look pretty today. He beckons you into his lap again.

This time, you sit next to him, too anxious to touch yet. He smiles at you again, cat-like, but sweet. Not teasing in his usual manner.

“You can kiss me, you know.”

“I— I know,” you frown. “I don’t need your permission.”

“Then what are you waiting for, Twigs?”

You close your eyes, pausing in front of his face as you notice his breathing get uneven. A subtle push forward makes you stop against a wall.

“You did not just use your Infinity—”

“Sorry,” Satoru laughs. “Still a little mad that you lied about your technique to me.”

You look at him with wide eyes, bottom lip trembling. Something between shame and self-effacement.

“I’m messing with you. Promise. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Despite that, there was never really any hiding from him. Even though you aren’t as close as you used to be, Satoru is somehow still intuitive to how you feel. It’s why he touches your jaw and curls a lock of your hair in between his fingers. He knows his gentle touch would make a shiver run down your spine.

He kisses you, finally. The way your mouth immediately parts to welcome him makes his stomach stir, a spark to ignite a fire. It’s curious and soft, and when he hears you mumble please when he pulls away, he succumbs completely.

His hand settles on your waist, then your thigh. The crux behind your knee. He doesn’t want to move too quickly despite his desperate desire. Your sweet sounds are making him boil over. It’s all so delicate, hanging on by the thinnest thread, and he doesn’t want to scare you away like a timid animal.

You melt into him, grasping the front of his t-shirt with enough eagerness to surprise him. It occurred to you that you liked surprising him this way. You enjoyed getting him flustered. As you feel his warm palms smoothing the flesh of your thighs, the skirt of your dress is already bunched up.

The sound of him groaning in your mouth is addictive. Even more so when it’s your name between his lips.

“Satoru,” you whisper.

“Yes?”

“I–I want–”

Want you to eat me. Want to stay in your lap.

“Gone speechless already?” he teases, brushing your nose with his despite your glare. “You don’t have to be all shy with me.”

You’d imagined being in his lap like this before, warm and fervid. Dream-like. But it’s more real than anything else, especially when you can feel his hardness underneath you.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Satoru’s voice is strained, raspy. There’s an unsung hymn inside of you somewhere, some cruel and divine power deep within that wants to tear him apart. Hearing him like this makes your pulse quicken.

“I want to,” you whisper. His eyes widen, snowy lashes flickering in surprise as if he wasn’t the one to invite you over. As if he wasn’t the one who had beckoned you into his lap and kissed you first. He’d argue that you’d tempted him if he had the strength to tease you again.

You have the urge to hide inside of him, consume him. There’s a question in the flicker of your eyes when you touch his inner thigh. Your eyes are wide.

Satoru makes a sharp inhale. He’s nervous – more nervous than he’s ever been in this kind of situation. It isn’t like he does this often despite his reputation. With you, it’s something entirely unprecedented.

“Kiss me again,” he says. You do. For a bit, you let the feeling of him wash over you, and then you try something new. Your teeth are at his neck. The nip of your incisors against his throat makes him groan, the sound inciting something wild in you.

“Do you want me to touch you?”

You nod.

He doesn’t undress you, not yet. He merely snakes an arm in between your thighs, gasping at the wetness that’s gathered at your core. Fuck.

“You can lean into me,” he rasps into your hair. “Make yourself feel good.”

You mewl – a helpless sound. A small rock of your hips grants you friction against his hand, but it’s not enough.

“You’re teasing me,” you whine.

“But you like it, don’t you?”

He smiles. Devilish again, like his usual self. He knows you’re a bit repressed, like him, but in a way that’s reserved. He wants to see you come undone, enjoys the begging tone of your moans too much.

Satoru skims his fingers along your thigh, wetting the skin with your slick. He pulls your underwear to the side to find your clit. The pressure of his fingers against it makes you shiver.

Your eyes close as you sigh. You can’t look at him – can’t remind yourself that he can see your face like this, falling apart in small breaths. The coil in your stomach aches.

“Tell me how it feels.” His voice is low, his breath tickling just beneath your ear.

“Good,” you reply, breathless. “Feels really good.”

He wants to ask for permission, but he can’t help it. The sight of your mouth parting in pleasure is so much. He wants to see how your face contorts when he touches you in different places. You have always been his favorite toy, haven’t you?

Without warning, he pushes an index finger into you, stifling a groan at your reaction.

“Want more? How do you like it?”

“I don’t– I don’t know?”

“You don’t touch yourself, Twigs?”

“Satoru, just– oh.”

You’re so wet around him. So tight. His cock throbs at the idea of being inside you.

“Another one?”

“Mhm.”

“Open your eyes. Want you to look at me.”

Your lashes flutter as you gasp into his mouth. He looks at you intently, mesmerized. Your hips jerk, grinding into his lap when he uses his thumb to circle your clit again, this time in a steady rhythm with two fingers inside your cunt.

Satoru exhales into your mouth, his jaw slack and moaning softly as if he’s being stimulated as much as you are. In a way, he is, from the friction of you in his lap. He thinks he might just cum in his pants from watching you. He’s never been this pent-up before.

You finish with a quiet gasp, clutching Satoru’s shoulders as you bury your face into his neck. When you pull back, he’s wonderstruck, eager to kiss your cheeks and your jaw and the space above your collarbone. His fingers, still wet with your slick, enter his mouth. He curses softly. You flush at the sight of his lips all dewy with the taste of you.

“Can I take this off?�� He pulls at the hem of your dress. The sound of his voice shakes you back to Earth.

You nod, helping him slip the fabric off of your body.

It’s almost as terrible as it is tantalizing to be so vulnerable in front of him. Bare enough for him to make his mark on you, claiming you forever. You suppose he had done that long ago without you realizing.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he coos. He soothes a palm over your waist.

“Naked, you mean?”

Satoru laughs. Eyes hazy, summer blue. “Yes. But you’ve always been beautiful.”

You want to retaliate with something, ease your nerves with a joke, but the tenderness of his voice renders you speechless.

“Your turn,” you breathe, tugging at his sleeve.

When he rids himself of his shirt and sweatpants, you notice he’s as pale as moonlight. Smooth porcelain and filled-out muscle. Rigid. What happened to the lanky boy that used to pull on your braids?

“Got a staring problem?” he goads.

“Shut up.”

“Maybe if you lay back for me.”

You swallow. You listen to him. He looks at you, your hair fanning out on his pillow, your body bare and ripe for the taking. Satoru sits in front of you and coaxes your legs apart to kiss your knees, the back of your thighs. You mewl when he bites, nipping at you the same way you’d done to his neck.

“Look at you. So fucking pretty. Wanna eat you out.”

You have half a mind to say thank you, but the moment passes. You’re too fixated on the way his eyes trail down your body. How the brevity of his words makes you feel flayed alive.

When he kisses you a little too close to your core, you whine in protest and pull at his hair in a fit. He looks up at you, feigning dejection.

“I’m sorry, baby. What is it that you want, hm?”

Baby. Baby.

“Come kiss me.”

And he does, but it’s more violent this time. He doesn’t hold back on showing you how much he wants you, how badly he’s obsessed with you after seeing you fall apart so sweetly for him. The supercut of it will reel in his head long after this. He’s sure of it.

Satoru laves his tongue over the places on your neck that he’s bitten, and descends to your chest until he hooks his teeth around your nipple. He groans at the sound of your moan. His hands are still roaming, palms gripping the taut flesh of your thighs as he grinds lightly into your body enough for you to feel his hardness.

He wants to give you more, so he teases the swollen nub of your clit again with his fingertips and is delighted to feel that you’re even wetter than before – if that was even possible.

“Satoru!”

“Yes?”

Your breathing is so irregular that you can’t put your desire into words. Not without it tainting you with shame, at least. You plead with big eyes, but Satoru wants to tease you a little more. You wonder if it’s in his nature to be so cruel.

“Use your words, Twigs. What is it? You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, okay,” he chuckles, kissing your temple. “You want a condom?”

You close your eyes, nodding, trying to savor the way he makes you feel and not the terrifying vulnerability that rots in the pit of your stomach. It’s all too much, much more than you had dreamt out, but you’re here now. You know there’s no going back. You know that when you open your eyes to see his soaking in so much light, looking at you with adoration, you wouldn’t want to go back anyway.

He’s quick to prod your entrance again. You nod slightly to permit him, clutching him like a lifeline.

“Let me know if it hurts too much, okay?”

“Okay.”

He kisses you hard, consuming you as a distraction as the head of him enters you little by little. You’re wet enough to not feel any resistance. When he’s pushed to the hilt of you, he moans against your mouth. He drinks up your exhale, trying not to consider it a painful one as he runs his fingers through your hair lovingly.

It’s a strange pain. Something of an ache in the core of you, twisting at your insides in a way that also feels like crushing ripe fruit. A delicate sensation as much as it is rough. Satoru is gentle in his movements, brushing your hair out of your face. He looks at you with utmost admiration.

“Is that— is that good?” you whisper.

“I should be asking you that, shouldn’t I?” he says. You feel the rumble of his laugh against your chest. “Does it hurt?”

“Only a little. But it—it feels nice.”

He slides his cock back to thrust into you again, slowly. It’s almost languid, lazy the way he slips back into you like the two of you have just woken up from a dream.

Satoru wants to be intentional with how he fucks you. Even within these past minutes, he’s convinced he’s gotten your reactions down to memory. He’ll be able to touch you in all the right ways the next time you fall into his bed. But if he’s intentional, if he fucks you the way he truly wants to, he’s worried it’ll be too much. Everything he feels for you is too much at the moment.

“Relax for me.” His voice is smooth as butter. Your reaction is a hot knife. You notice that for the first time in a long time, in front of you, his face is blushing pink. It makes your walls tighten around him.

He rolls his hips against yours. It’s ecstasy—the feeling of you encapsulating him in lust, in softness. The drawn-out whine that tumbles out of your mouth makes it all worthwhile as Satoru thrusts with the smallest bit of intention. Softly, lovingly. After a bit, his length begins to make you feel full without all the pain. Skin kissing skin. Insides fluttering.

You don’t notice the tears pricking the corners of your eyes. The pain subsides, but the pleasure stokes the fire in your stomach until it devours you completely.

He hitches your right leg higher, ankle past his shoulder. He feels so fucking reckless, but he’ll satiate you the way you deserve—sweet and painless and passionate. The way your bottom lip trembles is making it so fucking difficult for him to stay gentle, though.

He moans your name and it reminds you of yourself. Of your body, of inhabiting it and being consumed by your best friend who is not your best friend. And you love him, you realize, but it’s a worthless feat to think about it too much during your first time. You can at least play pretend while Satoru is inside of you, as he looks at you like he’s the one in love with you.

He bites at your neck as he ruts into you a little faster. He’s so deep that you think you might go brainless—dizzied with pleasure, overflowing with thrill.

“So fucking tight,” Satoru groans. He pushes up his body now, settles himself on his knees as he holds your thighs firmly. “Look at you. My pretty girl.”

“Satoru—” you whine, feeling too exposed, too bare with him hovering over you like this—“Oh, my god—”

You’re pushed over the edge when he thumbs at your clit again, your cunt tightening around him at the feeling. You look beautiful like this. Tears of an angel. It distracts him a bit, how pretty you look, until he realizes the power he holds over you. Knowing that he’s taking.

“Too rough, baby?” he coos, leaning over to kiss your cheeks, licking up your salty tears.

“Don’t stop,” you gasp. “S’good. Feels good.”

He’s pushed against you again, head buried into your neck. He pulls at your hair gently, angling your face to look at him. Noses touching. Mouths sharing air.

“Gonna cum,” you whine into a kiss. He groans at your admission, pulling you taut against him as he adjusts you both to your sides. He lifts your leg over his, rolling his hips harder, and the angle makes you cry out.

“Fuck,” he curses. His eyes are wide open, mooning at your face as you cum, and he can feel his release burying inside you to the hilt.

Even after you’re both spent, he’s greedy, still hard inside of you as he continues. Lazy movements, half in tandem with your ragged breaths. He grins at you then, breathless at your blurry gaze. Kisses you sweetly like a shared promise.

The comfortable silence falls between you as you swap kisses. You hum against his lips, caressing his jaw. Your eyes blink at the sight of rain outside his bedroom window. A light drizzle despite the orange sunlight.

“Hm,” Satoru purrs. “We brought the rain.”

“What, with an orgasm?”

“I’m pretty sure you had more than one.”

“You’re so obnoxious,” you mutter.

“And still inside you,” he grins.

He pulls out when you make a grumbled sound, contrasting the melody of his laugh. He has half the mind to take a picture of you like this, sprawled in his bed like a painting. He’d keep the image of it in his wallet if he could.

Instead, he goes to the bathroom to bring you a warm, wet rag and cleans you up. He’s able to catch his breath as he rubs his hands over your bare thighs. You’re changed, glowing, yet your face is so familiar. The same one he’s been fond of for years. The shift inside him aches.

Satoru isn’t sure what to do. Usually, he’s inebriated at this point, and the sex closes with a heavy, dreamless sleep after midnight. The sun shower outside has calmed down, barely there, and afternoon sunlight floods the room. He’s more awake than ever with your presence. He’s surprised you haven’t gotten up to get dressed or made some excuse about leaving. He realizes he doesn’t want you to.

It feels normal when he falls into bed with you after just touching your skin, slips into a sweet afternoon nap. Hours later, you make him dinner. He makes you cum again.

September, 2008

You don’t understand Satoru’s affinity for sugar. You would think he had an addictive personality the way he consumed sweets – you’re surprised he isn’t addicted to something worse, like cigarettes.

Lately, he’s been complaining about craving something sweet before he fucks you. He licks his lips as you share the same mango-flavored popsicle in the courtyard of his estate. Juice dribbling down your chin. It doesn’t take him long to get you knee-deep in the grass. He teases you, tells you your pussy is sweeter. The sweetest.

Other times, you have quiet nights. He watches movies with you in your room and has sex with you before you sleep. Over a few months, Satoru gets accustomed to how you sound when he touches you until he knows you inside out. Expert in the map of your body. Of the pillow-soft places he can tease to make you cum hard.

But he doesn’t take you out after. Or before. It’s always a rendezvous, the rest of the world dead to the both of you as you consume each other. A paradise restricted to a bed. He gets you so dizzy that it doesn’t bother you. He kisses you sweetly on his way out to see his friends. He kisses you sweetly before he’s quick to slip out your door or send you out on his own.

It’s perfect for him. You’re perfect — you feel it.

Satoru likes that you’re so pliable. He can say anything he wants to you and you’ll take it. You’ll even moan for it.

Sometimes he can be mean, sometimes he has tears rolling down your face, but he always kisses them away. He likes that you let him cum in your mouth.

He especially likes that you’re good company outside of the sex. You’re the only mind that gets him besides Suguru. It’s why he likes spending time with you when everyone else is busy. Even if he’s practicing his techniques and you’re splayed on the grass, reading a book.

It’s what you’re doing now. He’s convinced you’re trying to tempt him today. At the moment you’re wearing the pleated skirt from your school uniform, despite it being summer break. The July heat made it unbearable to wear pants. It was laundry day, too, but Satoru insisted on having you come over.

“Come play with me, Twigs,” he calls after you. You look like a dream in your little tank and little skirt. Bare legs with imprints of grass patterns.

“I’m reading.”

“Just because you have a healing technique doesn’t mean that you can’t practice combat.”

“Shoko doesn’t,” you scoff.

“Shoko is going to cheat her way through med school. C’mere, I’m lonely,” Satoru whines.

You’re not as good at fighting as you were when you were children, able to at least wrestle with Satoru and have equal footing. Even then, you didn’t have enough cursed energy to fight like a true sorcerer like Satoru.

But you are getting the hang of it, bleeding cursed energy that flickered a gauzy aura around you. Satoru wonders if it’s just his six eyes that make you look so beautiful in front of him. So soft.

He ends up pushing his weight on you by the end, anyway. He revels in the way you groan, annoyed at him for pinning you down. He knows what’s on your mind from the way you lift your hips for him almost involuntarily. It’s how he has you melt in his grasp, skirt hiked over your stomach as he bullies his cock into you. You’d been asking for it since you looked at him, your teasing eyes peeking from above your book.

He finishes on the small of your back like he always does. Licks over the hickey under your collarbone, too.

You ground him. At least as much as Suguru does, but differently. He’s clear-headed after he cums, laying with you skin to skin. It reminds him that he’s human rather than a god-like prodigy. He keeps you like a pet, never wanting to let you leave him, insisting on stroking through your hair like you’re a cat.

“This has to be some form of kidnapping,” you mutter, one afternoon in his bed. He’d kept you for at least 36 hours, this time. You would never hear the end of it from your mother.

“I can always go to your house.”

“I wonder if this is codependent,” you say. You scrunch your nose as he nuzzles his to yours.

“Nah,” Satoru hums lazily.

“You don’t think so, Satoru?”

“There’s a time limit for me to hang out with my best friend?”

His quip makes your heart pang. You ignore it.

He’ll release you when he feels like it. He knows well enough that you’d rather stay in his bed all day, anyway. He’s too wrapped up in you to think about how it may be cruel.

You stay long enough that your staycation with Satoru bleeds into his usual weekend plans. This includes a movie night with Suguru, so you join.

Satoru picks something raunchy, of course. Something horrific and exploitative in a way that draws attention from its taboo. A cinematic car wreck that has your head spinning.

He whispers in your ear, teasing you, calling you baby whenever Suguru goes to the bathroom. He has his hand on your thigh, fingertips under the blanket, and close enough to your core to make you dripping wet.

And then, as the movie progresses, you tuck your body towards Suguru, who shares your distaste for such violence. Even if it’s fictional. As Satoru watches his worlds collide and sees the way Suguru’s fox eyes light up at your banter, something odd flickers inside him.

When the new semester starts in the fall, he doesn’t look at you as he walks past you.

#gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #juijutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk smut #geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x you

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acourtofwhatthefuck · 11 months

Text

Bluebird — Part III — (Azriel x Reader)

Here’s part three! Still totally winging this story, but hey, it’s fun!

Warnings: Little bit of injury detail.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

The beast had had wings.

Huge, domineering, membranous wings. They had been nicked with faded scars and imperfections; perhaps ones that had been received centuries before, given how long the Fae lived. How hard they were to fell.

The way it — he — had swooped down into the mouth of the alley…the voice that was both cloaked midnight and winking stars…you replayed it in your mind again, and again, and again. The recurring image chased you from sleep. He had been so hauntingly beautiful, and so terrifying—

A High Fae practically on your doorstep. Chasing a nuisance drunk away from you. And for what reason? Because he’d wanted you to himself? Wanted to charm you in that dark alley, and whisper sweet nothings that would coax you across the wall?

Their beauty was all part of their allure, Devin had told you. Something pretty to gaze at while they tore you apart.

But the winged fae male had let you go. Had encouraged you to go.

You should go inside, he’d said. That voice. It would haunt your thoughts until you were maddened by it.

You rose from your bed at the first sight of watery daylight seeping through your dirty window. The sleepless night made every step a gargantuan effort, but your chores, at least, occupied your roaring mind.

You wondered how long it would take Kiall to sound the alarm that you and he had encountered a High Fae in the flesh — to go spreading it around the village. That was, if his alcohol-addled mind even remembered it. But as the day wore on, much the same as any other day, no Village Guards came to question you. No gossip reached your ears.

You wondered if you should say something. At the very least, to your father. He would be travelling across the villages for a few days, and you would be alone here. What if the winged male returned? What if he was waiting for the perfect moment to strike?

You should go inside.

You could see, now, how the village girls had found themselves lured by that voice. So devastatingly perfect; a feeling like silk on skin. Was the winged Fae the one who had been picking those girls off one-by-one? Had you…had you come close to being the next?

And even if he’d spared you, for whatever reason — he knew where to find you, now.

Paranoia was constantly shrouding you throughout the day.

Every person passing by the window had your hackles rising. Every sound had you flinching. You didn’t think the creature would strike in broad daylight, but perhaps it was lying in wait. Perhaps it had made itself invisible. You were sure they could do that.

You should definitely say something to your father. Perhaps he would abandon his trip and stay here with you, protect you. He surely wouldn’t leave you here alone for days with such a threat hovering nearby.

You found him outside, fastening his bags to his horse, the members of his travelling party already with him. They each looked up as you hovered in the doorway.

“Papa.” Your voice shook.

Your father turned to you expectantly.

But it was the other men you couldn’t stop staring at. Men who believed in your father’s cause as he, himself, did. Men who would one day go to battle to defend your kind. Many of whom wouldn’t come back.

Were you truly so selfish to prevent them from spreading word of the growing threat for your own interests? Your father had already dedicated hours to travel and speech. Had already accrued a fine amount of donations to further his cause. He was doing something good.

Who were you to stop him?

You had a knife. You knew the basics of defending yourself. That would have to do.

“What is it, Y/N?” Your father studied your paled, fearful appearance.

You swallowed. “Nothing.” You shook your head. “Just…travel safe. All of you.”

The brave men laughed in the face of the warning.

But the beast had had wings.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

That night, you checked the locks once, twice, three times. A futile effort, you knew — a being as powerful as a High Fae wouldn’t be perturbed by a deadbolt, but locks and daggers were all you had.

You stayed awake and listened. But there were no bangs or bumps. No booming wings. Not even a shadow passed the window.

Just another, uneventful night in your dreary, soulless village.

And you thought that perhaps, for some reason, the winged beast had spared you.

You didn’t want to wonder why.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

“What is the matter with you?” Cassian frowned at the Shadowsinger, studying the restlessness with which he’d been sitting.

Azriel glanced up from his report. “What?”

“Can you stop bouncing your leg like that?”

The spymaster’s hazel eyes fell down to his left leg — which, lo and behold, was bouncing up and down in a steady rhythm. Azriel forced it to stop.

So unlike him, to wear his emotions so freely.

“What are you even reading that’s got you so churned up?” Cass asked him.

Az didn’t bother to tell him that he’d barely given thought to the paper in his hands. That he was, in fact, thinking back to the night before. The way the human woman had stared at him with such fear.

He hadn’t meant to scare her. But he couldn’t turn a blind eye to the drunken bastard that had been threatening towards her.

He cleared his throat, sitting up. Scanned the paper for good measure. “There’s been some unrest reported in some of the human villages. Rhys wants me to keep an eye on it.”

Cassian frowned. “Why should we bother ourselves over human disputes?”

“Because the unrest is directed at us. They’re picking at old wounds, it would seem. Deciding they’re not quite happy with the way things are.”

“So…what? They plan to cross the wall and invade?” The thought alone would be humorous, if not for the amount of human lives that would be needlessly lost in such a manoeuvre.

“Right now, we’re not sure.” Az answered. “That’s why Rhys wants me keeping an eye on it. So I can report back to him about whether the humans are planning to wage war on us.”

Cassian snorted, resting his head back. “Well good luck with that, brother. Rather you than me.”

Ordinarily, Az would echo the sentiment. None of them had ever had a particular desire to spend any stretch of time around the miserable villages of the mortals. If nothing else, it would have been plain boring.

But maybe it wouldn’t be quite so bad with sweet music to accompany him. And glimpses of that quiet, wide-eyed female.

Maybe he’d actually get to hear her voice, if only swept along on a breeze.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･

Azriel had seen his fair share of squalor in five and a bit centuries. Had spent many of those years living in it himself.

That was one thing humans and Fae alike could relate to — that when you didn’t have two coins to rub together, life was, quite frankly, shit. Nights were cold and uncomfortable, bellies were empty and aching, days were spent toiling away at hard work that never seemed to show any results.

Az had lived that life once. Had had nothing once.

But even to his steeled defences, flying over some of the mortal villages was downright depressing.

He could understand, somewhat, why these humans were unhappy with the life they had. There wasn’t much to be glad about.

But they’d only make it worse by going up against the fae.

Rhys’s directions were pretty basic; keep an eye out for any sizeable groups of humans gathering. Listen for gossip, for hushed chatter. Take note of anything unusual. Az, of course, didn’t need to be told. This was his expertise. Where he was most comfortable.

It was in a small stretch of derelict village that his stealthy fae hearing caught precisely what he was listening out for. Floating out from inside an inn, a single male was speaking — fierce and impassioned — and receiving murmurs and cheers of agreement in response. The words Azriel caught didn’t surprise him in the least; fae scum. Left us all to suffer. Attacking our daughters. Ash arrows. It was so damn predictable that the Shadowsinger wanted to roll his eyes. Still, he sat in wait. Focused.

The group of men — a fair few of them, to their credit — finally spilled out of the inn just before the clock announced midnight. Azriel studied them; their varied ages and statures, where they seemed to fall in line with each other. Az immediately recognised the voice of the leader as he mounted his horse and announced the next village they were travelling to — to give an identical talk, no doubt.

If this was the so-called threat, it wasn’t anything to lose sleep over. A group of humans hungry for violence could easily be dealt with; it didn’t need to go too far.

But there was every chance that this wasn’t the half of it. Human they may be, but that didn’t make them stupid. They knew they’d need numbers, and ash arrows, and a whole lot else to defend themselves.

Which was clearly why they were travelling from village to village and spreading the word. Getting as many on their side as they could.

Az’s thoughts flitted back to the human girl at The Bluebird Inn. Had they been to her village yet? Given a talk at her establishment that she, herself, had been privy to?

Perhaps that was why she’d looked at Azriel so fearfully.

Or perhaps that was simply because she’d never seen a person with wings before.

Whatever the reason…Az didn’t like it. Didn’t want to frighten her.

As the travelling party set off on their mounts, Az tucked away the information he’d gathered — including the name of their next destination. He’d take it all back to Rhys and allow him to decide on a next course of action.

Which he should do right then, immediately.

But something restless tingled within him. An urge to fly not home, but back to that village. For the third time. Two nights had passed since he’d come face-to-face with the woman in the alley. He found himself craving her music again. Found himself wanting to know what her voice sounded like.

It was so damn ridiculous, and he knew it.

But he flew straight there anyway.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･

The music floated up to him. Caressed his ears.

It was louder tonight…as if the woman was playing without a care.

Az was rather surprised that none of the neighbouring residents had hammered on her door yet. One song flowed into the next into the next, and she showed no signs of stopping.

She looked relaxed, in the flickering candlelight. Her hair unbound, posture easy, fingers working at the keys—

She was beautiful. And Azriel couldn’t stop staring.

It was trance-like, the way she played; as if nothing existed in the world besides her and her instrument. Such passion sang through those notes, a wordless story told through music alone. Az wanted to bathe in it, to feel it drench his skin.

He flew closer, landing silently on a neighbouring rooftop. It was a foolish, foolish move, to get so near — particularly with such rapidly-growing tensions. But in that moment he cared for nothing but the music. The woman.

It wasn’t a tune he’d heard before, but one he’d gladly hear again and again. The woman’s fingers didn’t seem to falter once, the notes climbing and falling, wrapping around Azriel and dragging him into that harmonious world. Who knew that such beauty could exist across the wall? That he could find peace, of all places, in a hardened human village? His heart thudded inside his chest, and he—

He didn’t hear the quiet whoosh of the approaching ash arrow. Wasn’t aware of it until it grazed the shell of his ear. A burning sensation immediately bloomed, and hot blood trickled down.

He blinked out of the idyllic place his mind had gone, stumbling back slightly. Azriel was never caught off guard. Had never allowed anything to overpower his survival instinct.

He shot back into the sky, wiping the blood that was running down his neck. The wise thing would be to fly to safety immediately — get away from there — but he found his eyes fiercely scanning that small village and—

Blinding pain burst through his left wing. The second arrow had gone clean-through. The third hit him on the outer edge of his right wing.

Azriel roared, forcing himself to stay aloft. He could already feel the ash-wood taking effect, feel its oily fist wrap around his power and squeeze. He threw everything into channelling his siphons, forcing them to encase him a guarding blue light, but his magic so desperately wanted to falter. He wouldn’t make it back to Velaris before it gave up on him…but if he could just make it back across the wall—

“Motherfucker.” A voice yelled up at him. One he’d heard before — slurring in a darkened alley two nights earlier. “Fucking Fae scum. I’ll have your head as a trophy, just you watch!”

Azriel flapped his wings, willing himself to fly higher, higher…but the burn. Gods, the burn.

No further arrows came at him, but he needed to remove the ones in his body. With a pained groan, he felt himself falter. He could barely keep himself up, keep that cobalt shield around him, as he swooped towards the ground, too quickly for human eyes to catch.

He landed in that same alley. Dropped his shield so that darkness could cloak him. The human man was still mouthing off a few buildings down, but Az knew he’d lost sight of him.

He could feel blood streaming in multiple places. Feel himself weakening. And perhaps that was why he stumbled to the side door of The Bluebird Inn and hammered a fist on the peeling wood. He didn’t know. Wasn’t thinking straight.

The music had already stopped, but there was a very clear pause. He groaned as more burning pain splintered through him; banged on the door again.

Over his roaring pain, he just about caught the sound of light footsteps on the other side. He heard the slide of a bolt, the undoing of a chain, the creak of the door being opened just a crack—

Pretty eyes peered out through that crack. And then widened, taking in the sight of the blood. And who, exactly, was bleeding.

“Please.” Azriel wheezed. It was all he could think to say as his blood drip-drip-dripped onto the concrete.

There was another pause. And perhaps it was because Azriel groaned at another wave of nauseating pain, or simply because the human woman was good.

But she opened the door wider and silently allowed him to enter.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･

Thank the long-forgotten gods that your father wasn’t here right now.

He would have killed the winged creature on sight. And then possibly killed you, too, for letting him in.

His blood was dripping all over the floor.

He sat hunched over on a stool, gripping onto the bar and grunting with every breath. An arrow protruded from each wing — they had to be ash arrows.

You didn’t know what to do.

If you saw a wounded animal in the street, you wouldn’t even hesitate to help. But was this the same thing? A creature it — he — may be, but he was no defenceless animal.

He was a High Fae. And if he weren’t so injured in that moment, he’d probably be taking advantage of the fact that you’d let him into your home.

You flinched as another fat droplet of blood splashed against the growing puddle on the floor. The creature groaned.

Your feet were moving before you told them to. You sidled around the bar, keeping a keen eye on the male as you reached for a dishcloth.

At the very least, he was in no position to attack you right now.

“…Here.” Your voice shook as much as your hand did as you held out the cloth.

Eyes of churning hazel flicked up and met yours. You didn’t intend to gasp the way you did.

Even hooded and clouded with pain, those eyes were…hauntingly beautiful. Not just hazel, but pools of dark, swimming honey. No human could ever have such eyes.

His gaze fell to your outstretched hand, and he winced as he, too, reached out. Accepted the cloth.

Truly, you didn’t mean to stare, but…his hands.

Scarred. So scarred, it frightened you — because you couldn’t imagine how badly a High Fae had to have been hurt to have such lingering evidence of the assault. They looked like burn scars, twisting and marring his skin.

He didn’t seem to notice your staring as he wiped a trembling hand over the blood that coated his ear and neck. He grimaced, another pained grunt escaping him.

“…Do you need anything else?” You asked him. You were no healer — and you certainly had no clue where Fae injuries were concerned. But the sooner he was able to stand, the sooner you could get him out of here.

“I need…” He swallowed, his body wracking with a shudder. “I need to get these arrows out…so I can heal.”

His voice skittered over your skin. Your bones. You’d heard that voice in your head the past two nights. Your memory hadn’t done it justice.

It was like quiet, blissful music.

Everyone knew what ash arrows were designed for — to hinder a Fae’s healing magic long enough for a human to make a killing blow.

You were technically at an advantage right now. You could grab for your dagger and puncture his heart with it — in theory.

But you knew you didn’t have it in you. And that fact only became clearer as the creature hissed in pain, hunching over. It twisted something inside you, to see such a pure, unguarded agony.

But he made no move to reach behind him and yank those arrows out. You weren’t sure he was even capable right now—

And then you realised. You blinked. “You want me to…”

“I won’t be able to do it myself.” He grunted, gritting his teeth. “Sorry.”

“I might make it worse—”

“The arrows went clean through. It should be easy enough to pull them out.” His tan face, beaded with sweat, seemed to turn a sickly green. “Please.”

That word again. Never did you expect yourself to have a Fae in your home — and pleading for your help, no less.

And perhaps it made you utterly foolish, but you swallowed and slowly rounded the bar once more, until you were stood at his back, his wings limp before you.

Even coated in blood, they were rather beautiful. Like a bat’s wings. You wondered if they felt as velvety as they looked.

At another groan of pain, you stepped closer, only inches now between you.

This was stupid. So, so stupid. What if he waited for you to pull those arrows out and then turned around to attack? He could gut you before you so much as blinked. Every warning your father had ever given you bleated like a siren in your mind—

“Please.” The male panted a third time. The pleading tone twisted your gut again.

Sucking in a breath, you reached out, wrapping your hand around the smooth arrow protruding from his left wing. You gripped — and yanked—

The male shouted in pain, his head thrown back. But the arrow came out clean. You chucked it onto the floor.

Tremors were wracking his whole body, now. You eyed him cautiously, wondering if he could even handle the removal of that last arrow. You hesitated—

“Just do it.” He gasped.

You grabbed hold of its end, pulling it from the outer edge of his right wing. The arrow fell to the ground with a resounding clatter.

You could only stare as the creature’s hands gripped onto the bar, his heavy breaths leaving him in quick grunts.

After a moment, he ground out without looking up, “Thank you.”

So he was a polite creature, at least.

You backed away, wanting to put as much distance between you as possible. Your boots were smattered with his blood as you rounded the bar once more. It offered you a sliver of futile comfort to have the obstruction separating you. As if he couldn’t quite easily leap over and throttle you.

But it seemed he was still in no position to do so as he remained hunched on that stool. You pressed yourself back against the wall, watching him. Watching as his breaths slowly began to even out, and a little bit of colour returned to his cheeks. He was still pale, but—

This was Fae healing, right before your very eyes. A phenomenon you’d learned of through tale and rhyme…it was far different seeing it in the flesh.

You didn’t know how long passed of you watching him regain his strength. The wounds on his wings had clotted, and the grunts of pain lessened until the deep, slow breaths he took were the only indication of any lingering discomfort.

After a while of silence, his beautiful eyes found you again. “What is your name?” He asked.

You tensed — weren’t sure why he cared to know. He already knew where you lived, which was a mighty unsettling thought. The idea of him knowing any more about you—

“My name is Azriel.” He offered.

You paused. And deciding there wasn’t much he could realistically do with your name, you responded, “My name is Y/N.”

“Y/N.” He repeated, as if trying your name out on his tongue. “Y/N.”

You said nothing else. You pressed yourself further against the wall, balling your fists at your sides. His strength was returning, and that couldn’t mean anything good for you.

Azriel tracked every movement of yours. “You fear me.”

To question it seemed laughable. “Of course I do.”

His brow furrowed. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Is that what you told the other village girls?”

He stared at you blankly, your words seeming meaningless to him. And such sincere confusion was on his face that you couldn’t help questioning if you’d gotten that wrong. That maybe it hadn’t been him—

He had helped you, after all. Urged you to go inside, rather than luring you to your death.

You shook your head to yourself; too many thoughts at once. “Why were you here the other night?”

Again, Azriel stared at you. His lips pursed. “I was in the area.”

“What business would you have around here?”

“You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”

“If you’re planning to kill me, I’d at least like to know how long you’ve been tracking me. And why.”

A croaked laugh left him. “You think I want to kill you.”

You shifted. “Don’t you?”

“Why would I? You’ve done nothing to me.”

You almost snorted. To hear such morality, such logic, come from a being that killed merely for sport, seemed like a joke.

But you still didn’t understand how you’d ended up here.

“Why were you here the other night?” You asked again.

Azriel paused. And then said, quietly, “I heard you playing music. And I came back to hear more.”

You blinked. Not the response you’d been expecting. Your cheeks pinkened slightly. “You—like music?”

“I do. And you play beautifully. It sounded familiar to me. It sounded…warm.”

You stared at him in silence. Not because you didn’t understand his thinking, but rather the opposite — you knew it, felt it, yourself.

That was what music did for you. Your little bit of sunlight in an otherwise overcast life. It warmed you from the inside out. Warmed your soul.

Azriel cleared his throat, appearing self-conscious under your intense gaze.

You didn’t mean to stare. You’d just never before felt so…understood. So seen.

“…Were you listening tonight?” You asked. You’d been playing a different piece this evening. And adding your own spin on it.

Azriel dipped his chin. “I was.”

“And?”

“And it was stunning. And I think I’d die to hear it again.”

An icy thrill shot through you — not an unpleasant sensation, but surely an alien one. You were not good with praise; simply because you didn’t receive it often. But to receive it from a being who didn’t need to hand it out…who held no regard for you whatsoever…

It was strangely giddying. And perhaps that was why you took leave of your senses.

What you should have done was turfed him out of your home. He’d clearly recovered enough to leave, and you owed him nothing. You’d been more than generous by allowing him inside and removing those arrows from his wings.

So you should have sent him on his way. And told him never to return.

But he’d appreciated your music. No one ever had before.

And that was what made you grab the flickering lantern that was filling the space with light. And what made you nod in the direction of the back room, where you so often lost yourself in your music.

“Follow me.” You said.

The winged creature did.

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ azriel tag list:

@hanasakr @positivewitch @ruler-of-hades @brekkershadowsinger @nightscourtt @imperfect0angel @luna-1-3-5 @hyacinthoideshispanica @lucyysthings @lahoete @littlemoonash @blacksstarrynight @azriels-mate123 @ghostly-poetic @frieddesigninspiringquotesslime @a-frog-with-a-laptop @illyriansimp @morrie-rose @passingthroughfireandshadow @illyrian-dreamer @azrielsbabyg @96jnie @mich0731 @mulansaucey @truthtellerfanclub @acourtofbooksandmagic @insightsonmylife @basicbittywitty @curbside-cyanide @acourtofchaosandmess @123345566 @starrynights-frostbites @eos-princess @thesillyyogourt @ona-raising-07-l @acediahamartia @dontfollowmepleaseitsannoying @polli05927 @asdfjklbooks @azriel-luvr @amysangel @humanpersonlasttimeichecked @wildflowernightmere @audie-writes @aaronwarnerswifereal @starxqt @lulufairbank @laurzwrites @livelaughlovenestaarcheron @girlwith-thecinder-blockgarden @emturtles @lostpirateinwonderland @kammsinn

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ssaeri · 1 year

Text

for your eyes only

☆ tags: elliott x gn!reader, elliott and farmer are married, he writes love poems for his spouse and is told to monetize them, oh boy is he not happy about that ☆

You pat your pig's backside encouragingly and coo as it digs its snout into the ground, unearthing yet another truffle that you add to your basket. Can't believe you were worried about this one being the runt of its litter—it's quickly proving to be one of the fastest learners, taking to truffle hunting like a duck to water. It'll do just fine with the rest of the adult pigs.

Taking care of the farm by yourself has always been a gargantuan task, but as the years go by, everything grows bigger—the coops, the barns, the ponds, the crops, the expectations—and exhaustion wears you down to the bone. You sigh and push to your feet, ready to head into the nearest coop to collect more eggs. Collect animal products, drop them into churning machines, harvest and sell. It feels like the cycle never ends. Against your neck, the small mermaid's pendant slides on its chain, another reminder of your absent husband. An extra pair of helping hands made the daily work light; you wonder if it's selfish to ask him to stay home more often.

"I know, I know," you say to your angry chickens once you open the door. You miss your husband, but these girls like to remind you that they miss him more. "He'll be home soon. Bear with me, okay?"

After giving each of them pats on the head, a motion they accept with reluctance, you dig around the hay for eggs. The large chicken and dinosaur eggs are easy to spot, but for the delicate duck eggs, you prod every corner with your fingers until you come across something warm and smooth. You push away your hens as they peck at your hands. The ducks are fine with you. The chickens, however...how in the world did Elliott win them over?

Outside, your dog barks. A single warning to the intruder before the tone shifts into excitement. Someone familiar, then. Maybe Marnie is stopping by to give you some hay like she mentioned last night. With winter approaching, any addition to your reserves is appreciated, and you're already wiping your hands on your overalls to greet her.

"Hey, Marnie! I'm just in here—"

You stop in your tracks when the visitor raises his head, though he's not exactly a visitor. Elliott smiles as you draw close, ignoring the horde of chickens now lining the fence for his attention. Their wings flap, clucking loudly as they hit each other.

"Good morning, my love," he says over the noise, as if it really is the start to a normal day. His thumb reaches out to rub at a dirt smudge on your cheek. "Have you eaten yet?"

"Just some leftovers and coffee," you reply, dazed. Your husband tends to have that effect, and after two weeks apart, you feel it more than ever. You lean into his touch, comforting against your wind-blown skin. "I thought you were coming home tomorrow?"

"I decided to come back early. The office didn't need me today, anyway."

"You should've messaged me! I would've picked you up at the train station," you say. Behind him sits his traveling suitcase, the wheels speckled with mud from being dragged through the road. He steps in front of it. "Why don't you go get unpacked? I'll be done soon."

He leans his elbows onto the fence, tilting his head until his fiery hair spills over one shoulder. "You're rather quick to dismiss my presence. If I didn't know better, I'd say that you're unhappy to see me," he says, though his words hold no accusation. It's merely a way to boost his ego when you reassure him. After all, you practically radiate by his side. "Would you like me to help?"

You glance at the dress shoes, the slacks, the spotless cardigan that he's already shrugging off to reveal a clean pressed button-down. Not exactly farm-friendly attire. "No, I'll be alright by myself."

"I could go change really quickly," he offers in a suspicious rush.

You search his expression then, and underneath the joy of being back, there's...something. You squint, unable to make it out. Sure, he must've missed you, but this feels like it runs deeper than that. When you give him a nod, he hurries towards the house, your dog chasing and barking at his heels. True to his word, he's back in minutes.

The chickens are much more cooperative now, and you roll your eyes at how they parade around your husband. They even hop around the coop, showing him where they've hidden their eggs from your intrusive searching.

"Thank you, dearies," he says to the hens. You swear they swoon.

"A real heart breaker," you deadpan. "Have you told them you're married?"

He chuckles, taking your hand as you move into the barns next door. While you lay out new hay on the feeding bench, he unhooks the stools and milk pails and sets them on either side of the door. It's hard to believe that just a few months ago he barely knew how to approach your animals, let alone help you with the chores.

He whistles lowly, and the first cow trudges to his station, ready to be milked. You get settled at your own station. One of the newer goats skids to the front of the line, eager to be let outside. It's not quiet in the barn—it never is, not with twelve grown animals waiting for their turn—but when you call Elliott's name, he looks at you. His ponytail needs to be retied.

"So why'd you come home early?" The young adult goats don't have much milk, just enough for a small container. You pat its hind leg, and it runs into the crisp autumn air with an excited bleat.

"I missed the atmosphere of our farm. The fresh air of the valley is good for my creative soul, unlike the bustle of Zuzu City."

You only raise your eyebrows, and he sighs from your all-knowing gaze.

"You read me a little too well, my love."

"I sure hope so, after all this time together. Did something happen at the office?"

Since the release of his last collection of short stories, he's been invited to the city more often for author-related events. This latest stint, running a series of writing workshops in partnership with Zuzu University and the local community, was organized by his agent in hopes of bigger opportunities. Maybe even a guest lecturer contract, they've said on more than one occasion, though Elliott refuses to be apart from you for too long.

Elliott gives another sigh. "Something like that. I just...it was admittedly negligence on my part. I was in the middle of writing you another letter when someone required my presence down the hall. I thought that it'd be a quick matter, so I didn't clear my desk. But apparently one of the secretaries came looking for me while I was out."

"Did they read...?" You wrinkle your nose, knowing how private Elliott is about his unpolished work. He's even more private about what he writes for your eyes only. "I'm sure they were embarrassed."

"That's what bothers me the most! She had the audacity to bring it up in front of everyone when we had a meeting, even quoted a few lines—"

The cow groans as he moves particularly rough. He gives it an apologetic scratch under the chin.

"So for the past two days, everyone has been trying to talk me into releasing a collection of love poems, which I would have no issues with if it didn't stem from such a personal...I mean, the poems were addressed to my muse, and when I explained that it was you, they said that was even better. Something about how the romance will really sell." He frowns. "I like being able to support myself—contribute to our funds, you know—with my writing, but it's not...a commodity. I'm allowed to make art for the sake of making art."

His forehead is furrowed, and you would reach out to ease the frustration if your hands weren't busy.

"What's your plan now?"

He scoffs. "There's no plan regarding that. I completely refuse. It's quite insulting, in fact, the idea that I'd put my love on display for a paycheck."

It's relieving, you have to admit. Even after getting a taste of success, your husband remains the same person you said your vows to. The same romantic who holds you in such high esteem. There's so many emotions—namely affection—swirling in your chest, but you're not the writer so all you manage is a simple Okay.

"Okay," you say again for good measure, but he must understand you because his expression smooths. "So what do you want for lunch?"

#stardew x reader #stardew valley x reader #sdv x reader #sdv elliott x reader #stardew x farmer #stardew valley x farmer #sdv x farmer #sdv elliott x farmer #stardew valley scenarios #sdv scenarios #sdv elliott scenarios #stardew scenarios #saeri writes;

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rinhaler · 5 months

Text

Think Slow, 'Cause I Move Fast

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Since your recent attack, all Yuuji wants to do is keep you safe at home. But a letter from your parents makes that a little difficult...

boyfriend!yuuji itadori x f!reader x bully!megumi fushiguro

WARNINGS : 18+, exhibitionism, semi public, fingering, bullying, drugging mentions, bladder failure mention, vomiting mention, praise kink, brief fainting (ish).

WORDS : 4.5k

notes : the way i am SO invested in this all over again LMAO i sorta ate huh

LAST CHAPTER ┊ MASTERLIST ┊ NEXT CHAPTER

You’ve never taken so many days off from your studies in your whole life. It couldn’t be helped, but you couldn’t stop yourself from feeling guilty for taking the Tuesday off. Maybe if you went to class, your punishment from Megumi would have been a lot less severe. With what little time you’ve had to yourself since you awoke from your two-day long slumber, you’ve done nothing but think and overthink. He invited those two girls out from your class and planned the whole thing, knowing they’d do anything he asked. You’re even willing to bet one of those girls was who he was fingering upstairs outside of the toilets. Your memory is choppy, but you remember what they said to you clear as day.

That pill Megumi told us to slip in her drink was really strong, huh?

Every time those words play in your mind you couldn’t stop yourself from crying. How could someone be so evil? You don’t know what you did to warrant this, any of this. It was extreme, it was heartless, and you felt stabbing pangs in your heart as you thought this might be happening until you graduate.

Maybe you should transfer.

Maybe you should leave him, Yuuji, your studies, everything behind.

You finally woke up on Friday, and didn’t know a minute of peace. The police interviewed you, telling you the girls could face up to a maximum of ten years for drugging you. It was sick, however, that it wouldn’t be the case. You were an unreliable source because of your intoxication, and nobody else had witnessed them spiking you.

Of course Megumi got off scot-free since he didn’t actually do it and there was no way you could prove he masterminded the whole thing. The authorities were sympathetic, but it was out of their hands.

Yuuji has barely spoken since the incident. He knows you're too frightened and upset to talk about it for now, but he's at least thankful you were being honest with the police. Even though it came to nothing. He wants to murder Megumi with his bare hands. That is why he didn’t speak. Because all of his energy needed to go into taking care of you, making you feel better. And if he starts talking, if he starts asking questions, he’ll lose all rationale.

He won’t be responsible for his actions or what he would do to his former best friend.

Your insides are raw, you can’t eat, all you can do is sleep. Fragile is the only way to describe your body; each and every movement you make feels like a gargantuan task. Yuuji is running around after you; he's everything in his power to help you through this.

Although he was slightly intoxicated himself when you returned from the club, he managed to sit you in the bathtub while he showered you. He did his best to remove the paint from your body, but his priority was clearing you of vomit and urine, and the vile word that had been smeared across your skin in lipstick. He immediately put your clothes (save for the t shirt that he threw in the bin) in the washing machine and dressed you in loose comfy pyjamas before carrying you to bed. He made sure to keep you on your side with a sick bucket on the floor next to your bedside table.

Gojo stayed for a while, wanting to make sure you were okay, and he wanted to keep an eye on Yuuji . He had no idea what to tell him since he didn’t know what had happened. He managed to keep it together while the pair of them speculated. All he could see in his mind was your frail body being carried by those wonderful women who chose to help you. Your shirt had been cut open with precision, telling him it was a premeditated attack. Somebody brought scissors into a nightclub, they knew they were going to do this to you. He had a niggling sensation that it was Megumi, but he wasn’t sure since he hadn’t seen him at the club. So, the only other people he could think of were those girls, the girls who claimed to be your friend.

He tortured himself for leaving you. He didn’t want to fucking leave you, but he did, because he’s an idiot. He knew he should have stayed with you, something was nagging at him to protect you, but he didn’t. Itadori couldn’t possibly feel any worse, because he should have known better. He did know better, but he ignored his instincts anyway.

He did feel worse again, though, when he woke up the next morning and you were still fast asleep. He didn’t notice the previous night, but in the glittering morning sun peeking through the blinds he saw your neck. He saw the blushing blue blooms, unmistakable finger marks etched into your poor throat. Not only had you been publicly humiliated, but you’d also been outright attacked.

Yuuji encouraged you to tell the police about the attack too, you were sober then, you remembered that Megumi did it to you. But again, it was your word against his. They couldn’t find anyone to corroborate your story. As far as they were concerned there was nothing more they could do.

Everything was hopeless. The system had failed you. You wanted to escape, to leave and never look back. Forget about this whole incident, the worst few days of your entire life and it was all his fault.

It was all Megumi Fushiguro’s fault.

The minute you found some energy, you got yourself out of bed to discover your boyfriend in the front room. He immediately jumps to his feet and to the kitchen so that he could make you a drink. You sit down in the armchair, bringing your legs up and crossing them over one another.

He’s never seen you like this. You’re normally so happy and full of energy, and you're the most glamorous girl he’s ever met. Priding yourself on your fashion and appearance has always been important to you. But Yuuji barely recognises the girl in front of him today. Despite him washing your hair, it was wiry and almost greasy looking. You were paler than pale, he wouldn’t dare say it, but he thought you looked like you’d just been dug up. Your eyes are so bloodshot, he could barely stomach looking at them. There isn’t a patch of white in either of them. The bags under your eyes were so black, he asked you a few times if you remember anyone punching you. You shook your head insistently; you're just so damn tired.

He sets two drinks down in front of you. A green tea and a glass of ice-cold water. He isn’t sure what you’d be in the mood for, so he decided to give you options.

“How are you feeling?” he asks stupidly, knowing the answer.

How were you feeling isn’t a stupid question, because even you didn’t have an answer.

You're happy, happy it seems like you were finally getting over the worst of the drug you’d been spiked with.

You're sad, sad that this had happened to you, and you aren’t sure how much worse things could get.

You're terrified, terrified that despite doing the right thing, despite telling the police what had happened so they could deliver justice to the perpetrators, they’d gotten away with everything and were free to continue making your life hell.

“I’m tired, Yuuji… so fucking tired.” you sigh, resting your forehead in one hand and rubbing your temples.

He knows you're tired, of course he fucking knows.

But your boyfriend feels helpless, he wants to lash out, to yell, to scream even. But he can’t, he can’t because he knows you wouldn’t want any of that. You wouldn’t want him taking the law into his own hands and getting in trouble.

The whole situation is a fucking nightmare.

As your eyes remain shut while you cradle your aching head, a memory pops into your mind. Not about the night, you're sick of remembering that night. But you lift your gaze to find Yuuji’s, and he looks back at you inquisitively.

“Yuuji could you—” and before you’ve even finished talking, he's on his feet, ready and waiting for your instructions, “could you get the letter my parents sent… I forgot to open it.” you request.

Yuuji rushes back with the fancily sealed envelope in record time. He placed it delicately in your hands before returning to his spot on the couch. It feels like a punishment to hold it in your hands. Albeit impossible, you considered whether Megumi had been behind this too. Had he somehow managed to find out who your parents are and mastermind another situation to make your life hell?

Deep down you knew it could only be one of two things.

A cheque, or an invitation. There were two conditions your parents gave you if they were to let you attend a public university rather than a prestigious (pretentious) academy.

You were forbidden from living on campus. They didn’t want to run the risk of anything happening to you in your dorm room or dealing with uncouth roommates. You weren’t sure what concerned them so much about living with other students, but you wonder if they were concerned they’d get you hooked on drugs or perform premarital sex.

At least you’ve never willingly indulged in the former.

But the second condition was they got to choose your place of residence. So that is how you are an unemployed student who can afford to live in a house of her own.

Your rich parents pay for it.

They weren’t too pleased to discover you almost immediately let Yuuji move in with you too, but they didn’t really have a say in the matter. And as far as your sex life was concerned, if they wanted to believe you were still a virgin and weren’t fucking your boyfriend, that was on them.

Peeling off the pretty pink seal seems to take an eternity. You don’t want to know what's inside, Yuuji looks like he's about to burst any minute if you don’t open it quicker. He's on tenterhooks, practically hanging off the edge of the sofa as he waits for you to open it. Once the seal is removed, you look into Yuuji’s eyes. You take a massive gulp as your fingers begin to convulse with fear.

“Do you want me to open it?” He asks, you shake your head.

You softly move the envelope flap upwards, frightened fingers poke inside to grab whatever it contains. Your eyes are screwed shut as you pull it out. You can feel your heartbeat in your ears, your brain is pulsing against your skull in anticipation. The dread you feel at the thought of what was on the piece of paper is too much. But before Yuuji can intervene and read it for you, you find the courage to look.

You exhale disappointedly flipping the paper over for Yuuji to see and read.

An invitation.

“So, your folks finally bought a second manor home huh? Must be nice…” he trails off.

“I should have read it sooner, we’re going to have to start packing so we can set off early tomorrow.” you explain as you stand to your feet. But before you can retreat upstairs to your bedroom to begin packing the essentials, Yuuji grabs the flesh of your upper arm and stops you.

“We aren’t going.” he tells you. You look at him curiously, unsure of how he came to that conclusion. It isn’t optional, you would never avoid attending a family event no matter what and he knows that. “You’re still recovering, you get that right? There’s no way we are going.” he adds, earning a smile from you.

“It’ll be fine Yuuji, it’s only for the weekend.” you attempt to alleviate any tension or concerns from him, but he simply shrugs you off and brings your body closer to his so he can stare down into your eyes.

“We aren’t going. I’m saying this for you. It’s too soon, I’m sure if you explain what happened they’ll understand.” he tries to reason with you, to make you see sense. But all you could offer in return to his words is a cruel scoff.

“You’re not serious? If I tell them, they’ll enrol me into a different school, they just need one excuse. I don’t want anyone to know, I’m embarrassed enough. I don’t want this, want him to rule my life Yuuji. I want to go to my parents’ housewarming party and forget the whole thing.” you tell him sternly, freeing yourself from his hold and continue your journey to the bedroom.

“But—”

“I mean it Yuuji. We are going whether you like it or not,” you spit as you turn to face him once again, “I’d appreciate your support right now. I just want to feel normal, so please, come and help me pack.”

You look at him as his face droops. He looks devastated and you truly feel for him. He's beating himself up over what happened, and you couldn’t do or say anything that would ease his guilt. He's doing everything he can to make it up to you, to make up for his own self-appointed shame, all he wants to do is protect you, but it seems he can’t do anything right. So, he relents.

“Okay."

The car ride to your parents’ new address is painful. You set off ridiculously early so that you’d be there on time. And by on time, you mean early. Because being on time would in fact be being late.

The biggest reason Yuuji doesn’t want to attend is to protect you after your attack. But it certainly didn’t help matters that he hates going to see your parents. He’s only met them a handful of times, and they are nice enough, but he knows they look down their noses at him and don’t think he's good enough for you. It shouldn’t matter that he isn’t from a wealthy family, he loves you and would do anything for you.

He’d probably die for you.

And that should be enough to prove that he’s worthy of your love.

It’s enough for you, and that’s all you care about.

You opt to wear a black and white pinstripe pantsuit. You know no matter what you wear your mother will have something to say about it, so you do your best to dress comfortably yet sophisticated.

Yuuji is dressed nicely too, he thought the comfy, yet sophisticated look was the right move too, and since he knows your parents disapprove of him it wouldn’t matter what he wore.

He's dreading the snide comments all weekend, it would never cease, but as long as he has you by his side, he knows you can both get through it.

He has one hand on the wheel and one on your thigh, he's gripping awfully tight. You suspect a combination of nerves and an overwhelming desire to protect you. When you’re right around the corner of the entrance of your parents’ house, you decide to apply a fresh layer of gloss. You don’t expect Yuuji’s fingers to begin wandering their way towards your sex, so you yelp at the feeling of his pinkie finger slowly tracing over your clothed clit.

“Take em off,” he demands.

Your heart is racing, you aren’t sure what you should do. You want it, you want him. You love his touch, you love him, you want to be with him and feel normal. But you’re right outside of your parents’ house. You don’t have time and it isn’t wise. But before you can answer him, he’s delved his fingers down your pants and is awkwardly rubbing your clit with the irritating obstruction in the way.

“Off.” he tells you again. You ask him to pull over, so he does. It isn’t anywhere hidden, but he doesn’t have time for that. He just wants to make you feel good before you go inside.

You lower your trousers and underwear just enough to give him access. You do your best to keep the volume down, but he feels so good. These few days have been the longest you’ve gone without being intimate with Yuuji. And you’re tense, fuck you’re so tense. He can feel it in the way you’re holding back, the way you don’t want to let yourself go. Because all he’s doing is lightly tracing your sensitive bundle of nerves and you’re already dying to cum.

“Yuuji…” you half gasp half moan at him, screwing your eyes closed as one of your hands grips the arm he’s using to pleasure you and the other is digging nails into the back of your head rest.

“You wanna cum? ‘m not stoppin’ you baby. Cum for me.” he instructs.

And it’s humiliating, really, how submissive your cunt is to its owner. You’re gushing around his gentle fingers as more and more slick pumps out of you. Your chest is heaving, but he leans over to you to kiss your cheek.

He demands that you face him so he can kiss you through your orgasm.

He wants to swallow your moans and remember what a good girl you are for him.

When you finally relax, you’re almost furious. Furious that you’re dripping wet and you’re going to have to ruin your panties and probably your trousers too. Furious that you won’t be able to clean up instantly because you’ll have to socialise for a while with your family, and furious that Yuuji was stupid enough to think any of this was a good idea.

But when you see him sensually lick his fingers clean, you can’t deny the way your pussy jumps at the sight. He’s so fucking perfect. His innocent face performing such a lewd act excites you. You’re so lucky to have him. Because after he finishes cleaning his fingers, he opens the glove compartment on the passenger side and reveals a packet of baby wipes for you to clean yourself up with. He cups the crown of your head and brings you closer to him, leaving a simultaneously hard yet soft kiss on your forehead, and whispering sweet nothings into your hair.

“Such a good girl f’me baby. Y’look so pretty when you cum for me. ‘m so fuckin’ proud of you.” he murmurs into your scalp.

It takes everything inside of you to not unzip his trousers and suck him off to show him just how much you fucking love him. But instead, you hurriedly clean the slick from your folds and Yuuji finally turns into the driveway of your parents’ new estate.

And holy shit.

You didn’t think a house could possibly be bigger than the first.

They deemed the previous butler worthy of staying, apparently. He's a nice man who shows you and Yuuji to where everyone is located. The house is baron, which seems ridiculous to you. What’s the point of having a housewarming party if no one is going to be in the house?

Instead, everyone is situated in the garden. You can’t spot your parents immediately. But there are a lot of familiar faces. Not family friends, although that’s what your mother and father will claim they are.

No, they were nothing but names.

Big names to spread the word about what a beautiful new home your parents have. There is no point in having a new manor house unless your parents can brag about it.

But you do eventually spot them. And a man who you could only see the back of. He's tall, likely around 6’4” in height. He's moving his arms while your parents look at him with an intense gaze, he's story telling. He's well built, extremely large and muscular. It's unusual to you that he's dressed so casually.

You're curious as to how your parents know him, he doesn’t look like the type of person they would allow into their social circle.

And you didn’t recognise him at all.

They all reposition themselves onto a nearby table, Yuuji stands with you as you watch the conversation unfold. You're totally enraptured by the way they converse with each other. And then the stranger sits down. He sits down and gives you the perfect view of the right side of his face.

When you see his profile you just about fainted. Yuuji catches you in his arms as other party goers look concerned. Your parents have finally noticed you, now, and rush over to see you, the man follows, and there's no mistaking him.

While your parents approach with a hastened pace, he almost dawdles behind them. Yuuji lowered you to the ground while everyone fusses around you, asking what was wrong and if you need some water. But you have a clear view of him as he carries on coming towards you.

His hair is black as the night sky in a small country town. It isn’t awfully long, but longer than any other respectable guest who is here today. It looks soft and shiny, but it knew to settle and not move around too much. His green eyes glisten in the sparkling sunshine, and you can see another set of green eyes so vividly in your mind. A pair of green eyes that made your heart race and send sheer terror through your entire being. But what gives it away, what really gives it away, iss the scar.

That fucking scar on the right side of his mouth. It looks old, like he’d had it for years. It's so striking, and that is how you knew there was no mistaking.

It was him.

It was the man from Megumi’s sketchbook.

It takes you a while to calm down after everyone had been fussing over you. But Yuuji had hooked his arms underneath you so he could carry you to a nearby chair.

Your mother snaps her fingers and demands a member of staff instantly get you a drink. Your father dismisses everyone and tells them to continue enjoying the function, he towers over you while your mother crouches on the balls of her feet and strokes your hands.

Yuuji is behind you, circling your shoulders with his thumbs in an attempt to soothe you.

And then there's him.

He's sitting on the same table as you, not paying too much attention to you but wanting to stick around to see that you were okay.

When you have a glass of water in your hand, you down it in just a few seconds and request another. Water dribbles down the sides of your mouth which your mother quickly dabs with a handkerchief.

You were breathe so heavily and so gravelly.

Your mother looks furious at your lack of manners but didn’t want to make a scene in front of the guests. Your gaze is fixed on the man you’d only seen in drawings, he put his phone into his pocket as he decides to give you all his full attention.

“Nice to see ya again kid,” he smiles, the little scar on his lips pulling so deliciously.

You’re certain you’ve never met him, so you were dumbfounded that he claimed to remember you. You didn’t have the energy to speak, it was like something had robbed you of your words.

Your lips open wide enough to speak, but whatever words you’d planned on forming died dead in your mouth when you heard words coming from behind you instead.

“Yeah it’s been a while Mr. Fushiguro, didn’t expect to see you here, sir.” Yuuji replies.

Of course.

Of course Yuuji would know who the mystery man is in the drawings. He’s Megumi’s best friend after all, or he was. Mr. Fushiguro, the name alone made your skin crawl.

Another one of him.

Your mouth is agape, your eyes finding the unknown relative of Megumi’s. He waves his hand around, totally brushing Yuuji off.

“Cut that crap out now kid,” he begins, “call me Toji.” he tells him. Yuuji nods, acquiescing to his request. And then Toji’s eyes find yours. You felt so small under his gaze. “And I haven’t seen you since you were… Four, maybe?” he tells you.

“I- uh…” you clear your throat, “I don’t know you.” you admit.

He laughs, really laughs. You guess he appreciates your honesty. He crosses one leg over the other as he begins to swing back in his chair.

“Don’t sweat it. I’m not one to remember someone’s name either.” he confesses, studying you. He does know you; he really knows you. He’s so comfortable to stare at you and examine you. You want to know how he knows you; you want to inquire as to what relation he is to Megumi, but before you can speak Yuuji talks from behind you once again.

“Are the rest of the Zen’in clan here?” he wonders, his grip of your shoulders tightening.

“Unfortunately,” he responds, your father jostles his elbow into him playfully which makes Toji grin. “They’re around somewhere, more are probably on their way.” he explains. Yuuji nods before leaning down to you, his mouth close enough to your ear that his breath alone forces goosebumps to pinch and form across your whole body,

“We have to go, now.” he buzzes to you.

He doesn’t wait for you to answer before he grabs your hand and drags you away from the table. You both say your polite goodbyes before heading through the manor again. Your parents are dumbfounded, and worse, disgusted at Yuuji’s abrupt rudeness.

“What’s going on Yuuji?” you ask. But he ignores you, pulling you in the direction of the front door.

He swings it open, and you’re both as still as statues. Of all the places, of all the places in the fucking world…

You’re both staring out of the door, and now that you’ve seen Toji in person, the resemblance is striking.

Megumi’s finger is rested on the doorbell he’s holding in. When the three of you break out of your trances, the raven-haired man in front of you clears his throat.

His face doesn’t change. He looks bored, and you hate him for it. It’s that same static facial expression he always has. It’s the way he somehow manages to keep getting away with murder. Because no one would ever believe that this quiet, almost silent person keeps making your life unbearable. His vision rolls between staring at you and then staring at Yuuji. But finally, he’s settled on you.

His eyes are almost as intense as the other Fushiguro’s out in the garden. His lip’s part, and his words make your skin crawl.

“Well well. What do we have here?”

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