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merakiui · 29 days

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the birds and the bees.

yandere!riddle rosehearts x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, nsfw, slight dub-con, implied stalking, age gap (riddle is 19 and reader is 29) note - you're hired to teach riddle about the birds and the bees. you need the money. he needs to get laid.

The Rosehearts’s Residence looks about how you expected it to after driving past houses of similar size and grandeur. Unlike you, they’re definitely not strapped for cash. It’s an impressive structure with its elegant wrought iron gates and expertly trimmed hedges. You’re immediately overcome with bitter jealousy when you step through the entrance, passing rose bushes in full bloom. If only your apartment could look and feel as nice as this place. You almost wonder if you should keep Mrs. Rosehearts’s contact in case she ever needs a gardener or a window washer…

But then that risks your cover, and the last thing you want is to get tangled up in trouble with the upper middle class.

Gathering your courage, you smooth invisible wrinkles in your pencil skirt, steady your balance in your Mary Janes—both at socially acceptable lengths and heights—and bring your fist down against the door. Seconds after the third knock, it opens to reveal a woman who looks as prim and proper as the landscape of her home. She takes a long moment, drinking in your formal features, and then smiles approvingly.

“Ah, (Name), you’re early.”

You soften your face into something polite and demure. “Better early than late.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

She steps aside, gesturing for you to come in. You meander into the foyer and are instantly reminded of those exquisite house tours on MagiTube. There’s a fine layer of modest Victorian wealth to the decor. Flowery wallpaper, a lofty ceiling, an aureate chandelier, a vase filled with fresh tulips of all colors… Oh, how you wish you could live here!

“Your home is beautiful,” you comment as you straighten your bow headband.

“Why, thank you.” Her eyes light up once more. “I’ve always admired this neighborhood. Everything is so well-kept. Speaking of which, where did you say you’re from?”

“Oh, I’m actually getting ready to move back to school at the end of the summer,” you explain, narrowly dodging her question. No way I’m telling her I live in a not-so-affluent neighborhood… She’ll totally kick me out. “I’m staying with my parents in the meantime and working a few jobs to support myself.”

“And what was it you’re studying again?”

You paste a hollow smile on, sensing her distrust. I already told you this when we met at the clinic. Do I really seem so suspicious?

“I’m studying to be an ob-gyn.”

“A wonderful profession,” she praises, nodding to herself. “Very wonderful indeed. And how old are you? I merely ask to confirm. There are so many miscreants nowadays. You can never be too sure.”

“I understand completely, Mrs. Rosehearts. I’m—” you almost falter, your real age on the tip of your tongue— “twenty-two. What about your son? You told me he’s also looking to get into the medical field?”

“Not looking. He will pursue medicine,” she corrects sternly. “Just like his mother.”

You swallow your disgust and try not to let it show so openly. Yikes… Talk about controlling.

Mrs. Rosehearts waves you onwards down the hall. “My Riddle will be leaving for his first year of college at the end of August. Though I’m certain he’s more than prepared, it never hurts to review.”

“Absolutely. So you’d like me to give him the talk?”

“Not just that. I’d like you to teach him well enough so that copulation and any other libidinous ideas are the last things on his mind. Stamp them out if you must. He’s to focus on his studies and make good decisions just as I raised him.”

Shouldn’t he already be familiar with this? Besides, he’s not a kid. Of course he’s going to think about sex. Most of us do when we’re horny.

But you can’t say that outright, so you settle for something vastly different.

“It’s important to stay on the right path and be responsible.”

Mrs. Rosehearts nods her agreement. Your stomach twists in discomfort.

On second thought, I don’t want to be upper middle class if these are the people I have to deal with. Is this guy going to have any chance to be social? To live his life? To make and learn from stupid mistakes? I bet he can’t wait to get out of here and go off to school.

“I apologize if this is rude in any way, but I just want to ensure I’ll be paid accordingly.”

“Of course. Good work must always be recognized and rewarded.” She stops at a door. “I cannot thank you enough for lending my Riddle your time. Teach him well.”

“I’ll do just that. You can count on it.”

Pleased with the level of maturity you’ve displayed, she raps her knuckles against the door and calls out, “Riddle, the tutor’s here.”

“Very well, Mother. I’ve just finished today’s readings, so you can send them in,” comes a muffled reply.

Today’s readings? you think, perplexed. Your gaze slides from the door to Mrs. Rosehearts. Does she have this guy doing summer school? That must suck! What a shitty way to spend your summer, cooped up inside filling out workbooks and stuff.

“I’ll be out running errands in the meantime. I trust you’ll be all right by yourself?”

“Perfectly all right,” you assure her, to which she hums and strides past you. You catch her perfume as she departs, and it reminds you of the types of scents worn by saggy, old ladies who have nothing better to do than sit around and complain about the state of the world and the way their children turned out.

In other words, a scent you associate with misery.

You wait until she’s out of sight before opening the door and stepping inside the study. There’s a mahogany desk in the center, and thick textbooks are piled high on either side. Beyond that, beside a big bay window with cream-colored curtains drawn to let in the sun, two large bookcases are packed with an array of tomes. At the front of the room, a blackboard has been built into a wooden frame. Chalk lines the ledge, situated within reach of an eraser. And sitting at the desk, his eyes glued to an open book, is a young man. A pair of round frames sit on the bridge of his nose, slipping ever so slightly down the slope of it when he peers at the page. He pushes them up when he finally lifts his head to greet you.

“Hey.” You wave awkwardly, easing the door shut.

He seems taken aback by your appearance. “Oh, yes. Right. Hello…”

Silence soon fills the space. You wonder if you should just save yourself this nonsensical waste of time and retreat.

“Sooo.” You fold your arms behind your back, rocking on your heels. “Your mother’s probably told you why I’m here.”

“I’m aware.” He shuts his book and stands from his seat. “My name is Riddle Rosehearts. A pleasure to meet you.”

You blink at his outstretched arm. “(Name). Likewise.” You grab his hand and shake firmly.

So stiff…

“So where’re we starting? The basics? You want the whole ‘when a man and a woman love each other very much’ version or—”

Riddle scoffs and yanks his arm back. “I’m not a fool. I’ll have you know I’m well aware of sexual reproduction and what it entails.”

“You can call it sex. No one’s forcing you to be all biological,” you tease. His body goes rigid, and his face reddens in what you assume is flustered annoyance. “Anyways, since you’re not as brainless as Mother Dearest wants me to assume, I’ll just get into it.”

Riddle stares at you, his arms folding over his chest. He looks like he wants to argue, but instead he huffs and lowers into his chair.

Wordlessly, you undo the buttons on your blazer and shrug out of it. Your blouse goes next, untucked from your skirt and shucked. Riddle’s eyes are so wide they nearly pop out of his skull when he spies the white, lacy false collar that just barely covers your breasts. You’re about to step out of your pencil skirt next when Riddle clears his throat.

“W-What’re you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“No?”

“I’m teaching you the birds and the bees.”

“N-Not in that outfit! S-Surely not…” He averts his eyes, crimson crawling up to his ears. “You’re practically nude!”

“That’s the point of lingerie, silly.” Your skirt pools around your ankles to reveal the rest of your frilly ensemble. A black-and-white cupless bra and crotchless panties set, both with plenty of ruffles, held together with a pair of garters. Still wearing matching stockings and your precious Mary Janes, you bend down to gather your discarded clothes. They’re set aside on a nearby chair. “You can look.”

“A-Absolutely not!” he hisses, squeezing his eyes shut. “Y-You… You’re not decent. It’s rude to stare.”

“Come on. You got past anatomy diagrams just fine.”

Riddle opens and closes his mouth, speechless like a beached fish. Eventually, he manages to gather his coherency. “You’re a tutor, aren’t you? Where’s your dignity?”

“Nonexistent. I lied.” His head snaps over to view you, and he seems so scandalized by your admission that it’s almost comedic. “No way I’m studying to be an ob-gyn. I’m not even in school.”

“What?! But you—”

“It’s fine. I looked the part, didn’t I?” you joke, waving your hand about dismissively. “C’mon, mama’s boy. You’re going off to college. It’s nothing like those stuffy anatomy courses.”

Riddle tries and fails to look at anywhere that isn’t you, his eyes lingering on your chest to the space between your legs to the thigh garter and then to the ceiling. He’s so red you think he might explode.

“You’ve been with a girl before, yeah?”

With lips pursed in a tight line, he shakes his head.

“Sounds about right.”

“And you’re so experienced?”

You flash him a cheeky grin. “Don’t worry about it, mama’s boy.”

“I’m not a mama’s boy!”

“No? So you just let your mother treat you like a little baby at your grown age? You let her pick out sex tutors for you?”

“I—” He stops himself from speaking to mull over your questions. “If it’s what she deems necessary…”

“Because our biggest fear is sexually awkward you knocking up some girl at school, right?”

“I… I would never! Safe sex is—”

“Very important when you’re not trying to conceive. Good boy. See? You know your stuff.”

Riddle’s eyes narrow into vicious slits. You brush his scorching vitriol off and turn towards the board. Procuring a piece of chalk, you scrawl words on it: Birds and Bees 101. Wholly unamused, Riddle folds his arms across his chest.

“Your mother told me you’re gonna study medicine, so you’re probably familiar with everything already. And I’m sure you know all about the baby-making process on a biological level.” You whirl to face him, your tits bouncing with the peppy motion. Riddle swallows thickly. “But just to make sure… Let’s review.”

“R-Review? You don’t mean—”

“What’s this?” Your hands close around your tits. Riddle’s enchanted with the way you squeeze them—the way they depress under your fingers.

“Um… Ahem. Well… T-The breasts. They’re a type of glandular organ located on a woman’s chest, and they’re made up of lots of tissue and fat. There’s the mammary gland—that’s what produces milk. Oh, and then there are the areolas right around the nipples. Those are—”

“You can call them what they are.”

Riddle blinks, shaken from his studious spiel. “W-What?”

“You know the word, mama’s boy.”

He flusters. “Yes, I’m aware. But…”

“No harm in saying it.” You run your fingers over your nipples and giggle sweetly like a schoolgirl. “Go on…”

He inhales a deep breath. “They’re tits,” he mumbles, desultory. “Y-Your tits.”

You clap, beaming brightly. “Well done! Moving swiftly on…” You run your hands down the expanse of your stomach, stopping just beneath your navel. “What’s here?”

“Your womb. O-Otherwise known as the uterus. It’s where a baby grows over the course of nine months.”

“Mhm. Good job.”

He pushes his glasses up his nose, clearing his throat. “There’s more to your reproductive system than the uterus. Lots of parts. Important parts.”

“Right. But I don’t need to quiz you on it. You obviously know your stuff.”

Again, your fingers inch lower until they’re prodding at your folds. Riddle’s breath audibly hitches.

“And this?”

“Your vagina. It’s where—”

“What’s the other word?”

Riddle avoids your stare. “It sounds so vulgar…”

“So what?”

“S-So there ought to be a term that’s more…flattering.”

“Like what?” You approach him and, with the grace of a swan, lift your leg onto the desk to give him a better view of yourself. Shamelessly, you dip your fingers inside to spread yourself. “A guy called it the honeypot once. That pretty enough for you?”

Riddle squeaks and flinches back in his chair, his face now even redder than it was before. “T-That’s fine…”

“Really? I’d have thought the implication in that one is much dirtier than calling it a pussy.”

It takes him a moment to connect the dots, but once he does he gasps. “Ah. Then…”

You press inwards with your fingers, exaggerating a pornographic sigh. “Yeah?”

“Can I… M-May I call it your flower?”

“Sure.” His shoulders slacken with a flicker of relief. Your next words shatter that and his pride in one fell swoop. “That one’s not as special as you think, mama’s boy. I’ve heard it all—every type of flower you can think of.”

“Even a rose?”

“Especially a rose.” His lips twist into a disappointed moue. You chuckle and add, “You can call it a rose if you want. I don’t mind.”

Riddle meets your eyes then, searching them for the joke. When one doesn’t present itself, he relaxes. “All right. It’s a very pretty rose. Soft…”

“Aww. Thanks for saying so. It’s softer inside, y’know. See?” Spreading yourself wider, you angle your hips to bless him with the full view. “My fingers slide right in. Wanna guess why?”

“B-Because the vagina naturally—” He stops himself, his brows knitting together in contemplation. When he speaks next, it’s with a determined sort of conviction. “When you’re aroused, your rose produces a natural lubricant during sexual excitement.”

“Mhm. We call that ‘feeling good and getting wet,’ Dr. Rosehearts.”

“Yes. Y-Yes, I know that.” He eyes your pussy, a ravenous glimmer in his intelligent blue-greys. “And the wetness—it’s supposed to make it feel better. To make insertion easier, I mean.”

“Right again.” You ease your fingers out but not before thrusting them deeper just so he can hear the sinful sounds. They shimmer with your essence, enticing in a forbidden way. “What about the other parts? How about this spot here?” You brush against the hood of your clit, circling it slowly.

Riddle watches, hopelessly spellbound. “The clitoris.”

“I’m impressed. Most guys don’t know about it.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“But it’s your most sensitive erogenous zone! Just how uninformed does one have to be to neglect such a crucial part to your sexual anatomy?”

“Woefully uninformed, I’m afraid,” you mutter with a pout. Your fingertips drag your hood up to reveal that pretty, perky nub. “I think it’s dumb your mother wants me to talk you out of sex. You’re going to college. You’re an adult. You’re free to do whatever you want.”

“I…” Riddle frowns at that last line. “I have no interest in it. Besides, it’ll only hinder my studies. If I really need it, I’ll just masturbate. That’s healthy every now and then, and it doesn’t break any rules.”

“Really? No interest at all?” You shoot him a knowing look and run your tongue along your bottom lip. “Because your dick’s telling a different story.”

Riddle sputters, embarrassed, and squeezes his thighs together. His hands fly to cover his lap. “That’s because you’re—” He gazes at the floor. “Because you’re so pretty…”

Temporarily thrown off course, you gape at him. “What?”

“You’re beautiful.”

Gathering the remnants of your mask, you piece it together and laugh. “Not the first time I’ve heard someone describe it like that.”

“Not just your pussy.” Your gaze snaps to his. He smiles, impish. “I’m sure you know what I mean, Teacher.”

You exhale a short laugh. “Someone’s suddenly confident.”

Riddle rises from his seat. His fingers close around your wrist, gently pulling it away from your clit. He moves around the desk to stand in front of you and then, before you can comprehend his intentions, he’s pushing you down onto the desk. You yelp at the sudden change in position, your eyes blown wide when he presses his clothed hard-on against your bare pussy.

“You’re doing a poor job at dissuading me from wanting sex.”

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“Not in that outfit.” He grabs at the meat of your thighs and parts them. “If Mother knew you lied to her…”

You shake your head at him. “Please don’t tell her. I… I’m being serious. I need this money.”

“Desperately?”

Your lip curls into the beginning of a sneer. You hate feeling powerless more than anything, but the fiery glaze in his eyes is just as troubling. “I’m not going to beg.”

“I haven’t asked for that yet.”

You roll your eyes. “Not funny. I agreed to teach you about sex. We’re not actually doing it.”

“A shame.”

“You’ll find a nice girl at school. Don’t lose hope, mama’s boy. Lots of girls like the smart types who’ll give ’em a lecture on biology and stuff.”

“I think you misunderstand. I don’t want other girls.”

“Okay?”

“My mother’s paying for a tutor and I desire you, so unless you want to leave here as a lying cheat…” He hums, seeming awfully haughty to hold the only thing that tethers you to him above your head. “You need the money, right?”

“Yes. Sure, of course I do. But—” You shift on the desk, silently horrified when he rocks against you. “We can’t. Your mother—”

“Weren’t you the one saying I should live my life? That I have the freedom to do as I please?”

“That doesn’t mean—come on; listen to yourself. You can’t honestly think I’d fuck you.”

“No? And yet you came wearing this outfit, parading around the study with your pussy and tits out.” He glances past you at the window. “And you didn’t even bother to close the curtains… How brazen.”

Your attempt to jerk away from him is made in vain. He pins you down onto the desk, one hand squeezing your breast, while the other works to fish himself from his trousers. Now hard and leaking, his cock rests against your stomach. It’s not a terrible size. If anything, it’s perfect. Just right for your tastes.

“W-Wait! It’s not safe. You can’t—” You inhale sharply, bucking up towards his hand when he presses his thumb against your clit. Biting your lip, you fix him with a glower. “If you pay me… If you promise not to tell your mother—”

Riddle leans in close. “No one needs to know. No one but us.”

Your eyes flit about the room. With a withering sigh, you submit to his touch. “You’d better pull out in time.”

Riddle rolls his hips once and his cock drags along your folds. You hiss through your teeth at this new friction, a sinful delight more dizzying than any type of alcohol consumed in excess. “Do you want to be a mother?”

“What I want has nothing to do with you. I’m just—ooh—t-trying to survive. You wouldn’t know what that’s like, so don’t poke fun.”

Riddle hums, kneading your breast and rubbing you to the edge all at once. It’s so very obviously his first time, his zealous nature trumping any sort of experienced technique. It still does the trick, though, sending little bolts of pleasure up your spine.

“My mother wouldn’t just choose anyone. Her standards are very high.” His eyes flick to your face, drinking in your expression as it shifts with restrained bliss. “Somehow you’ve earned her approval.”

“Lying’ll do that.”

“Maybe.” His fingers replicate the motions you did earlier, though with a singular objective in mind. He’s so focused on succeeding in this endeavor that it makes him look so stiff. Under any other circumstances, you’d find it cute. “Mother always knows what’s best for me. Obviously you’ve met her criteria if she’s hired you.”

“Spoken like a true mama’s boy.” Seeing as this is now your unavoidable fate, you reach up to touch his shoulders. He jolts, his initial glare softening. You tamp down another giggle and massage up and along his arms. “Relax a little. Don’t rush so much.”

Or do. Let’s get this over with before your mother catches us.

Riddle traces two fingers along your labia. He’s quiet as he takes all of you in, and when he sinks three fingers into your gooey heat his breath catches in his throat. “Are you… D-Do you feel good?”

You reach for his unoccupied hand and guide it to your clit. Riddle understands the suggestion well enough, for he massages you slowly. Sucking in another breath, you nod at him.

“Not bad. You’re getting there.”

His neglected cock throbs at the praise, and so you wrap your fingers around it to give it the same amount of attention he’s currently giving you. Riddle grits his teeth at the contact.

“You can move your fingers. Don’t just focus on my clit.”

“Ah. Right. Of course,” he babbles dumbly, so swept up in everything that you are, so very eager to please.

You’re like a work of art pinned to his desk, a delicacy more forbidden than anything from the bakery. Sugary-sweet, adorned in skimpy ruche, you’re a temptation laid bare. Delicately, as if you might shatter, he curls his fingers to press up against your insides. Riddle watches you arch up towards him, your hand working his cock maddeningly slow and steady. It feels good—better than anything he could have ever imagined.

His eyes trail from your lips to your tits to your pussy stretched around his fingers. “Do you have any plans for this summer?”

The sudden question catches you off guard. You were expecting something related to sex, not whatever this new shred of curiosity is. Still, that doesn’t stop you from dragging him closer to the edge of ecstasy with every tug of your fist.

“Why?”

“I… I’d like to get to know you.”

“Me?”

“Of course. You’re more than a body to me.”

“How charming. I just—” You frown, unable to follow where he’s going with this. “Why?”

“Isn’t that obvious?” Even though he says it like it’s a fact, he looks shy. “I want to know you.”

“Uh… Yeah… Okay.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Not that… It’s just hard to imagine you having any girl friends.”

Riddle rolls his eyes and grinds his thumb into your clit. You bite back a whine as his fingers pump in and out of you. “Is that space open or closed?”

“You know which one.”

“You could be the one to close it.”

You meet his eyes then. For a short minute, the two of you hold each other’s stare. And then, breaking free from his hypnotic hold, you squeeze his length gently. He shudders, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

“And what about you? You excited for your first year?”

“Mm, yeah,” he murmurs, rutting into your hand. His fingers spread you open, scissoring gently.

“Just make sure to take time for yourself. Have fun. Live.”

“What did you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you were at school—how’d you manage?”

“I never went.” He opens his mouth to interject, but you beat him to it. “Couldn’t afford it.”

“Oh…”

“It’s fine! I’ve got plenty of experience in other things. I don’t need school for that.”

Riddle doesn’t believe your feigned optimism for a second. “If you could’ve gone, what would you have studied?”

You release his cock from your hold and reach up to pull his glasses from his face. Gingerly, minding the fragile frames, you set them aside. You lift your index to your lips, effortlessly coy. “It’s a secret.”

Before he can protest, you tap the hand at your cunt next. Riddle’s fingers, wet and shiny, slide out with a slick squelch. “I think you can do it.”

“What?”

“Go to school and study what you want. I believe in you.”

A wooden laugh tumbles from your lips. “Thanks for the encouragement, mama’s boy.”

“I have a name, you know.”

You smile easily. “You want me to call you something else? How does ‘good boy’ sound?”

Even though he tries not to let it show, his cock betrays his reticence with a small twitch. He’s an open book. Not wanting to give you the satisfaction, he lines himself up instead. Your fingers slip down to spread yourself for him.

“S-Slowly…” you whisper, stumbling over your breath as the head of his cock presses inside. Shallow at first before more inches fill you.

Riddle heaves a shaky gasp, his eyes wide with amazement. “I… I’m inside you…”

“How’s it feel?” “Warm. Soft. Snug. R-Really good.” He bows his head and digs his fingers into your hips. You think he has a dozen more adjectives on the tip of his tongue, each one just as fluffy as the last. “D-Do you feel good? It doesn’t hurt?”

“I’m fine.” You wind your legs around his waist to pull him closer. Your hands come to rest upon his shoulders once more. “Move your hips.”

Riddle does just that. His pace is awkward and inexperienced, every motion unsteady and jerky, as he searches for the right rhythm. He falls into it surprisingly fast, and it isn’t long until he’s smoothly rutting into you. You grab at his shirt, your breath coming in reedy huffs.

“Good. You—haa—good. You’re doing good.” Praise pours from your lips like a waterfall, plentiful and refreshing. It invigorates him, fills him with a confidence that wasn’t there before.

The soft slap of skin on skin fills the room. You keep your voice in check, lest you lose yourself and alert Mrs. Rosehearts. Riddle seems to be doing the same, even though it’s obvious he’s struggling much more than you are. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth to suppress his groans.

“You can touch me,” you whisper, petting his cheek. He blinks at you, his face aflame with a bright blush.

Nervously, he reaches for you and then pauses. Contemplation passes over his features. “What feels better? I want you to—no. I will make sure you cum. I’ve studied it, actually. I know how long it takes.”

“Look at you, doing your research like a diligent student. You want extra credit?”

Riddle chuckles and pinches your clit between two fingers. The rest of your teasing tapers off into a lewd squeal. “What was that about extra credit?”

“You’re awfully bold for your first time.”

“I’m not clueless.” His hips press inwards, plastering you to the desk, and his cock brushes that special spot within—the spot that has you seeing stars, your every nerve tingling with pleasure. You choke around a delighted gasp. Riddle, feeling victorious, places his hand against your stomach, as if searching to feel his cock thrust up inside you. “Will I see you again after this?”

“If your mother wants me to come back and give you another pointless lecture on celibacy and safe sex, sure.”

“No, not that. Outside of this.”

“Don’t you have friends you’d rather hang out with?”

“I…do.”

“So spend time with them.”

Riddle doesn’t dignify that with a retort. With the way his eyes gloss over, you wonder just how many of these friends are within physical distance. The conversation stalls out into silence.

“You’ll make lots of friends at school. So many you’ll probably forget all about me.”

Riddle yanks your hips to meet his, driving himself deeper into your pussy.

“A-And you’ll find a nice girl to love if you’re looking for that kinda thing.”

“I am,” he confesses, breathless. “I want to get married and—mmh—start a family one day… I want to study law—become a lawyer… Mother thinks medicine suits me, but I can’t agree. Law is fascinating. It’s a perfect fit for me. Far better than medicine.”

You drag your thumb over your mouth, wetting it with your lipgloss, and then press it to his lips. The indirect kiss sends a tidal wave of arousal over him, darkening the tips of his ears in striking vermillion. You offer him a gentle smile while he recovers from that devastating flirt.

“I’ll make sure to hire you as my lawyer if I ever get into legal trouble.”

“You’d better not!” He laughs and shakes his head in amused disbelief. “But if you do, I’ll be there for you. Always.”

“Thanks, Riddle.”

Maybe I judged him too harshly. He’s not so bad.

In that stuffy study, just as the late afternoon gives way to red-orange streaked across a purple-pink sky, Riddle fucks you against that desk in all manner of rhythms. It’s when he finally picks up speed that you realize he’s nearing his end. You mirror his enjoyment, strung along by titillating touches and whispered words drenched in sweetness. You’ve lost track of how many times you’ve reached rapture alongside him, your pussy now brimming with cum. There’s so much it leaks out of your slick hole when he draws away, only to burrow his cock deeper to stuff it back inside.

The room reeks of sweat and sex. You think, if not your disheveled appearance, the smell will definitely tell Mrs. Rosehearts all she needs to know.

“I love you,” Riddle murmurs, and you’re about to ask him what he means—maybe he’s caught up in the moment and doesn’t realize what he’s saying—but then he lifts your legs up to fold you into a mating press. Coherent thoughts are knocked out of your head when he spills over, filling you up for the nth time that day. You shiver beneath him, eyes rolled back into your skull and tongue lolling out. You feel so stupid, fucked submissive by some inexperienced, upper middle class mama’s boy. Which isn’t even an insult with real heat to it, but in your hazy mind it’s all you can think of to describe him.

He grinds against you in the aftermath, panting from the exhilaration and adrenaline.

“We need to…open the window,” you mutter, your heart thumping wildly in your chest.

Riddle admires your fucked-out expression in his sex-drunk daze. He slides out just as he feels himself going flaccid. Cum drips onto the desk below. Briefly, you struggle to recall whether or not you took your birth control today.

Something to consider later. Definitely not right now when you’re still clinging to the vestiges of your orgasm.

— — —

Mrs. Rosehearts knocks on the door, opening it to find Riddle sitting at his desk, jotting notes and occasionally pushing his glasses up. You’re standing at the blackboard, writing a list of the consequences of unplanned pregnancies. The room smells pleasantly of roses.

“Pardon my intrusion.”

You gaze at her and smile, wearing the clothes you arrived in. Nothing’s amiss. It’s perfect—thankfully. “Welcome back, Mrs. Rosehearts. We’re just about finished here.”

“Is that right? I assume all went well?”

“Very well. Your son’s a fast learner. Extremely talented.”

“I would expect nothing less.” She withdraws an envelope and hands it to you. “Thank you again for explaining it in realistic terms. Of course I doubt that my Riddle will act senselessly while he’s away, but as his mother I’m prone to worrying. Boys his age are so easily influenced.”

“O-Of course! That’s a very valid concern.” You force a chuckle.

If only she knew.

“Your pay is in that envelope. Should I ever require your assistance again, I’ll be sure to call.”

“Right… Thank you.” You hold it close to your chest. “I’m happy to help.”

You follow her out the door. She pauses to address Riddle. “Do continue reviewing your notes. We’ll convene for dinner in thirty minutes.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Mrs. Rosehearts walks you to the gate. “I wish you luck in your studies. If I don’t see you again at the clinic, have a pleasant summer.”

“Thank you. You as well.” You smile, fidgeting slightly. A bead of sweat tracks a path down your leg from between cum-spattered thighs.

Finally! With this I can pay my rent and still have enough for a treat from the bakery.

It’s worth it, or so you continue to tell yourself.

— — —

From the window, Riddle watches you make the walk to your car. He lifts his phone to fit you in the camera and snaps a secret photo. He continues to watch you until you’ve driven off and turned the corner, disappearing from his sight.

A tiny smile tugs at his lips.

Within his phone, put under a password lock, a special photo album exists. It’s filled with pictures taken from your social media—all of them. Every. Single. One. He’s resourceful when he wants to be. He can play the parody of a tech genius when he sets his sights on something.

And you’re just perfect.

#yandere twst #yandere twst x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere riddle rosehearts #yandere riddle x reader #yandere riddle #yandere riddle rosehearts x reader #n/sfw #tw: age gap #tw: dubcon #tw: pregnancy mention

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moondirti · 7 months

Text

𝟏𝟒. WANT

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

↼ chapter thirteen / chapter fifteen ⇀

summary: miguel finally gives in to what you both want

explicit (18+) | 8.6k words warnings: SMUT, it's seriously just all smut, unprotected p-in-v, choking, light degradation, dirty talk, interrogation as foreplay, praise kink, mentorship with benefits, dirty talk, belly bulge, power play, bondage, dom/sub dynamics, teasing, angst, unrequited feelings, eye contact kink notes: figured i'd add in some fluff before shit gets rough

“Let me go.” Miguel growls. “Lest I change my mind about fucking you silly, you bold little thing.”

Enclasped in the yawning dark of night after twelve, you wonder how you must look to him. The lack of light, on your part, obscures his harsher lines – shadows smudging the sharp apex of his cheekbone, bleeding to his aquiline nose, where the feature dips into an ink-blot puddle with the rest of him. What you can deduce is based on what you can see; hardly anything, really, save for what’s highlighted by the window to your right. The mole by the corner of his mouth, bobbing upwards with the curl of his lips. The red, acute glint of an eye.

Are you as hidden as he is? Is his vision better adjusted to the murk?

You hope not. You pray he can’t pick apart the shock that flits across your face, the spate that washes you off your wit. It’s timidity. A stricken bashfulness you haven’t felt in a long while. Seafoam that froths and clogs the blood supplied to your lungs, draining all warmth to feed the stocks behind your cheeks. Your waterline stings, desiccated by the breeze that whistles in through the aperture left open – and out of everything that occurs to you, what manages to refine into clarity is the urge to high-tail and jump out of it as soon as possible.

Your fingers search for stability on his calf, clasping around its tense length as you clamber off him. Air syphons from you in rapid bursts – in, out, in – to sate a seemingly bottomless need for oxygen. He must be hogging it all, you reason, dismounting from his hips. Him – in all his grandeur, in all his broadness, stealing from you what precious left you can use to calm down. Everything he does feels purposeful in that way, curated with regards to both past and future, his contemplation on both. Like neglecting to mention that this was even a possibility, blindsiding you with the very thing you spend hours fantasising about.

It wouldn’t surprise you if he knew this whole time. If he had somehow read your guilty conscience as fluently as an open book, saw where your fingers gravitated to in your free time. The way he says it – filthy language dripping in promise, so unlike the clinical ways with which he’s approached this before – makes you suspect one of two things. Either he truly recognises what the prospect does to you, and is therefore employing it to petition for his release, or–

Or. He means it.

The rumble in his voice, charred and ready to snap into ashes, supports the latter. And try as you might, you can’t begin to understand it. His desire, if real, has come completely out of left field.

“Well?”

“I–” You swallow the rock lodged in your throat, patting your hips like a solution will materialise in your pockets if you pray hard enough. You can’t help but baulk at your poor planning. “I don’t have anything to undo you with.”

Miguel releases a sharp breath from his nose, tipping his chin back. You glance anywhere but at the skin stretching along the column of his throat, contoured by taut sinew.

“If you point me to the kitchen, I can get a knife?”

“No.” The dismissal comes perhaps a little too quick. He doesn’t seem to consider the possibility, and it does little for your hope. His proposition – fucking you silly – feels like it exists on condition of a time limit. Like the longer you put it off, the more opportunity he’s given to retcon his lapse of judgement. This lust born from adrenaline. You’re familiar, and therefore appreciate how short it can last. “Just let them dissolve.”

Ducking your head, you take the acquiesce to observe the artificial webbing that binds him. It sparkles under indirect moonlight, dull white and wet-like, resembling the morning dew that would bud on blades of grass. Thin slivers branch out from the main line to wrap about his more complicated curves. With a more competent solution, it would prove almost impossible to get out of. You reason that only then would you have remained proud of the handiwork.

“They will dissolve?” He stresses.

“Yea– yes! Give it fifteen minutes.” You squeak, shaking out of your stupor to see him eyeing you incredulously. “What?”

“You expect to get anything done when your webs last fifteen minutes?”

“Hey, it’s not like I’ll be regularly apprehending bad guys back home.” Offence batters you back to your regular snark, conversation swaying until it clicks back into a comfortable tone. “Besides, it’s a prototype.” You shrug, turning on your heel to wander the room you lept into. It’s a clumsy segway away from the point, awkwardness rolling off your tongue in ugly chunks. “So… this is your place huh.”

He doesn’t fall for it. “Tell me how you got in.”

“It’s nice. Big. Of course when you own the building, the penthouse is kinda yours by default.” There’s not much you can see in the dark, the colours and aesthetics of his interior remaining lost on you. But it’s hard to ignore how high the ceilings rise, or the wide sweep of his tiled floors.

“Did you phase through the door?” He attempts to reel you in.

You dodge the line. “Wish you told me you were rich though. I could’ve really milked those rewards. A dog for ten push ups. A motorcycle for a hundred.”

“I wouldn’t get you a motorcycle if you stitched the multiverse back together yourself.” It’s amusing that, out of all baits, he should bite on the most ludicrous. You throw a small smile over your shoulder, forgetting yourself for a minute.

“So a dog’s still on the table?” Yet the sight of him fettered, immobilised on the ground, forces you to face your circumstance once more. His words, those parasitic words that’ve been gnawing on the supple tissue of your brain, worm their way back to the forefront. Bold little thing. Fuck. If he knew. If you recounted for him the events of the past half-day, how you’ve been following him since lunch – would he be more or less inclined to spread you out underneath him? “I jumped through the window.” You add, tentatively, toeing unsteady grounds.

His jaw flutters, tensing, though he doesn’t give much else. You traipse over to said window, winding the casement shut with the crank at its edge. It seals smoothly, expunging the ambient street noise until the room buzzes in its own, overwhelming silence. Given the sudden contrast, you puzzle about how he forgot to close it in the first place.

“You really ought to worry about security.” You continue your blind tour of his home, skimming the wall that guides your path. It’s harder to change the subject now that it’s been spoken out loud, your confession filling the gaps left by the outside tumult. Car horns and traffic, construction and wind – all substituted with a tension that drips like a leaky faucet, adding to a pool bound to drown you.

“How’d you do it?” He asks, hoarse and hedging a more dangerous accentuation.

“Dunno.” You trace the doorway he’d come out of, letting the coated stone frame cool the pads of your fingers. “What’s in here?”

When he doesn’t answer, you take a peek. Based on the rough shapes you make out, it could be an office. Had he been working before you arrived? It’s so late you can scarcely imagine it, especially after the already packed day you observed him to have.

The thought is suffocating enough that you back away, rounding the corner of the living room instead to find yourself in a galley kitchen.

“Fancy!” You shout, echo bouncing around the cavernous space. Counters and other facilities line either side of the spacious hall, one side breaking off into an L-shape by an attached island, which functions to divide the kitchen from the dining room at its end. Floor-to-ceiling terrace doors take up the wall directly opposite you, backing the table with views of the Hudson river. It’s gorgeous enough that you think about revisiting during the day – when the sky pulses cerulean blue and the sun butters the sight with warmth, painting a picture you’ve only read about in architectural digest or seen in film.

One where the title sequence jumps to upbeat music, dancing credits cutting onto screen. The genre that calls for a place like this is doubtfully a sombre one. Perhaps a musical, then, or a comedy. Something where you’re introduced as the main character while sitting out on the balcony, cradling a mug of steaming coffee. You’re stressed about work, or the date that hasn’t texted back, but none of your issues will summit at death. Not when your next meal is always guaranteed, or a shower whenever you’re down. When this is home; not just the house, but the world itself. Clean and functional and packed with life. Slated in shades of green, of life – so different from the red and grey hues of antimatter fallout. How grateful you’d be.

But then you remember where you are, why you’re here. The reality spurs you to move again, stumbling stupidly out of the kitchen to where Miguel is likely fuming at your unwelcome exploration.

(On your way back, though, you take notice of an abandoned object by the fridge. It’s rubber, oddly moulded. Bright pink in a similar shade to Lyla’s glasses. Condensation beads and drips upon its surface, the insides certainly filled with ice, and it takes you a short bout of confusion to realise that it’s a teething toy.

When you imagined Miguel as a father, it was to a child burgeoning school-age. Now, your imagery morphs to accommodate this new information. A baby girl, no more than seven months old. One who might live with her mother given his busy schedule, but visits constantly because he would make the time for her. That is, if the toy is any indication.

You can take comfort in the fact that, if not you, someone else leads that imagined life. Someone more deserving.)

“You hanging on in there?” You call out, checking up on the man whose presence you’d temporarily forgotten. He doesn’t respond. It isn’t as worrying a development until you re-enter the living room and notice it looks bigger, emptier now. A nest of snapped webs cushion where he once lay. “Hello?”

That’s what you get for taking your eye off him. It certainly hasn’t felt like fifteen minutes – maybe ten, at best – but he’s escaped irregardless, shedding the disadvantage as you remained entirely oblivious. Trepidation blossoms like a mushroom cloud in your gut, billowing smoke and the migraine-inducing smell of petrol. He can be anywhere. Judging you from a secret alcove or on his way out, already regretting the salacity he’d resorted to. Each possibility is a shot to your flesh. You hadn’t realised how much you’d been counting on it; to be pinned down the instant he breaks free, fucked until you forget your name. And now, that’s been flipped on its head when he’s…

He’s–

Where the fuck is he?

Trailing the perimeter of the room with cautious scrutiny, you watch the ceilings, the pockets between couches in which he might be hiding. He isn’t in his office when you check, nor had he snuck up behind you into the kitchen. There are a few more doors – a laundry room, a toilet – that remain steadfast and shut. He isn’t in any, though you sense his presence as you always do. This universal force of attraction that draws you in, bound to his centre of gravity, negligent of all things physical. You track it – the direction in which your arm hairs spike, spider-sense tickling – until you reach the bottom of a spiral staircase.

“If I hadn’t made it clear before, you’re a dick!” You hope he internalises it too. The second floor to his penthouse was the first thing you’d noticed on your self-guided tour, yet ascending it felt like trespassing beyond the degree you already have. Based on the amenities you’d counted, there’s only one left that could be stationed up there. His bedroom. A space that is wholly, privately his.

And while you don’t know where you stand on Miguel’s hierarchy of interpersonal relationships, something tells you it’s not at that level.

(Then again, you’ve experienced him in deeper ways. More intimate. And now–

He’s gonna fuck you. That’s what he said, at least. And of course you have half a mind to take it with a grain of salt. Though the credulous part of you poses – a little recklessly – what the harm could be in indulging him.

In indulging yourself.)

“O’Hara.” You warn, tension gnarling in your chest. There’s only one way this’ll end for you. Anticipation makes it pretty clear. So, perhaps you bark his name rough and short for decorum’s sake. To prelude your concurrence, the foot you slot up on the first step. Then, the second – marching gradually upwards, clasping the railing all the while. It’s frigid and bites your goose bumped skin, licking up the heated flesh.

Eventually, the loft sinks below your eye line. Forehead looming slightly over the landing, you try to piece together his whereabouts. It’s no easy feat – his bedroom is trapped in the same tenebrosity as the rest of his place. You have to strain to separate hazy forms; lamps from his towering frame, a dresser and not his crouched self. Through increasing efforts, you find yourself standing in the midst of it all, the trench-parallel staircase long since abandoned for a more preferable angle.

Despite it, you can’t locate him.

Hope wheezes, deflates, shrinks until it inhabits only the pinched area between your ribs. Whatever – you whisper to yourself. It doesn’t matter, even if the gaping hole it leaves behind pulses, devastating to everything on its horizon line. He probably had something to attend to, a commitment more important than this game of yours. You won, anyway. You hadn’t been promised anything but your own satisfaction, and while that’s been long diminished, swapped with notions of his body pressed against yours, you still won. Pinned him down in a plan entirely of your own creation, counter to all odds, when all you’d been given was a corrupt method and told to make do.

That should be enough.

(A lie you have to tell yourself to dissuade from the disappointment of his lacking praise. The need itches violently within you, marring your insides with crimson dissatisfaction. It’ll be your ruin, you think)

“Have it your way.” You say. It’s a last proffer of your will, extended to ears that might not even be listening. You wait a beat, riding the anticlimactic wave, before giving up and heading towards the staircase again.

Until hands pluck your waist.

They’re big, enveloping, heavy clutch seizing the sides of your abdomen. The fabric of your shirt glues to your skin where they radiate steady warmth, and your heart chokes with how high it soars, skyrocketing to pump thundering bursts of blood. The sequence of events that follows is tumultuous, a rapid execution away from the expected, of which you have a hard time understanding yourself. You try to break it down – have to, actually, to abate the erratic flutter of your chest when all of a sudden, you find yourself shoved on a plush surface. Wrists pinned behind your back, face half-smooshed down.

In short, this is how it goes–

You’d been unobservant. Too quick after his absenteeism, your guard had lowered enough that your spider-sense had dimmed with it.

It allowed him to grab you. That much was clear the instant you felt it. Grabbed and hauled you to his bed, across which you’re currently bent. Your terrified shriek still rings in the gagged lull that follows.

So now, it’s his crotch pressing flush to your rear, closely mimicking the position you’d found yourself in that morning in his office. Relentless hold, tungsten wrought around your limbs. Hips curved over the edge, toes barely reaching the ground as the mattress bolsters you upwards. This time, though, he fits his chest to your back so he’s folded above you, mouth caressing the shell of your ear. Your temples bloat with pressure and your tongue wrings dry. On the opposite end, your panties slip over the wettening slit between your thighs. It’s erotic, delicious in the manner that makes it hard to focus on anything else.

Hot air wades through the piqued hairs on your neck when he speaks again. You jerk away from it, face shrilling like a kettle kept over flame. It’s almost impossible to shift under the heavy moor of his body on yours

“That’s how you sneak up on someone.” He whispers, nudging the locks that fall between you away with his nose. The attention is too much too fast, flaying you alive until your innards and secret mortification spill, exposed to the elements. “It’s not so good, is it? Being ignored.”

All you can do is whimper, lower half wriggling for a friction that could abate the ache waxing in your core. It drums to the rhythm of his breaths, expectantly tensing everytime his chest swells. The act is desperate, much like the worm that still cleaves your brain apart. Rumbling promises, blasphemy, about leaps of faith into your mentor’s apartment. Or revelations like being fucked silly.

His voice takes on the same quality when he presses for a reply, canting forward to eject the burden from your lungs. The hard line of his erection stamps onto your ass, roughly illustrating an example for what’s to come. “Hm?”

“N-No.” You stammer, nails grazing the calloused layer on the heel of his hand. His grip readjusts around your crossed arms, momentarily affected by the gentle brush.

“No.” And if you’d been a stranger to the nuances of his expression, you would have assumed he’s unaffected. But you’ve honed an ability to read between the complexities of Miguel O’Hara. (Majorly for self-preservation, however it’s proving useful now.) The mock is hummed in a husky, dulcet note, whipped somewhere in the back of his throat that turns the simple reiteration into a taunt. He’s teasing you.

Fuck, why is that hot? You have to be a special grade of messed up to find his derision sexy.

(You’re convinced anything could be in this moment, though. Reality warped through rose-coloured glasses; except it’s your own, debauched lens.)

“Here’s how this is going to go. Are you listening?” Words gather on your tongue like clods of parched soil, too weak to build or nurture anything. They fall, crumbling in great flakes, until you have to recourse to nodding wildly, face stuffed into his sheets. They smell like him. Softer, sure, but woven with the same cedar-spiked musk, patchouli in diluted volumes. Your pupils roll to the back of your head – and even if you could reign your senses, you can’t stop your bottom from bucking for release at the aphrodisiacal scent. He continues. “You’re going to answer every one of my questions. I want total honesty. That means don’t sell yourself short.”

The squirming must bother him. His free hand dips to your back, smoothing along its subtle arch. He applies just the correct amount of pressure to tame the feral movement of your hips.

It lingers afterwards, warning you to hasten your reaction time. You can’t manage anything other than:

“Ok–Okay…”

But he takes to it.

“Good.”

Shit. It almost feels fucking purposeful. He has to taste the potent head of your desire, the shameful state curling in your marrow. It sucks the soft tissue and imbues the calcium with diffidence instead, until all that’s left is a dependency on approval. Admiration. And he has to recognise it, because how else does he strike exactly what you search for? Good. Gruff and terse but still directed at something you’ve done that’s pleased him. Good. Planting a spot of heaven in your mind, forcing you to spend forevermore chasing a similar rapture. Your consequential whine is high-pitched and needy, muffled on the canyons of his wrinkled duvet.

His palm treks lower, kneading the plump of your ass. It threatens to permanently configure to the valleys of his fingers, the hard press pad of his thumb.

“How did you get in?” He tests. You give him the same explanation you did last, albeit broken with hoarse yearning.

“T-the wind… window.” You cock your head to the side to be better heard, but find yourself face-to-face with him. The sudden eye contact burns a straight hole through you, snapping your skull into a million little fragments. You flinch, synapses firing at you to turn away, scalded as if you’d touched a piping stove. But Miguel catches on faster than you, left hand unwinding from your arms to instead hold your head down in place. Everything is automatic. Instinctual. The both of you resort to whatever path brings the most pleasure. For him, that must mean maintaining mutual gaze. You certainly feel him, harder now, rubbing on the back of your thigh.

And you–

The second you’re released, you shoot to grab his right wrist behind you, rummaging for purchase against the determined path of his fingers. Lower, they skim the cliff where your cheeks meet. You think, if it wasn’t for your leggings keeping them together, he would’ve spread open like a packaged feast already.

But he stops. Doesn’t work to shuck off your pants, or to rip them off entirely (of which you’d be willing, maybe overly enthusiastic about.) He just…

Stops. Then, sweeps the wisps away from your hairline so your face is fully unsheathed to his scrutiny. His handle is familiar in a way that’s crept up on you – successively learnt, like resilience or courage, over the course of your tutelage. You’ve come to anticipate the dry scrape of his palm, the overwhelming warmth of it. Even so, you shiver against him, biting your lip when he asks again.

Stricter this time. “How?”

A small part of you understands what he’s digging for. The complete picture, colours mixed and painted exactly how it’d happened. Yet a haar of delirium creeps up around your memory, obscuring details you’ve no mercy to exclude. And if you could wrap your mouth around them, you wouldn’t be able to choke it out with how close he veers. His nose brushes yours and his lips fold in that tantalising way they do when he’s pushing patience. A little closer and you’d be kissing him.

You don’t, of course. Instead:

“You left it– ah!” His caress picks up again, gliding over to your inner thighs. “Open… You left it open a-and I vaulted over. F-from the hall outside.”

“And how’d you know to find me here?” He probes, tapping the firm plate of your crotch, teasing a descent to where you need him most. Encouragement, you realise. He’s rewarding your compliance in the medium that’s proved successful in the past.

That’s why, when you finally register his request, you blanch.

“I–” The truth flutters on your tongue like a cornered bug, frantically evading every attempt to pin it down for dissection. You’re reminded of the rather extreme lengths you went to to execute your plan, and its aftertaste is foul. You do the only thing you have the strength for, then. Dodge his severe stare and lie. “I guessed.”

No sooner after it exits your mouth does he call you out on it. In a cruel play on irony, he finally reaches your cunt, swirling over the clothed centre. For a blissful, naive moment, you actually believe he buys it. He can’t read your mind, after all, and your eye-contact avoidance can be misconstrued as bashfulness. It seems so when he touches you in the way you’ve been praying for, delicately tracing up and down. All’s well and good. Yeah–

And then he pinches you through the fabric.

Pinches. Gathers your puffy lips between forefinger and thumb, made simple by the thin material, and nips them together until your clit is sandwiched in the smarting hold. Your jaw unhinges for what’s either a silent moan or scream. It’s hard to infer, your body oscillating between various conditions under his command. What feels like a bruise – dull, a gradual onrush of heat that laps at your limbs like water on a sun-drenched shore – melts on your nerves. It blooms and wears down to the colour of ripe plums, deliciously tender in the way all contusions are. Press on the pain enough and you get used to it, start salivating at the thought of doing it again.

(Penance, you muse, then shake it off. This delight is no holy thing. Nothing can fool you to think you’re doing it for a greater reason than yourself.)

Your skin prickles – glitches, more like, body flickering back and forth from materiality in different sections. Its consecutive order is the only factor preventing you from falling through the bed.

Then, when Miguel eventually lets go, you find yourself wishing he’d do it again. Do more. Spank you until you relive the memory every time you sit. Come loose, like when he’d grabbed your face and fucked it within an inch of asphyxiation. You couldn’t speak for the day afterward, and for some reason, it’d please you to carry a similar mark now.

He pulls you from your thoughts by directing your gape to his, locking you onto those carmine irises once more. Vaguely, lined up at the back of your concerns, there’s the throb of your scalp as he uses your hair to steer you around. Tears smudge the bottom of your vision, blurring his already shadowed expression.

“Try again.” He mutters. A thickness accompanies it; molasses poured onto an open bonfire, popping as it hardens. You have no choice but to listen, intoxicated by his perpetual presence. It properly hits you, perhaps all too late, that this is his room. You’re being defiled on his bed, on sheets he wraps himself with every night. And they smell like him, but soon enough, they’ll smell like you too. The very concept – that you might have as much of an impact on him as he does you – could make even the strongest of spider-heroes keel.

“I followed you.” You groan, blinking through the milky glaze that spools over your lashes and douses the world in a layer of euphoria. Though he keeps your gaze on his, you’re unfocused. Delirious. “Since lunch, I’ve… I’ve been f-following you. To catch you at th– what I supposed would-d be the perfect time.”

“Why?”

You expect he knows why, has known why. That he surmised all the answers himself the moment you pinned him down to gloat your victory, and that this whole thing is just an elaborate ploy to squander your ego.

“I w–” You hiccup over the word, unable to voice it. It strikes a primal fear in you, subconsciously altered by the several instances where it went wrong. Want. Though he mouths it, hovering right over you. Want. Guides you into the house haunted by the enormity of your desire. You purse your lips around the letters; the round start and harsh end, teeth clicking before you ever make a proper sound. He circles where your pussy dampens the layers separating you, chest bearing down on your shoulder blades, forcing you to surrender your panting to his more consistent pattern.

And, as you breathe in tandem, air ultimately supplies power to the verb.

(Or, he does.)

“I wan–wanted to win.” You relent, echoing the confession when he flattens two fingers over your clit, winding it in firm circles. “I wanted to win.” Then again, over and over, coherency petering out until you’re left blabbering in splintered heaves. “I… wanind. W–” Miguel works you through it, contrasting the catharsis with a sort of gentle pleasure. Not enough to make you cum, not yet. Just peeling back petals to expose a bud in early development. Making you aware of it, of yourself.

“There we go.” Beyond the hazy realm of your current cognizance, you hear clicks coming from where his fingers rub you. You’re wet enough now that it’s soaked through your panties and leggings alike, and that’s him having barely done anything. He notices it too – or otherwise enjoys the way your clutch tenses around his wrist, humiliated – because his thumb soon wedges itself into the divet between your folds, teasing your hole. “And what do you want now?”

Why ask? Your body has been begging for it, striking fervent flashes of light, rolling between his arms as you disperse all your energy into convulsing flesh. What do you want? Everything. Everything he has to offer you – more praise, more nicknames born of success and not strife. For him to rip a hole at your crotch and slip his cock in until you’re stretched over it. A ripple of universes, each plea and possibility greater than the last. Seaweed lashes around your ankles and you find yourself tripping into the wave, skull inundating with so much seawater that all you can yell out is: “More!”

Miguel’s thumb creeps away, objecting to your answer. Too simple. Not the type he was looking for. You whine, nails digging into skin to keep his hand where it is, and drive forth.

“This! More of- of…”

His fingers follow soon after. It’s a noiseless deterrent, but an effective one nonetheless. If you didn’t catch the hint, he throws the gruff addition. “No.”

“Shit. Shit, I jus’… W-want more– Please please…” Drivelling until you can find the magic plea that’ll get him to yield. It ends up finding you; thrashing up your gut, possessing every muscle to bid a madcap decree. You squeeze your eyes shut and twist away from his face, screaming into the sheets until you can’t stall any longer. “Want you! Miguel, please! Fuck me, fuck me. Fuck…”

It doesn’t hit you when he orders you to bring your knees up and arch your back for him. Or as you crawl to the centre of the bed, thrusting your haunches up to present your ass. Not when you extend your arms in front of your bowed head, and he peels your shirt off to your wrists, twisting it so both are forced together, keeping you bound and in one position. You’re too lost in the woes of titillation – manna sliding down your gullet – to process what you said. Food to feed a thousand. Forever sustained. Godsent. The evidence of it smeared over your chin in drool, over the swollen mound of your sex as he pares off your pants. There’s no space for it as cool air hits you, or when he grabs either ass cheek and pulls them apart to inspect your readiness. No space for anything apart from the thrill blistering down your spine.

So–

No. It doesn’t hit you (for all that it should) that this is the first time you say his name out loud. Not when it feels so right. A perfect seal, trim to the edges of this molten encounter.

(Much, much later though, you’ll wake up in a cold sweat with it still flaming on your tongue. Miguel. Miguel. And when you sober up, turn the memory over in your mind, you’ll clasp your chest while it flops rebelliously, betraying the fact that – despite your mortification – you’ll want to say it again.

And again. And again.)

Given the makeshift handcuffs, there’s not much you can do besides knot your knuckles into his sheets, clinging on against heavenly ascension. There’s a shuffle, the sound of fabric rustling as his one hand remains on your rear, kneading the tacky softness of it as if to say hold on. You moan in spite of it, wiggling your hips impatiently. You’ve waited enough. Evidence to your arousal coats your inner thighs, dribbling from your clenching hole and carving a line down the already damp-with-sweat skin. He, better than even you, should be able to see that.

A hazy picture refines in your mind’s eye in the meanwhile. This scene, reimagined through his perspective. It’s tinged with the liberties of your own ignorance – the extent of your vision ending where your forehead nuzzles into his comforter – but succeeds in that it builds itself off barebone facts. Where night still rages on, dousing everything in parallel values. Navy, black, grey – broken up only by the lurid blue light that would highlight your edges, streaming from the sloped windows on your right. It’d offer a vague suggestion of your form; curves folded in a pose resembling a cat’s stretch, rounding where your glutes plummet to anchored knees. They spread obscenely wide, affording him your unobstructed cunt.

“M- Mmf, pmfeeease. J-jutht… just fuck me already, you b-bastard. Need it so bad.” You wail. The scent of patchouli that had swamped his bed has since been watered down by brine – tears and saliva that mottle your face, glossing it with a sort of wetness that has you sniffing, heaving through the suffocating layer. You’re thankful he stays crouched behind you. If he has to witness your desperation, then let it retain a modicum of attractiveness, in contrast to the pathetic display up front.

“Need it?” He taunts, tapping his cock on your clit. It’s done lightly, the heft of it controlled in his grip. Nevermind, you lapse. You wish you were laying on your back instead, neck propped on a pillow as you crane to watch the gorgeous thing sway between his legs. You haven’t seen it since you’d sucked him off. It’s always been about you; your pleasure, your satisfaction – not that you haven’t tried to return the favour. Several occasions had you reaching for the bulge in his pants, glowing in a post-orgasm high, only to get swatted away to continue whatever the two of you were working on that day.

“Shhh-Shut up! Oh my God, I–” Your temper wanes, a crack splitting its centre, threatening to expand with every hit he aims at it. His length glides between your folds now, absorbing the searing heat like he has any reason to stall further. If you’d been closer to your inhibitions, you’d think he’s hesitant to do it with you – but lust isn’t always an inebriating force. You’re honed in on other matters; the leaden heaviness he grinds on you, fully stiff and about to burst. The way it slips, up and down and back up again, veins catching on every crevice. It’s plenty of indication that he’s as far gone. “Keep t-t-teasing and I’ll… I’ll le-eave.”

“Mhm.” He huffs, but tugs on one side of your ass to pry it further apart. You don’t understand why until he repositions his tip to catch onto the brim of your hole. “I don’t think you will.”

And then he bottoms out.

In one, swift move. Wholly plunges in, groyne slamming your behind with a force that strikes the air straight from your throat. Your jaw falls open, meant for a scream that becomes a wheeze instead, energy diverting to better serve the effort of taking him in. You were under no illusion to his size, his cock searing bright in your memory. Long, thrumming, thicker than what you can wrap your hand around. But it’s almost like he’s gotten larger, somehow – nourished by your walls that squelch and suck him in deeper. The skin around your opening aches like a taut elastic, stinging with the stretch, and in a completely contradictory condition, you wish he should’ve gone slower. Allowed you the time to adapt.

As though he senses your affliction, he returns to your clit, easing things by flicking the swollen bud while he steadily draws back out. Your pussy sheathes every ridge, every vein that adorns his ample muscle, rippling until just his head plugs you shut.

“Solid?” He checks. And it’s so unlike the croons he’s used thus far, so much more like him, that it polishes you up to a clearer state. Sniffing, you count the sensations battering you from all angles. The tension headache. The pressure at your core. The undefinable pleasure buzzing from where his cock continues to stuff you.

It’s better than you could’ve imagined. Intense, yes, but in varying multitudes. None of your begging had taken that into account. You’re no virgin, yet all the people you’d slept with before had been strangers. Back then, it had seemed absurd that things could feel any different when sex sprouted from rich history. (Pleasure is pleasure.) Or more satisfying when, at each thrust, you’re preoccupied with the person behind them and not your own, selfish desires. (Because what could matter more than your next fix?)

It startles you that Miguel is the first non-stranger you’ll get to know in that way. In different ways. With every wave of pleasure, he proves your previous experiences wrong. Cups the foundations of your worldview and slips them over one another; breaks the ground and crust in magnitudes. Rolls an electric ruin on the valley of your legs.

Though, you suppose, that’s always been his role.

(Non-stranger because there isn’t any other word for what you mean to each other. Not friends. Nor lovers. Dancing the wary line between all plights, concurrently. Foolishly. One trip and you’ll find yourself barrelling down onto a term you’re not ready for.

But for now–)

For now.

You shake the tangent off and harrow out a playfulness that got lost in the mix. It flips and curls like a ribbon, bouncing around in your gut, generating the courage necessary for you to push your hips back on him. As you do, you note that it’s just as much of an adjustment the second time. Swifter, smoother now that he’s lubed with your natural slick, but he bulges thicker midway, and it takes force to push past that on your own. Once you manage though, your eager cunt engulfs the rest with ease, seating you on the base. You make sure he has no room to pull out, wiggling onto his crotch until he’s nestled right against your cervix.

Dragging your arms back until you’re situated on your elbows, your neck twists to the side, a wry smile winding across your cheeks. His eyes are closed, fluttering, grappling with your tight clutch. You speak anyway. “You plan on warming your dick forever? Or are you gonna fu–ungh.”

He’s quick. You’re barely able to perceive the furrowing of his brows before he dives to wrap his arms around your midriff. Chest slotting neatly onto your back, hand grinding onto your lower belly, feeling for where his cock dents as he snaps his pelvis back and thrusts into you. Or– doesn’t thrust so much as he manhandles, slamming you back and forth onto the ample breadth. Brutally done, rough in all the right ways. It spurs him, you realise. This back and forth. Snatching the power from him like a bone from a dog, throwing it out for him to fetch. It makes it all the more rewarding, perhaps, when you bend and break and become the dog yourself, snarling under his heavy pet. He’d take greater satisfaction that way, boiling you down to a keening mess.

Which he does, in record time. Nose mashing onto your shoulder blade and fangs extended to skim the flesh there. He kneads your clit and targets a very specific part of you – that patch of spongy tissue on the flipside of your mound – pounding until it memorises the mushroomed shape of his tip. It should hurt. The sounds spilling from you are those of a wounded animal, snivelling like every inhale is your last. The expanse where your bodies meet should rub abrasively, but you’re both sweaty enough that it’s a frictionless process. And you’re both sweaty – both, because he’s affected by this too. Up from his pelvis, to his palms, to his pecs. Bare pecs.

He’s shirtless.

You don’t know how you missed it. Like a shot of espresso as warm as the naked muscle that cradles you; he’s shirtless. Your moans escalate, cranking to a higher octave. They fluctuate, thumping in your lungs to the sharp beat of his pumps. There was no reason for him to strip. Your shirt was used to keep your wrists fastened, and your bra still cups each breast. Your nudity is a given, as it’s always been, but there could be no purpose behind his. Not if what you assumed is true, about power play and how it turns him on. If anything, this only knocks him down to an equal peg. You’re on level ground.

Not that you’re complaining, of course. As it stands, you can feel every part of him. His body is a furnace, rolling coals onto your own, enveloping you all around. Forearm barring your tits, pure brawn keeping you from peeling your frame off his. Abs grate across your back, happy trail chafing the small of it, the vale running along the centre. He noses your shoulder, doesn’t kiss. Just runs his chin and teeth along the curve of it, groaning inaudible phrases in both English and Spanish, of which you strain to pick up on. You want to hear it. To be closer, to be privy to what he has to say about you. About this. To crack open his mind and pick his complicated psyche for the tasting.

And–

And maybe he wants that, too. Maybe he took his top off to feel closer in the most material sense. You won’t fool yourself into thinking he holds similar admiration, but your body has gained definition in the past weeks. Physically, you’re more spider-hero than you’ve ever been. It wouldn’t surprise you if that’s what’s got him going. The fruits of his labour. Your progress. With the way he takes in your form, all the questions, his demeanour cleans up to seem vaguely… proud.

Proud.

Is that it? Did he ask you to recount your achievements because he’s pleased with you? Don’t sell yourself short. That’s what he said when forwarding his interrogation. It would make sense – for all that it settles at the forefront of your brain, refusing to dissolve.

But God, you think, it doesn’t even need to be true. The mere notion lights your nerves until they whistle like soaring fireworks. You watch as pyrotechnics burst behind your eyes, lashes drooping with tears, jaw strained as you clench your teeth. Miguel fucks in short, hard pegs, forgoing pulling out all the way to instead beat your g-spot in rapid succession. His breath bursts hot and heavy, lips – those perfect, full lips – pressed to the shell of your ear. He’s stroking your sore clit with three fingers now.

“Ay, mierda. Shit.” He curses. “I-Is this it, huh? Is this what… all I had to do to shut you up, you needy little thing? A good fucking. Just a little attention and you-you’re happy.”

“Nnnngh. M-Mi… Puh-ple–”

“No. I want to hear it.” He squishes your cheeks together, squeezing with one large hand. When you try to speak again, your words come out slurred. “Use your words.” The grip guides your head back until you can catch his gaze in your peripheral. He’s already looking at you.

“G-Gon…”

“Hm.”

“C-cuuuu… mmuh uh uh–”

“All together now.” He picks up pace, practically battering your insides. It’s enough to threaten your enhanced healing, bruising your walls at a quicker rate than it can work. You’ll hurt in the morning, you’re sure.

(At least, you hope you do.)

“Gon’ugh cum. Gonna– Mig… Please.”

Your spine goes rigid. Blood rushes to your head.

“Do it, then. Go on. Fuck.” His middle and forefinger push past your mouth, hooking behind your teeth to hold it open. “Cum. Cum on my cock, p-pretty.”

The world burns white-hot and bright. You can’t see, can hardly feel him anymore. Just that word, branded onto your skull where it’ll stay forevermore. Pretty. He thinks you’re pretty; or is otherwise too wrapped up in the moment to dispute the intrusive conviction. It should be concerning that you don’t care either way. That, in any reality, it still bestrews a kaleidoscope of butterflies in your gut. Your insides flutter with them, frantic and galvanised at the deluge of dopamine, flooding through every synapse until everything, everything, becomes about the high.

Your orgasm finds you a ragdoll in his arms. Bones liquid, riding the wave that continues to scroll over. He doesn’t stop jackhammering into your spent pussy, still seeking his and draining you of all the evidence of your devastation in the process. You’ve no doubt soaked his lap. That’s if the noises are any indication, downright sloppy from where you’re attached. Schlicks and slaps and low grunts that tell you he’s close.

Before that happens, though, you’re flipped over on your back. He holds your legs together and pushes them high so your ankles sway mid-air. You’re tighter like this – something even you can feel when he re-enters you, cock cleaving you apart. Another, weaker orgasm pulses in your core. You’ve no energy to voice it, let alone moan. It’s all you can do to take him in. The striking sight he’s allowed you access to.

Not as bronzed in this lighting, but fit just the same. Grainy shadows stretch around the canyons formed by sinew, delineating the anatomy of his torso as though it senses your ogling. He’s huge. Bigger, brawnier when not constricted in a tight top. With arms that curve and cut perfectly into his broad chest, bridged by shoulders that seem to have a life of their own. They provide a golden ratio to the trim angle of his waist, partially hidden behind your thighs.

A curl falls over his forehead. It’s heavy with sweat. His palm crushes into your flesh.

“Inside.” You croak, exercising the title that started this all. Bold.

“No me haga eso.” He shakes his head, pinching his eyes shut. “I–”

“Y-You sca…scared?”

“Fuck– Fuck!”

It’s misleading. You’d think – with how his voice breaks, winded and tight – that he’s about to accede. Burst and pipe you full of his seed. But he pulls out, dropping your legs to scramble on top of them. A trade off, you reason. It’s hard to rue with disappointment when his cock finally makes an appearance, fat and heavy in his hand. Your palate immediately salivates with the thought of sucking him clean after this is all over, putting your talents to good use. Maybe, if you do good, he’ll soften enough to call you pretty once more.

That’s getting ahead of yourself, though.

Miguel cups your neck, pinching either side to cut your oxygen supply. Your vision dots with stars – black holes and supernovas, dying suns blazing on your eyelids. It’s the combination of everything; the victory, the suffocation, the weight and magnitude of his presence. The sheets you lay on, the room you occupy, the heights you leapt across. They weave to create a shroud that slowly descends on your consciousness.

You don’t pass out, but you’re barely lucid when he spurts out onto your stomach. Dense, searing fluid coats your skin, pooling into your belly button and reaching the ravine between your breasts.

“I’m–” Voice hoarse, you cough to rid of its scratch. “You c-coulda done, y’know. I can’t… The spider radiation–”

“I know.” He says, then scoops some cum onto his finger. You automatically open your mouth when he reaches over to smear it on your tongue. “Good.”

It’s a peculiar scar, you dwell. Buttressed on his deltoid. Geometrically circular in a way vaccine marks aren’t, with marks like teeth equidistant around its circumference. Blinking heavily, you try to deduce its origins on his otherwise unmarred body, only to give up as you draw blanks, unable to think at all. Sleep looms, a heady fog lurching up your neck.

Miguel sits, picking apart the complicated knots of your shirt. It still circles your arms, looser with his effort thus far. When you flick your study over to his worn face, you find that his attention is centred onto your own blemish. Situated above your wrist – four discoloured punctures in the same size of his claws.

“If you think that’s bad, you should’ve seen the other guy.” You quip, smiling minutely. The man just shakes his head, pretending to reoccupy himself with his self-assigned task.

What do you say in this situation? When you can’t separate guilt from the fraught expression he dons. It’s not okay that it happened. It’s not fair that you have to bear that memory for the rest of your life. But… you don’t mind. Your self-respect is nonexistent and you don’t mind the fact that he’d resorted to whatever he could when desperate. You've done the same. Worse, even.

You’re about to speak up when a crackle on your left fills the silence for you. A radio he keeps on his bedside shelf, to connect him to all emergency personnel, blares a hurried alert.

“Possible superhuman event. Downtown city hall. Suspect is–”

He sighs, rising to a stand to shut it off. Your shirt slips off your limbs.

“It’s late.” You pose before you can stop yourself. The protest is instinctual – even you don’t know where you’re going with it – and no sooner does it leave your mouth do you cringe. It’s too big now to stuff back into your throat, spoken out loud and stupid. You’re free now, aren’t you? Unbound, literally. There’s no reason to stick around.

“So?” Miguel calls you out on it.

“You– um. Just, good luck.” Is all you come up with, curling into a foetus position to dissuade the embarrassment blooming behind your ribs. Now that his body isn’t on top of yours, his room seems that much colder.

“You’re right.” His briefs slide back up his legs, fitting snug around burly thighs and snapping low on his hips. “It’s late. You can sleep here tonight. I have to go deal with–” He gives a vague gesture to your left, referring to the dispatch call.

“Right.”

He offers nothing else, oscillating between attached rooms in the quiet that follows. A bathroom and closet, you assume; confirmed when he walks out in full spider garb. The sight of his suit knocks you back into place. The fact that it’s more familiar than the bare skin you were only just getting used to is a sobering enough fact.

And you watch as he moves to leave, shucking a window frame open to allow him access to Nueva York’s skyline. Perhaps it’s his back – turned to face you, at a guarded distance once more – that spurs you to ask. A distressed attempt for any tenderness he might have left.

(That wounded animal, raking for solace before death.)

“You opened it, didn’t you?” You ask, pitching the suspicion you’ve been ruminating over for a while.

He stops, turns his head to indicate he’s listening.

“You opened the window. You knew I’d been following.”

You wish the mask didn’t obstruct his reaction. What a small blink, or smile, could do to dissuade the charged pace of your heart. Eventually, though, he nods.

“Why?”

And there’s really one answer you’re hoping to hear. A comfort, along the lines of for you. But Miguel is funny in that way. Sometimes – as seen by the cum that glazes your abdomen, or the soreness between your legs – he gives you what you want. Readily. Seems to want the same thing too, if you’re lucky enough.

And then, there the other times.

“To see what you would do.”

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sweet-as-an-angel · 3 months

Note

Housewifey Simon would be so proud and giggly when he see the wedding photo placed next to reader’s diplomas/degrees. Med school is hard and some people choose to do a master’s before applying. Residency is competitive to match, I heard some people even squeeze in 1 or 2 PhD’s in between that time.

So imagine Simon seeing his picture placed next to reader’s multiple degrees and it always makes him perk his chest a little becausec he feels so proud.

TROPHY HOUSEHUSBAND SIMON YA’LL🪿💕

Because he absolutely WOULD- he's just so proud of you for achieving as much as you have, and the fact that he gets to support you on your journey to occupational greatness is the greatest gift he can ask for 💕.

He definitely gloats (not-so-subtly) to the rest of the 141 that you're academically and professionally goated, that you're the best in your field in such-and-such. He just can't help himself - the look on Johnny's face as Simon recounts for the fifth time how you've attained the very heights of grandeur by being the best at your craft is too great to pass up.

And the fact that the photo of you and him sits so close to them - so close to the evidence of your achievements - makes him feel loved. Cherished. He feels as if this marriage is your conjoined achievement. One that he holds as his highest and brightest honour <3

#sweet as an angel #simon ghost riley #simon riley #house husband simon #house husband ghost #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you

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lucybronzey · 4 months

Text

secrets - lucy bronze

author's note: here's a little oneshot from my bronze lovers/supporters! you are more than welcome to buy me a coffee right here - link here! (all the donations go towards my medication and graduation fees) feedback is also welcome! enjoy! pairing: lucy bronze x f!reader warnings: none?? kissing??

The bustling city of London held its secrets close, none more so than the clandestine romance between Lucy Bronze, the world-renowned footballer, and Y/N, the mysterious singer who captivated hearts with her enchanting voice and captivating and challenging lyrics. The pair moved through life like shadows, their love known only to those who dared to read between the lines of the whispers that surrounded them.

Lucy, with her commanding presence on the football field, was a force to be reckoned with. Y/N, on the other hand, was a mistress of melodies, enchanting audiences with her voice that seemed to hold the echoes of forgotten tales. It was at an exclusive event, a gathering where the glittering lights of fame blurred into one another, that their paths first crossed.

The air was charged with the electric energy of possibility when Lucy, the renowned football star, caught sight of Y/N across the crowded room. Drawn by an invisible thread, she made her way through the sea of faces until she stood before the captivating singer. Their introduction was simple yet profound, a shared smile that hinted at the secrets yet to unfold.

From that moment, their connection grew in the hushed corners of the world, away from the prying eyes of the public. Yet, the paparazzi, those relentless seekers of truth in the dark alleys of fame, managed to infiltrate their haven. Cameras clicked discreetly, capturing stolen moments that spoke of love too potent to be hidden. Hands clasped in private, stolen kisses under the moonlit veil of secrecy, and glances exchanged like promises — these became the breadcrumbs scattered by the world, breadcrumbs that led anyone curious enough into the labyrinth of their concealed love.

The world, however, had a way of sneaking into the shadows. Paparazzi lenses clicked discreetly, capturing stolen moments of the couple's intimacy — hands clasped, stolen kisses and glances that spoke volumes. Despite the evidence splashed across tabloids and social media, Lucy and Y/N maintained a façade, their lips sealed tighter than the locked doors of their private world.

In the weeks leading up to the London O2 Arena performance, Y/N's world tour became a journey of both artistic expression and strategic evasion. Each city and stage presented an opportunity to share her music with the world while also distancing herself from the ever-watchful eyes of the media. The complexities of fame demanded a delicate dance between visibility and seclusion, and Y/N waltzed through it with the grace of a seasoned performer.

The London O2 Arena, standing as an iconic testament to the grandeur of live performances, loomed on the horizon like a chapter waiting to be written. As the date approached, the anticipation hung in the air, both for the audience eager to be enraptured by Y/N's voice and for Lucy, who would be among the privileged few in the guest box, a clandestine witness to the unfolding spectacle.

The night arrived with a hushed expectancy, the air thick with the promise of revelations. Lucy, adorned in an elegant ensemble, took her seat in the guest box, surrounded by family and football comrades. The entourage shared knowing glances, a silent acknowledgment of the secrets they guarded as they settled in to witness Y/N's artistry.

The stage, bathed in a soft glow, became a canvas for Y/N's narrative. The crowd, an ocean of faces, awaited the magic that was about to unfold. As Y/N stepped into the spotlight, the world around her faded into obscurity, and the music began to weave a tale that transcended the bounds of melody.

Y/N stood centre stage, bathed in the soft glow of the spotlight that seemed to halo her like a celestial aura. The London's O2 Arena, with its towering expanse, hung in rapt anticipation. The crowd, a sea of faces stretching to the farthest corners of the venue, held its collective breath. It was a moment suspended in time, the world hushed in reverence for the unveiling of a secret sonnet.

The opening chords of the new song reverberated through the arena, each note a brushstroke on the canvas of the night. Y/N's voice, a mellifluous melody that seemed to defy gravity, carried the audience into a realm where love and mystery intertwined. The lyrics, seemingly innocent to those unfamiliar with the intricacies of Y/N and Lucy's clandestine affair, held the depth of a carefully veiled confession.

"In the shadows, where whispers bloom, A tale untold, a love immune. Behind closed doors, where dreams entwine, Our secret dance, forever mine."

The words danced on Y/N's lips, each syllable dripping with the honeyed sweetness of revelation. It was a clandestine love letter, penned in the language of metaphors and concealed truths. To the unsuspecting ear, it might have sounded like a beautiful serenade, a generic ode to love's mysteries. However, for Lucy, seated in the guest box, each line resonated with an intimate resonance only she could fully comprehend.

Y/N's eyes, pools of sincerity, were fixed on Lucy. It was more than a performance; it was a communion, a shared moment of vulnerability disguised as an extravagant display. With every glance, Y/N conveyed the unspoken, silent dialogue that reached beyond the stage, beyond the spotlights and into the depths of Lucy's soul.

The crowd, oblivious to the intimate exchange transpiring on stage, swayed to the rhythm, caught in the enchantment of Y/N's artistry. The song, a tapestry woven with the threads of secrecy, wrapped itself around the audience like a cloak of intrigue. The applause that erupted after the final notes wasn't merely a celebration of a stellar performance; it was a collective acknowledgment of having witnessed something extraordinary, something that transcended the ordinary bounds of musical expression.

In the dimly lit guest box, Luce found herself immersed in a realm where the throb of her heart echoed the melody that had just cascaded through the O2 Arena. The cadence of the music intertwined with the rhythmic beats of her pulse, creating a symphony within her chest that resonated with the lyrical magic unfolding on stage.

As Y/N poured her soul into the performance, Lucy's gaze remained fixed on the singer, her eyes drinking in the visual power ballad painted before her. Each note seemed to brush against the walls of her heart, unlocking chambers of emotions that lay dormant but ever-present. It was as if the music had become a conduit, allowing Lucy to traverse the labyrinth of her own sentiments.

The lyrics, like a siren's call, beckoned Lucy into a world where vulnerability and passion coexisted. The song served as a mirror, reflecting the clandestine depths of their connection. Lucy felt the weight of each carefully chosen word, a testament to the intricacy of their love—a love that defied the constraints of public scrutiny.

The arena, a cavernous space filled with adoring fans and pulsating energy, seemed to shrink in comparison to the emotional landscape Lucy traversed. The guest box, a private enclave within the spectacle, became a cocoon where Lucy grappled with the beauty and complexity of the revelations being unveiled.

With each verse, Lucy's emotions danced like flickering candle flames, casting shadows on the canvas of her thoughts. The lyrics, seemingly innocuous to the uninitiated, bore the fingerprints of shared laughter, stolen kisses, and the silent conversations that unfolded behind closed doors. It was a love story written not in ink but in the ethereal ink of whispered promises and unspoken dreams.

As Y/N's voice soared, Lucy's heart swelled with a mixture of pride, vulnerability, and a profound understanding that their secret love had found its voice in the language of the song. The shared glances, the private moments, and the clandestine gestures all converged into a crescendo of emotions that reverberated within Lucy's being.

As the final notes hung in the air, the crowd erupted into applause, unaware that they had just borne witness to a love story veiled in secrecy. Y/N, bathed in the afterglow of her performance, acknowledged the cheers with a grateful smile, concealing the true meaning of her lyrics behind an artful facade.

The audience's applause, a distant hum in the background, signified not just appreciation for Y/N's musical prowess but also a collective acknowledgement of a love that had dared to exist beyond the realm of public validation. Lucy's eyes remained locked on Y/N as the singer descended from the stage, an invisible thread connecting them across the expanse of the arena.

With a gracious nod, she acknowledged the cheers, a practised art of concealing the true meaning of her lyrics behind the artful facade of a performer who had just delivered a stellar show.

Down on the stage, Y/N seized the moment, feeling the electric energy of the crowd coursing through her veins. With a grateful smile, she took a few steps forward, her presence commanding the attention of the thousands gathered in the arena. The cheers intensified, the collective energy of the audience converging into a palpable force that seemed to lift the entire venue.

Y/N's voice, a delicate balance of sincerity and showmanship, cut through the noise.

"London, you guys are amazing! I am at home, thank you for letting me in again and again, from time to time!" she exclaimed, the words punctuated by the cheers of the crowd. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate each and every one of you being here tonight. Let's keep this energy going!"

With those words, Y/N seamlessly transitioned into the next part of her set, the music carrying the audience along on a journey of emotions. The concert unfolded like a tapestry of sound and light, each song a brushstroke on the canvas of the night. Y/N, in her element, weaved through the setlist with effortless grace, her voice echoing through the arena and leaving an indelible mark on the hearts of those who listened.

In the guest box, Lucy watched with a sense of awe, her admiration for Y/N's talent mingling with the pride of knowing the person behind the performer. The cheers continued to cascade down from the stands, a chorus of appreciation that echoed through the night.

As the concert unfolded, Lucy found herself caught in the rhythm of the music, the lyrics of the songs taking on new meaning in the context of their secret love story. The arena, once a haven for the unveiling of hidden truths, now became a sanctuary where Y/N's artistry reigned supreme. Lucy reveled in the joy of being both spectator and confidante, her heart dancing to the beat of a melody that had become the soundtrack to their shared journey.

Meanwhile, in the midst of the swirling emotions, Y/N continued to command the stage. Her connection with the audience deepened with each note, and each lyric, creating a symbiotic exchange of energy that fueled the atmosphere of the concert. The cheers, the applause and the collective voice of the crowd became the backdrop to a performance that transcended the boundaries of the ordinary.

And so, as Y/N carried the audience through the symphony of her concert, Lucy and the entourage in the guest box became enchanted witnesses to a night that blended the magic of music with the mysteries of a love story that lingered in the spaces between the notes. The secrets concealed in the lyrics remained hidden, known only to the performers of the clandestine symphony, as the concert continued to unfold beneath the shimmering lights of the London O2 Arena.

Meanwhile, after the concert, the internet erupted into a frenzy of speculation and excitement. Fans dissected every lyric, analyzing GIFs and videos, attempting to decode the enigma that was Lucy and Y/N's love. Tweets flooded in, with hashtags trending and theories circulating faster than wildfire.

Unbeknownst to the fans, Y/N, armed with her phone, found herself amidst the storm of social media chatter backstage. She shared a knowing look with Lucy, both amused by the chaos they had incited. Y/N scrolled through the Twitter feed, her laughter bubbling up as she read out loud some of the more creative interpretations.

Some tweets read out like this:

"someone please tell me if i'm going crazy but did she just make her relationship exclusive now????"

"i think i am going mental...y/n and lucy bronze are actually real? if yes, I AM THERE FOR IT!!"

"jesus fucking christ what i am seeing...this is some weird af mastermind shit y/n is doing but idk if this is real or not"

"decoding the new song by y/n should be my full-time job"

Y/N grinned, her eyes flickering mischievously as she showed Lucy the screen. "Looks like our little secret has the internet in a tizzy, huh?"

Lucy chuckled, her arms around Y/N creating a cocoon of warmth and intimacy amidst the whirlwind of speculation. The love between them served as a silent reassurance, a sanctuary where the outside world's conjectures held little sway.

"Let them speculate," Lucy said, her voice a playful whisper that danced with a subtle hint of defiance. "Our love is our own and no amount of internet chatter can change that."

They lingered in the backstage shadows, the remnants of the concert echoing through the corridors. Y/N's phone, a portal to the outside world, continued to buzz with notifications, each one a testament to the internet's insatiable hunger for the details of their hidden romance. Lucy, ever the pillar of strength, held Y/N close, shielding her from the storm of virtual opinions.

As they navigated through the backstage chaos, Lucy's eyes caught glimpses of familiar faces — members of the entourage, friends, and fellow football players who had come to support her. The atmosphere was charged with a mix of excitement and curiosity, the air thick with the unspoken acknowledgment that something extraordinary had unfolded on that stage.

Y/N, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, continued to scroll through the social media whirlwind.

"Listen to this one," she chuckled, reading aloud a particularly creative tweet that attempted to dissect the hidden meanings in her lyrics.

Lucy joined in the laughter, her genuine amusement blending with the shared joy of witnessing the aftermath of the concert.

"They're getting more creative each time, fucking masterminds," she remarked, her voice laced with affection. "Who knew our little secret would become the internet's favourite puzzle?"

The backstage corridor led them to a quieter, more secluded area. Y/N, now free from the performative facade, let out a contented sigh. "I love the energy of the crowd," she confessed, her eyes meeting Lucy's. "But this, right here, with you, is my favorite part."

Lucy's response was a tender smile, a silent agreement that spoke of the solace found in the quiet moments after the storm. The world outside might be ablaze with speculation, but in that intimate space, the only certainty was the love they shared, a love that defied categorisation and reveled in the authenticity of its existence.

With the backstage chaos gradually fading into the background, Lucy and Y/N continued to revel in the afterglow of the concert. The laughter, the shared glances and the unspoken understanding between them formed a narrative richer and more profound than any social media speculation could capture.

As they walked hand in hand, the backstage shadows embraced them, offering a respite from the world's gaze. The love story that unfolded on that stage remained their own, a symphony of secrets played out in the hushed moments after the applause had faded, leaving only the echoes of an unforgettable night at the O2 Arena.

With the backstage chaos gradually subsiding, Y/N felt an urge for a more intimate setting, away from the prying eyes and the incessant hum of speculation. She turned to her team, a group of dedicated individuals who had been by her side throughout the tour.

"Hey, guys," she began, her tone carrying a blend of appreciation and a hint of mischief. "I think I need a moment. How about we reconvene later? I just want some time to unwind privately."

Her team, seasoned professionals attuned to the unspoken nuances of the entertainment world, nodded in understanding. With knowing smiles, they dispersed, giving Y/N and Lucy the space they desired.

As they entered the quiet confines of Y/N's room, the atmosphere shifted from the bustling energy of backstage to a more personal realm. Y/N's eyes, still aglow with the remnants of the concert, met Lucy's with an unspoken invitation. The door closed behind them, shutting out the world and leaving them with the serenity they craved.

In the embrace of the room's dim lighting, Y/N turned to Lucy, a playful glint in her eyes.

"You know," she mused, "there's one thing the internet can't speculate on."

Lucy arched an eyebrow, a curious smile playing on her lips. "And what's that?"

Y/N closed the distance between them, her fingers tracing a gentle path along Lucy's arm.

"This," she whispered before pressing her lips against Lucy's, the kiss a culmination of the emotions that had simmered beneath the surface throughout the night.

Their kiss was an unspoken language, a dialogue of passion and longing that needed no words. Lucy's arms enveloped Y/N, drawing her closer in a shared dance of intimacy. The room became a sanctuary, a haven where their love unfolded in the silence of stolen moments.

As they broke the kiss, Y/N's eyes bore into Lucy's with an intensity that transcended the music-filled arena they had just left. "I needed this," Y/N confessed, her voice a soft murmur that hung in the air.

Lucy, with a tender smile, traced a delicate pattern on Y/N's cheek. "Me too."

The room became a cocoon of quietude, a space where time seemed to stretch and contract with the rhythm of their heartbeat. It was a moment unburdened by the expectations of the world outside, a moment where Lucy and Y/N, in the aftermath of the concert's crescendo, found solace in each other's arms.

The intimacy they shared echoed the clandestine nature of their love story — an intricate dance between two souls navigating fame and affection in the shadows. In the gentle ebb and flow of their connection, Y/N and Lucy reveled in the respite they had created for themselves, a haven where their love could flourish, unburdened by the scrutiny of the world.

As they lingered in the quietude of the room, the whispers of the outside world began to fade. Lucy and Y/N, entwined in a private dance, embraced the serenity they had sought, finding in each other the sanctuary that transcended the boundaries of fame and secrecy.

#mine #read #lucy bronze #buy me a coffee #lucy bronze x reader #lucy bronze imagine #woso community #woso x reader #woso fanfics #womens football #woso soccer

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gojhoes · 4 months

Text

Sunglasses Indoors, Par For The Course

a/n: I posted a few days ago about an idea in which Gojo and Geto are first-years and reader is a fourth-year and they compete for your attention. WELL. here it is, it's pretty much sfw just descriptions of making out. Hope you enjoy!

- contents: mainly Gojo x reader, implied Geto x reader, reader is a fourth-year, Gojo and Geto are first-years, original male characters, descriptions of kissing, mutual pining (kind of) - wc: 2.1k

The moment Gojo had stepped foot onto Jujutsu High’s Tokyo campus, he’d completely and hopelessly fallen in love with you.

It was such a clichè, the freshman falling for the pretty senior girl. You were quick-witted, confident, and so fucking beautiful that even Gojo found it hard to look at you. You had him completely wrapped around your finger, even if neither of you knew it.

What you didn’t know was that Gojo and Geto were competing against the other to see who could win your favor. And neither of the boys liked to lose. However, you caught on very quickly to the crushes that both of them had on you. Maybe it was narcissistic, but you were used to the stares and special attention you received from most boys that you interacted with. And you couldn’t say that it wasn’t fun.

The new stock of first-years were rumored to be an impressive bunch, but you were most interested in meeting the afamed Gojo boy with the Six Eyes.

The first day of your fourth year had begun as any other. You had one classmate, Masato Yamada, who already was out on a mission by himself. The second- and third-years had their own agendas to attend to, so you wouldn’t be seeing them until much later in the day. You took to the school’s outdoor track, doing laps and sweating profusely from the intense morning humidity. It was then that you caught sight of three figures scurrying down the concrete stairs that descended into the field. You finished a lap and jogged over to welcome them, as it was customary to greet your new underclassmen.

Upon closer observation, the shortest figure was a brown-haired girl with an unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. The next was a tall, dark-haired boy with his hands shoved casually into his pockets. He was laughing lightly at the something the other boy had said. And that boy, judging from the snow white of his hair, was none other than the holder of the Six Eyes.

You introduced yourself with a smile and a small wave. “Hello, first years.”

Greetings were exchanged duly and you shook each of their hands respectively. Shoko smiled, and you immediately liked her relaxed nature. The two boys looked at you with eyes as wide as saucers, to which you chuckled. There may as well have been hearts floating above their heads.

“Satoru Gojo,” you repeated the white- haired boy’s name slowly, pretending to ponder it philosophically. “Quite a name for the world’s strongest. Though I guess we’ll see if any of that grandeur is warranted.”

Gojo let out a sharp laugh. “Don’t be surprised when I surpass you. If I haven’t already.”

The dark-haired boy, Geto, seemed to snap out of his daze at that moment. “Satoru, she’s a semi-grade 1.”

Gojo waved his hand dismissively, but you noticed the way his eyes clung to your figure behind those sunglasses. Your workout clothes consisted of skin-tight leggings and a jacket that accuentated your waist. You enjoyed the attention, but a (very) small part of you uncharacteristically felt a little flustered under his gaze.

After that, the two first-years seemed to trail behind you wherever you went. You found it cute and endearing, though you took very special care not to cross the line that both of the boys trampled every day. You were older, already 18 and would be graduating to live on your own in a matter of months. They were technically still children with years of schooling ahead of them. It would be wrong of you to engage any of their endless and obvious advances.

However, that didn’t mean that it wasn’t difficult.

“Satoru,” you cooed, smiling widely.

The official rule was that no male students were allowed in the girls’ dorms after 11pm. But with the scarce population of students and even fewer faculty members, there was little risk of getting caught. Masato was 19 and therefore able to purchase alcohol, and he’d graciously acquired two 12-packs of beer for you and his dear underclassmen to share. He enforced the title of Everyone’s Favorite Upperclassman, requiring a verbal recitement of said title before relinquishing a beverage.

It had been a night of card games, laughter, disgusting warm beer, and plethoras of shared snacks. Such a stark contrast to the depressing normalcy you had grown accustomed to over the last four years. Your eyes landed on Satoru when you dawned on the realization that there may be never another night like it.

Geto slept in your bed on his back with his mouth wide open, cuddling the stuffed cat you’d had since you were a child. This left you and Satoru alone, sharing the large blue bean bag you had propped in the corner of your room. His long legs were sprawled out in front of him and the two of you laid side by side staring at the ceiling. Your arm was pressed flush against his and your hair laid tangled with his own. You were vaguely aware of that line you swore you would never cross. It was right there in between the few inches that separated his fingers and yours.

“Hey,” Gojo said.

You turned your head to face him. He’d abandoned his glasses sometime during the night, leaving his blue eyes exposed. Your noses were just inches apart, so you were able to really see the crystalline brilliance of his irises. But you didn’t move toward him, still honoring that invisible line even if it felt like you were beginning to toe it.

“Hey.”

You were feeling more confident than usual from the few beers you’d consumed over the last several hours. Warmth surged through your limbs and chest, and you found yourself giggling over every little thing. You also engaged in more physical touch with your friends than normal. Hence how you’d ended up nearly sitting in Gojo’s lap and were doing absolutely nothing to move away.

It was becoming more and more of struggle to remain conscious of your dividing line the more time you spent with Satoru. He was charming, albeit a little annoying, with beauty that was impossible to ignore. And here he was, his face right in front of yours. So close that you could feel his breath fanning your lashes and see the smallest trail of saliva painting his pink lips.

“What are you gonna do after you graduation?”

You let out a brief laugh devoid of warmth. There were two options for sorcerers: stay and devote your life, or run and try to assimilate back into normal life. Now that you were approaching the finish line, neither choice sounded great, and frankly, you weren't going to kill your buzz by trying to think of the future.

“There’s no sorcerer college,” you replied with a nonchalant shrug. “Sooo, I’ll just stay here and work and bother all of you guys.”

Before Satoru could get the chance to respond, another thought surfaced and without your normal filter, it slipped right out.

“I’ll never get a meet-cute with the love of my life,” you whined melodramatically. “No college boys for me.”

Satoru hummed, his expression unreadable as he averted his eyes.

“Nah, you’re too good for them anyway.”

Your lips curled into a tantalizing smirk.

“Too good?” You repeated. "Do you have a crush on me, Satoru Gojo?"

You felt him stiffen beside you, and suddenly you worried that you might’ve struck a nerve. He sat up, propping his head up with an elbow on his thigh. You followed suit, preparing to apologize and tell him you were joking, until you noticed his half-lidded gaze trained directly on yours.

The apology turned to ashes in your mouth when you realized Satoru’s knee was flush against your inner thigh. You watched his eyes flick to your lips as his hand melted to the side of your face in a gentle encouragement to tilt your head. The line you vowed never to cross was shattering as your eyes slipped shut. And then his lips were pressing softly against yours after a hitched breath escaped from your mouth. You sat stunned and motionless, able only to gawk at him as he pulled away.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” Satoru whispered with a cheeky grin.

A second passed while your brain caught up to the present. You reached up and fisted the fabric of his collar to roughly pull his face back to yours. This time, your lips crashed into his and you felt a pair of hands jump to your waist, pulling your body closer. A thrilling wave of heat surged through your chest as you lost yourself in his touch. Satoru’s fingers dug into your skin as you felt the slightest flick of his tongue on your lower lip. He was teasing, hesitating, testing to see just how far you wanted to go. As though it was as necessary as air, you deepened the kiss and slid your free hand to the back of his head.

It was the sweetest thing you’d ever tasted. Satoru kissed you with a hunger that you returned without hesitation. You slid your fingers through his soft white locks, pulling on them lightly but with enough force to keep him in place. His teeth grazed your lower lip once, once against testing your reaction. You moved the hand in which you’d been holding his collar to rest on his upper thigh, and he rewarded you by sinking his teeth into the plush of your lip.

After what had felt like an hour of kissing, Satoru broke away from you, but his eyes remained on yours. You were captivated by the expression in them, as he was looking at you as though no one else in the world existed. You thought of the millions of units of information that he saw at all times. Everything all at once, all the time, yet right then, his focus was being completely directed at you. A horrifying theory that this was more than just a crush plagued your mind, but in that moment, you didn’t care. You were more afraid that he was going to step away and leave, telling you that kissing you had been a mistake.

Satoru cradled the back of your head, urging you to lie down on the bean bag once more. He leaned over you and returned his grip to your hips as his mouth met yours once again. Your chest was flush against his, and you reached up to run your hands along the expanse of his shoulders. You tried to tug him impossibly closer, though it must have been a little too hard, because one of his hands shot out to steady himself before he could fall. You giggled into his mouth and you felt him smile against yours.

You couldn’t stop, couldn’t make yourself pull away or push him off of you. The only thing you felt was relief with each meeting of your tongues and shared quickened breath. You brought your hands to Satoru’s waist as silent instruction for him to swing his leg over yours-

And then Suguru murmured something loudly in his sleep, snapping you out of your kiss-drunken haze with a gasp. Both you and Satoru jumped away from each other as though you’d been zapped with static electricity. Your eyes met worriedly, and you let out a unified giggle.

Fuck that line, the line that you’d drawn from decency and responsibility. That line was irrevocably destroyed.

***

“Suguru.”

Silence.

“Hey.”

Satoru’s friend did not stir, his chest continuing to rise and fall passively despite Satoru’s attempts to rouse him. Nothing was more important than the message he was about to deliver.

“Suguruuuuu.”

Clearly his current methods were proving fruitless. A figurative lightbulb went off in Satoru’s head. He touched the tip of his index finger to his tongue and stuck it directly inside of Suguru’s ear.

Suguru jolted wildly and his dark eyes flew open as he let fly a string of curses.

“What are you doing?” he cried, his voice thick with drowsiness.

Gojo grinned wide and cheeky, completely disregarding the seething glare being sent by his friend.

“I made out with her,” Gojo said. “I win.”

Still recovering from his unpleasantly abrupt awakening, Geto rubbed at his eyes and stared blankly at the other boy.

"What?”

Gojo groaned and said your name loudly.

"The bet, Suguru," he elaborated. "I. Win."

Geto caught on at the mention of your name and let out an irritated sigh.

"When?" he asked, not totally convinced and still holding out hope.

Satoru's grin only grew wider as he relayed the previous night's events. It was a triumph he was going to revel in until his last waking moment.

“Uhhh last night. After everyone went to bed.”

Suguru made a face. “Right there next to me while I was sleeping?”

“Yeah, but you’re a really heavy sleeper so it’s okay.”

Suguru groaned and flopped onto his back in the bed.

"One day," he muttered. "I am going to kill you."

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #geto suguru #geto x reader #geto x you #gojo x you #satoru gojo #suguru geto #fluff #jjk fluff #satoru x you fluff

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silentsamlikesham · 6 months

Text

More Zosan fluff because I'm obsessed. Slight hurt!Zoro. Pre-relationship massages

..........................

It’s only as Sanji signs off the last of the stock in his logbook that he realises how quiet it is. He’s not sure he’s ever gotten through a full review without someone crashing into the kitchen to interrupt him.

The crew may be asleep at this hour, but still, usually whoever is on watch will find an excuse to want a snack or a drink. Sanji slips the book back into the little shelf beneath the sink, brushing himself off as he stands, stretching out his limbs after having leant over the kitchen counter for the last hour or so.

Perhaps everyone was too tired. They’d had a long few days of fighting on an island that now was, fortunately, miles behind them. He’d only woken up from his own injuries a few hours ago, hence why he was wide awake now as the moon sat high above them.

Who was even on watch tonight? Surely, he hadn’t gotten it confused and it’s meant to be himself up in the crow’s nest.

He sticks his head out the window of the galley and cranes his neck upwards, spotting a familiar flash of green in the moonlight. Huh. If it was Zoro up there, Sanji definitely should have seen him by now.

He closes the window and finds his teeth gnawing at his bottom lip.

“What happened?” Sanji had slurred the question as soon as he opened his eyes, lying comfortably in the ship’s infirmary.

“You took a hit to the head. Chopper says you’re fine though.”

It was Nami settled beside him, a map spread across her lap as she watched over him.

He’d tried to put on his usual grandeur with thanking her and complimenting her, but he coughed half-way through his first chant. She’d passed him a glass of water with a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Take it easy, you’re bruised all over. Zoro wasn’t exactly gentle dragging you here either, it wasn’t easy with his own wounds.”

Moss head had brought him to the ship?

Sanji grabs a bottle of wine he’s hidden behind several sacks of grain and makes the quick decision to head to the crow’s nest. He convinces himself it’s to even the field, to not feel like he owed Zoro anything for getting him back safely. There was no other reason he’d willingly check in on the idiot. He didn’t need Sanji’s worry. That’s not what they did.

He climbs the crow’s nest, his chest complaining every time he stretches a hand upwards, gripping at the rope ladder and hoisting himself higher and higher. He doesn’t bother knocking, just swings the hatch open.

Zoro is sat facing the hatch, his back resting against the wooden curved wall of the crow's nest as his head almost hangs over the edge. His legs are sprawled out with his swords sitting half over his lap. His eyes had been closed, and for a moment Sanji wonders if the bastard had fallen asleep.

His eyes open slowly, glaring at the intruder, his gaze hardening further when he realises it’s the damn cook that’s come to annoy him.

“What do you want.”

His voice is strained, missing its usual bite. It’s then Sanji notices how rigid the man is sitting, not lounging like he usually does when he’s on watch.

“Thought you were dead up here when you didn’t come looking for a drink.” Sanji scoffs as he slowly pulls himself up, closing the door shut with a wince as a twinge of pain courses from his wrist to his shoulder. He should really keep track of which limbs he shouldn’t be swinging around.

“So, you brought me one?” Zoro is instantly suspicious, eyeing up the bottle like it’s laced with poison, or maybe it’s going to explode.

“Don’t get used to it.” Sanji warns, pulling the cork from the top of it and taking a swig. It’s a welcome distraction as he sits down beside the brute, more pain blossoming along his hamstrings at the action. He passes the bottle without a glance at the other, the sloshing of wine the only sound between them.

Zoro just grunts, not in the mood to fight the cook. He takes the bottle and downs at least a glass worth of the liquor, sighing happily as he settles it between them.

He squirms after moving his shoulder, his back aching from being thrown into a wall the day before. Usually, he could take it but the damn fishman had knocked him hard. No matter how he sat or lay down now, nothing could keep the discomfort away.

Zoro had even tried mediating earlier, thinking about anything but his pain, but it didn’t work. There just wasn’t enough pain to block out, it was more like an irritating throb. He’d forget about it but then the tiniest shift of his shoulder or back muscles would have his muscles convulsing and tightening in odd ways. He shifts his weight as softly as he can, hoping the cook doesn’t notice the weakness.

Of course, he does. Sanji can see the strain in Zoro’s neck, the sweat pooling on Zoro’s brow despite the cool temperature in the crow’s nest and the sea breeze that brushes past them. The idiot is in pain, maybe even more than Sanji is.

“You should get some painkillers from the infirmary; Chopper keeps them in the first aid box.” Sanji suggests, wondering if he hasn’t left yet because he’s too tired to try moving again or because seeing Zoro like this is unsettling enough that he doesn’t want to leave the swordsman alone.

“Fuck off.” Zoro groans, his skin crawling at the concern. Maybe a fight with the cook would be better, he hates how soft his gaze feels right now. He’s looking at Zoro like he’s fragile.“I dragged your sorry ass back here, why don’t you worry about yourself.”

“Shut up, stupid moss for brains. Just because I hate the sight of you doesn’t mean I can’t suggest something as simple as pain killers when you’re obviously in pain. No need to get so fucking defensive.” Sanji bites back, his hackles raised, definitely not getting defensive himself.

“M’fine.” Zoro insists, shutting his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at Sanji’s stupid eyebrows any longer.

“Clearly.” Sanji mutters, crossing his arms over his chest.

“What are you even still doing here, it’s my watch. You’ve done your little delivery, leave me alone.”

The cook never hangs around like this. Zoro wonders if it’s some pride thing, maybe Curley was feeling embarrassed having to be dragged home. Well, that’s not Zoro’s fault. Maybe next time the idiot can just stay conscious.

Sanji lights a cigarette instead. Blowing the smoke upwards against the stars. With his eyes closed Sanji can take a longer look at his crewmate without worrying about a sudden sword being pulled on him.

Zoro can sleep anywhere. After being a swordsman and being capable of getting lost anywhere he goes, his ability to sleep is what he’s most infamous for amongst the crew. He can even nap standing up, Sanji has witnessed it himself.

Yet, he looks uncomfortable right now. Sitting in maybe one of his favourite napping spots on the whole ship. His posture is all wrong, his shoulders bunched up, his neck straining to keep his head at an odd angle.

Sanji is probably about to get a limb cut off, but despite it being Zoro, he still doesn’t like seeing one of his nakama in pain. Unless of course it was Sanji’s doing.

He picks up the wine bottle right as Zoro reaches blindly for it, the sound of it scraping off the wood enough to have him opening his eyes, narrowing them in suspicion as Sanji holds the bottle just out of reach.

“Turn around.” Sanji insists, trying to sound as calm as possible as not to set their usual bickering off.

“Huh?” Zoro grumbles, completely taken aback by being ordered to do anything by the cook.

“Turn around, dumbass.” Sanji retorts, his patience running out immediately. Okay, so apparently, he had none when it came to Zoro.

“I don’t take orders from you, dart-brow.”

Sanji digs his fingernails into the palm of his free hand to stop himself from raising his leg and forcing Zoro to do it.

“You want the drink, turn around. I’m not going to clobber you, Marimo.”

“What the fuck do you want then?” Zoro tilts his head, looking surprisingly cute- STUPID. Looking incredibly stupid as he tries to work out what Sanji is up to.

Sanji waves the bottle teasingly instead, and Zoro realises he’s way too sore to be putting up with Sanji’s shit. So, with a sigh he grabs the bottle lightning fast and spins 90 degrees away from Sanji. Resting his shoulder heavily on the crows nest.

The position is so much worse, his legs being forced to bend against the curve of the space. His shoulders and back complain as they’re forced to hold himself up. Maybe the idiot cook just didn’t want Zoro to see him struggle to his feet. Whatever, he’d be gone quicker this way.

But Sanji doesn’t get up. Instead, he finds himself choking as his throat tightens, staring at the unprotected back of his crewmate. A back that Zoro defended with his life, a back he would never leave open to an enemy, would never allow a blade to pierce or mark. Here it was, unprotected, pointing at who Sanji imagined was Zoro’s least favourite person on the ship.

He shakes himself out of the train of thought. He’s definitely overthinking this.

Still, he going to appreciate the trust while he has it. It means something special. So, carefully he scoots forwards, sitting on his knees behind Zoro despite the prickles of pain in his legs from the position.

Zoro jumps when he places his hands on the dip of the other man’s shoulders, right beside his neck.

“What the fuck are you-” Zoro’s panicked question is cut off by Sanji digging his skilled fingers into the lump of muscle there, using pressure to ease the tension away. Zoro can feel things unclicking, pain unfurling from a tight ache to a more bearable throb before it seems to melt away entirely.

Sanji chuckles as the fight leaves the Marimo straight away, the hand that had clasped his swords, ready to smash a hilt into the side of Sanji’s head, lets go. He even places the wine down beside him. Resting his hands on his thighs now as he accidentally moans under his next breath.

Sanji is pushing the bottom of his palm outwards now, dragging the knots until they dissapeared beneath his touch. His thumbs catche more tension along the top of Zoro’s back and Zoro hisses as finally he can drop his shoulders without a shooting pain running from his neck to the bottom of his spine.

“Wha-What are you doing.” Zoro should be embarrassed by how breathless he sounds but as Sanji places the side of his pinkie finger against his spin and pushes harshly outwards towards the back of his shoulder blade, dislodging hours of tension and pain in a couple of swift swipes, he can’t help it.

It feels good.

“Stewing in pain is only going to lock up every muscle in your back, Mossbrain. Just let me take care of it.” Let me take care of you.

“Why?” Zoro groans, trying to twist his head to get a read on the cook, but he flinches as his neck tweaks.

Sanji seems to notice the issues and brushes his hands upwards. His fingers grind into the base of his neck, pushing out and downwards, dragging the tension low before massaging it away.

He doesn't know how to answer Zoro's question, so he lets his hands speak for him.

His fingers brush through the stubble of spikey hair at the base of Zoro’s neck and the swordsman lets in a sharp breath at the tingles that explode from the touch. His brain feels like it’s short circuiting trying to rationalise that Sanji could make him feel this way, could make him relax against his touch, make him lean into his personal space, suddenly yearning to be closer.

“Hmm, maybe I should start calling you putty instead of Moss.” Sanji teases, pleasantly surprised by how the Marimo was unwinding under his touch now. He must have been in more discomfort than Sanji had first thought.

“Fuck off.” There’s no heat in the comeback. Not when Zoro’s head is now lolling comfortably forward for the first time in two days. His chin nestled against his chest as Sanji continues working through both his shoulders.

Silence stretching out between them. Neither of them sure what to say as Sanji, always one to enjoy helping his crew, comes to terms with enjoying helping Zoro for the first time. While Zoro is struggling to stay awake as after a day of being unable to nap ends with finally finding solace from the aches.

He feels warm all over, his chest now swaying with the push and pull of Sanji’s motions. Every time the Cook’s hands make their way back up to his neck, he feels like he’s being electrocuted and then smothered in a warm blanket. His eyelids are drooping now, not the best situation for someone who’s meant to be on watch for the next few hours.

Sanji notices the fatigue taking hold of him. Notices the fists uncurling into shaky fingers. He’s never seen Zoro look so unsteady.

Well, things were weird enough already, and Sanji isn’t someone who cares for somebody half-arsed.

He pulls his hands away, blushing at the involuntary whimper from Zoro who seems to instantly tense at the sound. The idiot clears his throat and is probably about to say or do something incredibly stupid when Sanji sits directly behind him, his back against the wall, and before Zoro can react, he reaches a hand around to Zoro’s chest and pulls him harshly backwards.

Zoro stares at the stars and the last of the smoke pluming from Sanji’s cigarette. He stares at the upturned chin and calculating eyes of the cook, confused at how he’d gotten into this position.

His face heats up and he’s about to fight back, to uppercut the jerk and kick him out of the crow’s nest, massage or not, the fucker can’t just-

A hand reaches up and ruffles through Zoro’s hair. His eyes almost roll back as he relaxes and feels his back melt peacefully into the thick thighs beneath him. Any fight leaves him as Sanji scratches his scalp, his eyelids fluttering closed as the blonde idiot chuckles fondly.

“Go to sleep, Marimo. I’ll handle the watch.”

“What the fucks gotten into you.” Zoro grumbles, trying to act pissed off as he feels himself slipping away. Leaving himself at the mercy of the Cook.

Sanji doesn’t answer. Instead, he struggles with the question for the next few hours. His hands absentmindedly trace over Zoro’s hair and his chest as he watches the green idiot’s breath even out, his chest rising and falling in a peaceful continuous rhythm.

He tries to convince himself this was all so Zoro couldn’t use saving him as a comeback for the next few weeks. That this was all cannon fodder to tease the Mosshead about for years to come. But as Zoro starts to snore, Sanji realises he like the pressure on his lap.

He likes the warmth that radiates off the human stove.

He likes taking care of Zoro.

Finally, just as the sun peaks the horizon, as the sky changes colour above them and when Sanji is certain no one is awake for miles, that he’s the only one capable of hearing his own thoughts…he thinks to himself, maybe he just likes Zoro.

#zosan fanfic #zosan fluff #zosan #sanji #vinsmoke sanji #zoro #roronoa zoro #fanfic #one piece zosan #one piece #massage #boyfriends #sanji juat likes taking care of people #theyre in love your honor #zoro and sanji #zoro x sanji

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distinguishedstudentfishalien · 2 months

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AHHH ok, let's talk about Lucifer and Alastor

I've been reading a lot of reactions to Hazbin: from the gushers who think the show is perfect to the hyper-critical who hate the show, the creator, and everything in between. I don't fall into any of those categories. I had a lot of fun watching it, but there were some things I liked, and some others I didn't. You know, as it's usually the case with any piece of media one interacts with.

I love reading other people's opinions. It makes me pay more attention to things I might have missed. BUT for Hazbin, most of the criticism I've seen boils down to two things: either "I, personally, didn't like it, so that means it's bad" which is not the hot take people seem to think it is, or just lack of media literacy.

I won't go over all the examples of that last point (there are plenty), but one example people are using to criticize the show --which I can't seem to get out of my head so now I have to write about it-- it's how out of left field it was for Alastor to think of himself as a father figure to Charlie.

My guys and guysettes, that's because he doesn't.

He does it to piss off Lucifer, because he doesn't like him. That's it.

"But they just met, why doesn't he like him?" I don't know! but let's go over some examples, shall we?

In the first episode, during Alastor's TV ad, we see a picture of the hotel, clearly drawn by him. I ask you to look to the bottom left where it says "No tacky circus decor! I promise"

Do we know what he is referring to? Sure we do! the ring circus master himself! Lucifer Morningstar, whose whole schtick is circus-related. Clearly, Alastor is not a fan.

When Lucifer arrives to the hotel, did anybody catch Alastor's first reaction? (besides calling him short to his face, ofc)

Do you see that trembling eye? He is PISSED. Why? Who the hell knows! But he clearly does not care for the King of Hell himself (if you force me to give you my opinion on this, I think it's because of Alastor's delusions of grandeur, and plain-ole narcissism, but that is a conversation for another post, if I ever gather enough energy to write it)

He introduces himself and immediately does this. R-U-D-E.

Now, let's talk about the song itself, which, again, is clearly just an attempt to piss off Lucifer and not really about Charlie. At all.

He only cares about Lucifer's reactions. Because he is not being HONEST. We can all see that? right?? I mean, it is pretty FREAKING obvious. He is just trying to get a rise out of Lucifer.

And now, the moment we were all waiting for, the infamous "call me dad" moment.

Which had nothing to do with Charlie, and it was just another example of Alastor being the most annoying bastard alive. He is not even looking at her! He is staring Lucifer dead in the eye and saying "piss off shortie".

Why? Again, I dunno. Your guess is as good as mine. I hope we'll get the answer in season 2, because immediate animosity against the King of Hell himself is something I need some context for. Is it funny? Absolutely! I love that song! The violin solo? PURE GOLD (he he)

But for the love of Christ and the Antichrist, please stop thinking of "Alastor thinks of himself as Charlie's dad out of nowhere" as a valid criticism. As some have speculated, Alastor involvement with Charlie will probably have something to do with Alastor's deal and 7-year absence. If it's never explained, then sure, what the heck Vivzie?? please include it on the show!

There are PLENTY of things we could criticize about Hazbin (and people smarter and with more energy than me have done so already). But there are so many examples of "criticism" that are just examples of "I don't know how to interact with media anymore" and I beg of you to do better. This is a tiny example of the show showing and not telling, and some of y'all failed the comprehension test.

It is a fun show, guys. Enjoy it.

TL;DR: Alastor does not think he is Charlie's dad, ffs. He just wanted to piss off Lucifer.

#and NO #he is NOT jealous #I do not ship Alstor and Charlie #she has a girlfiend #he is an ace in the hole or whatever it is that Rosie said #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel critical #hazbin hotel criticism #lucifer morningstar #lucifer hazbin hotel #my beloved #alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #charlie morningstar #hazbin alastor #hazbin charlie

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chamomiletealeaf · 2 months

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Sweet as Pie

Chapter 4

The willow tree was the biggest Simon had ever seen. It's long branches and leaves swayed in the light breeze and he found himself staring at it, admiring it in its grandeur.

"Pretty, i'n it?" You ask him, standing with him in front of the tree.

Not as pretty as you He thought.

"Gorgeous." Simon said, but he meant it more towards you than the tree.

"C'mon, come sit." You urged him along, as you moved the willow's leaves out the way, and you disappeared behind them.

He followed you and sat in the shade of the tree, wrapped and hidden away by the Weeping Willow, facing the lake. It was truly such a calming and beautiful sight. But yet again, Simon just couldn't focus on anything other than you and how your hair reminded him of the branches of the tree, just falling so gracefully and perfectly.

"I sit here a lot when I need somewhere quiet away from the house." You tell him with a smile as you stare at the lake, the both of you sitting against the tree's trunk.

"Y'know, I think there's some kind of magic in this tree." You continue. "No matter what could be goin' on, the world could be endin' and yet this tree will stay it's same, quiet self. And anything hidden behind it's leaves is immune to anything outside of them. It's like... A force field. A safety net. Everything, all the noise and bad things, just get left outside when you walk behind this wall of leaves."

"Feels that way." Simon responded. "You seem to know this place really well. You been here a while?" He asks.

"Been here all my life. House was my auntie's. One day she told me: 'y/n? When I'm dead an' gone this place gon' be yours. Keep it alive for me.' That's why I keep so many plants in it. To keep the life in that house my auntie always had. Treat em' like my babies." You confessed.

"I can see that." Simon joked, referring to not too long ago when he saw you dancing and taking care of them.

You laughed, and surprisingly, so did he.

"So what about you?" You asked, shifting the conversation.

"What is a handsome man like you doin' all the way out here alone?" You teased as you nudged his shoulder, a boldness taking over you.

Handsome? She thinks I'm handsome? Simon thought, and that damned blush he hated made it's way back onto his face for the umpteenth time.

"Military." He answered. "My best friend in my Task Force nearly died by a shot to the temple. I never thought my life meant anything which is why I dedicated it to the military but when I almost lost him, it was a wake up call. I realized I had something to live for, and I knew I shouldn't take life for granted so I wanted to try and do something for myself."

You looked at him with sympathy, listening to him intently.

"So, I bought that house to at least get a breath of air before I take my last. To experience something good for once."

Simon was shocked with how much he let slip out, but for some reason, he felt like he could trust you with his life.

"I'm sorry about your friend. I'm glad he's ok." You comfort him. "That must've been real scary. But I'm glad you're doin' something good for yourself. You deserve it. I'm sure he's happy for you too." You punctuated your sentence with a smile, and Simon smiled back.

You both sat there under the willow tree getting to know each other until the sun was just beginning to set.

"Simon?" You ask him.

"Hm." He answers.

"Would you like to come over for dinner tonight?" You ask softly and hopefully, and Simon's brain short circuits. Were you... actually interested in a man like him? Or maybe you were just being friendly.

"I'd love that." He says.

You smile at him again as you begin to stand up.

"Well, hope you like Shepherd's pie, sugar, cuz' i've been dyin' to bust out the ol' recipe for it." You brush off your cardigan and wrap it around yourself.

Simon stands up and brushed himself off, flattered that you want to cook for him. You were too sweet to him, and he wondered what he ever did in his life or past one to deserve the company of you.

"That sounds lovely." He smiles down at you and the both of you make your way back to your house.

As you two enter your little yellow house, Simon admires how nice it is. He looks at all your well-loved plants and the little trinkets adorning your shelves. He looks at your patterned furniture in the living room and notices a really old looking white wooden rocking chair with the paint peeling off of it in the corner. In it sat a dark green wool knit blanket. It looked so warm and comfortable, and he wondered how it felt compared to his old black and navy blue bedding.

"Well, here it is. This is home." You say proudly, closing the front door behind you two.

"It's lovely." He says, still looking at the blanket and rocking chair.

You notice him staring at it and take note of his curiosity.

"That's aunties old rocking chair. Been in the family for years. She used to sit in it and knit me all kinds of clothes. Now I sit in it and knit too. Made that there blanket myself." You tell him, gesturing to it.

"You made that?" He asks in shock. It was a huge blanket, and it looked so well made. Of course you made something so perfect like that. What couldn't you do?

"Yeah" You beam up at him. "Here." You say, and go to grab it from the rocking chair. You bring it back to him and wrap it around his shoulders.

"There you go hun'. It's yours." You say and wink at him.

He goes to take the blanket off his shoulders in protest.

"Oh no I, I can't take this you must have spent so much time on it."

"Oh please that's nothin', I saw the few boxes you brought into that house of yours, you ain't never gonna find yourself a nice blanket like this one. Trust me." You joke to reassure him as you grab his wrists to stop his movements and you wrap the blanket back around his shoulders.

Did she just, grab my wrists? Simon thought, the action taking him off guard and he felt heat run through his body that wasn't from the blanket.

Fuck stop stop stop don't blush He told to himself, or more to the blood rushing to his face.

"It's your color anyway." You say, taking a step back to look how the dark color brought out the brown of his eyes. Were his eyes always such a pretty, rich, honey color?

"Come on an' sit at the table while I get this started." You tell him, and he secretly liked how assertive you were. You wanted to take care of him, which is something Simon never experienced before. It made his heart melt.

He watched you cook for him and how you hushed him when he offered to help, and he felt a smile creep it's way onto his face. There was something so... intimate about what you were doing for him.

"You sure you don't want me to help?" He asked again.

"Oh hush now with all that, you just sit there and look pretty while I fix this up for you. Excited for you to try it. Haven't made this in forever." You tell him with a smile.

His heart jumped once again at your coddling, calling him pretty this time. God he was gonna have to make a list of all the sweet things you called him to remember them all for the nights he's feeling lonely. Or maybe, you would be there to tell him directly.

You placed a plate of shepherd's pie down in front of Simon and one for you across from him. You then set out two glasses and went to the fridge to take out a pitcher of iced tea. With a mischievous smile, you poured some into both glasses and sat down. Little did Simon know, he was gonna taste the sweetest, most tooth rotting iced tea he's ever gonna have.

"Thank you y/n." Simon said, then took a sip of the iced tea. You brought your own glass to your lips and took a sip as well.

Then Simon placed his glass down with a coughing fit and you let out a cackle.

"Bloody hell what did you put in that?" Simon asked between coughs and you were losing it.

"That right there, is some authentic southern sweet tea baby." You laughed.

"Christ if a bullet doesn't kill me that sure will." He laughed, his coughing subsiding.

"Well do you like it at least?" You ask.

Simon took another sip, preparing himself this time, then nodded after a second.

"Yeah... I could get used to it." He smiled at you, and you smiled back.

"Go on an' eat now, look like you haven't had a thing all day." You said, as you picked up your fork to try your freshly prepared meal.

Simon did the same, and when he took a bite of the Shepherd's pie, he swears he'd never tasted anything better in his life.

"Holy shit." He says with his mouth full.

You look up at him from your plate with wide eyes, hoping he likes it.

"This is the best damn thing I've ever had." He said, taking bite after bite.

You giggle, glad he enjoys it so much.

"Really? Ok good, I was nervous. Haven't made it in a while." You confess with the biggest smile on your face, watching the big man in front of you eat like he hasn't in weeks.

By the time you finish your plate, Simon has already finished two and downed his sweet tea.

"I haven't had a meal like that since before the military." Simon says, leaning back in his char satisfied, wrapping the blanket back around his shoulders.

You finish off the rest of your sweet tea then place the glass down to answer him.

"What? Really?" You ask in shock and horror, wondering why this mountain of a man hasn't been eating the way he's supposed to.

"Oh baby we gotta change that." You say with a laugh.

There it is again. Simon thinks. Baby.

He doesn't know how to react, all the affection he's receiving from you, someone he just met, was more than any affection he's had his entire life.

"Here, lemme help you clean up." Simon offers, standing up and grabbing his plate.

But you stand up too and reach for the plate in his hands.

"Uh-uh, I got it, you're a guest tonight." You say, hands going to take his plate.

Simon pulls it back so you can't grab it.

"No no please, you've done so much for me already. I got it." He says, and you stand there for a second, considering.

"Ok." You say, giving in to his warm, brown puppy eyes he's giving you.

"Just place it right there in the sink." You tell him.

After you two clean up, Simon realizes how late it got. Time with you seemed to fly.

"Well, I better get home now." He says sadly, not wanting to let the night end, but he doesn't want to keep you up taking care of him. "Thank you so much again, y/n." He says, smiling down at you in the kitchen.

"You're welcome, Simon." You say, now smiling up at him.

You two stay there for a few seconds, just smiling at each other, enjoying each other's presence and proximity.

"Here, lemme walk you out." You say, breaking the moment first.

You both walk to the front door together, him trailing behind you and taking note of how cute the sway of your hips is as you walk. You open the door for him and you both look at each other again.

"Goodnight, y/n, I had a good time." Simon says.

"You're welcome, me too." You reply. Then you notice he doesn't have the blanket you gave him. Your eyes widen and you gasp, making Simon's eyebrow rise in concern.

"Oh my god, wait, your blanket!" You say and hurry off to the kitchen where the blanket was draped over the kitchen table's chair and bring it back to him.

"Here you are honey." You say, as you reach up on your toes to place it around his shoulders.

Simon grips the ends of the blanket and tugs it the rest of the way around his shoulders.

"Don't want you to forget that." You smile up at him. "You're gonna sleep real well with that, trust me." You say.

"I'm sure I will. Thank you." He says, smiling back.

"Goodnight Simon." You tell him softly, smile never leaving your face.

"Goodnight y/n." He reciprocates in the same soft tone.

He turns to walk out the door and onto the porch, then looks back at you before turning around to make his way back to his house.

You lean in the doorway, crossing your arms over your chest as you watch him walk away, feeling warm despite the night's brisk air, then you return back into your house when he reaches his own, smiling to yourself for the rest of the night.

Simon makes his way to his room, but not before looking at your house through his kitchen window one last time, watching the lights turn off inside them.

He enters his room and sits on his bed, wrapping the blanket still on his shoulders tighter around himself. He lays down, bringing it up to his nose to take in the scent of your house, trying to etch it into his brain forever.

He gets lost in how warm the blanket is and how it smells so much like you that his eyelids get too heavy before he can change into his night clothes. The thought and smell of you overwhelms his senses in the best way and he finds himself falling asleep to their comfort.

And as he slept, not a single nightmare creeped it's way into his mind. How could they? His mind was already occupied with dreams of you.

taglist: @pussypinkbarbie @thatonepupkai @confuseddipshit

#call of duty #cod #cod mw #cod mw2 #cod mw3 #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost #ghost cod #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost cod x reader #ghost x reader #mommy kink simon riley #mommy kink simon #mommy kink simon riley x reader #mommy kink simon x reader #sweet as pie

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amyriadofleaves · 2 months

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outside it starts to pour — neuvillette | chapter one

synopsis: in the limelight of fontaine, the prying eyes of its people never truly tears their gaze off the iudex and you, the présidence du conseil d'état, which makes for baseless rumours to fester and echo throughout the theatrics of opera. you and neuvillette are challenged by the reputations the both of you are expected to uphold, and the weighty decision to navigate these intricacies rests upon the discerning judgement of fontaine's archon.

{ nav } ; { next }

ao3 : wattpad ˚　.˚　

⌗ pairing : neuvillette x fem!reader ⌗ feat : neuvillette, reader, clorinde ⌗ warnings : n/a ⌗ word count: 4.0k

‘EVIDENCE REPORT | POISSON: 43 DEAD, 5 INJURED.’

To savour tea is to indulge. As your lips leave the cold porcelain teacup in hand, you wave your advisor away, leaving you subject to yourself and your thoughts alone. In the quiet aftermath, you willingly embrace the thoughts that fester alone—an intricate tapestry of reflections, good or bad. The shaky sigh that leaves your lips is a limbo between exhaustion and, as much as you despise it, the unwelcome embrace of fear. Your calm, yet frantic eyes skim over the report countless times before noting the words in bold:

NOT TO BE DISCLOSED TO THE PUBLIC UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

Brows knitted, you question the odd desperation at keeping this case classified. But more thought brings you to the conclusion that this is somewhat justifiable; from the moment you stepped into Fontaine, you learned that to rub a Fontainian the wrong way was to critique their favourite opera—or rather, denounce their perception of it.

With another sip of your tea, your hands hover above the prompt for your signature glaring at you on the final page. You don't fail to notice that you aren’t the sole bearer of this matter but instead, share the weight of it with your co-worker, the Iudex himself. You can't help but scoff. It undoubtedly comes as a surprise for you; this isn’t something within his area of expertise. He can certainly provide his input on it, sure, but any measures taken in terms of Fontaine’s state of affairs are your call. Whatever it is, you are already hot on your heels, the thud of your boots muffled by the awfully grandeur carpet that graces the marble floors of Palais Mermonia. Though not entirely focused on the world around you, you certainly are not unaware of the whispers and hushes that arise in your wake. You pay it no mind. Someone of your calibre is sure to be a topic of conversation; it is undeniable that it flatters you, despite how annoying it may be on the ears.

You rap the door to the Iudex’s office once—then twice—to no avail. Feeling a light tap at your hip, you look down to find a recognisable face staring up at you with curious eyes.

“Why, if it isn’t Sedene!” you tease. If the melusine notices the slight quiver in your voice, she doesn’t question it. At the met silence, you let out an airy chuckle. “Is something the matter?”

At your voice, Sedene's expression relaxes. “If you’re looking for your Iudex, I’m afraid he’s in the Opera Epiclese tending to another matter,” You can’t help but feel your smile unwillingly falter upon knowing of his absence. He is your partner in arms for this case, and if others see to it that he is needed, then it is in your duty to oblige, no matter how nauseating the idea of it is.

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Bringing the report up to your face, you try to compose yourself and shield your expression from the melusine’s line of sight.

This effort would prove to be futile in the moments that follow.

Sedene reaches up to drag the report from blocking her field of view. You know she despises the idea of being too short and having others take advantage of it, but you are mindful of the emotions crossing your face. With your bubbling rage at the Chief Justice’s involvement, you find that it takes a little longer to press your lips into a fine line and convince yourself that you have to either suck it up or take matters into your hands (by this point, you are extremely unsure which option you'd delight yourself to).

A soft paw-like hand begins to slyly wrap around your wrist. In an instant, your arm becomes captive to the ceaseless tugs of Sedene, who is jumping up and down in elation at her newfound revelation. “Oh! Oh! Sigewinne told me that expressions where smiles are replaced with frowns are signs of disappointment or sadness, or possibly both! So, this must mean that you are deeply disturbed by the idea of Monsieur Neuvillette being far, far away from you!”

The curiosity of Melusines never fails to amaze you.

You bring a hand to her mouth to prevent her from babbling any further. “Oh... hahaha… Aren't you a silly one! My dear Sedene, I’m afraid you've misinterpreted the means of my change of expression! I’m just concerned that his absence might delay the progress we shall very surely make in this situation—though, I certainly cannot disclose it because this is very, very, classified business.”

Noting the puzzled look she gives in response, you pat her head, albeit robotically, and fan yourself with the loose fabric of your blouse for composure’s sake. No one can see the head of Fontaine’s civil affairs under such humiliating circumstances. Confusion swirls when the unwanted heat begins to bloom from your neck up. What is up with you? You hastily bring your cold palms to the apples of your cheeks in a desperate attempt to quell the embarrassment that betrays your professional front. An incandescent blue shines brightly on the fabric of your coat, but that is purely your cryo vision working its magic. Ah, the wonders of Celestia are both a blessing and a curse indeed.

Gingerly, you reach for the report secured under your arm. Your eyes ghost over his name unwillingly, and your nails have begun to dig into the lace of your glove; why does every decision end in his verdict? Do people not understand that his verdicts work only in the Opera Epiclese and yours—more just and logical—work in every other predicament that slips through the cracks?

Deciding to indulge in the idea of having time to yourself, you stride to your office with wavering confidence and slam the door behind you, back pressed against the wooden frame. Closing your eyes for a brief moment, the familiar patter of rainfall cascading down the stained glass windows of your office brings you a sense of comfort because at least there is something—or rather someone, out there who shares the weight of your burdens.

How you itch to search for whoever it is.

Snapping yourself out of your stupor, you force yourself to return to work; there are urgent matters to attend to. Thoroughly giving the report a once-over, you call in a subordinate.

Whether it is the weather or your own gloomy mood, the sluggish pace of whoever is to arrive at your door has you incensed beyond measure. When the foolish boy finally decides to show up, a headache begins to fester like a miasma from your right eye to your left temple. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you decide to keep the conversation short and concise.

“I expect emergency personnel to be stationed in Poisson by the end of today.”

The subordinate, whom you've come to learn is named Iaune, fiddles with his uniform. “But Madame, we lack approval from the Iudex—”

You bring a hand to your desk. “This is an order from me as your superior. The Iudex has proved his lateness in acting on this matter, and so I will be taking it from here.” At your glare directed towards Iaune, he nods profusely and scurries away, slamming the door a little too loudly, sending your migraine into full swing.

You aren't a supernatural being, and with the blurring of shapes and fatigue, accompanied by lidded eyes, it calls for a power nap. Slumping against the plush pillows of a leather couch that sits to the right of your office, you bring your hands to your abdomen and greet rest with open arms.

It is long past midnight when you come to.

Oh, no, no, no.

In a panic, you sit up to find a velvet coat slipping off your shoulders and onto your lap. You fight against the blur of your eyesight to study the fabric. The blazer is a brilliant Oxford blue, its lapels a blur between turquoise and cerulean lined with plates of gold. You feel at the fabric in curiosity; if not for your sleep-induced daze, you would notice that this very blazer belonged to Monsieur Neuvillette himself. Instead, you fold it over the back of a chair. With the paperwork in hand, you set yourself to his office.

One good thing to take away from this is how the migraine that had plagued you for the last half hour you were awake has now softened to a dull throb. You scan the palais for any sign of Segene, and… nothing. The same goes for everyone else really — your steps echo hollowly, and the stirs of gossip dwindle in the truancy of common folk. There is only one thing that brings you comfort and unease concurrently: the likely presence of the Chief Justice behind this door.

A gentle knock is what it takes to garner a muffled 'come in,' from the Chief Justice. Pushing the door open with your free hand, you are greeted with a grandiose office and the man you dread sitting at his desk.

You decide to skip the formalities and cut straight to the chase. "Monsieur, I am afraid that the prophecy is beginning to manifest itself in every corner of Fontaine. For this case, the spotlight lands on Poisson," you say, with a monotonous baritone that betrays nothing.

His ivory eyes widen a fraction, and he brings his fist to his mouth to stifle a cough. "So what I heard word of on the streets wasn't just paranoid drabble…" You can't help but feel your lower lid twitch.

"Well, word had it that you were too busy tending to business in the Opera Epiclese to officially hear it from the professional herself."

A gentle smile plays on his lips. "Very well then. Enlighten me." His gaze is imploring, almost expecting. With a sigh, you lay the report in front of him. You entertain yourself with an extra addition to your resume: experience in coddling the Iudex of Fontaine.

"Is there any reason as to why you lack any paperwork regarding this matter, monsieur?"

"I’d assume it was because of my preoccupation that they sought for you in my stead." With a deft movement of his wrist, two cups materialise as if conjured, a gentle azure glow tracing from his fingertips to the base of the cups. "Care for a drink?"

Crossing your arms, you can't help but order him around a little. "I’d prefer a seat, thank you very much."

He nods his head in complicity. "Oh dear me, my dearest apologies," and with a slight bow of his free hand, you find a chair at the very base of your ankles.

Easing into the seat—or should you say couch—is the easiest thing you've done today. Goodness, when was the last time you had a good night's rest? "Go ahead, you're free to read the report," you declare, the wave of your hand prodding him further. Fancying yourself a drink, you furtively take the cup of water he'd left on the edge of his desk.

To cure yourself of your boredom, you take to observing his mannerisms. A slight grimace, a squint of an eye—the look of surprise when he skims over the last page. Without preamble, he reaches for his quill, and you can't help but descry the way the ink dances across the page.

Once he hands the paperwork to you, you bow your head and turn on your heel to take your leave. The strained silence that hangs is broken with a chuckle from the Iudex. “I’d just like to inform you of your eligibility for trial at the Opera Epiclese.”

You hope he doesn’t catch the hiccup in your step. “I’m afraid I don’t follow, Chief Justice.” Back still facing him.

“Forgive me, Mademoiselle, but deploying personnel to Poisson without due consideration and an unsigned contract jeopardises not only the trust vested in our organisation by the public but also compromises the confidentiality integral to this matter.”

You couldn't help but feel your lips tug into a smirk. “I put full trust in your intelligence to excuse your greatest asset from the scrutiny of your judgement. What I did is justifiable and is justified, Monsieur Neuvillette ,” His name leaves your lips like the slice of skin against a blade.

“Oh? And by the word of whom, exactly?”

“Have you forgotten? I, too, have held your position alongside my name in your absence. I represented the word of the law, I wrote the books, and I am just. I am my own judge. Could you say the same for yourself, oh dear Chief Justice of Fontaine?”

____

IS THE END REALLY NIGH? WILL THE ARCHON ACT?

Clutching a newspaper in hand, diving into the inked sea of critiques and snark, you surf the waves of public disdain for the Hydro Archon herself. Albeit insensitive, the fiery opinions ignite the page, and you can't help but catch the raging tide of anger swelling through the populace. Welcome to the storm of public sentiment.

Despite the exaggerated theatrics of Fontainians, you developed a sense of indifference, your reactions reduced to a mere scoff. The overblown antics fail to provoke any genuine response, leaving you detached from the flamboyant displays of folly that had once captivated your attention.

Clorinde’s abrupt snaps bring you back from your reverie, and only then did you notice the newspaper in your hands, crumpled from your unwittingly tight grip during your trance.

“Earth to you? Now’s not the time to loiter around,” says the raven haired woman standing with arms crossed, a playful glint in her eyes contrasting the familiar tone of the champion duelist you’d grown a soft spot for.

You swat her away with the newspaper as one would a fly and laugh. “As the Head of Civil Affairs, I, too, deserve a break from all the buzz.” Stealing a sympathetic glance at the tabloid in hand, you sigh in defeat at the fact that you never truly can escape the ‘buzz’.

“God, how often have you been burning the midnight oil? I presume my boss hasn’t been too harsh, surely?” Clorinde implores; you had grown to notice that she’d pop a question whenever conversation grew dire — adeptly quenching her curiosity while addressing the pressing matter at hand, a skillful act of killing two birds with one stone.

Letting her in on such affairs wouldn’t hurt a soul, it seemed. And so you decide to amuse her a little. “If you mean ‘harsh’ as in pampering me, then yes.”

At the duelist’s raised brow, you stop abruptly. “I — uh, my, have I said something wrong?”

“No, not at all. Go on,” she waves a hand, prodding you further.

“Alright then. Where do I start — he’s an odd one, that man. His demeanour is different in both office and in court, as expected of someone of such prowess — and of course, he is expected to act by status quo. But over these past few days, I’d been greeted with nothing but candour from him — almost as if he’s… compensating for something,” You make a calculated decision to skirt over details as to why this might be. Sure, you have your speculations, but no conclusion you came to was concrete.

Clorinde makes a face.

“This is the second time you’ve given me that look. Tell me what’s wrong or I’ll tickle you.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him going so far as to pamper someone as you say he has to you, let alone seen it with my own eyes.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re rarely at the palais,” you deadpan.

She considers this with a thoughtful silence. “Perhaps, for once, you are correct.”

“I’m wounded that you underestimate me so greatly, Champion Duelist of Fontaine,” you feigned a damsel in distress, eyes shut in faux consternation.

The town clock strikes twelve, its ring echoing throughout the city, and the sun seems to show brighter.

Gently patting Clorinde’s shoulder, a nervous expression plays on your face. “Nevermind that! As much as I absolutely adore the cool breeze of the autumn air, I’m afraid there are to be more problems than there are solutions if this” — you gently wave the now rolled scroll of paper in your hand — “isn’t settled.”

“Didn’t expect you to grow so accustomed to your new job, young woman,” A smile seldom seen manages to creep up and tug on the fine lines of Clorinde’s lips.

Merely shrugging, you return her smile. “What can I say, it is me we’re talking about, I pretty much am the adapter of all — consider me an otter in all its glory.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“I’ll have you know that I am greeted with a soft mattress and plush pillows.”

Turning on your heel, you are met with a feathery wall of sorts. With horror, it dawns on you that this was undoubtedly not the type of ‘pillow’ you had in mind; this was no wall, this was someone’s chest.

This elicits a snort from the duelist.

There you are, standing merely centimetres away from the Iudex of Fontaine. Oh my God. You felt a growing flush rise up to your cheeks. Call it public humiliation, call it pride — but you simply cannot stand the image of your flustered self plastered on the tabloids all around the city. It had happened once, and you were certain it would be the last. The blame falls on Charlotte, of course, always nosing in on everyone’s business.

Almost in shock, you take a slow step back — in which the tap of your heel against cement echoes your humiliation, and you can’t help but grimace.

Through gritted teeth, you can only muster a pitiful: ‘Pleasure meeting you here, Monsieur…’ Despite the shakiness in your voice, it is hidden by the authoritative cadence you’d grown accustomed to during your time as the head of civil affairs. If it isn’t for your lowered gaze, you would notice the smile that ghosts over his face. But instead, in a frantic effort to maintain composure, you put on a brave face and take everything at face value, saving the impending embarrassment for later.

For a brief second you wondered how easier things would be if everything went in your favour.

“Good afternoon to you both,” The usual baritone of his voice sounds awfully frail. How odd. Another odd thing was how underdressed he appeared to be — his customary coat he wears in court nowhere to be found on his person. Both of you decide not to question it.

The two of you return the pleasantry with a stunned greeting.

She then offers the roll of paper to the Iudex. “I suggest you take a read. It won’t be long before everyone begins to question the acts of our archon.”

“I will take this into consideration. All actions in order to quell this matter are strictly confidential, Madame Clorinde, so I’m afraid I cannot disclose our methods with you at this moment.” At the word ‘our’, he gives you a side glance, perhaps in mocking, or perhaps in courtesy out of the goodness of his heart. At the thought of the latter, you drop the idea entirely, and entertain yourself with the more likely option — to which you can’t help but scowl.

“I shall take my leave, Chief Justice. Send my regards to Lady Furina for me, won’t you? I haven’t seen that walking chatterbox in a while,” She then levels her gaze to yours and winks. “See you in a bit, chenapan .”

“Ta-ta,” Rolling your eyes, you dismiss her with a curt gesture. You can’t help but feel your heart slightly drop; it is inevitable that you will miss her — and as much as you hate it, there is a gnawing inkling that you won’t be seeing her for a while. No one warned you of how being the head of such a department would come with such responsibilities. Yet, the prospect of covering for the Iudex was even more burdensome.

The Iudex’s eyes follow her every move, and when she is finally out of his line of sight, he turns to you. “Which reminds me… I have arranged a meeting with Lady Furina, where you, the Présidence du Conseil d'État, are cordially invited.”

Your brows knit. "And what's my role here? You have more sway with her than I do," Would it be blasphemous to say your opinion on your archon was a mixed bag? Sure, she was the archon of the land of your birth, but to say she brought you any semblance of reverence was a fruitless attempt at grasping at straws. The archon's influence over Fontaine remained an enigma, a puzzle you couldn't quite decipher. Unable to pinpoint why her dominance over Fontaine seemed a façade, you had kept the opinion to yourself and bit your tongue instead.

“Madame, I mean not to offend. You are not only my esteemed partner in arms but also possess a wealth of experience in this field that far surpasses my own. It is only appropriate that you take the lead as the principal force in this case,” Neuvillette interjects, his words attempting to bridge the gap of doubt. At your indifference, his jaw hands a little ajar, contemplating more ways on how to convince you with his flowery prose.

“I beg for you to stop being so stubborn — this is all for the betterment of Fontaine. Please, let's find common ground and work together for the city's sake,” How flowery indeed.

You feel for the lace hem of your skirt and squeeze hard — you cannot lash out in public. “Me? Stubborn? I am promoted to being the Présidence du Conseil d'État, and suddenly all the world’s burdens fall upon my shoulders! Where is Lady Furina? What exactly has that woman done for the people?” What have you done? Your voice renders itself to a whisper in fear that Celestia above might hear your words of blasphemy. Challenge me, then. I dare you.

Spite for the Iudex had been growing since his absence on the very day that news of Poisson had broken out. Maybe it was the comment he had made that night, or the way he had acted as if nothing happened, or how instead of an apology, he had opted to pampering you as if you were his plaything. The morning of, you had noticed that it was indeed Monsieur Neuvillette’s coat that had been draped over your shoulders, but you couldn’t bring yourself to push your pride aside and acquiesce into returning it.

The sun’s rays seem to dim at your brewing anger, followed by the familiar patter of drizzle. Instinctively, you reach for your parasol, only for you to find that you had left it in your apartment. “Oh how lucky I am! The one time I leave my umbrella at home is when it starts raining!”

Neuvillette shifts in demeanour; he takes on a more softened look, hardened eyes now a confusion of regret and sympathy. “My… apologies. This inconvenience has caused you much distress.” Gloved hands reach for his own parasol, and you observe his every action with scrutiny. One can only imagine the look on your face when he opens his parasol, shielding you from the rain that has grown more fervent.

You push the hand holding the parasol away. “I am in no need of your pity, monsieur.” And when the reassuring shade leaves you, the rain seems to cascade with an indescribable ardour — to which you pay no mind; you don’t want the public to misconstrue your relationship with the Iudex.

“...And postpone the meeting for tomorrow. I have… matters to attend to.” Picking up your pace, you leave Neuvillette standing alone, a solitary figure in the midst of the sombre downpour.

a/n : dude I srsly dk how to navigate Tumblr but pls leave your thoughts on this and whether you wanna b tagged when I post my next chapter! im more active on my ao3 but ill probably start using Tumblr more often now!!

#neuvillette x reader #neuvillettexreader #neuvillette #clorinde #genshin impact #arranged marriage #enemies to lovers #divider by truegoist!#neuvillette genshin

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mononijikayu · 1 month

Text

only fools — fushiguro toji

In that fleeting moment of intimacy, time seemed to stand still, the world around you fading into insignificance as you lost yourself in the warmth of each other's embrace. It was a kiss filled with promise, a silent vow of love and devotion that echoed in the depths of your souls. Over and over again, you smiled against his lips and he smiled back. It was contentment, it was everything.

GENRE: Pre-Hidden Inventory Arc, 1990s - 2000s;

WARNING/s: Alternate Universe ─ Canon Divergence, Friendship, Romance, Star-Crossed Lovers, Emotional Hurt, Mentions of Character Death, Mention of Grief, Mention of Mourning, Mention of Alcholism, Mention of Death, Depiction of Physical Touch, , Heavy Angst, Heavy Pining;

masterlist

kayu's playlist, side 400;

listen: only fools (cover) by bts rm and jungkook

note: this one has a bit of connection to us and them, as my ocs were heavily featured in this!!! i went back and forth with how to write this. but this is what i came out with. its lent and the holy time for many christians and muslims, so i thought writing about something this long. i wanted to cut it even more but well, i thought whatever i wrote is more genuine. if i cut it, i feel like it would lose the genuinity. so here it is!!! enjoy it, i hope you have a good holiday, i hope you all rest up and hydrate!!! i love you all!!! <3

YOU WERE BOTH SO YOUNG WHEN ZENIN TOJI MET FIRST MET YOU. In the expansive grounds surrounding the Zenin manor, amidst the towering trees that seemed to stretch towards the heavens, your presence stood out like a delicate bloom in a field of thorns. Zenin Toji couldn't help but notice you, a small figure nestled among the dense foliage, almost like a forgotten relic of a bygone era. You were like the little geisha dolls Genmei carries around with her, long black hair falling over your knees, dressed prim and proper like a proud and noble lady. Toji was used to seeing girls like you around Zenin manor. But rarely did he ever see one in such a state like you.

If uncle Naobito’s wife saw you, she would have smacked your head up and down. But she was not and Toji was never going to tell. Not that he needed to. You were no Zenin. You were someone else. It was intriguing to watch you, how tightly you rested your head against the bark of the tree. How deeply your kimono is tightly pressed against your body. You were cocooned in your own touch, as though protecting yourself from the world beyond. Despite the grandeur that existed about your presence, you appeared diminutive and unassuming, as if time itself had overlooked your presence.

Your posture, huddled against the chill of the earth, spoke volumes of your resilience and quiet strength. Even as your elegant sleeves trailed along the ground, gathering flecks of dirt and grime, you seemed unconcerned with the state of your attire, your focus directed inward rather than on superficial appearances. It was a stark contrast to the lavish gatherings and opulent displays that often characterized life within the Zenin estate. The last place for such a fine little noble lady should be this edge of the Zenin estate. Not even servants dwelled here.

Toji couldn't help but be drawn to you, the embodiment of serenity amidst the chaos of their world. As he approached, a sense of familiarity washed over him, as if he had stumbled upon a kindred spirit in the midst of the vast wilderness. This shared affinity forged a connection between them, bridging the gap between two souls seeking refuge from the pressures and expectations of their surroundings.

In the tranquility of that secluded spot, Toji couldn't help but sense a shared need for sanctuary, a desire to escape the relentless demands of their respective worlds. He understood, perhaps more than most, the weight of expectation and duty that rested upon your shoulders. It was a burden he bore himself, one that had been ingrained in him since they had concluded that he was useless to them. Despite being the son of the previous clan head, Toji was relegated to be as lowly as servants. The name Zenin did not mean anything, if he didn’t have powers. The good will of others was what let him remain untouched. Well, untouched enough not to be beaten.

Toji's mind drifted to his cousin Naoki, a constant presence in his life and a rare source of solace amidst the turmoil of their upbringing. Naoki had always been there for him, offering companionship and camaraderie when the weight of their responsibilities threatened to crush them both.If anything, cousin Naoki was the only one that ever truly felt genuine to him in this house. Together, they sought refuge in the simple pleasures of childhood, finding respite from the rigid expectations of their noble lineage. As he had gotten older, he was more a brother to him than Jinichi ever was. Toji supposes he likes it that way. He felt a little bummed out that he was forced to meddle about with those high rise pricks from the other clans. But that’s his duty, as uncle Naobito’s eldest son, after all.

As he observed you from his vantage point, towering over you with a mixture of curiosity and intrigue, The young Zenin man couldn't help but wonder about the young beauty before him. He wonders about what’s there behind the serene facade of your silk fabrics. He had many questions for you. How had you stumbled upon this hidden sanctuary? What trials and tribulations had led you to seek solace among the trees of the Zenin estate? Most of all, where were your shoes?

Yet, despite his curiosity, Toji remained silent, content to observe you from afar, his gaze silent. As though he was trying to figure out the puzzle in his head before he even dared approach you. He had to be careful. None would perhaps mind if it was another Zenin he was meddling with. But it’s quite obvious that you were not Zenin. You were in fact another clan child. And if he doesn't thread carefully, then the clans may end up with animosity. He did not want any trouble, that was pointless. And even then, that would be another headache for Naoki. He couldn’t give more trouble to solve. In that moment, surrounded by the gentle rustle of leaves and the soft whispers of the wind, you were a mystery waiting to be unraveled, a puzzle whose pieces he yearned to uncover.

The three big clans always came together in these little clique circles, echoed in the small bubble that existed between each and everyone of them. In truth, no one wanted to be here. None of the big three ever liked each other. Yet it was more pretense than anything else. Whoever plays the best, becomes the face of their world. No one has ever liked the bullshit of it all. Not his cousin Naoki, not his daughter, not even Toji himself wanted to be here. And so he escapes as often as he can. He goes to the farthest echoes of the manor, on this tree and lays here, wallowing in the world he builds underneath the shades of the tree.

Seeking solace from the stifling atmosphere, Toji made his escape, slipping away from the confines of the courtyard into the relative sanctuary of the surrounding trees. It was there that he encountered you, the sight of your expensive attire contrasting sharply with the disheveled state of your posture. Your kimono, adorned with the finest silks and threads, hung loosely on your frame, creased and crumpled from your slouched position against the massive tree trunks.

Toji couldn't help but feel a pang of annoyance at the sight. What a waste, he thought, observing the careless disregard with which you treated such exquisite garments. With a resigned sigh, he crossed his arms over his chest, knowing that he couldn't ignore your presence any longer. As much as he longed to bask in the warmth of the sun and enjoy his peaceful afternoon uninterrupted, he understood that he had to address the situation at hand.

As Toji prepared to address you, his words poised on the tip of his tongue, he was taken aback when you suddenly lifted your head, tears streaming down your face. The sight of your tear-streaked cheeks and brimming eyes hit him like a physical blow, leaving him momentarily speechless. Your eyes, wide and doe-like, held a depth of grief that struck a chord within him, stirring a pang of empathy in his heart.

In that moment, all of Toji's intentions to reprimand you dissipated, replaced by a profound sense of compassion. He found himself unable to speak, his lips pursed as he took a hesitant step back, overwhelmed by the raw emotion emanating from you.

As you continued to cry, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment at your display of vulnerability in front of a stranger, Zenin Toji felt a surge of discomfort mingled with empathy. He watched as you wiped your tears away with your silk sleeves, your sobs muffled against the fabric, your words lost amidst the tumult of emotions.

Toji's voice broke through the heavy silence, surprisingly gentle as he approached you cautiously. It shocked him too. Not even to little Genmei. So, he supposes he wasn’t accustomed to sounding so gentle, but maybe his body was being courteous for once. "Hey," he began, concern evident in his tone. "Are you alright?"

You sniffled, glancing up at him with tear-stained eyes, your expression a mixture of embarrassment and anguish. "I... I'm sorry," you managed to choke out between sobs, your voice trembling with emotion.

Toji's lips tightened in a line, his initial irritation melting away in the face of your distress. "No need to apologize," he reassured, his voice softening as he crouched down beside you. "I just didn’t expect to find anyone here, that's all. What's wrong? Did you get lost?”

You could only shake your head at him, unable to form coherent words as your emotions threatened to overwhelm you once more. That was not the answer Toji wanted or needed. It seemed like a lie that you did not get lost. But he doesn’t speak just yet. Letting you cry as you do.Pushing would just give him more of a headache. Instead, you buried your face in your hands, your shoulders trembling with the weight of your grief. Toji was at a loss. He’d never had anyone cry to him like this. Not even Genmei. She cries and then hits him profusely, like the little brat she was. He’d never had anyone be this emotional. Not even his mother was this emotional.

Toji hesitated for a moment before tentatively placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. "It's alright," he murmured, offering what little solace he could muster in the midst of your tears. He wasn’t accustomed to comforting anyone. If anything, what little he knew of it came from cousin Naoki. But Zenin Toji felt rather uncomfortable with this explosion of empathy. He wasn’t used to it at all.

He waited patiently, allowing you the space to compose yourself, the sounds of your quiet sobs filling the air around you. The wind blew against your pristine long hair, the edges dancing against its blow. After a moment, you lifted your tiny head, wiping away the last of your tears with a shaky breath. Toji couldn’t help but think it was a pity you were crying. You were really pretty. Not like some of his Zenin cousins. They’re rough, too rough and edged bluntly. Genmei was more like a Mikoto in her beauty, she did not count. You felt like a small beautiful flower, one that needed sheltering. You were out of place here.

"I'm sorry for intruding," you whispered, your voice still raw with emotion, lips trembling. “I’m sorry for causing your annoyance too.”

The raven-haired young man sighed, rubbing the back of his head. You’ve apologized enough for his liking. "It's alright. You're not intruding. If I were here in the Zenin manor too, I would weep tears too.”

You paused, uncertain whether to trust this stranger who stumbled upon your moment of vulnerability. It was wise to be cautious; after all, you knew nothing about this young man. He appeared rough around the edges, far from the picture of gentleness. Yet, despite his outward appearance, there was something in the calmness of his voice and the sincerity of his gaze that put you at ease. He seemed to understand, at least to some extent, the turmoil you were experiencing.

"What's wrong?" Toji's gentle voice pierced the heavy silence once more, his concern evident in his tone. "It's okay if you don't want to share everything."

Taking a deep breath, you mustered the courage to speak. "My mother... she hit me," you admitted, your voice trembling under the weight of your confession. Toji regarded you with newfound insight, recognizing the resemblance to Lord Kamo's brother. You must be Kaiko's cousin, the one often seen alongside Genmei. You were one of those Kamo girls he occasionally encountered.

"Just because I sat improperly at the table," you continued, your words laced with sadness and frustration. "She called me a stupid girl and said I'm not at all a proper lady."

The emerald-eyed man's expression darkened at your words, a mixture of sympathy and anger flashing in his eyes. It saddened him deeply to see someone belonging to a prestigious clan endure such treatment. He knew all too well the coldness and cruelty that could lurk within those esteemed families. Having lived through it himself, he harbored a profound hatred for the lack of warmth and empathy that often pervaded such environments.

And as he looked into your eyes, gleaming with bitterness and sadness, he sensed that you shared his disdain for the oppressive traditions of your lineage. You were all just pawns, little toys to the powerful. If the powerful were the oppressive gods, both of you, many of you, were just the mindless little monkeys that they could play around with. And he hated it. He hated it ever so much.

"It's not your fault," Toji asserted firmly, his voice carrying both reassurance and conviction. "You don't deserve to be treated like that. You're not a stupid girl. And you are a proper lady, no matter what anyone says."

You huffed in response, frustration evident in your tone. "You don’t even know me," you retorted.

Toji chuckled softly, his amusement tinged with a hint of bitterness. "No need to know you to recognize the truth. We're both nothing but pawns to our clans. I understand how you feel."

Your eyebrows furrowed at his words, a mixture of surprise and curiosity flickering in your eyes. "You do?"

Toji nodded solemnly, his gaze distant as if lost in memories of his own struggles. "Yeah, I do," he replied, his voice tinged with a hint of resignation. "I've seen enough to know how it goes. The expectations, the pressures... It's suffocating."

As you looked at Toji, a wave of gratitude washed over you, accompanied by a newfound sense of respect for the young man kneeling beside you. Despite the initial wariness you felt towards him, his kindness and understanding had softened your heart. In a world where every interaction seemed transactional, where people often looked out only for themselves and their own interests, encountering someone like Toji was a rare and unexpected blessing.

His rough exterior belied a depth of character that took you by surprise. Beneath the stoic facade lay a compassionate soul, willing to lend a sympathetic ear and offer comfort without judgment. It was a revelation, a reminder that humanity still existed amidst the harsh realities of their world.

For the first time in a long while, you didn't feel quite so alone in your struggles. The simple act of sharing your burdens with Toji, of knowing that someone else understood your pain, lifted a weight off your shoulders. It was a fleeting moment of connection, but in that moment, it felt like you had found a kindred spirit, a companion in the darkness who offered a glimmer of light and hope.

"I'm sorry," you murmured softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean to burden you with my problems."

Toji shifted his sleeves to the side. "Don't worry about it," he said plainly. “It’s nothing.”

As you sniffled softly, a sense of vulnerability washed over you, prompting you to confess your earlier deception to Toji. The admission hung heavy in the air, accompanied by a blush of embarrassment that colored your cheeks.

Toji's response, a hearty laugh that echoed through the tranquil surroundings, caught you off guard. His laughter was infectious, and despite your initial indignation, you couldn't help but find yourself chuckling along with him. It was a moment of unexpected levity amidst the weight of your shared troubles, a brief respite from the seriousness of your conversation.

However, as your laughter subsided and you attempted to regain your composure, Toji's teasing remark caused your blush to deepen once more. His playful jab at your earlier statement about being a lady caught you off guard, and you shot him a playful yet reproachful glare.

"That's not funny," you protested, your tone laced with propriety’s indignation. "Laughing at a lady—"

“I thought you weren’t a lady.”

Toji's mischievous grin widened as he observed your playful indignation, finding amusement in your reaction. He recognized your beauty, undeniable even in the midst of your embarrassment, but there was something more to you that intrigued him. Unlike many of the beauties he had encountered within the prestigious clans, who often seemed devoid of personality or charm, you possessed a spark of vitality and spirit that set you apart.

In that moment, as you exchanged banter beneath the shade of the tree where you had first met, Zenin Toji couldn't help but feel a sense of appreciation for your authenticity. There was a depth to you that went beyond mere appearances, a complexity that intrigued him and drew him in. And as he teases you playfully, he finds himself enjoying the lively exchange. It’s more anyone of those clan ladies can offer him, he thinks.

“But I am a lady!” You insist on him, standing up to face him and stomping your feet. You looked so small to his bigger figure, you looked exactly like a doll. “You ought not to laugh!”

As Toji's laughter subsided, he met your indignant gaze with a calm yet playful demeanor, his emerald eyes sparkling with amusement. Despite your insistence on your ladylike status, he couldn't help but find your defiance endearing, a testament to your spirited nature.

"Toji," he corrected you gently, his tone soft but firm. You blinked in surprise, absorbing the simplicity of his request. "My name is Zenin Toji."

You paused, momentarily taken aback by the informality of his address. It was unusual for someone of his status to discard the formalities associated with his surname. Nevertheless, you nodded in acknowledgment, offering a shy introduction of your own as a member of the Kamo clan.

"N-nice to meet you, Lord Toji—" you began, only to be interrupted by his gentle interjection.

"Just Toji," he reiterated, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. His demeanor was relaxed, devoid of the pretentiousness often associated with those of noble lineage. "The Zenin part doesn't matter."

You felt a warmth spread through you at Toji's casual demeanor, a stark contrast to the rigid formality you were accustomed to within the confines of your own clan. His easy nonchalant nature had put you at ease, allowing you to shed some of the layers of formality that typically accompanied interactions with individuals of higher status. It didn’t feel stifling to stand beside him, to exist beside him like this. Zenin or Kamo, it didn’t matter.

"Alright, Toji," you replied with a shy smile, the sound of his name rolling off your tongue feeling strangely liberating. "It's nice to meet you too."

Toji nodded in response, a snicker appearing on his lips. “Nice to meet you too, little doll.”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, its golden hues painting the world in a soft, ethereal light, you were drawn to the serene connection that had blossomed between you and Toji. It was a sanctuary amidst the chaos of your clans' expectations, a tranquil haven where the weight of tradition melted away.

Beneath the comforting shade of the ancient tree where your paths first crossed, you and Toji nurtured a bond that defied the confines of lineage. Here, amidst the whispers of nature, you found solace from the rigidity of societal norms, basking in the freedom to simply exist as yourselves.

You looked at him, as he watched the sun sleep.

For the first time in your life, you had a friend.

And so you smiled, finally ever so genuinely.

YOU ALWAYS WANTED TO SEE HIM AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE. As time flowed onward, your excursions to the Zenin Manor alongside your cousin Kaiko grew more frequent, granting you ample chances to cross paths with Toji in his customary haven beneath the ancient trees. Though these visits were not formal arrangements, they became a welcomed routine, a quiet understanding between you and your cousin, Kaiko.

When you expressed your desire to reconnect with the friend you had made at the last clan gathering, she embraced the idea with enthusiasm. Without hesitation, she incorporated you into her entourage. None can stop her. There was no other heir to the Kamo. No son can rival her strength and so she was free to do as she wished. In that power, she grants you the freedom to pursue your own interests while she pursues her own amusements, often joining the Zenin heir's child in their playful antics. For that, you were delighted.

As time progressed, your interactions with Toji blossomed from mere pleasantries into meaningful exchanges. You often found him diligently serving the Zenin heir, Lord Naoki, as his trusted aide. Lord Naoki was a figure constantly in motion, overseeing every aspect of the manor's affairs. Once his duties in the field were fulfilled, he would immerse himself in the endless paperwork, particularly those tasks neglected by his father, Lord Naobito. Toji revealed to you that the elder Zenin had little interest in anything beyond his indulgences, leaving the responsibilities to accumulate unchecked until Lord Naoki intervened, assuming his father's duties and restoring order to the estate.

Before his current role, Toji had been relegated to menial tasks among the ranks of the servants, a position considered beneath his station as the son of a former clan leader. It was a stark reminder of the disdain harbored by Lord Naobito's cronies, who deemed Toji unworthy of the Zenin name due to his lack of cursed techniques. Despite his lineage, they saw him as a stain upon the clan's reputation, dubbing him a ‘useless monkey’ in their disparaging remarks. Meanwhile, Lord Naoki was absent from the Zenin manor, accompanying his wife on a journey to Hida to pay respects to her family's lineage.

Upon Lord Naoki's return, his fury knew no bounds. Toji recounted the scene with a mix of awe and trepidation, describing how his cousin's usually composed demeanor had been replaced by a seething rage unlike anything he had ever witnessed before. In a violent display of retribution, Lord Naoki exacted vengeance upon all those who had belittled Toji, leaving them bloodied and broken in his wake. He even dared to confront his own father, defying the authority of the patriarch in defense of his cousin.

Witnessing this ferocious loyalty, you couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude that Toji wasn't alone in his struggles. He had someone in his corner, just as you did with Kaiko. In a world where alliances were crucial and loneliness loomed like a specter, the bond you shared with Toji deepened as you both found solace in each other's company, united by the shared experience of feeling marginalized and underestimated by those around you.

As time passed, your visits to the Zenin Manor became more than just occasional encounters. They evolved into cherished moments of respite from the rigors of clan life, offering you an escape into a world of serene tranquility alongside Toji. The towering trees of the manor's grounds became your sanctuary, a haven where you could seek refuge from the chaos of your respective families.

In these quiet moments, you found solace in the gentle presence of Toji, his silent companionship offering a soothing balm to the wounds inflicted by the harsh realities of clan politics. Together, you would while away the hours beneath the shade of the familiar tree, lost in the pages of a book as you read aloud to him. Toji, reclined against the sturdy trunk, would listen intently, his emerald eyes tracing the dance of sunlight filtering through the leaves above.

For Toji, the spoken words held a melody that transcended mere literature. He was never that interested in literature. Not even when his cousin Naoki would insist on him reading the classics—that Toji admits without shame. Yet when he encouraged her to continue reading, he had that tender look in his eyes. Ones that she could never read. They were a symphony of solace for the soul. Words that weave a tapestry of comfort and understanding that enveloped him in a cocoon of peace, at least that's what you hope. He rarely spoke, content to let the beauty of the natural world and the soft cadence of your voice wash over him like a gentle tide.

In the tranquil embrace of Toji's company, you discovered a newfound appreciation for the beauty of silence. In contrast to the rigid expectations of the Kamo clan, where silence was enforced as a virtue and communication often felt stifled, the quiet moments shared with Toji felt liberating. There was no pressure to fill the air with meaningless chatter or conform to the expectations of societal norms. Instead, you found freedom in the gentle cadence of shared silence, where words were unnecessary and understanding transcended verbal communication.

With Toji by your side, the silence became a sanctuary—a space where you could simply be yourself without fear of judgment or scrutiny. It was a welcome reprieve from the cacophony of expectations that surrounded you in the world of the clans, offering a sense of peace and tranquility that was both rare and precious.

As you reveled in the simple pleasure of each other's company, you found solace in the serenity of the natural world around you. The rustle of leaves in the breeze, the gentle hum of insects, and the distant song of birds formed a symphony of tranquility that enveloped you both in its embrace. In those moments, the unspoken understanding that bound you together felt palpable, weaving a tapestry of connection that defied words.

Indeed, there was a time when silence unnerved you, when the enforced quietude of the Kamo clan felt suffocating. But with Toji, silence became not a source of fear, but rather a source of comfort and warmth. It was a silent language shared between kindred spirits, a language that spoke volumes without uttering a single word. And in the presence of Toji, perhaps there was never a need for words to describe the depth of your connection—it was simply understood, felt deeply in the quiet spaces between conversations.

In the quiet moments spent together beneath the sprawling branches of the ancient tree, you discovered subtle ways to bridge the gap between you and Toji. Whether it was through shared moments of silence or simple acts of kindness, you sought to connect with him on a deeper level.

One day, as you noticed the frayed edges and worn fabric of his shirts, a determination stirred within you to mend them. Toji initially protested, insisting there was no need for such fuss. But you persisted, your fingers deftly weaving delicate stitches to mend the fabric with care. Despite his reluctance, Toji eventually relented, allowing you to tend to his clothing with quiet determination.

As the days passed and your visits to the Zenin Manor became more frequent, you couldn't help but notice the state of Toji's shirts. The fabric was worn and frayed, with small tears marring the once pristine garments. Each time you saw him, your heart ached at the sight of his tattered clothing, a stark contrast to the polished appearance expected of those belonging to prestigious clans.

Unable to ignore it any longer, you approached Toji one afternoon as he sat beneath the familiar tree, his shirts displaying signs of wear and tear. "Toji," you began, your voice soft but determined. "Your shirts... they're torn. Let me mend them for you."

Toji glanced down at his shirts, his expression unreadable. "It's fine," he replied dismissively, waving a hand as if to brush off your concern. "I can manage."

But you refused to be deterred, your determination unwavering. "Please, Toji," you insisted, reaching out to gently touch the torn fabric. "Let me help. It's the least I can do."

There was a brief moment of hesitation before Toji finally relented, his gaze meeting yours with a mixture of gratitude and resignation. "If you insist," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He knew you would not budge on it. He’d rather take his losses—and his wins.

With a soft smile, you started to question him about all the things that were broken in each article of clothing he owned. You kept asking him one after the other. He was stingy for money, you didn’t ask why. But being a favorite of his cousin, he would have been handsomely paid. You wonder why he hoards old clothing and wears them consistently. But that didn’t matter. Perhaps those lessons with your nanny finally worked out for you.

For a while, the only sound that filled the air was the quiet rustle of leaves overhead and the soft hum of your needle weaving through the fabric. You both were sat by the tree again — the tree you had both become ever so fond for. It was a peaceful moment, one that allowed both of you to simply exist in each other's presence without the need for words. Having a day out was nice, with the weather being calm and the wind being cool. You had him carry all the things that needed repairing in a basket and marched on to your tree.

As you worked, you stole glances at Toji, studying the lines of his face and the way his brows furrowed in concentration. There was a vulnerability in his demeanor, a rare glimpse beneath the stoic facade he often presented to the world. You think he was intrigued, seeing someone do something for him, without any expectation nor without any exchange. But you think, a Zenin might think that. It was hard to find anyone with genuine intentions here.

Eventually, you finished mending the last of Toji's shirts, the fabric now restored to its former state. With a sense of satisfaction, you held up the garments for him to see, a small smile playing on your lips. You looked so proud, somehow as though this was your best achievement in life. There were stars practically beaming in your eyes.

"There," you said softly, a hint of pride in your voice. "All done."

Toji's gaze softened as he examined the repaired shirts, a flicker of appreciation in his eyes. "Thank you," he said quietly, his voice laced with genuine gratitude. "I appreciate it."

You nodded, a warmth spreading through your chest at his words. In that moment, beneath the canopy of leaves, you felt a connection deepen between you, bound not just by the threads of fabric you had sewn together, but by the silent understanding and companionship you shared. By the time you had finished this other shirt, you were due to return home with the rest of the Kamo retinue. You promised to come back and finish them as the days passed.

That you did. With a small smile, the days continued and you would not say a word. You would gather the necessary supplies and set to work at any new little article of cloth that needed mending. Toji would watch as your nimble fingers carefully stitched one of the torn fabric back together. He would tell you to be mindful not to hurt yourself, to be slow and think about your hands. Each reminder is softer than the next, mellower than before. You could not help but feel your cheeks warm at each reminder. He was such a huge man, one that frightened even those who looked down upon him. Yet he was so gentle, so wonderful.

As you worked, you couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction knowing that you were able to offer Toji a small gesture of kindness in return for the quiet companionship he had provided you. You worked hard because you think he deserved to have someone care for him. You stole glances at Toji's stoic expression, noting the subtle shift in his demeanor as he watched you mend his shirts. Though he remained ever so silent, stoic as a statue, you sensed a silent appreciation in his gaze—a recognition of the care and effort you poured into each stitch.

When you presented him with the final fixings, Toji accepted them with a nod of gratitude each and every time, his expression softening ever so slightly. From that day forward, he wore the shirts you had mended with unwavering dedication, despite their outdated appearance or the judgmental gazes of others.

Toji understood the significance of your efforts, recognizing the depth of your kindness and devotion in each carefully stitched seam. And in his silent acceptance, you found a connection that transcended words—a silent understanding that bound you together in quiet companionship. And that perhaps is all that mattered to you.

In the tranquil embrace of the natural world, enveloped by the gentle symphony of rustling leaves and distant bird calls, you and Toji discovered a sanctuary away from the tumultuous demands of your respective clans. Beneath the canopy of green above, time seemed to stand still, allowing you to savor each precious moment spent in Toji's company.

With each passing day, your bond with Toji deepened, weaving together threads of understanding and mutual respect into the fabric of your relationship. In his presence, the burdens of duty and expectation that once weighed heavily upon your shoulders dissolved, leaving behind a sense of liberation and lightness.

Every shared glance, every soft smile exchanged between you carried with it a silent promise of companionship and support, a reminder that you were not alone in navigating the complexities of your world. You found solace in the simple joy of being together, of basking in the warmth of his presence and the quiet strength that emanated from him.

As you lay side by side beneath the verdant canopy, watching the shifting patterns of light dance across his features, you couldn't help but marvel at the beauty of the moment. With Toji by your side, the world felt like a place worth living in, filled with endless possibilities and untold adventures waiting to be discovered.

And as you gazed upon him, his eyes closed in serene contentment, you felt a swell of affection and admiration in your heart. In that fleeting moment, you knew that there was nowhere else you'd rather be than here, with Toji, sharing in the quiet splendor of nature's embrace.

The serene melody of birdsong filled the air, a symphony of nature's chorus that seemed to resonate deep within your soul. Nestled side by side beneath the expansive canopy of the ancient tree, you and Toji found yourselves enveloped in a tranquil oasis, far removed from the bustle and chaos of the world beyond.

The soft blades of grass beneath your backs provided a gentle cushion against the earth, inviting you to surrender to the soothing embrace of nature's embrace. Above, the vast expanse of the sky stretched out like an endless tapestry, its azure hues mingling with the ethereal wisps of cotton-white clouds that drifted lazily across the heavens.

In this idyllic sanctuary, time seemed to stand still, allowing you and Toji to bask in the timeless beauty of the natural world around you. The gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze, the distant murmur of a nearby stream, and the distant calls of unseen creatures all combined to create a sense of serenity that washed over you like a gentle tide.

As you lay together beneath the sprawling branches of the ancient tree, the worries and cares of the world melted away, replaced by a profound sense of peace and contentment. Here, amidst the harmonious symphony of nature, you found solace in each other's company, sharing in the quiet beauty of the world around you.

Lost in the tranquility of the moment, you turned to Toji, a curious glint in your eyes. "Toji, what's your dream?" you asked softly, breaking the peaceful silence that surrounded you.

Toji's brow furrowed slightly at your question, his gaze fixed on the expanse of sky above. "Why do you ask?" he inquired, his voice quiet but thoughtful.

You shrugged, a playful smile tugging at your lips. "Just curious, I suppose," you replied. "Everyone has dreams, don't they?"

After a moment of contemplation, The green eyed young man turned his gaze back to you, his expression thoughtful. Slowly, he raised a hand to gesture towards the vast expanse above. As though he was trying to reach for the sky, for the birds that fly ever so freely above the wide blue deep.

"I suppose... I'd like to feel what freedom actually feels like," he confessed, his voice tinged with a hint of longing. "To live, to breathe, to love without constraints."

With a gaze that conveyed both comprehension and compassion, you regarded Toji, sensing a kindred spirit in his yearning for freedom from the burdens of obligation and societal norms. It was a recognition born from your own experiences, from the weight of expectations placed upon you by your respective clans, and the longing to break free from those constraints.

In Toji's eyes, you saw the echo of your own desires, mirrored in the depths of his gaze. The shared understanding between you transcended mere words, an unspoken bond forged through the silent acknowledgment of each other's struggles and aspirations.

Together, you existed in a realm where the burdens of tradition and duty held no sway, where the pursuit of personal freedom and fulfillment took precedence over the demands of society. It was a sanctuary you had created together, a space where you could share your dreams and aspirations without fear of judgment or reproach.

"And what about you?" Toji asked, his gaze searching for yours. "What's your dream?"

A wide smile spread across your face as you met his gaze. "Funny you should ask," you replied, a playful twinkle in your eye. "Because I think we have the same dream."

Toji's lips quivered upwards in a rare display of warmth, a genuine smile gracing his features. "Is that so?" he remarked, a hint of amusement in his tone.

You nodded, your smile widening. "Yes," you affirmed. "And I hope we can make it together."

A softness settled over the two of you, the weight of unspoken hopes and shared aspirations binding you together in silent understanding. "Me too," Toji murmured, his gaze fixed on the horizon, where the promise of freedom beckoned on the gentle breeze.

The way he looked at you, it burned you.

And as you smiled, you know he felt it too.

You wonder if it was safe to say those words.

‘Ah, is this what it is? Is this what love feels like?’

HE STILL THINKS ABOUT YOU OFTEN, MORE THAN HE’D LIKE. In the quiet solitude of his drunken reverie, Toji's mind often drifted back to the memories of you, like delicate petals carried on a gentle breeze. It wasn't just nostalgia that drew him back to those moments; it was the profound impact you had made on his life, an indelible mark etched upon his heart.

He remembered the way you would smile at him, your eyes alight with warmth and affection, as you made your way to that sacred tree—the tree that had become a symbol of your shared bond. In your presence, Toji felt a sense of peace and acceptance that he had never known before, a feeling that he longed to hold onto with every fiber of his being.

Your touch was like a balm to his wounded soul, soft and comforting, as though you could heal the scars of his past with just a simple caress. In your embrace, he found solace from the storms raging within him, a refuge from the harsh realities of the world outside.

And when your lips met his, it was as though time itself stood still, suspended in a moment of pure, unadulterated bliss. In those stolen moments of passion, Toji felt a connection so profound, so intense, that it transcended the boundaries of time and space.

But as the years slipped by, like grains of sand through an hourglass, Toji found himself haunted by the memories of what could have been, the dreams that had been shattered by the cruel hand of fate. He mourned the loss of the future he had envisioned with you, the life that had slipped through his fingers like grains of sand.

Yet even in his darkest moments, amid the haze of alcohol and regret, there remained a glimmer of hope—a hope that one day, he might find a way to reclaim the love that had been lost, to build a future with you that defied the constraints of time and circumstance.

And so, with each passing day, Toji carried the weight of his memories like a burden, a constant reminder of the love that had once burned brightly between you, and the promise of a future that still remained within reach, if only he dared to reach out and grasp it.

But despite his yearning for what once was, Toji found himself trapped in a cycle of self-destructive behavior, drowning his sorrows in alcohol and reckless pursuits. He sought solace in the fleeting distractions of the world, hoping to numb the pain that gnawed at his heart like a relentless beast.

Yet amidst the chaos of his existence, there remained a flicker of the man he once was—a man who had loved deeply and dreamed of a future filled with happiness and purpose. It was this spark of humanity that kept him tethered to the memories of you, reminding him of the love he had lost and the person he had once been.

In his darkest moments, when the weight of his regrets threatened to crush him, Toji would close his eyes and summon forth the image of your smile, the warmth of your touch, and the sound of your laughter echoing like a melody in his mind. It was these memories that kept him going, fueling his determination to someday find his way back to you, no matter the cost.

But as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, Toji's hope began to wane, replaced by a bitter resignation to the cruel twists of fate that had torn you apart. He cursed himself for his weakness, for his inability to protect you from the fate that had befallen you, and for the pain he knew you must be enduring without him by your side.

In the quiet depths of his thoughts, Fushiguro Toji often finds himself contemplating the bittersweet truth of your relationship. To him, you were like the sun—bright, radiant, and unattainable. And he? He was but a mere moon, destined to orbit around you, never truly belonging to your world. Yet, despite the inevitable distance that separated you, his love for you burns steadfastly, unwavering in its intensity.

When he made the decision to depart from the Zenin clan, he understood that it meant leaving behind any chance of ever crossing paths with you again. Still, the memory of you lingers like a haunting melody, weaving its way into the fabric of his existence. Though you may never belong to each other, he carries you in his heart, a cherished remnant of a love that was never meant to be.

Toji's heart shattered into a million pieces when he had to leave you behind. And now you were forced to be engaged to his brother. You cried for help, you did. That’s what everyone said. You called for him and asked someone to look for him. It was a betrayal of the highest order, one that threatened to tear apart everything he had ever hoped for. The thought of you being wed to his older brother, Jinichi, filled him with a rage unlike any he had ever known.

For years, he had harbored dreams of returning to the Zenin clan, of freeing you from the suffocating grasp of your lineage with Naoki's help. Naoki had the ear of all clans. He could make something happen. But now, those dreams lay shattered at his feet, crushed beneath the weight of cruel reality. The mere thought of you being subjected to a marriage of convenience, forced to spend your days with a man who could never appreciate the gentle soul that you were, filled Toji with an overwhelming sense of despair and helplessness.

Driven by a blind fury, he had once entertained thoughts of storming into the Zenin manor, of whisking you away from your fate by force if necessary. You were alone, there was nothing left for you in the Kamo clan. How long can your cousin protect you from what the clans expect of young women like you? He couldn’t take it. He wanted to leave. Storm back there. But Naoki, ever the voice of reason, had intervened, urging Toji to reconsider his reckless actions. He told him to wait, that he had a plan. That it will all work out.

And so he let himself wait and wait.

Drink after drink, to let his anxiety hurl.

Yet not everything does work out.

No matter how drunk he got at each round;

He would never end up finding you in this life.

Zenin Naoki found his younger cousin Toji in the dimly lit room, his figure slumped over the rough wooden table, an empty bottle of sake clutched tightly in his hand. He could see the anguish etched into Toji's features, the lines of pain and sorrow etched deep into his brow. He was too drunk, Naoki knew. But the moment he would speak those words, he knew that his cousin would be wholeheartedly sober. He didn’t have the heart to say it.

Naoki’s weary palms sharply echoed into fists. He takes the steps toward his little cousin. Naoki lets one fist unclench and open, grabbing an empty chair for himself and taking to sitting. His lips pursed as he moved closer towards his cousin’s bed. His eyes waver, as though giving away all that he was about to say.

"Toji," Naoki began cautiously, his voice soft but firm. "There's something you need to know."

Toji's bloodshot eyes lifted to meet Naoki's gaze, filled with a mixture of desperation and despair. "What is it?" he asked hoarsely, his voice barely above a whisper.

Naoki hesitated, knowing that his words would only add to Toji's suffering. "It's about her," he began, his voice heavy with regret. "Your Kamo flower."

Toji's grip on the bottle tightened, his knuckles turning white with the force of his emotions. "What about her?" he demanded, his voice trembling with barely contained rage.

Naoki took a deep breath, steeling himself for Toji's reaction. "She's... she's married," he confessed, his words hanging heavy in the air like a death knell.

The color drained from Toji's face, his eyes widening in shock and disbelief. "Married?" he repeated, his voice barely a whisper. "To who? I thought the engagement would be broken—"

"To your brother, Jinichi," Naoki replied, his heart heavy with guilt. "It was rushed. Father wanted to strengthen the alliance between our clans. The Gojo clan….had gotten strong recently. As soon as I arrived, it was different. They bypassed me. The marriage already took place."

Toji's world shattered in an instant, the pain of betrayal and loss consuming him like a raging inferno. He felt as if the ground had been ripped out from beneath him, leaving him to plummet into an endless abyss of despair.

But deep down, Toji knew the truth of Naoki's words, and it tore him apart like nothing else ever could. He just couldn’t register how no one could let her free. How no one could help her. Genmei, her cousin Kaiko, his cousin Naoki. There were so many people there. How could none of them have been able to do anything? In that moment, he felt as if he had lost everything—the woman he loved, his dreams of a future together, and the very essence of his being.

"I don't believe you," Toji spat, his voice laced with venom. "She would never agree to such a thing. She loves me, she always has. She would never....."

"Not in her own will." Naoki agreed quietly, leaning back exhaustedly. "But now she has no choice. Once it is done, it is done."

As the reality of his situation sank in, Toji's mind began to unravel, consumed by a maelstrom of rage and despair. He cursed the gods for their cruelty, cursed himself for his weakness, and cursed the world for its injustice. And in that dark, lonely room, Toji wept for the love he had lost, for the dreams that lay shattered at his feet, and for the woman who had stolen his heart and left him to suffer in silence.

‘You can't risk your life like this. Please, Toji,’ Naoki had pleaded, his words echoing with a painful truth that Toji was unwilling to accept. When he cried, when he beat Naoki down, when Naoki didn’t fight back. All he could hear was those words over and over. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Little cousin, I am sorry."

In the end, he saw the wedding photos. That bastard Jinichi had sent them all clans, including the Mikoto — to announce the marriage far and wide. You were miserable beside his brother. Jinichi stood over you, as though he now owned you. As though you were his to tarnish, to harm, to brutalize. Toji’s blood boiled over and over. He screamed over and over. He threw beer bottles over and over. In the end, all Toji had left was his tears, swallowing his own grief over and over. He let himself drown his sorrows in a sea of alcohol and vice.

He couldn’t stop. The bitterness of his betrayal festered within him, consuming him from the inside out. But not at you. Never at you. At everything, at everyone. Toji was angry, for a long long time. All he could think about was how you suffered all these years. And how he could do nothing. He had absolutely nothing.

Each day was a struggle, each night haunted by visions of you suffering at the hands of a man who could never hope to understand the depths of your gentle spirit. Toji's anger burned like a raging inferno, fueled by the injustice of it all.

But deep down, beneath the layers of resentment and despair, there lingered a flicker of hope—a hope that one day, he might find a way to free you from the shackles of your unwanted marriage, to offer you the tenderness and love that you so rightfully deserved. Until then, he would carry the weight of his failure like a heavy burden, a constant reminder of the cruel twists of fate that had torn you apart.

“You know, I always wanted to have my own family.” You whisper to him out of the blue, the corner of your eyes looking at him. He looks at you with a curious gaze, a grin on his face.

“Oh? A big family?”

You shake your head. “No, I have enough siblings as it is. One, two at most.”

“Hm, a boy or a girl?”

You smiled at him tenderly, your hand brushing against the edges of his lower head, your fingertips meeting the dark raven hair over and over. “It doesn’t matter. As long as they’re healthy.”

“Hm, but if you have to choose?”

“A girl would be nice as the eldest.” You tell him softly. “A warm elder sister to welcome her little sibling to the world would be most tender.”

Toji's gaze softened as he listened to your words, a faint smile gracing his lips at the notion of starting a family. "I want that too," he admitted quietly, his voice tinged with a rare vulnerability. "A family of my own, someday."

Your heart swelled with warmth at his confession, knowing that you shared this cherished dream. "I've always dreamed of having a family," you confessed, your voice filled with quiet longing.

Curiosity sparkled in Toji's eyes as he turned to you, his hand reaching out to gently intertwined with yours. "If you had a child, what would you name the girl, if you had her?" he asked softly.

Without hesitation, you smiled and replied, "Tsumiki." As you spoke, you traced the characters for each letter onto the palm of his hand, the strokes delicate and deliberate. "It means 'haven of beautiful chronicles'.”

Toji's eyes met yours, his expression reflecting a mix of awe and tenderness. "It's a beautiful name," he murmured, his thumb brushing over the characters etched into his skin. "For a beautiful future."

Toji's words stirred a tender warmth within you, melting your heart away to be his. His vulnerability echoed your own desires, creating a connection that transcended the boundaries of words. As he expressed his longing for a family, you couldn't help but feel a deep resonance within your heart, a shared dream that bound you together on purpose.

Toji's reaction was one of gentle reverence, his thumb brushing over the characters etched into his skin with a touch of awe. As you traced the characters onto his palm, you infused each stroke with the depth of your love and hope for the future.

In his eyes, you saw a reflection of your own dreams, a shared vision of a future filled with love, warmth, and possibility. And as he spoke of the beauty of the name you had chosen, you felt a sense of gratitude wash over you, knowing that in each other's company, the seeds of a beautiful future had already been planted.

“I see the regular life everyone has, though.” Toji whispers to you as he moved closer to you, his arms on your waist. “I see swimming pools, living rooms. Those little airplanes, the toy ones.”

You giggle against him. “The little house on the hills? Just enough for us. Walls with children’s names, their height.”

Toji hummed at you, placing a small kiss upon your head. “Quiet nights with those ice and those booze, when its just.”

“Yeah,” You say to him, meeting his eyes. “I want that.”

“With me?”

You smiled widely, nodding. “Yes, with you.”

As the tender moment lingered, a soft breeze stirred the leaves above, casting dancing shadows over your intertwined figures. The air was charged with an electric anticipation, the warmth of Toji's presence enveloping you like a comforting embrace.

With a gentle lean, Toji closed the space between you, his lips meeting yours in a tender kiss that spoke volumes of unspoken emotions. It was a moment of pure vulnerability and trust, a silent affirmation of the deep connection that had blossomed between you.

As he pressed his body against yours, you felt the weight of his presence grounding you in the present moment. His touch was both gentle and passionate, igniting a fire within you that burned with the intensity of shared desire and longing.

And as you surrendered to the sweetness of the moment, you knew that in Toji's arms, you had found your sanctuary, your haven of beautiful chronicles, where love knew no bounds and dreams were born anew with each tender caress.

In the end, these memories wilted little by little.

But he couldn’t let his brain forget who you were.

He never allowed himself to let your smile die out.

You were his drug, one that kept him moving forward.

A gun on his head, your smile on his mind, he pauses.

Tears poured over and over, like it was the first time again.

IT WAS ALL TOO EARLY FOR THIS. Fushiguro Toji, now a widower after losing his wife just a year ago, was caught off guard by the unexpected knock on his door. Opening it, he found Kamo Kaiko standing there in her sorcerer uniform, hand in hand with a little girl who appeared to be about three years old. The girl wasn't very tall, her brown hair tied in a ponytail, her eyes bright amber-brown. She had an innocence about her, like a little doe, yet there was a warmth in her gaze that seemed to suggest a familiarity beyond their meeting.

Despite his initial surprise, Toji couldn't help but feel a sense of comfort at the sight of the smiling girl. There was something about her demeanor that put him at ease, as though she already knew him, as though they shared some unspoken connection..

“It’s been a while, Toji.” Kamo Kaiko says to him, a wave of her hand and a charismatic smile. She hadn’t changed. He wonders if that smile of hers will ever be genuine.

“What are you doing here?�� He says roughly, his body resting against the door frame. “Who knows you’re here?”

“No one.” She tells him, her eyes narrowing confidently at him. “You ought to believe me. I’m good at covering my tracks.”

Toji felt exasperated by her words, as much as this early morning has. He rubs his eyes. He opens the door wide. “Come in.”

“Thank you very much~” Kaiko says as she comes in, taking off her shoes. “Mimi, say the same thing!”

The young girl let out a sound, as though she had forgotten. The girl bows politely and smiles at Toji warmly. “Thank you for letting us in!”

“Come, Mimi! Here’s the tiny indoor shoes for you~”

“Thank you, Kaiko-san!”

Toji thinks he should have not opened the door.

Toji's apartment was in disarray, a tangible reflection of the turmoil that had engulfed his life since his wife's passing. Clutter littered the floor, and the air felt heavy with the weight of grief and solitude. However, Kaiko didn't utter a word of reproach or judgment. She knew all too well the challenges of single parenthood, having navigated them herself in the past.

The young girl, full of curiosity and innocence, caught sight of Toji's son nestled in his crib and couldn't contain her excitement. With wide eyes brimming with curiosity, she asked if she could see the baby. Kaiko's smile softened, and she nodded warmly, reminding the little girl to be gentle and careful with the fragile infant. Toji didn’t mind. It was better that someone was looking after Megumi, even for a little while. He’s absolutely exhausted.

As the children played, Kaiko and Toji settled down to talk, the weight of the conversation heavy in the air. Kaiko offered her condolences on his wife's passing, but Toji's impatience cut through the pleasantries like a sharp blade. "Cut to the chase," he demanded, his tone curt and brusque.

Kaiko's expression turned somber as she delivered the heartbreaking news. "I came to tell you... she's gone," she uttered softly, her voice laced with sorrow. "You lost her at childbirth."

Toji's face contorted with a sudden wave of anguish. His mouth went dry as he anticipated the words he dreaded to hear, yet yearned to know for certain. "Who?" he pressed, his voice barely above a whisper.

"You know who," Kaiko replied gently, her gaze unwavering.

"I know," Toji acknowledged, his eyes trembling with emotion as he stared at Kaiko. Despite knowing the answer, he still needed her to say it aloud, as if hearing the confirmation would somehow make the pain more real.

Kaiko's lips tightened as she observed the man before her, grappling with his own torment. She knew that this news would shatter him, just as it had shattered her. With a heavy heart, she spoke your name, the weight of the words hanging in the air like a dense fog.

"It was... a bad situation," Kaiko continued, her voice laced with sorrow. "There were numerous stillbirths and miscarriages. This last one—"

"And none of you stopped him?" Toji's voice cracked with a mixture of anger, anguish, and disbelief. The news of Megumi's mother's death had devastated him, but the thought of you suffering and ultimately losing your life in such a tragic manner ignited a firestorm of emotions within him. His hands slammed down on the table with a force that reverberated throughout the apartment, his eyes narrowed with fury as he confronted Kaiko. "None of you had the courage to intervene? To protect her? You let her die. You let her die at the hands of that monster?"

As Toji's anguished cries filled the air, baby Megumi's response was almost immediate. His tiny wails rose in crescendo, mingling with his father's tumultuous emotions, creating a symphony of sorrow that seemed to echo off the walls of the apartment. Toji's heart clenched at the sound, each cry a painful reminder of the fragility of life and the weight of his loss.

But just as despair threatened to consume him, a figure emerged from the shadows, a ray of hope amidst the darkness. The young girl with doe-like eyes approached with a serene smile, her presence a comforting presence amidst the chaos. With delicate hands, she reached out for baby Megumi, enfolding him in her arms with a tender embrace that seemed to soothe his cries.

"It's okay," she whispered softly, her voice a gentle lullaby that seemed to resonate with the infant's distress. In her arms, Megumi found solace, his sobs gradually subsiding as he nestled against her, finding refuge in her comforting embrace.

Toji's tumultuous emotions seemed to subside, if only for a moment, as he witnessed the touching scene unfolding before him. The sight of the young girl cradling his son and humming a gentle melody cast a tranquil spell over the room, momentarily quelling the storm raging within him. He found himself entranced by her soothing presence, his troubled thoughts momentarily quieted by the tender moment.

As he watched the girl, a flicker of recognition sparked in Toji's eyes, a distant memory stirring within him like a long-forgotten dream. It was as if he could see glimpses of you in her, the way you used to comfort him with your gentle touch and calming voice. His hands trembled with emotion as he turned to face Kaiko, his heart heavy with the weight of grief and regret.

Kaiko met his gaze with a sorrowful expression, her eyes filled with remorse and longing. "I'm sorry, Toji," she murmured softly, her voice laced with emotion. "I couldn't save her from her fate. I couldn't save you from this pain."

Toji's heart tightened at Kaiko's words, the weight of her apology settling heavily upon him. Despite the sorrow in her voice, there was a hint of resolve, a determination to honor a promise made long ago. "But I wanted to keep a promise," she confessed, her gaze drifting towards the young girl who now cradled Megumi in her arms. "At least one more."

Toji's eyes followed Kaiko's gaze, settling on the girl whose presence seemed to bring a measure of solace to the room. A question lingered on his lips as he turned back to Kaiko, his voice barely a whisper. "What's her name?" he inquired softly, his heart heavy with a mixture of curiosity and longing.

A sad smile graced Kaiko's lips as she met Toji's gaze. "Her name is Tsumiki," she revealed gently, her voice tinged with emotion as she spoke the name that carried both sorrow and hope. “Just as she always wanted.”

Toji's heart ached with a mixture of sorrow and gratitude as he gazed at Tsumiki, his tears mingling with Kaiko's. The realization that Tsumiki was the living embodiment of his lost love washed over him like a tidal wave, leaving him feeling both overwhelmed and strangely comforted.

Kaiko's words pierced through the haze of his grief, her voice gentle but firm. "They don't know that she's alive, Tsumiki," she explained, her own tears betraying the depth of her sorrow. "Genmei arranged it all. They wouldn't look for her now."

The weight of her words hung heavy in the air, leaving Toji grappling with a torrent of emotions. "Why?" he whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible. "Why are you...?"

Kaiko met his gaze with unwavering resolve. "This is what my cousin would have wanted," she replied softly. "You were the only person that truly did love her. Tsumiki would be safer here. She would be loved and..."

Toji's voice trailed off, his eyes fixed on Tsumiki's innocent face as he wiped away his tears. "I didn't notice," he murmured, his words tinged with regret. "How much she looked like her mother."

"Spitting image of her," Kaiko agreed in a bittersweet tone, her gaze filled with a mixture of sadness and fondness.

Toji's fingertips grazed Tsumiki's silky hair, the soft strands a poignant reminder of the gentle touch he had once known. As he watched her tender care for his son, a bittersweet ache tugged at his heartstrings, stirring memories of you and the warmth you had always exuded.

In Tsumiki's innocent gestures, Toji glimpsed echoes of your compassionate spirit, a fleeting reflection of the love and kindness you had bestowed upon him. The sight filled him with a mixture of longing and gratitude, a silent tribute to the precious moments he had shared with you.

Struggling to articulate the depth of his emotions, Toji's voice quivered with unspoken sorrow as he whispered his thanks to Tsumiki. His words hung heavy in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the comfort her presence brought amidst the tumult of his grief.

As Tsumiki cradled his son with unwavering tenderness, Toji felt a flicker of hope stir within his heart. In her gentle embrace, he found solace and strength, a beacon of light illuminating the darkness of his sorrow and reminding him of the enduring power of love.

For the first time in a long time, he felt alive.

He felt alive having known that he has you.

You were always with him, you always loved him.

Years later, Gojo Satoru stood before him, watching.

He could only smile, feeling the chasing sunset.

Two fools would be together again, after all this time.

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your-local-simp-writers · 23 days

Text

Star-Crossed Serenity

Word Count: 1024

Warnings: None

Malleus Draconia x Fem!Reader ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

Under the golden afternoon sun, the gardens of the twisted wonderland were a sight to behold. Malleus Draconia, with his imposing figure and regal demeanor, had prepared a surprise for you. As you walked hand in hand, the path opened up to a secluded spot where a picnic was laid out under the shade of a grand, ancient tree.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Malleus,” you said, admiring the spread of delectable treats and the soft blanket laid upon the lush grass.

“It is but a simple gesture,” Malleus replied, his emerald eyes softening. “I wanted to share a moment of tranquility with you, away from the chaos of our daily duties.”

As you both settled down, the world seemed to stand still. The gentle breeze carried the fragrance of blooming flowers, and the only sound was the cheerful chirping of birds. Malleus watched you with a fondness that made your heart flutter, and you knew that this moment would be etched in your memory forever. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the verdant fields of Twisted Wonderland, Malleus Draconia and you found yourselves in a secluded glade, perfect for the intimate picnic he had planned. The grandeur of the Dragon King was evident in every detail, from the fine china plates to the crystal goblets, all laid out on an embroidered cloth that shimmered with threads of silver and gold.

Malleus watched you with an intensity that belied his usual stoic demeanor. “I have longed for this,” he confessed, his voice a deep timbre that resonated with the quiet power of thunder far off. “To be away from prying eyes, to share a moment of simplicity with you.”

You smiled, reaching for a delicate pastry, its flaky layers filled with sweet cream and berries. “And I appreciate every effort you’ve made,” you replied. “It’s not every day that one gets to enjoy such a feast with the heir of the Draconia line.”

He chuckled, a sound as rare as the blooming of the night-blooming cereus, and it warmed you more than the setting sun. “My title means little in the face of your company,” he said. “Here, I am simply Malleus, and you are the one who has captivated my heart.”

The conversation flowed as easily as the wine from the bottle, tales of your respective worlds intertwining like the vines that grew around the ancient tree under which you dined. Malleus was particularly taken with your descriptions of the human realm, his eyes alight with wonder and a touch of wistfulness.

“As much as I yearn to see your world with my own eyes,” he mused, “I fear what my presence would bring upon it. My power is not always… well-received.”

You reached out, placing a reassuring hand over his. “Perhaps one day, we can venture there together. With care, and perhaps a bit of your magic, I believe we could make it work.”

The promise hung in the air between you, as tangible as the magic that Malleus wielded with such ease. It was a promise of future adventures, of shared dreams, and of a bond that transcended realms.

As night fell and the first stars appeared, you lay back on the blanket, Malleus by your side. The constellations above were unfamiliar, yet beautiful in their strangeness. “Tell me about the stars in your world,” Malleus requested, his head turned towards you, his expression open and earnest.

And so you spoke, of constellations and myths, of navigators and explorers who used the stars to find their way. Malleus listened to every word, his hand finding yours, fingers entwining. In that moment, under the celestial tapestry of an otherworldly sky, two hearts from different worlds beat as one.

The night deepened, and the air grew cooler, but the warmth between you and Malleus remained undiminished. Wrapped in a shared blanket, you continued to gaze at the stars, each one a silent witness to the evening’s tender moments.

Malleus’s voice broke the comfortable silence. “In the Draconia-bloodline, there is a legend,” he began, his tone taking on the cadence of a well-told tale, “of two stars, separated by the vast expanse of the sky, yet bound by an invisible thread of fate.”

You turned to him, intrigued. “And what became of them?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“They yearned for each other, across the distance, their light a testament to their longing,” he continued, his hand squeezing yours gently. “Until one day, the thread pulled them together, and they collided in a brilliant display of light and energy, creating a new star, one that outshone all others.”

The metaphor wasn’t lost on you, and you felt a flutter in your chest. “Is that what we are?” you mused. “Two stars drawn together?”

Malleus’s eyes met yours, and in them, you saw the reflection of countless stars. “Perhaps,” he said, “or perhaps we are the creators of a new legend, one that speaks of a dragon and a human, and the love that transcends worlds.”

The conversation shifted then, to dreams and aspirations. Malleus spoke of his hopes for the future, not as a king, but as a man who wished to see the world—not with power and conquest, but with wonder and companionship.

“And you,” he said, turning the focus to you. “What dreams do you harbor within your heart?”

You shared your own visions of the future, some grand, some humble, but all of them painted with the brush of possibility. As you spoke, Malleus listened, his expression one of genuine interest and affection.

The picnic had long since ended, but the connection between you had only grown stronger. As the first light of dawn began to creep across the sky, you and Malleus rose, packing away the remnants of the evening.

“This night may end,” Malleus said as he took your hand, “but our story is far from over. With each new day, we shall write another chapter.”

And with the promise of countless tomorrows stretching out before you, you stepped forward into the light of a new day, the Dragon King by your side.

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glowingbadger · 9 months

Text

Guarantee y'all didn't expect Shane to be my next target lmao but I've started a new sdv game and he's just such a sweet man and I want nice things for him. As the kids say- poor little meow meow

CW for a brief alcoholism mention

And damn Reader-Chan is a lot more forward in this than I usually write them lol but that's kinda necessary with a guy like Shane tbh.

Shane (SDV) x GN/AFAB Reader

A roll in the hay

NSFW 18+

Shane nudges open the door of your chicken coop with a bucket of fresh water in one hand and a hay bale balanced on his shoulder with the other. You look up from where you’d been securing a new hinge on the smaller rolling door, and smile at the sight of him. Truth be told, you’ve been looking at him a lot lately. The healthy flush and subtle sheen of sweat on his skin pair nicely with the worn-in jeans and t-shirt he’s wearing to help you work. His posture is straighter these days, and it draws your eyes up to strong shoulders that you hadn’t noticed were so broad until recently. You’ve noticed other things, too- that he shaves more often, though by late afternoon he’s regained that five-o-clock shadow you’d always thought was strangely handsome on him. That he positively glows and smiles in a way that brings creases to the corners of his eyes when he talks about Jas, or all the progress he and Marnie have made with the animals. That he spends less time at the Saloon and more visiting you.

“Over here good?” he asks, shaking you from your thoughts.

“Hm? Oh- yeah, that corner’s perfect, thanks,” you straighten up and brush off the front of your shirt and shorts, with a brief ‘whew!’ Then, you take a look around the newly-immaculate coop with your hands planted proudly on your hips.

“Man, this place is looking as nice as the day Robin built it. I really appreciate your help today, Shane.” you smile, catching the way he fidgets with the pocket knife in his hand as he bends to cut the bale of hay loose.

“Nah, it’s no big deal.”

“Well it is to me. Afterall, I’ve got assistance from the Valley’s foremost chicken husbandry expert.” you’re sure to add a note of grandeur to the title.

“‘Foremost expert?’ C’mon,” he says with a short laugh. In a practiced motion, he cleanly cuts the ropes around the hay and pulls them free, adding, “You give me way too much credit.”��

“And you give yourself no credit,” you reply, crossing your arms in a faux-pout as he rises and turns to you, “So I have to give you enough for the both of us.”

He sighs, but he can’t seem to help the way the corner of his mouth curls into a grin. With his dark brown eyes cast low, he tries to act like he’s focusing really hard on closing up his knife and storing it back in his pocket.

“Well, y’know,” he mumbles, “I’m… happy to help with anything you need, just ask. I’d like to be more reliable- at least for Aunt Marnie and Jas, and, uh… for you.”

Your smile softens, and you step closer to him, but before you can speak, he adds,

“Sorry, that must’ve sounded weird. I- I’m gonna get this hay taken care of.”

You almost laugh- he’s just too sweet, but you can’t risk making him feel more self-conscious. So, stealing just a moment longer to watch him grab the nearby rake and start work in the corner, you decide to give him a bit of space and head into the house for some water.

Shane has just finished arranging the fresh hay in a pile in the corner of the coop by the time you come back with water bottles and towels for you both. You toss one of each to him with a nod, which he lurches back a step to catch.

“Thanks,” he says with a heavy exhale. He sounds exhausted from the day’s work, but pleasantly so, and you smile as you watch him wipe his face and hands clean with the towel. Truly, it had been a huge help to have him around to help with a few things you’d been putting off, though you suppose he’s used to this kind of work. The chickens are content to mill around in the fields outside until you finished, and two people had made for surprisingly light work all things told, so you feel you both have earned the chance to catch your breath and relax.

Shane stretches out his arms, one and then the other, and you note for the third or fourth time that day that he actually has some impressive strength hidden on that physique of his. You’d only recently started to take note, but it makes sense; carrying around product crates at Joja every day for so long- and now at Pierre's -not to mention the work he does to help Marnie with her own chickens, it follows that he’d have built up some muscle under his soft exterior. Looking at him once again causes a familiar flutter in your stomach, and you smile to yourself.

He takes a swig of water, then glances over at you.

“Something on my face?”

You shrug.

“No, sorry,” you make your way towards the hay piled up in the corner and plop down onto the floor, then lie back against it, reclining comfortably with your hands behind your head and legs crossed out in front of you. Shane follows your lead, careful to keep a respectful distance as he settles on straw beside you.

“I was actually wondering,” you turn on your side towards him, closing half of that distance, “What suddenly inspired you to come help me out today? Like I said, I appreciate it, you’ve been a huge help- but I figured you’d want to relax on a day off.”

His eyes scan your face for a moment, then he looks blankly back up at the ceiling.

“Well you know, you’ve done a lot for me. Been there for me, listened to me ramble about stupid stuff, and, uh… just figured I’d try to do something for you.”

You smile warmly at him, but he goes on,

“And, well…” he sighs, running a hand through his dark hair, “Truth is, It’s also… been one of those days, actually. When I start feeling like… hey, a drink or two, what’s the harm? And I guess- if it were actually one or two, that would be fine, but I know myself.” His expression darkens, and he sighs again, heavier this time.

“So you needed something to take your mind off of it,” you say.

“Basically, yeah,” he turns back to you wearing a wry smile, “Sorry to make you babysit me. I guess that’s pretty lame, huh.”

“Not at all,” you shift closer to him, “I’m really happy that you trust me enough to come to me with this. Besides, isn’t this a huge step forward? Reaching out and doing something productive instead of falling back on bad habits?”

“I… I guess so.” he almost looks unsure of whether he can allow himself to smile at this or not, and his eyes shy from yours.

“Shane,” you’re lying closer to him now, your bodies in that strange space where you can feel one another without touching, “I want you to know that I’m really, really proud of you.”

His eyes flicker down for a moment, you think towards your mouth, and his face is visibly pink.

“Man. How do you always know exactly what to say? It’s… totally unfair.”

When you bring a hand gently to his cheek and lean closer, he seems to freeze at first, until he leans towards you at the last moment before your lips meet. Shane’s are soft, his kiss slow and incredibly tender- though tentative still. His hand rests over yours, but gently, as though he’s not yet sure whether he should touch you. When your tongue grazes his lower lip, he gives a breathy moan that you only barely hear, and briefly, you part from the kiss. You rest your forehead against his, and he whispers your name with audible disbelief. He’s trembling just a little. His hand reverently brushes your hair from your face.

Without a word, you kiss him again, harder this time. He can’t hold back a low groan, and the sound squeezes around your heart and warms your body. You only break from him for a moment to sling your leg over his hips, straddling his lap and pressing yourself to him. At last, he wraps those strong arms around you, holding you close as your tongues tease one another and your nails dig down his chest from atop his clothes. Your pulse is pounding, and you can feel from his chest that Shane’s is too. Yet when your hands run down his torso to ease his shirt upward, he halts, breathless.

“Y/N, wait- you… you don’t have to do this.”

You feel his touch abandon you. When you look curiously down at him, he’s doing his best to appear stoic.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” his eyes dart away from you, “I appreciate what you’re trying to do and everything, but… it wouldn’t feel right to go this far. Just to, y’know, cheer me up or whatever.”

Your heart aches as his words sink in.

“Shane,” your tone is gently admonishing, “Is it really that hard for you to believe that I like you?”

He takes a breath, his face burning red.

“Well, uh… ki- kinda…”

Wordlessly, you take his hands in yours and guide them to your waist. He looks up at you, surprised, confused, and eager despite himself. Then, you guide his touch along your sides- slowly, so he can feel each inch of your body as it passes under his palms. When his hands reach your breasts, you encourage him, pressing his touch more firmly to you, squeezing soft flesh until you feel his cock, hot and hard between your thighs, throb conspicuously in response.

“Shit, sorry, I-”

“Don’t apologize.”

You grind your hips down onto him, rutting your warmth against his erection and wishing dearly that there wasn’t so much damned fabric between you and him. He looks gorgeous like this- flush-faced, muscles tensed, watching you with rapt attention as you encourage him to touch you as he likes. At last, it seems he no longer needs direct guidance; his hands cup and massage your breasts, firm but never rough or forceful. Now and then, he lets his hips shift against yours, creating that wonderful friction between you. You lean down and kiss him again, deeply and firmly, willing your feelings to reach him. You know that words and platitudes would do nothing for a man like Shane. You’re determined to show him how earnestly you want him.

Once again, your fingertips play at the bottom hem of his t-shirt, slowly pulling it upward. When your lips part from his, he’s softly panting, his breath hot and eyes hazy. You linger near enough that your lips brush his when you speak,

“Please, Shane?”

He nods, and you give him enough space to tug the shirt over his head. Clumsily, he shoves the shirt beneath him to avoid scratching his back against the hay. You think for a moment that maybe you should take this to your bedroom- but damn, he just looks too good laid out on the straw beneath you, hair mussed out of place, flushed skin still dewed with the slightest hint of sweat.

You can’t help yourself- you press your body to his and kiss down the column of his neck, stopping to bite here and there, reveling in every mark you gift him along the way. He groans out your name, hands running along your hips, gripping the swell of your thighs, even bold enough at last to grab onto your ass and pull you against him. Only after you’ve kissed and bitten and caressed to your heart’s content, dragged your nails down his chest and felt him arch against you, do you finally pause.

“Wait just one second,” you whisper in the heated air between you. Then, you get to your feet to undress. He watches you in a state of restless arousal and lingering disbelief as you strip for him. You’re tempted to prolong the process and really savor his adoring eyes on you- but you find you’re too eager for what’s to come. So you remove shorts and flannel and undergarments, leaving yourself in only your work boots and returning to his lap as quickly as you can.

“Wow…” Shane’s hands run the contours of your body as he takes you in, and you smile down at him.

“Do you believe that I want you yet?” Your tone is playful, but the question is at least partly sincere.

“I dunno,” he can’t tear his eyes from your body, “Seeing you like this honestly makes it even harder to believe. You’re just- you’re so… wow. It feels like a dream. Or like I’ve lost it and this is all in my head.”

As he speaks, your hands run down his front to undo the button of his pants. Then, you hold his gaze as you slowly drag down the zipper. Your touch firm but gentle, you free his rock-solid cock from his boxers and let out a happy little moan at the sight of it. On the larger side of average length, extremely thick and pleasantly veined, it’s an incredibly tempting sight. You stroke it once with your hand, then again and again, less tentatively each time. You enjoy the heft and shape of it, and the way Shane catches his breath at your touch. He’s sensitive- each brush and caress of your hand, each teasing motion of your fingers, has him blushing and biting back his voice. You consider prolonging this too, but the raw lust you can see blazing in his eyes despite himself, the way he stammers out your name when you grip him more firmly and precum slickens the head of his member- it’s far too erotic to resist.

You position yourself carefully over him, the head of his cock nestled between your lower lips- but you don’t let him enter you just yet. Instead, you sway your hips against him, rubbing his entire length against your needy cunt. He moans aloud, his fingers gripping tight at your thighs, his member twitching.

“Does this feel like a dream?” you say with a grin.

“No, it- it feels good,” he manages, “So damn good…”

You continue grinding against him, bulging veins and the ridge of his crown all stroking you sinfully with each pass. Before long, you’re able to angle yourself so your clit rubs against his cockhead as your hips sway, and you let out a pleasured whine that sends a shiver through him. By now, he’s coated in your arousal, his length glistening with your release.

“Can you feel how wet I am for you?”

“Nngh, yeah,” he groans, “Fuck, so hot…”

For a moment, you feel his hands at your hips trying to guide you onto him, his body bucking slightly towards you, seeking you out. You smile and place a brief kiss to his lips, then say,

“You can stop holding back now, Shane.”

His arm wraps around your midsection, warm and sturdy, and he turns you onto your back. A few awkward moments pass in a frenzy as he shifts his discarded shirt under you to ensure your comfort, and you fumble a hand to the side to grab the condom from your shorts’ pocket. He seems surprised that you’d had it on hand, but opens it and rolls it down onto his length regardless. His brow is handsomely furrowed as he guides the tip to your entrance. You watch him in a blissful haze, arms wrapped loosely around his broad shoulders, and you gasp as he begins to push into you.

“Ohh..!”

Each inch of his thick cock stretches you wonderfully as he thrusts forward, and your head tilts back, your toes curl. Once inside of you, he hooks an arm under one of your knees, holding your legs spread open as he fills you.

“Fuck, you feel even better than I imagined…”

Your face warms at the thought that he’d fantasized about this- perhaps even pleasured himself to the thought of you. You’ll have to pursue that train of thought later- right now, you can’t think of anything but how damn good it feels to finally have him. To feel his body start to move in tandem with yours, massaging the bulging contours of his cock into you. To see him looking at you like you’re some unearthly beauty.

You pull Shane down to you and kiss him, your tongue sliding into his mouth and coaxing him further. With a groan, he drives his hips forward, stuffing you full of him until you’ve taken him to the base of his throbbing member. Gasping and whimpering blissfully into his mouth, your nails rake along his strong shoulders and into his hair. Somewhere in the back of your pleasure-dazed mind, it occurs to you that if anyone happened to stop by the farm today, they’d easily hear your cries through the flimsy walls of the chicken coop. You quickly decide that you don’t care; in this moment, nothing is more important than showing Shane how you feel about him. He needs to know that he’s cared for, wanted, desired.

He pulls away from your kiss, and on instinct, you tug him back down to you with your arms around his neck. At first, he relents, relaxing back into your embrace and kissing you over and over while he bucks into you at a steady pace. Eventually, however, he decisively straightens his back to kneel over you, his thrusts slowing but never ceasing- you’re not sure he could bring himself to stop rubbing himself against your clenching inner walls. Just when you’re about to question him, he brings a hand between your legs, his thumb fumbling a bit clumsily at first until he strokes across your stiffened clit.

“Ohh… fuck, right there..!”

“Like this?”

“Yeah- ohh, yes, just like that!”

Shane takes your direction well- a bit unsure at first, the moment he finds the right pressure, the right pace, the right angle, he memorizes your preference. Your legs wrap around his midsection, pulling him close until he’s sheathed deeply in you while his fingers tease your clit. His free hand grips at your thigh as he watches you squirming and arching beneath him. He’s entranced.

“S’that good?”

You nod, biting at your lower lip.

“So good, Shane… c-close- I’m gonna..! Mmmh!”

“Fuck-” he exhales, his hips bucking more forcefully into you, “Let me feel it. Please, Y/N, I- I wanna feel you cum..!”

Your thighs are trembling, your cunt squeezing tight around him. Eyes hazy, you manage to meet his adoring gaze as you inch closer and closer to the edge. Your hands scramble to grab onto anything, and only find the hay and his shirt beneath you. He’s massaging your tender clit just right, his cock stretching you perfectly. Shane is determined to satisfy you- his focus is relentless, reverent affection openly shining in his eyes. Soon, gasping his name, your eyes roll back as you’re swallowed in a wave of mind-numbing pleasure. And it seems bringing you to this blissful release breaks through to something in him.

Before you’ve even fully recovered from the aftershocks of your orgasm, he lowers himself to you and wraps an arm around your waist. His cock draws out from you nearly to the tip, then slams back in, forcing a desperate cry from your lips. The next thrust is every bit as forceful, and you’re certain he’d be pushing you away from him if he weren’t holding you so close. Shane maintains this pace, fucking into you with long, powerful strokes of his cock that never become fast enough to numb you to the sensation. Your limbs feel weak, your head fuzzy and thoughts scrambled.

Shane’s lips find the crook of your neck, spoiling you with deep, erotic kisses. When he marks you, it’s not the precious, playful little love-bites you left him; his marks are dark bruises, his teeth pressing to you until just before the pain becomes too much and leaving you branded with his lust. Your nails scrape across his back, and in the moment, neither of you even notice. Swollen red lines left as souvenirs will be a lasting reminder of your shared passions.

“So tight… nngh, fuck-” he grunts your name against your skin, “Dunno… how much more of this I can take…”

“It’s okay, Shane,” you say softly between gasping moans, “I- I want it..! Please-!”

His kiss presses you down against the bed of hay. His hands run up your sides, pulling you back against his thrusts, ensuring that the head of his cock hits deep with each push. Then, panting for breath with his forehead resting on yours, you feel his climax in every part of his body on yours. You feel the way his cock swells and lurches with each spurt of cum. The way his hands hold almost painfully tight at your waist. The way his muscles tense, his frame shivers, his voice stalls between grunting moans. He’s gorgeous- and you can’t help breathing out his name as your own body feels both boneless and weightless beneath him. Then at last, you exhale in unison, bodies still tangled together as muscles go slack.

You imagine you look an utter mess. Stray bits of straw poke through your hair, to say nothing of the sweat shared between your body and Shane’s. You’re marked up, red in the face and short of breath- and you can’t recall the last time you felt so wonderfully satisfied. Gazing up at Shane as he regains his bearings- to some measure of success, anyway -he looks about the same as you figure you do. It’s a cute look on him.

“Always knew you had that in you somewhere,” you say with a coy, if hazy grin.

“Did you?” his voice scratches awkwardly in his throat, but he returns your smile, “You’ll have to catch me up, cause apparently you knew where today was going a whole lot better than I did.”

Perhaps just now remembering that his cock is still inside of you, he carefully pulls out, stifling a groan at that last precious moment of friction. He removes the filled condom while giving a short, incredulous laugh.

“I mean, you even had this thing on hand.”

“Grabbed it when I went inside for water,” you say with a casual shrug, “Watching you working up a sweat out here got me thinking.”

Shane repeats that same laugh, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand.

“You’re a weird one, you know that?”

“And you don’t even know how hot you are,” you reply, unshaken.

“There you go again,” he huffs out as he collapses onto the hay beside you, “Saying stuff that makes me crazy.”

Without a word needed between you, Shane loops an arm around your waist and pulls you on top of him, and you gladly follow. Evidently, he no longer cares about the scratching of the straw at his back. You figure it couldn’t compare with the scratches you’d left to linger there, anyway.

“I’ll keep saying it until you believe it,” you lean in, still smiling as you kiss him once more. At long last, he kisses you back in a way that feels certain and unafraid. When you draw away, his hand has come to cradle the side of your face, and he looks at you. Just looks at you. You can only imagine what he must be thinking, but when he finally breaks the silence, he says,

“Shit, what time is it?” he glances at the door but can’t seem to get his answer from the light peaking through the cracks, “I promised I’d be home for dinner… Not that- I’m not trying to- I- I wish I could stay, honest,” he stammers, and you laugh.

“Shane, it’s fine, I know it’s important. Why don’t I walk you back? I can vouch for you.”

Those dark eyes search your face for a silent moment.

“You could… stay and help me whip up some dinner for everyone. If you wanted. No pressure,” he quickly adds, “I’m not trying to make this more than it is, unless you want to, but this is fine and I won’t push you or anything, it’s just… Jas always likes it when you come over.” He lets the sentence end lamely, his voice flat.

You can’t help laughing, and you press a brief but tender kiss to his lips.

“That sounds great, Shane. But we should probably be wearing more clothes and have less hay in our hair, first.”

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