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certaimromance · 3 months ago

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ꫂ ၴႅ Dark Sense.

Aaron Hotchner x Widow!reader

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Summary: Staying in touch with the victims' families was very unprofessional, and Aaron knew it, but you were different...very different.

Words: 5,6k.

Warnings & Tags: mentions of crime, violence, blood, serial killers, death, and trauma. implied intimacy but nothing explicit. kissing. angst with happy ending???. very dark. i don't know how to classify this, sorry. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: Sometimes I remember that the series is a raw world, and these things pop into my mind, just like in my first post here (this story is like the sister of that one).

Anyway, my favorite part of writing Hotch is playing with his professionalism and making him kowtow to the reader, I'm soo guilty.

Aaron Hotchner was incapable of turning a blind eye to those in need. It wasn’t just in his nature to help, it was in his bones, woven into the very fabric of who he was. He would slip a few bills into the hands of the homeless on his way to work, never thinking twice about it, never stopping long enough to be thanked. He worked late because he couldn’t bear the thought of a desperate family sitting in their living room, waiting for a call that might never come. He listened when no one else did. He noticed things other people ignored. The tired shake in a mother’s hands as she clutched a picture of her missing child. The slight quiver in a father’s voice when he insisted that his son would never run away. The way a survivor flinched at an unexpected noise, lost in a memory they couldn’t outrun.

He felt it all. Carried it with him.

Aaron was the kind of man who would stand before you and protect you from whatever came, no matter the cost. He didn't hesitate because he already knew the danger. He had spent years staring into the eyes of monsters, standing in rooms filled with pain, learning firsthand how quickly the world can turn cruel and take everything from you. So when he met you, when he saw your hands clenched into fists to stop their trembling, your wedding ring dancing on your finger and how tightly you clung to it, your eyes darting to the door as if you were ready to run at the first slip, he knew.

Knew what you had survived. Knew what still haunted you. Knew that you were like him.

But more than that, he cared.

He cared about your safety, about the story behind each of your scars, both the ones that could be traced with fingertips and the ones buried too deep for anyone else to see. He cared in a way that was quiet, careful, and measured. Never forceful. Never reckless. He cared in the way he called when he had no reason to, in the way he lingered just a moment longer than necessary after saying goodbye. He didn’t see you as something to be owned or discarded. He never saw you as broken, only as someone who had survived something unspeakable.

He saved you when no one else would, when no one else even tried. Even when he shouldn’t have.

Because your case had long gone cold. Because by all accounts, you were supposed to be just another file in an old cabinet, another story time would eventually forget. There was no reason for him to keep checking in, to keep calling, to keep showing up.

But he did.

Because walking away wasn’t in his nature.

Because somehow, you had become another name, another face, another story that stayed with him long after the rest of the world moved on. You lingered in his mind late at night when the office was empty, when his tie was loosened, and the only sound was the quiet hum of the city beyond his window. You were there in the moments between cases, in the spaces where silence crept in, in the pause before he reached for another file, another life to try and piece back together.

And without meaning to, without wanting to, he fell in love with you.

It was not rational. It wasn't planned, let alone professional. But Aaron Hotchner had never been the kind of man to hesitate when something really mattered, and especially tonight, as he stood soaked to the bone, clutching a bouquet of flowers like a lifeline, he knew that seeing you again, after weeks without being able to do so, meant more than anything.

When he arrived at your house, the street was practically flooded. The rain was relentless, and the wind was even worse. Water pooled at his feet as he stepped out of the car, soaking his shoes and the bottom of his suit, but he didn't care or even think about it. He climbed the stairs two at a time, breathing fast and with a strong pulse in his ears.

His fingers tightened around the bouquet of roses, deep red like the color of longing, before she knocked on the door. Once. Twice. Again. Each tap carried a certain amount of anxiety.

And then, after a couple of moments, the door opened.

You stood there, illuminated by the soft light inside, your eyes wide with disbelief. For a moment, neither of you moved. You looked at him, his wet hair plastered to his forehead, his soaked clothes clinging to his body in a way that only emphasized the serene strength of his body. He stood in the doorway, breathless, as if he had run a marathon just to get to you. And yet he looked exactly the same: calm, determined, steadfast, even in the midst of a storm that seemed to have no end. But his eyes told a different story, revealing his fatigue.

His lips parted to speak, but words never came.

Instead, you did what you did every time he appeared. Without thinking, you threw yourself into his arms, wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, and pulled him in. His body stiffened in surprise for a split second before he wrapped you in a tight, desperate embrace, as if he couldn't get enough of you, as if he'd been holding his breath too long and could barely catch his breath. Your body collided with his with an urgency that took your breath away. The bouquet of roses fell from his hand and landed forgotten at your feet as you pressed your lips to his with a ferocity that seemed to ignite something deep inside you both.

He took a step into the house and closed the door behind him, but you clung to him without breaking the kiss. His hands went to your waist and pulled you close. The warmth of your body contrasted with the coldness of the rain-soaked world outside. Your hands tangled in his sodden hair, pulling him to you as if you were afraid that if you let go he would disappear, that he would slip through your hands like the storm. But it didn't. It was solid, it was real, it was here after more than two weeks without seeing him or having more than the occasional message.

The kiss deepened, messy and desperate, as if neither of you had ever tasted anything as sweet as the desperate need in the other. His lips moved with a gentleness that belied the urgency of the moment, as if he was savoring the feeling of being close to you after what seemed like an eternity of longing. His hands slid from your waist to your back, pulling you tighter, the weight of everything he had been carrying lifting, if only for a moment, because you were here. You, with your warmth and your presence, and your smile that always seemed to bring him peace.

When you finally pulled away, just enough to breathe, just enough to look into his eyes, the quiet between you was almost overwhelming. Your foreheads pressed together, your breaths mingling, the rain still pouring outside but somehow irrelevant now. You could hear the beating of his heart, steady and strong against your chest.

“You’re here,” you whispered, your voice trembling just slightly, as if the reality of it was still too much to comprehend.

His hand gently brushed your cheek, and he spent his time watching you, pleased by the emotion you always showed when you saw him. It didn't matter if it was a few hours, days, or weeks. You were always happy to see him, and that was more than he ever had before.

“I’m here,” he murmured, his voice low, rich with the weight of everything that had come before.

“So…are you mine for the whole night, or just for a little while?” you asked, your voice teasing despite the depth of the moment.

His smile was slow, knowing, like he had already anticipated the question. The corner of his mouth lifted just slightly, but there was a warmth in his eyes that told you everything you needed to know.

“All night,” he whispered, his hand slipping to the back of your neck, pulling you closer once more when you didn’t say anything. “You’re not going to ask why?”

“No, you’re here. That’s all that matters to me.”

After hours of maintaining his composed, unreadable expression at the office, Aaron finally allows himself to smile, really smile. He can’t help it. No matter how late he is, no matter how much weight he carries on his shoulders, you always meet him with love. A soft smile, a gentle kiss, arms that wrap around him like home. And just like that, the tension in his mind unravels, the chaos quiets. You are the one thing in his life that doesn’t demand anything from him, only that he be here, with you. And God, he loves you for it.

Later, the two of you lay sprawled across the couch, bodies tangled in the quiet warmth of the dimly lit room. The world outside ceased to exist. No ringing phones, no pressing cases, no ticking clock counting down the hours. Just this. Just you and him, breathing in the same steady rhythm.

Your fingers moved in slow, absentminded circles along his arm, tracing the contours of muscle and scar, memorizing the shape of him as if you hadn’t done it a hundred times before. Your touch was featherlight, soothing, lulling him into something dangerously close to peace. He exhaled, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek, his presence solid and steady in a way that made your own heart slow to match his.

It was then that your fingers stilled, catching on something out of place. A faint smudge of color near the sleeve of his shirt, small, almost unnoticeable, but there. You frowned, eyes narrowing as you brushed your thumb over the fabric, feeling the slight texture where the stain had dried into the fibers.

A soft green, uneven at the edges, like a marker dragged hastily across the material. It wasn’t just a stray speck of lint or a shadow in the dim lighting, it was something left behind, a remnant of a moment you weren’t there for.

Your brows knitted together as curiosity flickered to life. “Is that…marker?” You murmured, tilting your head, your thumb still absently tracing over the stain as if doing so would erase it.

Aaron’s gaze shifted down, but it was brief, almost distracted. He sighed, clearly familiar with this particular problem. “Jack forgot to put his pencils away,” he replied with a hint of resignation, but there was an undercurrent of amusement in his tone, as if this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened.

A smirk pulled at the corner of your lips as you raised an eyebrow. “And you decided to join him? Maybe color a little?” you teased, the light in your eyes showing that you weren’t entirely serious, but you couldn’t resist the playful jab.

He shot you a flat, unimpressed look, but there was a faint twinkle in his eyes, an amused, almost endearing reaction that made your heart skip. “I leaned on the table without realizing it was there,” he muttered, his voice laced with the smallest hint of self-awareness, though he didn’t seem all that concerned.

“Mhm.”

Instead of continuing the banter, you shifted slightly, moving just enough to be able to better examine the mark on his shirt. Your fingers continued to glide over the fabric with delicate precision, feeling the slight texture of the stain as it caught the light. The motion was almost automatic now, like second nature, as you gently explored the fabric, your focus entirely on it, all the while feeling the warmth of his skin underneath. Your gaze met his again as you noticed the faintest hint of tension in his jaw.

“Give it to me. I can wash it,” you said, your voice soft yet insistent.

He opened his mouth to protest, likely preparing to tell you it wasn’t necessary, but you didn’t give him the chance to finish. Your hands were already moving, deftly unbuttoning his shirt, each button undone with practiced ease as if you’d done this a hundred times before. The buttons slipped through your fingers, one by one, the fabric slowly parting as you worked, your gaze never leaving his.

“Take it off,” you said, your voice no longer giving room for argument. There was something in the way you said it, so matter-of-fact, like it wasn’t the first time you’d seen him in this state, so comfortable with his presence that you barely gave it a second thought.

Your hands were already at his shirt buttons, nimble fingers undoing them with an ease that betrayed the number of times you had undressed him before. Each button came undone in smooth, practiced motions as you focused intently on your task. Your movements were calm but decisive, the familiarity between you two almost palpable. You weren’t rushing, just taking your time, as if this moment, this quiet act of care, meant more than the rest of the world outside the door.

As you worked, you felt the soft warmth of his skin beneath the fabric and the faint scent of his cologne, which always seemed to linger just enough to remind you he was real. With each button you undid, the shirt fell open a little more, exposing his toned chest and the barest hint of scars, memories of battles fought and won. He didn’t say anything at first, but you could feel his body relax under your touch, as if he was allowing you to take care of him in a way that meant something, even if it was just this small act of removing his shirt.

When you finished with the buttons, you pulled the fabric away from his chest slowly, almost reverently, before folding it over in your hands.

You pushed yourself off the couch, the soft creak of the cushions signaling your departure. “There should be something in the closet for you,” you murmured, your voice low and soothing, carrying the promise of comfort. You glanced over your shoulder, offering a fleeting smile before turning your attention back to the task at hand. “One of my biggest sweaters, maybe. They should be comfortable enough.”

Aaron didn’t argue, and that silence, the unspoken understanding between you, was more than enough. It was a kind of quiet harmony that neither of you needed to vocalize.

You moved toward the hallway, the faint sound of your footsteps echoing softly in the stillness of the house. The familiar hum of the refrigerator and the soft creak of the floorboards beneath your feet seemed to fill the space around you as you made your way to the laundry room. There was something soothing in the routine of it, the sound of detergent splashing against fabric, the gentle scent of clean linens in the air, the calmness of the house in contrast to the chaos outside.

You grabbed the bottle of detergent, your fingers brushing over the cold plastic as you opened the cap. The scent of lavender and citrus mixed in the air, a comforting, familiar smell. You poured the detergent into the washing machine, the liquid pouring slowly into the drum with a quiet rush, followed by the fabric softener, which added a hint of sweetness to the mixture. You moved mechanically, carefully setting everything in place, but all the while, your thoughts were elsewhere, back on Aaron, back on the space between you two that always seemed to be filled with unspoken words.

And then, without thinking—without meaning to—you reached for his shirt.

It was instinct. Something deeply ingrained in you, a reflex you hadn’t even realized was so natural. You didn’t hesitate as you lifted the shirt up to your face, bringing it closer. The soft cotton still held the faintest traces of him, the warmth of his skin, the scent of his cologne that lingered just below the surface. His scent, unique and comforting, was so familiar to you that it almost felt like home.

You inhaled deeply, your eyes fluttering closed for a moment, allowing the warmth of his essence to wrap around you. It was steady, constant, like the grounding presence he always had in your life. You could taste the remnants of his day on the fabric, the tension of the office, the exhaustion from the long hours, all wrapped up in this simple piece of clothing.

Without meaning to, your lips curled into a soft, almost imperceptible smile, allowing yourself to savor the warmth that always came when you were near him. That fleeting moment of peace before you turned away, shaking off the quiet contentment like it was something fragile. You made your way back toward the living room, but the second you stepped through the doorway, everything inside you came to an abrupt, screeching halt.

Aaron’s figure was unmistakable even with his back to you, his posture relaxed as he stood near the couch, adjusting the sleeves of a sweater he had slipped on. A thick, moss-green sweater that seemed to cling to him in a way that made your chest tighten, a memory rushing forward, uninvited, like a phantom you couldn’t escape.

Your breath caught in your throat, sudden and sharp, as the sight of him in that sweater sent a wave of coldness crashing through you. It was as if ice had replaced your blood, freezing you to the spot. Your stomach dropped, like you were plummeting without a safety net, and a heavy weight pressed into your chest, making it harder to breathe.

No.

It couldn’t be.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. All you could do was stare at the figure before you, stare at that sweater, the one that had once been from someone else before things had become messy. Before everything had turned sideways.

It was a sweater you knew too well. The one that had been worn by someone else, in a life you tried not to remember. You had buried it in the back of your closet, hoping never to see it again, but here it was. And here your new life was, wearing it without a second thought.

Aaron, sensing the silence hanging heavy in the room, turned slightly. His brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. He looked down at his wrist, as if noticing the way the sweater fit him, a subtle quirk to his lips as he shrugged. “I found this in the closet,” he said casually, his voice light. “It’s a bit big to be yours.”

The words, so simple, so innocent, landed like a slap in the face, pulling you deeper into the darkness of your thoughts. The world felt distant now, muted, and the room was suddenly too small. You didn’t register him taking a step closer until his hand reached out, a reflexive gesture to touch your wrist, to close the distance between you in the familiar way he always did.

It was the motion that broke you. The simple act of him reaching for you—the one thing that used to make you feel safe—only served to send a jolt of panic through your body. Without thinking, you jerked back, the movement instinctual and sharp, as if you had been burned.

The change in him was immediate. The warmth in his eyes evaporated, replaced by a flicker of concern. His whole body stiffened, and he stopped dead in his tracks, his hand still hovering in the air, suspended as if unsure of what to do next. His expression, once open and warm, now darkened with confusion and something else, something unreadable.

You swallowed, fighting the panic that rose in your chest, forcing yourself to find your voice. It came out as a whisper, barely more than a breath. “Take. That. Off.”

Your words hung in the air, cutting through the tension. There was no softness now, no playfulness or teasing. Just something sharp and brittle, like glass breaking under too much pressure. The command was not a request but a demand. Your tone, quiet as it was, carried an edge that made the room feel even more suffocating.

And then, slowly, deliberately, Aaron moved. His hands, shaking ever so slightly, grasped the sweater’s edge, and with quiet care, he lifted it over his head. The fabric slid from his body with the softest of sounds, his movements so controlled that it was clear he understood the fragility of what he was doing. He was stepping through a door that had been closed for too long, and now, the weight of it was heavy in the air, like something had cracked open.

Your lungs felt constricted as you watched him, each inhale too sharp, too shallow, like the air was being sucked out of the room. The sight of him there, the sweater in his hands, felt like a cruel joke, a memory that refused to stay buried. It shouldn’t be here. Not in this room. Not on him. Not now.

The words came quietly, but their weight was absolute, the finality of them hanging in the air like an unspoken truth that neither of you could escape. “This was his.”

The phrasing wasn’t a question but a statement, an acknowledgment of the past that you both knew too well. That sweater had once belonged to someone who wasn’t here anymore. To someone who had worn it with the same ease, the same confidence, but whose presence now existed only in the space between memories and nightmares.

Your throat tightened painfully, and for a long moment, it felt like you couldn’t speak at all. The words felt like they had to claw their way up through the rawness of your throat, but you managed. Just barely. “Where did you find it?”

Aaron let out a slow exhale, his voice rough when he finally spoke again. His hand ran through his hair in that familiar motion, but his gaze flickered briefly toward the bedroom, as though the very sight of the closet stirred something in him. “It was in the closet,” he said, his voice softening as he recalibrated. “I thought…I thought it was yours.”

You barely heard him after that, your focus narrowing entirely on the sweater, now held loosely in his hands. It wasn’t just a sweater. It was his sweater. The thick, soft fabric had once wrapped itself around a body you would never feel again. It had carried the scent of another man—the warmth of cologne, the lingering trace of late-night coffee, and the faintest hint of pages from books he would never finish reading. It had been a part of his mornings, his life, and your secondary role in it. And now, that same sweater was in Aaron’s hands, worn by a man who had never known him, never hurt you like him, yet somehow was standing here, holding the remnants of a life that no longer belonged to you.

The irony of it made your stomach churn. The bitter edge to it cut deeper than you expected.

“You shouldn’t have found that,” you whispered, the words barely more than a breath, as if speaking them aloud would shatter what little control you had left.

Aaron’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, his eyes darkening with a silent intensity that made the room feel even more suffocating. “You never told me you kept anything,” he said, the words softer but carrying an edge nonetheless. “I thought it was all evidence.”

A humorless laugh, harsh and bitter, slipped from your lips, and you barely recognized the sound. “Would it have mattered?”

He didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t need to. The truth hung between you, unsaid but understood. Of course it wouldn’t have mattered.

You both knew how this story ended. How it always had. Aaron had been the one who stood before you, the lead agent on the case, the one who had delivered the words that had changed your world into new pieces. “We’re doing everything we can,” they had said. “We’ll find him. We won’t stop searching.”

But then, the time had passed, and the cold reality had set in. There were no more answers. No more leads. The case had gone cold. The search had stopped. And all that had remained were the shattered pieces of the life you had once had and the painful, bitter knowledge that it was real.

Aaron exhaled, his breath slow and measured, as if trying to steady something inside himself. The weight of the past settled between you like a ghost, an unseen force pressing against the silence, making the air feel heavier, thicker. His posture had changed—his shoulders slightly hunched, his stance less certain than before. He was trained to navigate difficult conversations, to read between the lines, but this—this—was uncharted ground.

“I didn’t know,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, tinged with something heavier. Something almost apologetic.

You forced yourself to meet his gaze, even though it hurt. Even though it felt like looking at him would pull you deeper into something you weren’t sure you could handle. Your voice was steady, but the edges of it were raw. “You didn’t ask.”

Something flickered in his expression. Guilt, maybe. Regret. You weren’t sure.

But it didn’t matter.

Because the truth was, none of this changed the reality you had lived with for years. It didn’t change the fact that your husband was gone. That Aaron had been the one to close the case. That he had been the one to look you in the eye and tell you the words you never wanted to hear. No new leads. No new evidence. Nothing left to find.

And now, somehow, whether by accident or some cruel twist of fate, he had reached back into the past and pulled a piece of it into the present, wrapped it around his body like it was just another sweater, unaware of the wreckage it would leave behind.

Your hands were shaking now.

You hated that.

He was still watching you, his gaze sharp, calculating but not in a cold way, in the way of someone who was trying to understand, who was weighing the right thing to say against the wrong one. But there wasn’t a right thing. Not here. Not in this moment.

“I need a minute,” you murmured, your voice barely more than a breath.

Aaron hesitated, his jaw tightening as he weighed his options. The part of him that was wired to protect, to stay, to make sure you were okay, fought against the part that understood you needed space. That you needed air.

“I don’t want to leave you like this,” he admitted, his voice low, careful.

You shook your head, already taking a step back. “Please.”

A beat.

And then, finally, with a slow nod, He set the sweater down. His movements were careful and deliberate. He placed it on the arm of the couch instead of the table, as if some part of him knew dropping it too carelessly would only make this worse. Then, without another word, he turned and stepped away, leaving the room.

The second he was gone, your breath hitched, and you pressed a hand to your mouth, squeezing your eyes shut against the sting building behind them.

You had spent years making peace with the past. Years learning to live with the silence, with the unanswered questions, with the knowledge that some things would never be really resolved. You had accepted the emptiness, the lack of closure, and the scars in your skin because what other choice had you been given?

But now, as you stared at that old, worn sweater, the last tangible piece of the man you once loved, you felt something shift inside you.

Something fragile.

Something unraveling.

Because maybe the past wasn’t done with you yet.

Aaron didn’t leave.

Not completely.

His presence still clung to the space, lingering in the air like the ghost of an unspoken truth. You could hear him in the other room: the quiet rustle of movement, the barely-there sound of his breath. He wasn’t hovering, wasn’t pressing, but he was close enough that you could feel the weight of him, steady and unmoving. Close enough that his absence wasn’t absence at all.

You needed the space. The moment to breathe. To gather the shattered pieces of yourself before facing him again.

And then, after a while, he returned.

He stepped into the room without a word, his silhouette cast long in the dim light. He didn’t demand an answer, didn’t pry, just stood there, hands in the pockets of his still soaked coat, gaze unreadable. The sweater—the damn sweater—was gone now, discarded somewhere out of sight, but its presence still lingered. You could still see it in your mind, could still feel the weight of it, heavy as the silence between you.

“I didn’t mean to blindside you.” His voice was quiet, careful. A thread of something softer wove beneath the words, regret, maybe. “That wasn’t my intention.”

You inhaled slowly, dragging air into lungs that felt too tight, too full of everything you weren’t ready to say. Exhaled even slower. Your emotions were raw, skin too thin, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze.

“I know.”

He would never mean to hurt, he wasn’t—

No. He was a good man.

Aaron shifted slightly, his stance easing, not quite casual, but open in a way that felt deliberate. Like he was offering you something, whether you wanted it or not. “If you want me to…I can look into it again.”

Your breath caught.

“I still have contacts. Still have ways of finding things other people can’t, my team can.” His voice was steady, unwavering. There was certainty in it, the kind that made it clear he wouldn’t stop unless you asked him to. “If you still want answers, I can help.”

Your fingers curled into your palms.

For years, you had chased answers. Drowned in them. You had lived inside the unknown, inside the waiting, inside the silence of a house that never felt really yours. Every silence, every shout, every blows, and every tear. Everything fell on you every time you sat with your head down, waiting for what never came.

And then, one night, the wondering had stopped.

Because you knew.

Your husband was dead.

The air in the room felt too thin, pressing against your ribs like a vice. You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “No.”

Aaron’s brows furrowed slightly. “Are you sure?”

You nodded, the words heavy on your tongue, thick with something you couldn’t name. “The case is cold. It has been for years.” Your voice was quieter now, softer, but no less certain. “I can’t…I can’t live through that again.”

His gaze held yours, searching, reading you in the way he always did, like he could pull apart every flicker of emotion, every unspoken thought, and lay them bare.

But he didn’t push. Didn’t argue. Didn’t judge you.

And after a long beat, he just nodded. “Okay.”

It should have felt like relief. Like the closing of a door that had been left open for far too long.

But it didn’t.

Because Aaron wasn’t just anyone. He wasn’t an outsider to this. He had been part of it, had been the one to stand across from you years ago and tell you that the case was over. That they had done everything they could. He had been the one to look you in the eye and say, I’m sorry.

And now, here he was.

Still offering to help. Still trying to find the truth.

A slow, unsteady breath escaped you. “I’m tired.”

His expression softened, just slightly. “I know.”

You hadn’t meant to say it, but it was the truth. You had spent so long carrying this weight alone, so long trying to hold together the pieces of something broken beyond repair. It had taken everything in you to bury it, to build something new from the wreckage of your old life.

And now, for the first time in years, someone was offering to help. Someone was offering to know. The thought of it should have terrified you. Should have sent you spiraling.

But instead, as Aaron took a step closer—slow, hesitant, but steady—you felt something else entirely.

Warmth.

Not understanding. Not yet. But warmth.

His hand lifted, fingers brushing against your cheek again, just as gentle as before. He wasn’t asking for anything. Wasn’t demanding the truth.

He was just here.

And somehow, that was enough.

You exhaled shakily, tilting your face into his palm, eyes fluttering shut. “Aaron…”

It wasn’t a question. Wasn’t a plea.

Just his name.

And somehow, it carried more weight than anything else.

His breath was warm as he spoke, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek. “I’m here.”

You didn’t know who moved first. Didn’t know if it was him or you, or if it even mattered at all. But then his lips were on yours, slow and sure, careful in a way that made your chest ache. And the weight of everything else faded into the background.

For the first time in a long, long time, you let yourself forget.

Just for a moment.

Just long enough to ignore the voices whispering in the back of your mind.

And the agent Aaron Hotchner didn’t hear the wind whispering, over and over again—

She did it.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotch angst #aaron hotch fanfiction #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner angst #aaron hotch imagine #aaron hotchner #aaron hotch x you #thomas gibson

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arabellasleopardcoat · 11 months ago

Text

Two ships (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Two people who do not understand each other, but keep coming back together. Familiar much? It’s the tale you share with your brother, Daemon.

Warnings: Crybaby! Reader. Medieval punishment for children. Canon character death (Alyssa and Baelor) Sexual thoughts. Prostitution. Mature language. Incest. Fluff.

A/N: In which we explore the complicated dynamics of the sister wife. Requested. We also suscribe to @just-some-random-blogger doctrine about Daemon being a scary unhinged man but soft for the reader.

THE FIRST TIME your brother makes you cry is when you are eight years old. It is, of course, not the first time you tear up because of him. But there is a difference between tearing up because he tugged too hard on your braid, or because he cut your favorite doll’s hair and what he did to you that day.

You shall never forget the reason for your mother’s death, not for the rest of your life. It’s one of those core memories, a truth of the universe. You cannot forget fire burns, you cannot forget water is wet, and you cannot forget your mother is dead because of you. Even if you do not know when you learned those facts, they are still there. Tucked into your mind.

As a child, you used to be quiet. You barely cried, or demanded things of anyone. As the youngest and only girl of the household, you often felt like there was an unbreachable gap between you and your family. And so, you filled your days with your lessons, and behaved well, eager for praise and attention.

Your relationship with your brothers was complicated. Your father was often far away, busy with his important position, so Viserys felt more like a parent than a sibling. The age difference didn’t help things along. While you were still learning how to walk, his betrothal was already negotiated.

Daemon, while much closer in age, is much more distant too. He is mercurial, playing the cruelest tricks on you, but also defending you from other children. Just last week, he had dyed your beloved white dog green, but he had also punched a steward’s son for mocking your braids.

He can never decide if he hates you or loves you. And today, it’s one of the days he hates you. You can’t do anything right, it seems. As you break your fast, with Viserys cutting up your food for you, he calls you a baby. When the Septa comes to get you for your lessons, you are a suck-up. His bad mood escalates during the day, and when your father arrives for lunch and dares ruffle your hair, Daemon doesn't hesitate to call you a cocksucker whore.

For his offense, his mouth is washed with soap. It is not a punishment you have ever endured, because everyone knows ladies don’t get physical punishments, but it looks unpleasant. Whatever cocksucker whore means mustn't be very nice.

By the time his punishment is over, your father is long gone again. He has disappeared into his chambers, and Viserys has been left with the bitter task of reconciling you.

“You will apologize to our sister.” He orders Daemon. “Now.”

“NO!” Daemon shrieks, face blotchy from the humiliation of his mouth being washed with soap. He has not shed a single tear, which you find admirable despite yourself. The taste alone would make you gag, and that is without including the humiliation of a servant holding you while Viserys does the deed.

You feel awkward at the thought. Something doesn’t sit right with the thought of such a thing being a punishment, but you do not dare voice it. You simply sit in the chair Viserys has pulled for you and kick your feet. It soothes you slightly.

“Take it back, Daemon or so help me the Seven…”

“I will not take it back!” Daemon screams, pushing at Viserys. “She is a little whore! She has you all wrapped around her little finger, and now you will send me away…”

“Daemon.” Viserys grabs his wrists, in warning. With several years and a growth spurt on his side, he manages to subdue him easily. You worry that will not be the case for much longer. Daemon looks very different from your peaceful Viserys, shoulders broader, hands a bit bigger. In a few years, he will become a fearsome warrior, and Viserys will still be your bookish older brother.

“Why do I have to go squire for some stupid lord, anyway? We are the blood of the dragon! We do not need those fools.” At this new information, you frown. You clutch your doll more tightly. No one had informed you Daemon had to go squire away from Viserys and you.

“Fostering is important. It helps us form bonds with other houses.” Viserys explains, with the patience of someone who has had this argument already. You tug on your doll, feeling sadder by the minute. Everyone knew but you?

“Why don’t we send her away?” Daemon points at you, and a sudden wave of fear hits you. Viserys can’t agree with him. You cannot leave. Your panic almost makes you miss his next words. “She is the reason mother is dead. I hate her.”

And the world stops for a second. The argument goes on, Viserys screaming at Daemon, but you are still stuck there. Your ears begin to ring, so you press your hands tightly to them and shake your head.

By the Seven, Daemon is right, you realize with growing horror. Your father and Septa always told you your mother had died the way you were born, from the difficult birth. Tears begin to fall down your face, but you barely notice them. It feels like you are choking.

In your childish mind, the death of your mother in childbirth, and your birth had never been connected. You never thought it had been your fault. But Daemon was right. She was dead because she had birthed you. It was your birth that killed her.

Her death was your fault. You killed her.

No. No. It can’t be right.

“That is not true.” You turn to Viserys, uncaring they have long since moved on with the argument. He has always protected you and reassured you. Even takes care to get rid of the monsters beneath your bed every night. He will fix it. “Brother, he is lying again!”

Viserys makes a strange face. A cross between a grimace and a frown. He doesn’t refute it, nor tries to comfort you.

“It’s the truth.” Daemon smiles, with the smugness of someone who has delivered a killing blow. He advances, his eleven-year-old body seeming larger than life to you, and pokes a finger in your sternum. “You killed her.”

It feels like a rug has been pulled from under your feet. You stumble back. It’s all your fault. Your mother is dead, and your father is never home, haunted by the memory of his wife, because of you. Daemon and Viserys lost their mother, because of you.

You killed her. You killed her. You killed her. The world looks the same around you, despite the revelation, and you wonder if it is so because everyone knew but you. Is it why Daemon doesn’t love you? Why father is never around?

A sob makes its way out of your throat, and then another. And another. Soon, you are bawling like a dying animal, and feel like it too. You cry so much, your little heart feels like it will jump out of your chest and you will die. You cannot breathe, choking in your own snot and tears, and panic makes you nauseous.

Never in your life had you ever cried so. A nervous fit, the Maester will call it later, after you puke your lunch and stop making heaving noises like you are lacking air. One caused by extreme distress. Daemon will be standing guard at the foot of your bed when you come to be again. They had ended up having to give you three drops of Milk of the Poppy to calm you down.

It doesn’t happen again, and you barely remember it when you grow up. But Daemon never forgets it.

CRYING IS A weakness that cannot be tolerated. The three of you had been born dragons, but sometimes Daemon doubted Viserys and you had as much fire in your veins as he did.

Said doubt intensifies when he finds you crying in the gardens. Daemon has never been fond of crying women. He is not an empathetic man, and has a tendency to think he is surrounded by fools. Such a character trait doesn’t lend itself to soothing crying maidens. At least, not sincerely.

If he wants to bed the chit, Daemon can pretend like the best mummer. It’s not hard at all to fool highborn maidens into thinking he shares something special with them, convincing them that the pain won’t last, that it will start to feel good soon. When it comes to you, though, the problems start.

You are not a common whore, like most women at court. As a daughter of House Targaryen, you are closer to a goddess than a woman. Fooling a goddess is no easy task, much less when the goddess knows you so well.

His usual tricks do not work. When Daemon tries to apply faux pity, and forced pleasantries, you see right through him. It’s not because you are particularly cunning, but rather the fact that you have a long memory.

Long enough to remember all the pranks and fun he had had at your expense when the two of you were children. With how much Daemon tortured you, it’s no wonder you prefer Viserys.

Daemon never meant to be as nasty to you as he had been. He coveted the attention Viserys paid you, as the youngest in the family. He disliked how everyone fawned over you, how his mother had died, and his father had left, and all they had gotten in exchange was you.

Another part of Daemon simply enjoyed mischief. Causing chaos for chaos’s sake. Like any young boy, he had fun playing tricks on others. The disdain he felt for you had made you into the ideal target.

When the years began to pass, Daemon had noticed you were flourishing into a beautiful maiden. Targaryen custom dictated you were meant to be his, since you were too young to be Viserys’. There was no point in fixing your relationship, or trying to win you over like he did with the other maidens. You were a given thing. No matter your shared past, you would have to marry him.

It’s only the fact that you are embarrassing the family name that prompts him to approach you in the gardens. He has no intention of comforting you. It’s not like he cares that you are crying. Really. How ridiculous.

“What happened to you?” Daemon asks, sitting next to you. “Princess shouldn’t cry.”

It is quite recent, of course. Viserys' ascension to the throne has not actually yet occurred, but the succession issue has been settled in their favor. Daemon had gathered a small force of loyal men that hadn’t been necessary in the end, but Viserys said his first act as King would be rewarding him from his loyalty.

He knows what he will ask for already. Marriage. His grandmother had tried to marry him to a Vale woman, but the idea had ended up being discarded because Viserys’ own match ensured the allegiance of that kingdom. Daemon wanted to have his Valyrian bride before anyone, especially the Hightower cunt, got any ideas.

“Nothing.” You wipe your tears away, angrily. You scoot your cute little rear towards the edge of the tree you are sitting under. As far as you can go without losing the spot of shade.

Daemon sighs. He is used to you being difficult, but it would soon change. You would be informed of your duty and behave in a manner befitting your position in life soon enough.

“Do I need to protect your honor?” The very thought unsettles him. Three years his younger, you are still barely a maiden in his eyes. A pure, unspoiled being. The idea of someone else corrupting your innocence, something that is meant to be his, is infuriating. Daemon hates when other people touch what is his.

If anyone will corrupt you, it’s him.

You laugh, bitterly.

“If only!”

“What do you mean?” Your statement has clarified nothing. He feels more confused than before. Perhaps, you have a secret lover who refuses to take your maidenhead? Or are you suffering from unrequited love? But when? With whom? You spend nearly all your time in the library, pouring over dusty books, or on dragonback. Not much time for entertaining suitors.

You stay quiet. There is a strange expression on your face, a mix of embarrassment and sadness.

“Hāedus.” Daemon prompts, gently tugging on your braid.

“Some ladies Aemma brought were talking about knights, and kissing…” You get a fit of hiccups and nearly choke, so Daemon is forced to wipe the snot from your nose so you don’t suffocate to death. Let it not be said he is a bad brother. “They laughed at me!”

“They laughed at you?” How dare them. Only Daemon was allowed the honor of your tears. You were too important.

“No one asked to dance with me at the feast! And no knight has ever kissed me.” You pout, about to go into hysterics again. “Ever.”

“Doña hāedus…” Daemon wipes your tears, fighting his smile. He has an inkling you wouldn’t think it funny. “You shouldn’t listen to them. You are a Princess, the blood of the dragon. They are just sheep.”

You pout more. Daemon hurries to comfort you. Oddly, he dislikes seeing tears on your face. It must be because you are in public. As a Princess and his future wife, your actions reflect on House Targaryen.

“Ugly sheep. In fact, the actual sheep in the Vale are prettier.”

“But knights have kissed them! And they get asked to dance, and to walk in the gardens, and…”

Daemon raises his hand.

“Knights would kiss you too if they could. But you are too superior to them. They wouldn’t dare.” Or they would meet Dark Sister. All your first should be his. “It’s excellent that you have not sullied yourself with just any knight who looks at you.”

“But I am getting old.”

You are about to cry again. Your female vanity must be hurt, thinking yourself unwanted. Daemon will never understand caring about what others think of him. Dragons shouldn’t concern themselves with the opinion of the sheep.

But there is something about you, the soft little Princess who crumbles up completely when someone is mean to her, that tugs at his heartstrings.

It is why he leans in and captures your mouth with his. You taste like innocence and salt, melting on his tongue. It’s not Daemon’s first kiss, but it feels like it. There is a tug deep inside of him, a strange yearning on his chest, that has not been present when he has kissed other women. Not even maidens.

Cloyingly sweet, dripping on his tongue like the most enticing potion. His. Never has he experienced this before. Daemon wants to drown on it, drown in you. But before he has a chance, you give him a shove and run as fast as you can.

And he stands there, as if struck by lighting, pinned down by the unmeasurable realization that this is love. Love, in its purest form, for his soon-to-be sister wife. It leaves him dazed, confused, rooted to the spot. Utterly out of control.

“DID YOU HEAR?” The serving girl whispers loudly, her voice carrying through the corridor. Night has fallen already, and you pour over a heavy tome on constellations while sitting in one of the windowsills of the Red Keep. It is the best time to put your new knowledge into practice, but the constant chattering of the maids interrupts you.

You close your book, hesitating between scolding them and sending them away, or waiting for them to leave on their own. Scolding them feels unkind. It’s late enough for them to no longer be on duty, and there is no harm in what they are doing. This corridor is a heavily transited one.

Perhaps you should move to your rooms. But you do not have a balcony, and the view from your windowsill it’s quite limited. As you ponder on it, something they say catches your attention.

“And they say the Prince asked for a blonde girl. A maiden.” The Prince. Daemon! You have not seen hide nor hair of your older brother since he stole your first kiss. In fact, you have been avoiding him.

As children, he had played plenty of nasty tricks on you. Once, in a fit of temper, he had beheaded all your dolls and hanged their little heads from a window. But adulthood had mellowed him out. Or so you thought.

The worst thing wasn’t that Daemon stole your first kiss. It was that you enjoyed it.

“No!” The other girl sounds scandalized.

“Yes. And that is not all. He took her roughly, and was kicked out before even…”

Took a whore roughly? You knew he whored around, but hurting whores was a new low. You weren’t too approving of his behavior, but whoring was normal for young lords. Everyone knew they did it, even the most pious ones. Hurting them, though? It was no better than being a rapist.

The other girl lets out a gasp, but she sounds more delighted by the gossip than anything else.

“Imagine how rough it had to be for them to kick him out.”

“I would say plenty. Poor girl.”

“He is out again, is he not?”

“Every night, like clockwork. Something has roused his appetite, it seems. He used to whore, but not…”

Their scandalized voices drift down the corridor, and you think the rumor must be wrong. Daemon wouldn’t hurt anyone. Sure, he whored around, and took plenty of maidenheads, but your brother wasn’t cruel.

Was he?

He had stolen your first kiss. Beyond the softness and the sweetness of the kiss, Daemon had ruined a moment that was meant to be special. Now, it was forever tainted with the memory of being made a mockery of. Not only by those girls, but him too.

There was a difference between stealing a kiss and hurting whores, though. Much more, when it came to hurting them seriously enough to be kicked out of the pleasure house.

Was it your fault? Had he discovered with you he enjoyed taking from women by force? Was he taking out his anger with you on them? The maid had said the girl was blonde. Perhaps Valyrian blonde.

You needed to know. You ran to your rooms and got your black cloak, set on finding him.

Finding Daemon was no easy task. You made it to the city on foot, but once there, you had trouble locating the pleasure houses. There was no sign outwardly pointing to them, but you managed to get to Flea Bottom without getting mugged. Or at least, this looked like what you thought Flea Bottom looked like.

The streets were dirtier, the crowd rougher and drunker. There were people sleeping on the floor, no Sept in sight. This was a place far away from the Gods. The few Goldcloaks patrolling seemed uninterested in actually preventing crime.

You made sure to walk with purpose, afraid of being stopped if you looked like you were out of place. The streets were badly lit, and you could barely tell apart one alley from another.

A sudden tune caught your attention. A woman was singing in a tongue you didn’t recognize. You decided to follow her voice, but before you could do so, someone blocked your path.

“… A dragon for half an hour.” It was a woman. Her hair was dark and hanging limp around her face. She swayed as she walked. “My prince, I will let you choke me.”

You made a face, realizing a strand of your silver hair was peeking on the edge of your hood. She thought you were Daemon, you realized. Both your brother and you kept your hair long, and in the darkness of the alley, with your hood up, you may have looked alike. Was she a whore?

“I’ll let you. A dragon, please, I need to feed my children.”

Children. She had babes. You imagined them, tucked in their beds, wondering where their mother had gone. What if something happened to her? If the children had a present father, he would provide for them, and she wouldn’t be here. It was how the world worked. She must be alone with the babes.

You reached inside your cloak, and pulled out a gold dragon. There was an odd sort of pity building inside you. You imagined yourself, offering up your body to strangers to feed your children, and your heart shattered into little pieces.

You had never questioned the role of whores. They were sullied women, but they served a purpose. Entertain the men so they didn’t hurt others. Tend to their baser needs. It didn’t feel so clear-cut as you avoided the woman, in fear she might attempt to service you.

The voice sounded louder, so you ducked into the next alleyway. It was then you saw them.

The woman singing was sitting at the entrance of a small house. She was scantily clad, as were the surrounding women. But there was only one of them who caught your attention.

She was tall and willowy, with long limbs. There was a haunting elegance to her that looked out of place in the Street of Silk. Her blonde hair was long, and in the right light, could be mistaken for silver. It cascaded down her shoulders. Her face was eerily similar to your own. She was tragically beautiful, stricken by some unseen grief.

Sitting down and clapping along to the song, she looked as if she was praying. There was a dark stain on her neck, cleverly hidden by her hair. The closer you looked, the more it seemed like a bite mark. Not just any bite. A vicious one.

You gasped, hands coming to your mouth to muffle the sound. Whores had never been of concern to you, but now you were seeing their reality, and it was heartbreaking. The thought of women in brothels, in cages, as pleasure slaves, made you want to weep.

Women like you. That she wore your face was even more jarring.

WHEN CARAXES HAD been born, he had not done so alone. Out of the ether, his sister had come, hands linked with his. Meraxes, goddess of the sky, an eternity doomed to hold to her sibling. Caraxes only reflected his twin’s colors, gazing up at her as the flowers did the sun.

It was said that they met only once a day, thanks to the mercy of Gaelithox, who allowed the twins to embrace every sunset. It was the reason Meraxes hated him. He held on to her too strong, and prevented her from embracing the one who she truly loved. He invaded even her reflection, seeking to make himself a part of her, even invading her sacred reflection in the waters of her twin.

The story was always one of your favorites. You begged Viserys every night to tell it to you, sickening Daemon with your romantic tales. He isn’t sure why he is reminded of it today, of all days.

Foreboding, he will think later, when the storm has passed. But now, he chooses to focus on the coronation taking place in front of him, and bask in their triumph.

“Kings reward loyalty.” Viserys says, after the crown is placed on his head by a proud Aemma. “And my first act will be rewarding those that stood by my side.”

Daemon and you are kneeling, the first among the crowd. The first to take a knee to their King. There is a strange feeling in his throat, and he fights the urge to cry. Daemon has always considered tears a weakness, but the moment is so perfect, so magical, he feels the urge to do so.

Men don’t cry. Instead, they take big breaths, and savor their victory. Viserys on the Iron Throne, and Daemon about to be given your hand. All they have ever wanted, now ripe for the taking.

“Brother, please rise.” Viserys' voice is clear and loud. Daemon does so, pleased by the honor of being the first to rise in front of the masses. They had talked about it, of putting up a show for their political enemies, but Daemon had never expected Viserys to grant him honors before any other of his advisors. “Your diplomatic and martial skills were essential to securing my claim. As a reward, I give to you our sister’s hand, and name you my heir. May the two of you have a fruitful union and make House Targaryen proud.”

And when he turns to you, with a smile on his face, he realizes why he remembered the story of Caraxes and Meraxes.

Your beautiful, purple eyes, are wet with tears. You remain on bent knee, frozen.

Daemon pulls you up with the utmost tenderness, one reserved for family alone. The hand on your elbow seems to shake you out of your stupor.

“Thank you, my King.” Your voice trembles, but you speak the words dutifully. You know as well as him that this is Viserys’ day. Everything has to go perfectly. There can’t be any hint of division between the three of you, not when the rallying cry for Viserys had been that he was bringing back the three heads of the dragon.

Three siblings. Three dragonriders. Aegon, Visenya, Rhaenys.

“It is a great honor.” Daemon adds, tightening his grip on your arm. You look ready to bolt, and he is tasked with reminding you that you can’t.

A silent tear travels down your cheek. With your back to the crowd, no one but Viserys and Daemon can see it. Viserys gives him a long look, pleading him to do something. Neither of them had been expecting your reaction.

They had thought you would settle well into your duty. That marriage would give you a stable tether, a shield for your fragile soul. Viserys had chosen Daemon for the honor, had given you to him to care and protect.

But you seem even more scared that you were before. How wrong had they been.

“We are very excited.” Daemon hugs you to him, fighting to keep his composure. Your rejection stings, and he wants to rage, but he can’t. Because you are in public, and House Targaryen doesn’t air their dirty laundry in front of witnesses, but more importantly because your dam is breaking. You let out a little sob, and Daemon has to embrace you fully to prevent you from falling apart.

Fools that they are, the rest of the courtiers mistake it for a sound of joy. What else could you want? To marry the King’s heir, a Valyrian husband who can give you pure Valyrian babes.

“Good.” Viserys smiles, a bit strained. You take a shuddery breath, and straighten up under his arm. Daemon can practically feel the change, from scared girl, to experienced courtier. You know as well as he does the importance of presenting a united front.

You smile. It’s as fake as the silks whores wear, when pretending to be a Targaryen Princess. To the inexperienced masses, it tears all the same.

“How joyful days come ahead. Long live the King!”

You open your arms, the picture of the hopeful bride. The smile threatens to crack your face in two. The crowd cheers. A royal wedding is always something to admire, and there is no better way of celebrating a coronation than with one.

The hour is late when Daemon finally manages to catch Viserys alone. You have gone straight to your rooms after the feast, sulking. Aemma has been sat outside your door for hours by now, trying to coax you out like one would do to a skittish cat. Her talks of duty and royal wombs only got her a pillow to the face for her efforts.

Daemon and Viserys, much more used to your moods, hadn’t bothered. You were angry, but not hysterical. Both often manifested in tears in your case. Only one could prove lethal.

“I do not understand.” Viserys frowns. “What more can she want? The two of you will get Dragonstone, for a few years at least, and when I have an heir, you will not be kicked out. You are family.”

“I do not understand it either.” Underneath the simmering rage Daemon feels, there is only confusion. He is a knight, and has proven his skills sufficiently enough to be awarded Dark Sister. He is of an equal standing to you, a Prince to a Princess. He loves you so deeply it scares him.

The Seven know he has tried to get you out of his head through every means possible. He has deflowered more maidens that he can count this week alone, his cock is chafed raw, and yet, no matter how beautiful they are, your face still haunts him. It’s your name on his lips when he comes, and your body he pictures under him. The whores are never right. Their hair is the wrong shade, they are too thin or too fat, their tears taste of iron instead of your sweet salt.

You should not think it is a bad thing. Women love that sort of thing, leading men by their cocks, getting them so cuntstruck they cannot see straight. You should love it too because it is a weakness to him, but a power you can wield. And yet, you hate it. You had run.

“I cannot go back on my word now.” Viserys reaches for his cup of wine. He knows that his reign is still fragile, and if his lords see his sister defying him, they might get ideas. “She has to marry someone, and with her delicate constitution, I cannot in good conscience…”

“Handing her to a stranger is a bad idea.” Daemon agrees, not out of some selfish motivation, but because he knows it’s the truth. You have always been far more delicate than most ladies, with your books and silly ideas about the role women should play. Had you not been so closely tied to Viserys, you may have even supported Rhaenys.

If Viserys was Aegon, you were Rhaenys. The sensitive little sister, loved because of her innocence and kindness. You never tried to push your strange ideas, after all. You just looked like a kicked puppy when contradicted.

Any other man would crush you at the first hint of defiance. Daemon, used to you as he was, knew rage was futile. If you wouldn’t settle in your duties easily, he had to take action and ensure you did through other means.

Gentler means. Daemon still remembered the fits you used to have when little. Viserys did too. Neither wanted a repetition.

“I have thought about it, and you should forgo the bedding.”

“I agree. It might make her sick.” Sick is the euphemism they use for your fits when there are prying ears. Daemon gives a pointed glance at the guards. Viserys drops the topic after that.

Almost against his will, when the embers of the fire they sit in front of die, Daemon goes to your rooms. He isn’t really thinking, when he walks down the hallways that lead to your chambers instead of his. Nor is he thinking when he dismisses your guards, and opens your door.

You are laying on your side, a pillow held to your thighs. Your hands are made into fists over them, as if you had fallen asleep in your rage still. Despite it, your face is peaceful, with only dried tear tracks to disturb your childish expression.

Your body is curled into itself, tightly. You must be cold, Daemon thinks, and takes of his cloak to lay it over your form.

In dreams, you smile. And Daemon understands that he is no Gaelithox. There was a reason Caraxes and Meraxes were only allowed to embrace once a day, after all.

HORROR AND RAGE are not emotions that lend itself to permanence. At least, not in you. Not when it comes to him.

Not when he plays such strange game, and gets you strange prizes. Daemon has not asked for his cloak back. You have taken to sleeping wrapped up underneath it.

How can a man capable of such cruelty be capable of such tenderness? Confusion means ignorance, and ignorance breeds fear. You have known Daemon all your life, but you are still unable to understand him.

The only certainty you have is that when he is near, your rationality flies out of the window. It’s all instinctual. To fight, to fuck, to fucking fight.

The sleep of reason produces monsters. Monsters that take hold of your heart and squeeze it, until it is no more than liquid and pulp. Did he hurt that woman? Will he hurt you? Love you?

Daemon had stolen your first kiss. Daemon had gotten kicked out of a brothel. There was a girl in the Street of Silk with a bite mark on her neck. He had visited you the night of your betrothal and tucked you in.

It might mean nothing. It might mean everything. Whichever it is, you have no time to come to terms with it. Viserys wishes for the two of you to be married by the end of this moon. It makes you feel even more blindsided and betrayed.

None of them had thought to ask you before deciding. They had just done so.

The idea of marrying your brother wasn’t what came as a great shock. As a child, you had often daydreamed of honoring your ancestors and becoming your brother’s wife. It was the way things should be. But you had always thought you would marry Viserys.

When Viserys married Aemma, you thought you would marry someone outside your household. Daemon and you were clearly ill-suited, even before everything that had happened between the two of you.

Betrothing the two of you would be madness. You had never understood each other in the manner Viserys and him did. You were an outsider to their relationship, the other head of the dragon. Rhaenys to her conquerors.

But inexplicably, Viserys had done so. Being betrothed to him without even being asked about it stung. No one had thought to warn you, or ask for your opinion. They had simply announced it to court and hoped you would comply.

The feeling of betrayal had only mellowed out after asking Viserys his reasoning. He hadn’t been trying to blindside you, he had explained. He had thought you would be happy. Both Daemon and you yearned for Valyrian partners. It made sense to betroth the two of you, especially because Daemon had asked to marry soon.

Your brothers were just dumb. But their foolishness was a dangerous one, since they rode the two biggest dragons of your generation and sat on the Iron Throne. Common fools could undo the damage they caused.

But in your case, there was no way out but through. Viserys had begged you to give Daemon a chance, and so, you found yourself preparing for meeting him.

Viserys had chosen the place the two of you would meet. The Godswood was neutral territory, and far away from the castle that if you started shouting insults at each other, only the Kingsguard shadowing you would hear.

It only made you dread the encounter further. You had taken a liking to the Godswood, and were contemplating using it as a hideaway for when things at court got to be too much. If this went wrong, it would forever taint the place for you.

You decide to arrive early, to allow yourself some time to compose yourself. Daemon beats you to it, already waiting near a tree when you get there.

“Hāedus,” Daemon says, when he sees you. In a show of rebellion, you have decided to wear your more modest gown, with a neckline that nearly reaches your ears. Aemma had encouraged you to wear something more revealing, but you wanted to strangle the cow. “You look lovely.”

“Lēkia.” You press a kiss to his cheek, unsure if you should greet him like you always do, or the betrothal has changed the protocol. Kissing his cheek as you always do seems safer, but you regret it when his eyes flutter closed at your touch.

He is acting odder than usual. In an increasingly out-of-character charm offensive, he takes off his cloak and places it on the grass.

“So you may sit.” His tone is too formal. It makes you even more wary, but you sit. Daemon does the same, by your side. So close, you end up frowning more.

He leans in. His lips brush the shell of your ear.

“Despite my struggles, I have come to admire you.” Daemon noses along the hair right above your ear. “Rationality has left me, and no matter how hard I try, you haunt me at every corner, every hallway, every street of this damned city.”

“What am I supposed to say?” You complain, with a frown. You push him a little, to be able to meet his eyes.“I am well aware of your attempts at forgetting. Valyrian whores, Daemon? Really?”

“It was all in vain.” He pulls you back in, embracing you. His hands are warm around your stomach, his lips chafed against the skin of your neck. “Let me take down your hair.”

Your eyebrows raise. Out of all things he can ask for, this is the weirdest one. His petition is so simple and innocent, you almost think he is not Daemon.

“Let me take down your hair.” Daemon begs. The ardent tone in his voices surprises you. He sounds like a man possessed. As if he cannot survive if you deny him. “Hāedus...”

This devotion, this unexpected fit of love, surprises you. So much, you find yourself nodding.

You feel his chest contract with his sudden inhale. His hands are careful as they unmake your braid. His touch so tender, even the most delicate hairdresser would envy it. But when your hair falls down your back, in mussed tendrils, he shows himself to be Daemon.

His nose presses to your temple, breathing you in. His fingers run through your hair, and he presses feverish kisses to your scalp, your jaw, your ear. Licks the sweat behind it, samples your earlobe with his teeth.

Teeth. It makes you tense. You think of the girl in Flea Bottom, of the bite over her throat.

“I can’t stop thinking of you. You appear before me in the darkest corners, and in the brightest meadows.” Daemon inhales, hands grasping your waist tightly. “When I squired, away from home, I couldn’t get you out of my head. I didn’t know it was love then, but I have loved you since before I knew what the word meant. I fucked the tightest cunts of Westeros, sampled the prettiest maidens, and yet it is your face that I imagine when tugging at my cock.”

Something inside you snaps. Among the righteous indignation, a strange satisfaction takes place. You shove him off you.

“Don’t be crass!”

Daemon doesn’t attempt to embrace you again, but remains unbearably close. Your eyes drift to his lips. You would love him even if he were the one who mauled the whore. You would love him even if he did it to you. Because of it, perhaps.

“I want you to be mine. Put me out of my misery.” Daemon begs, tucking your hair behind your ears. “Marry me, and end my suffering.”

“You frighten me.” You whisper, without quite meaning to.

“Do you fear I will hurt you?” Daemon asks you, voice very gentle.

You avert your eyes. It’s not that what you fear. It’s how out of control you are when it comes to him.

“I would never.” He vows, leaning in. His lips brush against yours, before Daemon presses his forehead to yours. He looks into your eyes, and smiles. “Do you remember the last time we kissed?”

“Of course I do, you idiot.” You scowl at the memory. “You stole…”

“No. You were crying because no knight…” He gets up, and begins to tug you to your feet. You remain sitting. “Oh, get up, you stubborn thing.”

“Daemon!” You complain, but get up. He stands a few feet away from you. Curious about the point he intends to make, you cross your arms over your chest and glare.

He offers you his hand, as if to dance. You take it, eyes full of distrust.

“I have been a cunt. But you have to stop running.” Daemon circles you, pulling on your hand slightly. Is he…? Your confusion must show on your face because he gives you a mocking glance. “To dance from afar is not to dance.”

“What do you mean?”

“You might as well be in Essos.” Daemon keeps circling you. “Let us dance properly, for once.”

“Here? Dance?” There is no music. And your brother has never been one for bursting into spontaneous song and dance. At least, you don’t think so.

“Together. You wanted knights to ask you to.” Daemon pulls you close, into a hug, and the puzzle pieces finally fit. The day he had kissed you, you had been crying because no one had asked you to dance. That Daemon remembers the reason when you had nearly forgotten it yourself astonishes you. “Now a Prince asks you. Do not make me ask twice, please.”

“Let us try. To dance as if glued by fire. Let me prove I can be good to you. That I listen to you. ”

And it’s stupid. It’s silly, there is not even music. But you let him pull you in, this time, and realize Daemon has always been capable of tenderness. At least, when it comes to you.

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walkingnearfoxes · 1 month ago

Text

Sympathy Pains (Soldier Boy x Reader)

You have PMDD. Soldier Boy doesn’t get it.

Warnings for Soldier Boy being who he is, explicit language and smutty implications, depressive/suicidal thoughts (none go past ideation), and period cramps. Ow.

Ben’s bored. Legend threatens to cut the weed supply if Ben keeps fucking the maids, and Soldier Boy finds himself favoring the high of reefer over pussy these days. He’s sure it’s the Russians’ fault with their toxins for that hit to his sex drive. Unfortunately, Legend’s off doing whatever Vought has an old bastard like him producing these days. It leaves Ben without weed or an easy fuck, and leaves him with Butcher and the kids.

The kids. You and Hughe. The nickname stuck once Ben realized how much it irritated you both. In his eyes, it was a well-deserved title. You and Hughie have the same naive view of the world, like bunnies surrounded by the carnage of wolves. To his credit, Hughie has the balls to stick up to him. That already put him higher in Ben’s book that any of the fuckers on Payback. And then there was you. Kind, smart, ferocious little you. Maybe he would have been more annoyed by your radical dreams to change the world if he didn’t want to fuck you so badly.

That was what he could do today. Finally fuck you. It would cure the boredom better than the maids could and likely get you to treat him a little nicer. In his experience, women were a lot less likely to talk back after he left them a drooling mess. Nothing like a good orgasm to send someone’s thinking back a century. He was so busy deciding what position to put you in that he didn’t notice you weren’t where he thought you would be. You and the boys tended to stick to the main room of Legend’s penthouse, as if worried the stench of illicit drugs would ruin you. Ben found Butcher and Hughie there, Hughie on his cell phone and Butcher on his computer. Technology these days. Ben couldn’t fucking stand it.

“Where’s the kid?”

Hughie jumps from his seat. “Jesus fucking…” He turns around to look at Ben, and Ben has to bite back a smirk. Many people believed he wasn't light on his feet because he was the strongest supe alive. They were wrong.

“Resting,” Butcher answers without looking up from his screen.

Ben arches a brow. “Resting? From what?”

As far as he knew, you hadn’t gone anywhere in the last few days. And he better be right. Thinking of you wandering around alone stirs an irritating fury in him.

Butcher glances over at Hughie. “You fucking explain it.”

Hughie looks ready to curse the Brit, then settles himself. He turns to Ben with a hand waving stupidly in the air. “She’s having a, um…a flareup.”

Ben sighed. Why the fuck were they talking in riddles? “A flareup of what?”

Hughie hesitates again. Ben starts to wonder if he’s going to have to interrogate the little shit when he finally speaks. “She has PMDD,” Hughie says.

“Fucking Christ,” Ben rolls his neck back. “What’s with these new generations shortening everything? What does that mean?”

“It’s like…PMS on steroids,” Hughie explains. The flush to his cheeks suggests he’d rather have any other conversation than this, but he carries on anyway. “She needs time alone.”

Ben rolls his eyes so hard he fears for a brief moment they will stick that way. “That’s it? Jesus. I’m talking to her.”

“I really don’t think you should-” Hughie stands off the couch in a worried flourish, but Ben pushes him back down with a single finger. As he leaves the room, his powerful hearing that everyone seems to forget about catches Hughie’s bitching. “Should we stop him?”

“Eh, let the old man find out,” Butcher murmurs. “Maybe he’ll learn a thing or two.”

Ben doesn’t think about what that means. He’s too busy storming down to your designated room in this maze of a penthouse, throwing the door open without even thinking of a knock. His steps must have been loud; you don’t move an inch at his intrusion. You’re lying like a starfish across the bed, eyes shut. It would be a more tempting position if he weren’t annoyed.

“Damn it, kid,” Ben mutters, walking in and shutting the door behind him. “The hell’s wrong with you?”

You don’t open your eyes, and he watches as you press your hand to your lower belly. “Hughie told you,” You reply in a tired murmur. “PMDD.”

Ben steps closer with a huff. He folds his arms across his chest as he stares down at you, torn between annoyance and confusion. “Women have had this shit since the dawn of time. It ain’t a good excuse to laze around doing nothing.”

Your head slowly turns to look at him. “Excuse me?”

He scoffs and waves a hand in the air. “You heard me. This bullshit of PM-whatever the fuck. Women didn’t complain about it in my day. You don’t need a damn break just because you’ve got a cramp-”

“Shut the fuck up.”

It isn’t easy to make Ben speechless. Your reply does it. His hand pauses midair, his green eyes wide in disbelief. “What?”

“Your hearing going, old man?” You sit up, then stand up, your eyes blazing with a fury he’s never been privy to. “I said shut the fuck up.”

Ben doesn’t have time to think of a response before you’re raging on in a fury. “Women didn’t complain in your day because they’d get a fucking lobotomy if they did. And it’s not just a cramp, you patronizing ass. It feels like a little gremlin is chopping its way through my uterus with an axe and I’m resisting every fucking hormone in my brain telling me to throw myself out the window. So for once in your goddamn life, shut the fuck up.”

A long silence takes the room. Ben is staring at you, and you slowly realize you just spat at a man capable of juggling monster trucks. Your eyes widen, your jaw drops, and you slowly sit down on the edge of the bed. “Shit. I…I’m sorry.” You drop your face into your hands and shake your head. “I’m so sorry.”

Ben hears your breathing hitch. He says nothing for a long moment, his eyes torn between you and the door. When he hears a sound suspiciously like a sob choke in your throat, he sighs. “Scoot.”

You slowly look up from your hands, your eyes slightly red, and your brow furrowed. “What?”

“Scoot, sweetheart,” He grunts. “I need more room.”

You’re adorably puzzled, but slowly squirm yourself to the side of the bed. When you’re settled, Ben sits beside you with his hands on top of his thighs. He observes you from head to toe, and then reaches out to you. You flinch, and he rolls his eyes. “I’m not gonna hurt ya. Hold still.”

Slowly, he places his hand in the same place on your lower belly you’d be holding before. He carefully presses in, providing warmth and pressure like a living heating pad. You suck in a breath, and he glances up at you with an arched brow. “Good?”

“Uh…good?” You say, clearly befuddled. “But you don’t have to-”

“Shut up. You want more pressure or less?”

“...a little more?”

Ben hums in acknowledgement and presses just the slightest bit more. Your eyes flutter shut, and you let out a relieved sigh. He can’t help a smirk. “Vocal, huh? And that’s just a preview of what these hands can do.”

“Shut up,” You reply, but there’s a ghost of a laugh on your tongue this time - not the frightening rage that had taken you moments before.

He huffs a laugh, then moves his gaze to the television. A movie is playing, and he can tell from a glance that he’ll hate it. It doesn’t matter. “What’re we watching?”

His hand is still on your stomach. You open your eyes to look at him, a question obvious on your brow. “Are you being nice to me because I yelled at you?”

Ben shrugs. “Was kinda sexy.”

You snort, but don’t question him further. You may not have known him for very long, but you already know Ben won’t provide an answer to something if he doesn’t want to. You both stay comfortably quiet briefly, his hand still on your stomach.

“You weren’t serious about the window thing, were you?” Ben asks quietly.

You hesitate, but the comfort of his hand over your stomach pushes you forward. “I’m not actually going to…but my hormones sure want me to.”

Ben grunts under his breath. “That sounds like hell.”

“Yeah. It is.”

“You want chocolate?”

The sporadic question forces a questioning laugh out of you. “What?”

His brow furrows. “Women want chocolate and shit when this happens, right?”

“Oh. Uh…yeah, I guess we do?”

“One sec,” Ben reaches down with one hand, his other still busy relieving your cramps, and takes off one boot. He then chucks it with enough force to burst the door open.

“What the fuck?!” Hughie’s startled voice calls from the hall.

“Put your shoes on, kid!” Ben yells back. “You’re going on a snack run!”

You burst into giggles, so distracted by the situation’s absurdity you don’t notice Ben’s crinkling smile at your laughter. When you look back at him, he’s disguised the softness behind a smirk. “Problem, sweetheart?”

“You can’t just send him on snack runs,” You argue playfully around another chuckle.

“I sure as hell can,” Ben argues right back, and his thumb brushes gently over your ribcage. “Besides, I have the more important job here. I ain’t going anywhere.”

#the boys #my writing #soldier boy #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x you #this is self indulgent af #can someone get me a better heating pad

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kiwanopie · 30 days ago

Text

Get Rid of It

Villain!Kiyoomi x Hero!Reader

CW: Smut, Fluff, kinda Dark, some descriptions of gore, have no misconceptions neither of them are good people like at all, breeding, pnv, oral(f!receiving), mention of “powers,” but it’s not the focal point of the narrative. Minors DNI

WC: 10.7k

You’ve always found the “Enemies to Lovers,” trope a little played out.

Mainly because for the kind of profession you're in, you have a tendency to hold grudges far more excessively than most would find appropriate. You’re spiteful. Sometimes vindictive to a degree that can seem unbecoming for a woman all but regarded as an angel. You know it’s bad, obviously. A little childish, a little petty. — To pinpoint the first instance, you’d have to go back to nearly a little more than two decades ago.

Wide eyed and new to kindergarten, your mother would drop you and your adoptive brother off at the daycare down the street once school was over. Back when you were just learning the concept of calligraphy and schedule management, how to dot your I’s and curl your kanji; ’Toshi-nii and your teacher would send you home with a planner they were required to fill in at the end of the day. — And even though it was important it wasn’t imperative. Six year olds aren’t the most studious of people, and missing a day or two wouldn’t be the end of the world.

But one of the custodians of the daycare, a thin - lizardous looking woman, wasn’t so forgiving to the languor of two children still in booster seats. Two very plainly foreigner children who’d only moved to Japan a year before and frankly deserved a little bit of slack. Seeing as most children don’t usually become fluent in a language within ten months of moving across the fucking globe.

It was the first time in a ten month tenure that you two just happened to forget to fill them in on your rush out the door. Honestly, it wasn’t even a full twenty minutes since you’d left the school, a simple reminder would have been enough to have them jotting down a messy recap of the last six hours. —- But obviously this woman, aptly named ‘Ms. No-No,’ couldn’t manage something so simple. Too eager to ride whatever pathetic power trip a loser like her apparently gets from threatening two six year olds. ~ So at the sight of those few unsoiled lines, she says to the chagrin of the two tiddlers under her bulbous nose:

“Are ya really that lazy? You two better learn how to behave or else!”

Funny how a six year old can decide to hate someone for the rest of their life, and still follow it through twenty years later.

Now, was being just as cross about it well into your twenties a little excessive? Yes. Was reveling in the fact that within that time you yourself had amassed about a hundred million dollar income, global adoration and accolade, primarily recognized for your unfathomable power, and had broken about sixty three records while that miserable woman was still working for under 1,200¥ an hour kind of petty? Maybe, so.

Was showing up for a few impromptu PR photos, buying the place with a puny little million dollar check, and firing her with a smile on under your mask as you watched that shrew of a woman hold back tears a tad cruel? …That’s up for debate.

I mean, c’mon. What could you expect from a woman based on a creature famously known for delighting in the suffering of others? Threatening you was one thing but that wack ass bitch should’ve never come at your brother like she did. ~ If you were a less respectable woman you’d have dragged her through the mud and put her on the streets. — Though sometimes you wonder if your proclivity for hero work is the only thing keeping you from becoming the conniving pythoness you knew you were at heart.

But there are some moments of gratification you can allow yourself, — Could allow yourself more like. ~ As heroes do, you have your pick of nemeses. Due to your ranking most are pretty powerful, pretty good at taking it at the chin. If it weren’t for the risk of major calamity you’d probably go as far as instigating for the hell of it.

Because it’s more than the revelry, or spite, or moral obligation; but the thrill. A salty mixture of blood and sweat, canine tears on your knuckles. How high the sky is and how hard the ground is. Thrill. Thrill. Thrill. You commend some of your nemesis’s, with how fast you are. You like it up close and personal; and very few can hold their own when going toe to toe with a woman who can literally turn herself and others into straight nothingness for a blip of a second. But your rouge’s gallery of fun doesn’t stop at being untouchable.

Untouchable. What a funny word to use right now.

Your shuddered breaths are tinged with notes of mint and blood and adrenaline. Cues of your airy voice dissipate into a thin haze of pink that inevitably dust over his flushed cheeks like Begonia. Adept as you are, a man with global reign over the majority villain world and worth about a hundred billion dollars even ~ is bound to ruffle your tail feathers a bit. — With the kind of height and strength on his person to have you tapering your breaths every time you run at him, it wasn’t until now that you realized his tendency to be hands on was specifically reserved for you.

The Sakusa, is the kind of man who’d skin an infant for spitting up in his general vicinity. With the kind of disdain for all those below him to make a supremest look like Alfred Nobel. — So in hindsight, it was more careless on your part that you never wondered why he was so willing to put his hands all over you. Be that fingerprint bruises or well… This.

His eyes glisten with the same glazed over look most men get when they see your face for the first time. Not behind the private curtain of a surgical mask, or the clay you wear when you’re sent to duty. Your actual face. — Doey eyes, plump lips, nose you could nuzzle down to the grit. You don't blame him for that. Any man seeing a siren for the first time is bound to be a little dazed.

It’s just that - a lot of things are making sense all at once and much too quickly. This twisted affinity he’s had for you, your willingness to ignore that. ~ Spending his valuable time plotting on the best way to take you down when he probably could’ve killed you the moment you stepped into the playing field. He always knew you were a growing threat and yet he let you fester. You always knew he wasn’t the kind of bear to pick at, and yet you nip on his heels any chance you get. — This dragged out game of playing cat and mouse with an adversary that, should they have met in a different world, would’ve probably been sharing a white picket fence by now.

You look… like the fucking sun in the little nightgown he ambushed you in. Smelling of honey and lemon sugar, oat milk lotion you’d rubbed in after your shower. And even though his ribs ache from blows you’d landed before he tackled you, and your arms feel rubbed raw from the force it took to keep you down; you both stare at each other in a moment of pensive awe. ~ Chests quickly rising and falling, yet still you come out light headed anyway.

You should fizzle away.

He should break your neck.

His lips taste like wintergreen.

And warm notes of expensive brandy. Honey dew chapstick and that zested mix of frustration and desire; he delights in the way you pass it back with a fervor. Of all the fights you two have been in, death battles even, nothing has ever, ever felt this sinfully good. Like dipping your cracked hands in aloe. Going without water for the better part of a decade and the first taste of it is frantic. — Ravenous. You don’t even realize you’ve been kissing for too long until you’re both forced away to catch your breaths. But even so you remain just as unsatiated.

You breathe out a pretty noise that could honestly make the flowers grow as Sakusa kisses bruises into your throat. His large hands, rough as they are, are loving as they skirt through your little dress, hungrily squeezing into your breasts and down to your pillowy thighs.

“Christ.” He can’t even second guess the palm he’s rubbing into your panties, you’re so fucking wet. Were you already like this when you two were fighting? Are you usually like this when you two are fighting? The way you’re needily grinding against his movements is damn near enough to have him setting one off in his boxers. The sounds you’re making are just… fuck.

You’re starting to clench up. If the way your voice is pitching should mean anything, you’re about a couple half circles on your clit away from cumming in his hand. Like fuck is he letting that go to waste.

Sakusa’s already breathing hotspots into your panties before you can whine at the loss of his fondling. Smokelets of honey tinted hearts dissipate into the air as he pulls the fabric to the side, and he moans into your candy coated cunt.

“S-Sakus-…! Fuck, Sakusa…”

Jesus fucking Christ, how does he know how to do that? Like this guy knows what the hell he’s doing that’s for sure. How can a man who’s commonly known for cutting the hands off of his own underlings for so much as grazing him with their worthless germs, be this willing to sloppily eat your pussy?

There’s a mix of his spit and your cum steadily gathering into a puddle under your ass. Thin, glittery gossamer strings that keep you both lovingly connected as he pulls back to circle his fingers around your tight little hole. And if not the sounds you two share at the stretch it takes to push his fingers in, it’s the noise you make when he starts to make out with your cunt again; thick fingers pistoning with a squelch as you rock against them.

“O-Oh my god. Fuck! Oooh, fuck.” You bury your fingers in his hair. “Mmmfuck, baby… Your fucking tongue…”

Sakusa gropes your trembling thigh with his free hand. “Mhmm…”

It’s sinful (as well as a complete contradiction to his character) how euphoric it is letting you grind into his face like he’s nothing but a warm mouth to fuck. How good it feels having your plump thighs compress the sides of his face, how liberating it feels doing something he’s been dreaming of since the day you debuted. Every day has been a fight with himself, to combat the possibility that he’s always been no better than one of your brainless fanboys. Desperate, hopeless, delusional men - too busy holding their dicks in their hands than to come to the realization that they mean nothing in the face of a trophy like you.

But unlike them, “M’gonna cum! P-Please-! You’re g’nna make me cum…!”

Sakusa focuses on your clit as he starts to angle his fingers in a way that gently bullies into your g-spot. Tied with the way he forces you to spread out for him as he reaches his free hand for your breasts, yanking the fabric down your hardened nipples as his callous hand roughly gropes; its all it takes to have you stumbling off the edge.

Oh, his poor boxers. “Y-Yes?! Ffffuck, yes! Fuck! Ohmygod don’t - don’t stop, baby! I’m cumming! Fuck m’cumming! Ah! S-Sakusa…!!”

He has to grab hold of one of your thighs just to keep you from running from him. Surpluses of pleasure that are so overwhelming that even he starts to get goosebumps. The way you sound could make harp keys sound like nails on a fucking chalkboard. Your candied cum and the way your pussy suckles on his fingers as you cum has him so drunk off your cunt that he doesn’t even stop when you start to whine from overstimulation.

Sakusa can’t undo his belt fast enough when he finally pulls away. Pupils blown wide and red in the cheeks, quickly pulling your panties down your legs; the sight of your teary doe eyes turn his into hearts as he lines his cock up to your quivering hole.

The moment he starts to push in is the moment he realizes he’s gonna buy you a fucking ring when this is all over. “Holy fucking-! Oh my god…”

“You feel fucking-“ You’d marvel at the way his eyes start to roll back after the first few pumps, if yours weren’t already glued to the inside of your skull. “Unbelievable, angel. Fuck! Sso fucking tight-!”

You let him nuzzle his nose into the crook of your neck as you wrap your arms around his shoulders. Locked in a lover’s embrace as he purées your guts on the kitchen floor. “So much…! Y-You’re gonna break me!”

Not only is it long and girthy, but it curves if the constant assault on your g-spot should mean anything. Bad enough he’s already practically a foot taller than you, about 180lbs and built like an Olympian; but the way he’s fucking you feels like he’s trying to ruin you for anybody else. You can feel his balls squishing against you with every thorough thrust. Moaning and grunting into your ear and fuck if he doesn’t sound intoxicating. Out of all the ways you could’ve imagined this being, the real thing blows your fantasies out of the fucking water.

Sakusa reaches for the underside of one of your thighs and pushes it up for a deeper angle. The way you yip! At the difference takes his breath away. “Shh… You can take it.”

“S-Sakusa-“

“Kiyoomi, baby,” He breathes in your ear. “My first name is Kiyoomi.”

You comb your fingers through his hair as youu both rock against his constant thrusts. The sound of his first name in your voice makes him shiver. “Y-You’re so deep, Kiyoomi...”

You hiccup at the gathering of particularly forceful thrusts he hammers into your pussy. “-I can feel you in my stomach!”

Kiyoomi hisses through his teeth. Keep talking to him like that and he might wind up getting you pregnant. Oof, he doesn’t like that the thought of that is giving him butterflies.

He picks his head up from your neck to pull you into another long kiss. This time much slower and arduous than the first, sensual lip smacking that becomes that much feverish as he swipes his tongue across your bottom lip. Reveling at the way you readily open your mouth for him like the good obedient girl he knew you could be.

Your heart flutters at how eager he is to suck on your pretty tongue. The taste of your cum still sweet on his lips as his moans turn your mouths saccharine. He doesn’t even care that his lips are getting saturated with your spit, if anything that turns him on even more. Cock twitching in your insides when he starts to pull away and you suck his bottom lip into your mouth before he can. Snapping back before dipping in again for another tender few pecks on your lips, and his heart shaped pupils mirror yours as he takes the next moment to return eye contact.

He thinks… He thinks he might be in love with you. — No, he knows he’s in love with you. He’s known since that botched heist about five years ago when he nearly killed you with his bare hands. Technically, they nearly killed each other. You before him when you capped him in the shoulder with her teammate’s switch. He just happened to be a little faster than you took him for. And ravenous for victory as you were, you both know how sensitive your ears are. Taking that shot meant being incapacitated for a few jangled seconds. That was all he needed.

Seeing that pathetic look in your eyes as you clawed at his arms, blood vessels straining from the lack of oxygen — It didn’t… It didn’t feel like he thought it would. For this to finally be over. It didn’t feel invigorating or fulfilling like it should’ve. Finally taking down that bratty pain in his ass that had been putting a wrench in his gears over the course of two years at that point. ~ Watching you constantly be praised by the media as some hero mogul in the making, empowering a general public his family had spent centuries trying to beat into submission. It should’ve felt intoxicating.

But it felt terrible. It felt like the worst thing he had ever done in his twenty something years on this planet, worse than the worst thing he could’ve ever felt at that point. ~ Seeing your teary, agonized eyes. More scared than he’s ever really thought your face could look through that crack head made in your mask. After hearing you squeak out what at that time had been the first thing you’d ever said to him.

“…N-Not…You…”

He couldn’t sleep for days after that.

Sakusa Kiyoomi is not a merciful man. He’s not a man that feels guilt. He’s killed more at once in more brutal ways but that, doing that to you? He’d never live it down. He couldn’t be the one to kill you. Not him.

This. Looking in your eyes and seeing his reflection in them, teary not out of agony but mind numbing pleasure. — This is what he was meant for. This is what he wants - he needs you to relate him to. Euphoria. Fulfillment. Love.

He loves you.

Kiyoomi blows a quiet breath out of his nose before he’s leaning in for another arduous kiss. Shorter but just as tender, the little whine you make in protest is a combination of a broken kiss and the sudden feeling of him pulling out.

Though the emptiness is short lived. He makes quick work of turning you over till you're standing up on your hands and knees. Your sweet voice pitches into a small squeak when he slaps your ass and squeezes himself into your tight pussy. Eyes collectively rolling back at the difference in angle, and he can feel you start to lose your mind as he wraps his arm around your neck and starts pistoning.

“Ah! O-Oooh my fucking-! Ki -Oh! Kiyoomi!”

His shaky breaths are minced by mind-shattering pleasure as they kiss against your ear. Hissing through his teeth every time he speaks. “So fucking good. C-..Can’t believe you kept this pussy away from me for so long,”

“S’all mine now,” The way you’re starting to tighten up is making his thrusts lag with a noticeable pull. This kind of pleasure could build an addiction if they’re not careful. “G’nna fuck you brain dead. Make sure you know it’s just for me.”

He says that like he’ll even be able to look at another woman after this without getting queasy. He’s already building a shopping list in his head of all the wonderful things he’s gonna get you just to make sure his pretty girl is happy. Get you some upgrades on that motorcycle you’re always driving. Matter of fact he’ll get you an AMB-001. Buy you one in every color. He wonders if you’ve paid off the mortgage on this place?

Your nails dig crestants into the skin on his bicep, eyebrows furrowed as you keep your mouth in a gape. “I-I’m… I’m cum-“

You’re suddenly crying out into the marble tiling of your kitchen floor. His large hand forcing your head in place till your cheek turns mushy, and you’re building a brainless little puddle of drool on the floor. “I’m cummin’! M’cummin’! M- Fuck me, Owmi! Fuck me! Fuck me!”

He doesn’t know what it is that pushes him over the edge first. Hearing you so debauchedly call out for him? Or the fact that not only are you cumming so hard that it’s sprinkling down your legs with every thrust, but your pussy is suckling on his cock in the throes of your orgasm. — Whichever it is, he follows you off the edge head first. Pleasure zipping up his spine unlike anything he’s ever felt before.

He’s losing his mind. Kiyoomi’s pounding into you so hard that your cheek is squeaking against the floor. “Fuck! Oh fuck!”

“Fucking cumming-“ He hears you gasp at the feeling of clenching around his hot cum. “Ooohh fuck m’cumming…! I’m cumming! I’m cumming! Fffucking take it. Take my f-fucking cum, baby. Fuck!”

Even if you wanted, you couldn’t stop yourself from all but milking the cum out of his balls. Orgasm dragged on by the way he continues to so desperately dig you out, filth spewing from his lips as he does so. You’re almost worried your eyes may not move back from the inside of your skull. You’re scratching lines into marble.

But the eventual come down insights shivers. Goosebumps that linger as the euphoria wiens but that feeling of bliss settles in down to the bone. So much so that you both nearly forget who you are - and what you just did - and what that means for you in the long run.

He’s careful as he pulls out. Pretty pussy still doing its best to keep him nestled in your guts, he counts himself lucky to get a glimpse of his cum seeping out of your cunt before you can finally turn over to lay on your back.

Kiyoomi sits on his knees as he watches you do your best to adjust your dress into a more modest state. Radiant in that post sex glow, even tousled, your hair sprawls out under your head and shoulders like a painting. You’re a painting. Purple hickeys on sweaty skin, panties hanging off one of your ankles, lips swollen by love bites. — You’re quite possibly the most beautiful woman in the world.

And you’re fucked.

———-

Being ambushed during a stake out shouldn’t feel as rewarding as it does right now.

Your back collides with the reinforced stone of the famous Diabojutsan’s air sealed safe. Clearly vulnerable to the open air and ripe for the pickings if you’re in the market for priceless artifacts.

You’re supposed to be monitoring this prized safe in night shifts until the packaging for a particular treasure is properly preserved — and sent to the airtight vault you're currently gulping for oxygen in. ~ And the fat set of numbers you’re getting for just four hour shifts over the course of three days is about enough to fund your lifestyle for the next half decade alone. Being bestowed with an honor such as this is once in a lifetime opportunity, even for a hero of your caliber. And to be so graciously gifted with what is essentially a first class ticket to legend-hood should things go the way they’re supposed to, you would be remiss not to acknowledge that honor with gratitude. Valuation, and a graceful representation of your efficacy.

Does his dick feel bigger than last time? Although, looking at his blitzed out expression; literally teary-eyed with bliss (Which probably isn’t too far from how you look right now) You could possibly argue that you may have gotten tighter.

Thank god for your powers. If you didn’t get rid of those cameras and those invasive ass microphones, then someone would be much too involved in what seems to be a very passionate love affair.

You’re all he’s ever wanted. “Y-Yes! Oooooooh fuck yes, Omi. Don’t stop, baby!”

“Shit!” Kiyoomi ducks his nose into the pretty curve of your neck. So induated in mind numbing ecstasy that it’s almost painful ~ and the closer he gets to you the more it intensifies. Already high off the tune of your codeine coated moans and intoxicated by the soft tight piece of heaven that is you and your perfect pussy, Kiyoomi can do no more than drunkenly babble in your ear.

“So fucking good, angel… God, you’re so perfect for me, baby.” He pounds in a few thrusts that take your breath away as he nuzzles his nose into your neck. They’ve been fighting for years, how is he just now realizing how good you smell? Granted his best attempts to get any closer (although rare) were often followed by a week or so of waiting for the swelling to go down. That or a few months spent between gauze and plaster.

But now he’s squeezing himself between heaven and nirvana, biting bruises into your pretty throat and dishing out more praises than he’s allotted his workers in the past half decade. — Though, he hasn’t been in love with them for the past five years either. “Fuck. K-Kiyoomi…!”

“Gonna cum again?” He pulls back for a better look at your pretty face. “Christ… You’re milking me. You really want it?”

“P-Please…?” Your airy voice and the way your pretty lips pout as you beg has him pondering on whether he should get them marigolds or roses for the reception. “Please. You feel so good, Omi. Want it s-so bad, baby…!”

Kiyoomi leans in for a kiss that’s as short as it is tender, ardor so heavy in his eyes that you can’t help but to goosebump. “Get it wet for me then and I’ll fuck you full,”

Fuck.

The sound of you losing your mind around his pistoning cock is so fucking pretty that he almost can’t even believe it. A kind of song that’s so sinful yet so divine that not only does it feel worthy of reverence, but the surge of lighting that shoots up his veins because of it almost turns him blind with ecstasy. — And that’s not even getting into the way your spasming cunt feels. This might actually be heaven.

Kiyoomi’s eyes turn glossy, he’s so overwhelmed with pleasure. Though no better are you as your tears freely fall, just as glittery as your cum that starts to sporadically spurt from your swollen clit. “Fuck! Oh, You’re-!”

“Y-You’re making a mess, baby.” His voice warbles a bit. He’s cumming again. Saying that he’s in love with this woman wouldn’t even scratch the surface of how he feels about you. You’re soaking a button up worth fifty thousand yen and he’s wondering what cut of diamond would look better on your ring finger.

“Oh, angel-“ Kiyoomi pants as you continue to cum together. “O-Oh, baby. Fuck! You’re so fucking good, ______. You’re so-… Oh fuck…!”

You bury your hand in his hair as he rests his head into the crook of your neck. Mindlessly - but lovingly carding your fingers through his wavy hair as your other hand holds him by the shoulder, both so tightly holding the other against themselves that you might as well be fused together.

And once again, even as they come down are they still roving in the lingering bliss. Breaths evening as his hips stutter into a stop and you’re left just holding each other in the warm silence of the empty museum. The way your cunt still manages to suckle on his overstimulated shaft makes him a little light headed, but he’s more focused on the softness of your buttery soft skin.

Kiyoomi’s hands are adoring as they rub up your thighs, doting as he presses savory kisses against your pretty throat. — Consonantly, your fingers are much more purposeful as you affectionately massages his scalp. Making pretty, perfect, airy hearts in the air at the feeling of his lips and his tender caresses; and god if you don’t feel so fucking right pressed against each other like this.

He feathers his lips from their loving place on your throat, up your jaw, and onto your plush lips where you’ve joined in a slow kiss that feels like mutual worship. ~ Adoring, reverential, devoted in every sense of the word. Even their butterflies are kindly of the other’s wings. A flurry of goosebumps that are thumbed over without a flinch of shame. You’re all but making out like a couple of teenagers. Moaning and humming in the other’s mouth, existing in a pocket of ardorous clover.

Neither of you know when the kiss ends, just that the air is infinitely sweeter because of it. Your nose playfully skimming against his, his forehead sanguinely resting against yours. The way you absently play with the soft hairs on his nape is enough to turn his butterflies into palpitations. — You two should’ve done this ages ago.

“You’re so mean,” That being the first thing you say after all that actually makes him audibly laugh. “You know it. That’s why you’re laughing.”

“I’m laughing ‘cause you’re a goofball,” Kiyoomi presses a quick kiss on your pretty little pout. “I didn’t even do anything. How am I mean?”

“You’re gonna get me in trouble. — This is supposed to be a straight shot to a World Merit award and here you are testing the limits of my birth control.”

“You helped me disable everything, including the timed sensors, so you should be fine once you snap your fingers again.” He reasons. “If it’s a boy we’ll name him Shinji.”

“Amari if it’s a girl.”

“Those initials are gonna get her bullied.”

“Builds character.”

You both snicker together.

You both also manage to simultaneously lean in for another kiss that lasts another long loving couple of moments. Another minute of fond groping and sighing, and another of feeling you clench around his warm cum. You’re nice enough to use your smoke to clean his DNA off of the ground beneath their joined bodies, and yours off his dress shoes and expensive button up.

“Just let me get a picture of the inside of that vault and I’ll let you finish your shift,” Kiyoomi presses a couple cottony kisses on your jaw. “Is your brother driving you home or do you want me to?”

“Hitoshi said he’ll be here by three,” You don't even flinch at the fact that one of the most feared men in the world (Who you’re so aptly letting dig out your insides.) Just asked you so casually to commit high treason. “The entry code is six-five-eight-three. If you’re gonna take anything do it on Saturday when Chase-Woman’s working around this time. She’s been a huge bitch to me for no reason.”

“Want me to kill her?”

“No, baby. Just hurt her really badly.” You skim your thumb against his jawline as his heart skips. “You’ll need her right eye and her pointer finger to get in there anyway.”

Kiyoomi hums as he leans in for another kiss. “Good to know.”

—--

You’re taking a step off your treadmill and toward your shower when your phone starts ringing in your hand. Oh, it’s Airi!

You push the screen with your thumb. “She’s been sucked into a black hole. Leave a message!”

“Oh, well can you ask her to un-spaghetti herself?” Airi quips back. “I got some good news to tell her.”

You sigh as you use your smoke to equip yourself some fresh clothes for after your wash. “Spaghettification sounds so relaxin’ to be honest…”

“I’d eat myself. I know I’d eat myself.” She says so seriously that you both can’t help but laugh. “I don’t even care about the logistics, it would just be too tempting.”

“I’m gonna have to put one of those toddler leashes on you at the next Hero’s Ball. — There’s like three people I know with the ability to do that,” You float through your room to see your adoptive brother sitting cross legged on your bed holding one of your joysticks. A bowl of protein chips sitting beside him that you stick your hand in as you move for your personal bathroom. “Honestly insane how common it is to meet heroes that can turn people into food.”

“I mean… Technically we’re already food.”

“Have you and BloodWing been talking?”

Airi snorts from her side of the line. A decade and some ago she would’ve never imagined herself in this position. The childhood friend of one of the greatest heroes this century with her name in the foremost side of history because of it. — Just breathing in the same air as a heroes like you and you’ll probably start to glow by proxy, just by providential intervention. She’s been offered talk shows and brand deals just for being a recurrent face on your instagram. The day after your first historic save Airi got followed by SZA; lady tried to fly her out on the off chance you’d come with her. Recently since making it past top five in the W.H.A. After your World Merit Award, Airi’s been getting spam calls from the people at NBC; like hell she’s risking talking through another shitty translator.

“Oh! Funny you should say that, Ms. Number Three in the world. — Congratulations, by the way,”

“Oh why thank ya, by the way!”

“Of course, of course! — Anyway, I come bearing exemplary good news,” Airi starts jocosely. “You do recall me telling you about bumping into one of Japan’s most eligible bachelors, right?”

You place your clean clothes on the toilet as you start to set up your after shower routine, closing the door with your foot before beginning to undress. “Shichirō Yuuma, a man worth moaning, cryin’, and throwing up for?”

“The one and only! — Sooo… Guess who just zealously asked me to dinner?”

“Noburu Yuuta from our second year math class?”

“No, but so close!” You both jovially laugh.

You look at yourself in the mirror as Airi begins to further explain - and Christ. I mean you’re not stupid, half of your whole superpower is being attractive, to the point of nauseum sometimes. ~ But recently you’ve been tipping the line from nauseam to hard to stomach. Getting your guts dug out every other day by a guy you’ve been secretly crushing on over the course of nearly a decade seems to be great for that natural glow.

“He texted me last night actually and asked when we were talking over the phone! Which we must’ve been on till about… Eleven in the morning! Which! Is why you’re hearing about it so late in the day.” She finally exhales. “It was so much fun but I was exhausted. I slept like such a scrub,”

You hum for her to continue as you (Honestly, rather vainly) check yourself out in the mirror. “And somewhere in the conversation he was like “I don’t usually do this but do you wanna go to L’Effervescence tomorrow night? I could buy out the seating for privacy. Buy the anti-paparazzi guys, even get those Hero grade shadow guards for the occasion,’ And like, holy fuck is that an expensive gesture. ~ So, obviously I couldn’t say no,”

“Obviously.”

“Yeah! So, at like nine-thirty we’re supposed to be meeting at, by the way, one of the most exclusive restaurants in all of Tokyo!” Airi excitedly says, before faltering a bit. “Oh uh but…”

You unhook your eyes from the mirror to furrow. “But…?”

“Hey, so, can you do me a huge favor?”

“Can you ask in a way that’s less anxiety inducin’?”

You hears Airi shuffle a bit on her side of the line. “It’s- Okay, it’s- Okay. Don’t say no.”

“Oh no.”

“It’s nothing bad!” She presses. “He just- He really likes me and I know that, hence the gesture. — But he- Okay, so you know, well, everybody knows who Yoshirou Ryōichi is. He’s like twice as hot and like three times more unavailable.”

You do not like where this is going. “Yeah, I know of him.”

“Well, they’re best friends and well… y’know… Like everybody he’s a super huge fan of yours and he’s got an even bigger crush on you and he’s a multimillionaire!”

You’re a multimillionaire, and you’re already fucking a man worth a few hundred billion who you’d have no problem saying is like a million times more attractive than that guy; despite being the most feared man on the planet. You and Kiyoomi may not exactly have a title on your relationship but you’re almost certain it’s more than a fling. With the way you kiss and hold each other before and after you fool around. I mean, the chemistry between you two when you talk. — There’s been many a time he’s stayed after a night of turning your sheets wet just to cuddle and pillow talk till the morning. And besides, you’ve both been risking their reputations for each other in some way. — You’ve been turning the other cheek and all but being an undercover spy just to make life easier for him, and he’s been taking out your more annoying enemies and making sure you and your loved ones are off limits to the worst parts of the criminal world.

And although things are still new and nameless, it just… wouldn’t… feel right. You’ve all but resigned yourself at this point to only having eyes for this guy and you can see by the way he looks at you, the way he touches you, - the fifty million dollar anklet over your foot with his name all but engraved in it and the little friendship bracelet he stole from your bedside that you always see under his suit cuffs, the he at the very least feels close to the same. ~ This’ll feel… unfaithful, or at the very least a little shady. And honestly the whole idea just makes you super uncomfortable.

Which Airi must sense from the other side of the line because she tries to aloe over it gently. “It doesn’t have to mean anything, and afterwards you can never talk to him again. I just… I need you tonight. It’s been a long time for both of us and I know you have your brother to fill the silence but-… I don’t. ~ And I feel a genuine connection with this guy,”

She deals the killing blow. “Please? I love you. I’d two-man a trash can if it were the other way around.”

You sigh. This feels like a bad idea.

“….Okay.”

————

Your physical mutation has always caused you a lot of problems.

So looking even better recently, in front of a guy probably high off of getting anything he wants either from his looks or his money, is just a set up for disaster. ~ You know so by the way his face lights up at just the sight of you approaching the table with your childhood friend, without your mask, and the dread that sets in because of it. I mean, you’ll give it to Airi. The guy does clean up well. He smells of a familiar Dior as they both slide into the booth together. Your lip gloss glistening over the candle lights set to the mood of the softly playing music, and you haze over with the kind of warm glow that has even Shichirō taking second glances.

“Jesus, look at you two,” He breathes out. “Didn’t know women came in this pretty.”

You politely smile as Airi giggles. “You two don’t look bad yourselves! I kinda feel like a highschool girl again.”

Ryōichi seems to fluster the moment your eyes land on him, all but turning gooey when you verbally acknowledges him for the first time. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Ryōichi-kun.”

“A-Aye, you as well,” He responds a little breathlessly. “I didn’t think yer voice would be just as pretty as you are. Forgive me if ya see me leanin’ in for a better listen.”

Your smile sweetens a bit. Charming.

•••

You can feel his eyes on you as you pick at your hibachi with your chopsticks, you could almost hear him nervously swallow. “So, what made ya go into hero work?”

“Honestly?” The way you look up at him makes his ears burn. “Spite.”

Ryōichi chuckles a little incredulously. “Spite?”

“Yeah, at first. — Looking the way that I do doesn’t go over well in conversations about making a genuine difference, regardless of hard you work. And I suppose I find angry faces much more appealing than smug satisfaction; though I’ve always had somewhat bratty tendencies.”

‘Bratty tendencies,’ You might be actually trying to kill him. There’s a glint of challenge in his eyes that you could go as far as saying looks a little tantalizing. “Some people just can’t see the joy of a pretty girl worth some trouble. I find the concept pretty enticin’ myself.”

“Yeah? I’ll hold you to that.”

His smirk sharpens.

Airi turns a bit giddy at the sight of obvious chemistry between the two, adding with a tint of whiskey in her breath. “Oh, I just noticed! _____-chan! You don’t have to dialect-switch here! Ryōichi’s also from Hyogo!”

Ryōichi’s eyebrows all but shoot up in surprise. “No way? You’re from Hyogo? Where were ya located?”

“Raised in Third Chome in Tsukuda,” You try not to look like you didn’t bring that up for a reason. “Not even a fifteen minute trip from Nishiyodogawa.”

“Whaaat?! You and my granny were basically neighbors! How are ya- Wait, stop dialect-switchin’. It’s just us ‘ere, pretty.”

You chew on your bottom lip for a split second and Ryōichi watches it slide out of your teeth. “It’s become such a habit at this point that I don’t even notice when I’m doin’ it anymore. - Ma publicist apparently thinks I stick out enough.”

“H-Holy shit!” Ryōichi and Shichirō exclaim together.

“You make kansai-ben sound like a fucking lullaby.” Shichirō coughs out.

Ryōichi cherries up like an overgrown schoolboy. “It sounds like yer singin’ to me. Whoever convinced ya to start coverin’ that up, I oughtta knock his teeth in.”

You giggle prettily as you set your champagne glass aside. “It’s distractin’- on top of me already stickin’ out like a sore thumb. I’m not sure if ya noticed but attention’s not my most favorite thing in the world.”

“Well sure, ya know, when I put aside you bein’ pretty as the sun with a punch like a fuckin’ freight train and voice that could sink ships, I’d say yer pretty easy to ignore.”

You snorts, and his eyes all but turn into hearts. “Be quiet.”

“It’s not ma strong suit, pretty girl.” He quips back.

You titter again as your thighs squeeze against each other.

•••

You’re three champagne flutes in when the reality of your flustered giggles and Ryo’s shimmering eyes start to weigh in on you in all the worst ways possible.

When that expensive sandalwood and clove cologne starts to trigger that inclination to search for vanilla and sweet grass, a charming smile in place of a plain expression but even still it’s loving. — Kiyoomi’s only got about two inches on the guy but even still he’s not enough to fit. Not just because Kiyoomi’s more handsome, or more funny, or rich enough to buy out versailles; but simply for the fact that Ryōichi’s not him. He’s not the lips you’ve been kissing every other night or the arms you dream of drowning in every night in between. He’s not what you want.

He’s not who you love.

You quietly clear your throat as you pass Ryo a polite smile, but even so he catches the shift. “I’m gonna go get some air.”

“You a’right?”

You hate that he’s a little cute when he tilts his head like that. He looks like a big puppy. “Y-Yeah, I’m fine, Just a little too much champagne.”

Ryōichi watches your smoke flip over your shoulders as you turn for the door before he can get a word in edgewise. Heels clicking against the polished marble of the restaurant floors in the same rhythm of the way your dress stretches along the sway of your hips; and despite his confusion, it can’t be helped the way his eyes stick to you till you’re out of his fortunate sight.

You only realize your vapor must’ve fazed through your ponytail at some point when you feel the gentle late summer breeze push some over on your back. Usually any hope for keeping hair neat and tidy around Kiyoomi is thrown out the window the moment you two lock eyes. Even before this situationship started some little part of you would raise its ears the moment you got a whiff of his saccharine scent.

So for it to have undone at some point in the conversation feels a particular kind of wrong. Almost like you’re…. taking something from him. ~ Reapplying it and sullying its importance. Choosing a knockoff and betraying him somehow. This feels like cheating. God, this feels like cheating. This feels like cheating and the realization of what this feeling really is and feeling it now in its entirety brings about a flurry of feelings that are equally if not more abismal. You're calling your character into question, your morals. And even though you were never really “Pure of heart,” Or anything like that but - You’re worse now. And on top of that, look at you. To be so willing to throw away your future and your own integrity out the window for a guy who you don't even know if you’re dating or not.

Oh god, what have you been doing these past six months? Risking everything you’ve worked for for a guy who’s been trying to kill you in all the worst ways possible until just recently. Now that he’s getting something from you. Something nearly every man in your life has lied, cried, and nearly killed for and you just give it to the worst guy ever. You’ve been committing high treason just to clench on some asshole’s cock just because it curves-!

“Woah there, pretty.”

You jump when the sound of Ryōichi’s voice breaks through you internal spiral.

Which he must sense, because he’s cooing at you with a comforting hold gripped to your exposed shoulders. Hazel eyes cottoned by a look of gentle worry, but you don't get the feeling that he’s judging you in any way. “Just breathe. I’m not gonna let anything happen to ya.”

You try to recompose yourself with a quiet intake of breath and a nod. “S-Sorry. Yeah, I’m-…I’m okay. I just had a moment there.”

“I saw. Or well,” You notice his hazel eyes fade into a soft carob. “I felt, I guess.”

“Oh. O-Oh god, I’m so sorry-!”

“N- Don’t apologize ta me, pretty. I was the one who used my powers on ya without askin’, I should be the one apologizin’,” Ryo cuts you off. “It's just that, y’know passively I can sometimes see people’s emotions start to murk up the air if their upset enough and.. I was just worried ‘s’all. ~ Didn’t want ya to come out here and work yer way into a panic attack.”

Oh, well that’s just… That’s just genuinely considerate. Your smoke starts to idly reach in his direction. “That’s- Oh. Well, I appreciate that. I’m sorry for makin’ ya worry though.”

Ryōichi shrugs as he let’s his large hands skim down from your shoulders and down to your silky hands. Quietly marveling at the lovely difference of your warm hands in his. “I mean, yer a hero, I just kind of assume feelings like that is what you folk go through everyday. Ya don’t have to apologize for not feeling good, sunshine, — Ya don’t have to apologize to me about anything if you can help it.”

That sudden rush of returned affection streamlining from your hands to his makes his heart skip a little. It’s nearly midnight and yet the little smile you give him makes it seem like the middle of the day. He can’t help but return it when you flusteredly giggle. “Stop bein’ so sweet to me, I hate it.”

“Oh yeah, nothin’ but hate comin’ over here, princess,” You both snicker together. “God, yer so fuckin’ beautiful when you smile. It’s actually kinda crazy.”

“Oh, sorry ‘bout that.” You giggle.

He’s looking at you like he’s got the world in his hands.

“Stop apologizin’!” He laughs as he grazes his thumb over yours. “I’m really gonna have to fix that, aren’t I?”

“Oh yeah? And how are ya gonna do that?”

“We’ll figure it out.” He shrugs again with a grin. “That and makin’ sure we keep a smile on that pretty-“

He falls to the ground.

Well, no, scratch that, he surges to the ground - at an angle. ~ Head heaving in one direction much quicker than the rest of his body, but even still he hits the ground with a plop. Body lamely gathered on the pavement as you watch in slow motion the gash in his head start to guise with a gallop, and then tumble into a sputter of blood along the pavement.

Even with a silencer Kiyoomi’s gun makes your ears ring. “Get rid of it.”

You don't even think. Just snap your fingers and his body fizzles away with every camera within a thirty foot radius. _ And you suppose it’s a testament to how well you and Kiyoomi know each other, because even as they disappear you can feel through the scabbing of fried wires that they’re already disabled.

You’re still staring at where Ryōichi’s body was when Kiyoomi roughly drags you to his car behind the alley by your bicep. ~ Your brain’s barely caught up with you by the time he’s parked you at his passenger door. Standing there motionless as Kiyoomi snatches your door open and you can’t even be phased at how quietly furious he is as you stare somewhat into empty space.

He says finally through his teeth. “Get in the fucking car.”

You look up at him.

He glares back.

You get in slide in his car.

He makes sure he’s careful of your dress as he slams the door behind you.

It’s expectedly silent in his Royce as he circles the car for the driver seat. A brief gathering of seconds, quiet save for the nighttime ambiance of Tokyo and the sound of his shoes muffledly crunching against the pavement. Kiyoomi’s so tall that it doesn’t take more than a lithe couple of footsteps to reach the handle on his inside. — But before he can tuck his fingers under the grip and feel it click open, you hear likely the worst thing that could be said; shouted blithely from across the street.

“Oi, Ryō-chan!” Shichirō laughs drunkenly. “Don’t treat ‘er too rough, man!”

Your blood turns ice cold as he freezes stock still at the window. And even though his chest and arms are the only visible part of him from your side of the window, you can see from your seat, your can still see the veins in his arms tense as he does his best to maintain his cover. He and Ryōichi look pretty similar from a distance, come to think of it. The only noticeable difference is that Kiyoomi’s a few inches taller and his hair’s a bit longer. Which realizing that now is kind of knocking you on your ass somewhat.

Kiyoomi’s back in motion again after a few more unsettling seconds. Kneeling into his Royce and slamming the door behind him, he makes quick work of his keys and his seatbelt.

The car jumps with a healthy hum as he twists his keys into the ignition. And you try to keep your eyes affixed to the windshield as he idles in his seat a split second, assumably composing himself before he be switches gear.

He exhales.

Kiyoomi reaches over and fastens your seatbelt for you.

He snatches the gear into drive.

—

You’d be naive to think that that uncomfortably silent drive here would have meant anything good.

Before you can even spare a second glance at seeing the inside of his penthouse for the first time, you’re being cornered against his living room wall. Your pretty lip gloss shimmering in his chandelier lights as he nearly shakes with rage. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“Kiyoomi-“

“Or are you just stupid?” He hisses. “I want you to answer me. — Do I look like the kind of guy you can just fuck around on?”

You respond with a sour frown, probably made all that worse by the way you scoff in response. “What? Are you saying I cheated on you?”

Just the sound of that seems to make his blood boil, especially with the kind of attitude you’re responding to him with. ~ Of all the times you’ve seen him angry, and you were both trying to kill each other at some point, you’ve never seen him look this angry. “What the hell would’ve happened if I hadn’t bugged your phone, huh? Were you just gonna fuck this guy behind my back-?!”

“You bugged my-? So, you can have access to all my private conversations but I can only hear from you when your dick is hard?!” You bite back.

“Don’t fucking turn this on me. It takes one of my best scouts to find out you were raised in Kobe but you let this- fucking chimp know in like half an hour?!” Kiyoomi presses angrily. “You’ve hated my guts for over a decade. For a decade. But it takes two hours for you to be practically be building a future with this fucking まんこ-!”

“You never fuckin’ asked!” You bite sharply. “And if you were around to just hang out with me half the time ya are to fuck me, you would’ve probably ‘ve noticed!”

You quite nearly bare your teeth at him. “And if you’re so fuckin’ concerned with monitoring my behavior when yer not around, maybe you’d know that being half decent to another person for five minutes isn’t that fuckin’ abnormal!”

“Watch your mouth,” He somehow steps in even closer to you. “You don’t see me for a week and somehow you’ve let Chinatsu talk you into enkō with some copycat that couldn’t give you half of what I can even if he killed for it-”

You kiss your teeth. “It wasn’t like I was gonna run away with him and you knew that!”

“Well, it doesn’t matter because he’s dead,” Kiyoomi emphasizes that last part with a nasty kind of spitefulness. “How the hell am I supposed feel about my girlfriend whoring herself out-“

“Don’t fuckin’ talk to me like that, Kiyoomi.” You interrupt him firmly. “The first time you actually put a label on us and it’s to justify you callin’ me a whore? All you do is empty your balls in me and go completely ghost until I’m convenient for you again,”

He’s about to angrily bite back when the sight of your glossy eyes takes him back a bit, but even still, at this point you’re all but yelling at him. “Do you know how shitty you made me feel? ~ You make me feel, now that I really think about it? Being treated like a glorified sugar baby at best and if not that then just an expensive fucktoy? I feel like you only see me after you cum, and even that’s finite. ~ After you leave I’m not even worth a phone call until you’re horny again. You might as well be puttin’ money on my fuckin’ dresser,”

“I knew that guy for two hours — Two, and he showed more interest in my life than a guy I’ve been regularly risking my job and my dignity for - for six months. ~ You can bug my phone and fuck me whenever you want and have me available for you nearly Every. Time. You need it — and I can’t even talk to a guy who considers my feelings over his dick without you blowing his head in?”

You push him and he stumbles back a little but he lets you. “If this you as my boyfriend, then yer a shit fuckin’ boyfriend, Kiyoomi. And I-… I-I don’t understand what I did to… ” You trail off.

“Why didn’t you just kill me in my kitchen?” You voice warbles when you ask suddenly. And just hearing it come out of your mouth nearly makes him step back a bit in surprise. “I would’ve rather you’d just kill me than make me feel like this. ~ What did I do to make you stop respecting me?”

Kiyoomi’s throws his head back through a furrow. That teeth clenched augury over his scowl softens with a look that says genuine confusion — And a little hurt.. “W-…What? What? Don’t ever say that. That’s not-“

“Why didn’t you kill me, Kiyoomi,” You reiterate with a sniffle and a teary look in your eyes that makes you seem so…small. ~ Like whatever he’s done or has been doing without knowing has made you small, and that feeling couldn’t make him feel any less reprehensible if he tried.

“We’ve been doing this for six months. I’ve been willing to give every part myself to you in that time. — My body, my heart, a dream that I’ve dedicated my life to, and I’ve been more than obvious about the fact that these risks pale in comparison to being with you and seeing you happy. But all this time… I’ve been an object to you. Why,” The sob you hiccup breaks his heart into parcels. “Why didn’t you just kill me?”

“______,” Kiyoomi reaches for you. “Stop - asking me that. That’s not- I’m not-“

“You don’t have to.”

He very desperately scutters on his long legs when you suddenly turn on your heels for the door. “W-Wait. Stop. Stop. Listen-“

“I’m not doing this for a man that just wants to own me,” You hiccup as you move for your shoes. “We can just act like this never happened-“

“No! You’re not- That’s not-“ He tries to block your path to the door but his grip on your shoulders just fizzles right around him. “I need- Just stop and listen to me for a second,”

“So, you can call me a whore again? Try to fear monger me into-”

“______, I’m in love with you. I love you.”

That makes you stop in you’re tracks.

You pause in front of him to comb him over with your eyes for a quiet few moments of suspicion. ~ But once you see the absolute conviction in his eyes your mouth can’t help but fall into a little gape. A surplus of tears that fall from your pretty eyes all at once and finally you finally give him the opportunity to touch you.

Kiyoomi’s a tad more composed as he places his palms on your forearms, but his voice shakes like he’s out of breath, like he’s anxious. And he makes absolute sure that your eyes are locked on his as he confesses. “Do you think I would do this, any of this if I wasn’t? ~ You think I would’ve went out there and risked blowing my cover killing some one off nobody over a woman I didn’t love? I love you. I-…”

It looks like it physically hurts him to say this but hearing it has you pulling back another sob. “I’ve been in love with you for the past five years. Way before any of this. Why- Why else would I be this angry? Why else would you be here?”

You look at him for a watery pause. Half composing yourself to respond with an actual cohesive answer instead of crying in front of him any more than you already have. “I…”

“…I love you too, Kiyoomi,” You sniffle again as you confess. “I have for a while if not just as long… And since this has started, I’ve been transparent about that, at least from an affectionate standpoint. But you…”

You frustratedly shake your head. “Why wouldn’t you say anything? Why have you been treating me like this? Avoiding me-“

“I wasn’t avoiding you! I would never… I didn’t- I don’t know how to do this. I just thought-,” Kiyoomi internally stumbles a bit. “I didn’t want to suffocate you-“

“But you neglected me, Omi.”

“I didn’t mean to, I swear,” He says honestly. And today must be just full of surprises because not only does he sound nearly tearfully remorseful, but he’s - He’s scared. You can hear it in the way his voice shakes, like he’s pleading with you. “I’m sorry. I would never just- I thought this was good enough-”

“It’s not.” You say and you sound… God, you sound so far away.

Kiyoomi looks at you a long moment before speaking. “Don’t leave.”

You furrow. “Then apologize.”

You can already see the thought forming in his head so you cut him off before he can speak. “I’m sorry, Kiyoomi. — But you bugged my phone, you heard my hesitation when Airi asked for this favor. ~ I got a little carried away and that’s on me but… He was the closest thing to havin’ a version of you that wanted all of me.”

Oh, you asshole. That breaks his heart all over again. “I do want all of you. You could’ve told me something sooner if you were really that uncertain about my feelings for you. But entertaining some cheap knockoff? ______, I love you so much it makes me sick and seeing you with that guy like that made me wanna break the world in two. ~ I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

You can’t help but blink away a few tears that finally has him crossing the line and pulling you into his chest. And he’s loving as he nuzzles his nose into your head to pepper scattered kisses over your watery cheeks, somehow finally being able to start loving you in the way he’s been wanting all this time feels like finally breathing freely for once. He almost forgets what had him so mad to begin with.

“I love you too, Omi,” You say against his shirt. “I love you so much. I love you.”

God. He could actually cry.

But - Kiyoomi pulls away momentarily to look at you more firmly, honesty still resonate in his eyes as he forces you to keep your stare on him. “Then I need you to listen to me,”

“This doesn’t happen again.” Kiyoomi grabs your jaw with coarse fingers, eyes affixed on yours still. Steely and intense. “I’m yours and you’re mine, and I’m not ever-… If you let Chinatsu talk you into doing something like that again, it’ll be her and her entire family. — Do you hear me?”

You nod as your hand softly skims over his, eyes faithfully locked onto one another. But despite the threat, you feel like you’re lovesick. “I do.”

“You better.”

The barely restrained fury in his eyes near instantly melts into a relieved look as he sighs into the conditioned air, already itching to have you in his arms again as he drags you by the bicep into his hard chest and wraps you in a loving embrace to give his lips easy access to the top of your head. He hates the way being harsh to you makes him feel now. “I didn’t mean to make you cry. I’m sorry for that. ~ It’ll never happen again.”

“I know. I forgive you,” You say into his chest. “I’m sorry for makin’ you feel the way you did tonight. I don’t want you to ever think I wasn’t made for you and you alone.”

Ah. That actually makes his heart skip.

You remain locked in a silent but loving embrace until he says suddenly. “I’m sending someone over to pack up your stuff. I want you to live with me from now on.”

Instead of worrying about the fact that he just strong-armed you into living with him only six months into properly recognizing your feelings for one another, your first instinct is to consider your brother. “What about Hito?”

“I’ll take over what you both paid for rent,” He presses a couple scattered kisses over your ears and relishes in the way you don’t push back. “He can visit here whenever he wants as long as he keeps the location to himself, same for the versus.”

You nod and he rewards your obedience with his loving hands rubbing lines up and down your back. “You won’t ever have to worry about anything you don’t have to. I have everything you need to live life the way you want. Nothing is out of my reach,”

“-But if I ever think this hero thing has even the slightest chance of hurting you in a way that matters, I’m cutting it off immediately. I hope you can understand that.”

You inhale a lengthy breath.

“…Okay.”

“Okay?”

You nod. “Okay.”

Kiyoomi closes his eyes as you feel what was ever left of his tension slough off of his shoulders. He’s earnest as he noses against your head to press a couple more affectionate kisses into your pretty face. “I love you. I’m only doing what I know is best for you.”

“I love you too, Omi.” You ease against him fully. “I know you are.”

comment and reblog 🥺

@yasmin-oviedo

#villain!sakusa #sakusa smut #sakusa kiyoomi #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!!#hq sakusa #sakusa kiyoomi x reader #sakusa fluff #crime lord!sakusa kiyoomi #hq fluff #haikyuu sakusa #hero x supervillain

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howdeepthegrave · 3 months ago

Note

Nicky and Rio try to teach Agatha how to play Minecraft but in their collective excitement forget to explain the most important part... how the controls work.

note: all-autistic Vidarkness fam incoming and AGATHA REDEMPTION BUT IN A LEARNING VIDEO GAMES WAY

-----

"It's sooo easy, Mama!" Nicky declared.

"Easy when I help you, mijo," Rio said.

"You only help me a little bit! Anyway, Mama, it's so easy! You can do anything in Minecraft. All you gotta do is mine things and craft stuff!"

"And defeat the Ender Dragon."

Nicky nodded, babbling on, and Agatha looked between him and Rio, utterly befuddled. She was not certain if it was the pain meds—damn sprained ankle—or the fact that her son and her spouse so often seemed to communicate in ways she could not possibly comprehend, but most of what was being said was flying right over head.

"Three of us in one house," she grumbled, "and of course you two got the autism that's all matchy-matchy."

Rio rubbed her back gently, taking the video game controller from their son.

"It's easy, mi vida. You just have to..."

The words rattled on, and Agatha tried to take in what was happening onscreen and match it to whatever Rio and Nicky were saying. They had assured her that this would be a fun way to pass the time while they were gone for the day and she was laid up, but she was feeling doubtful. Still, as she watched the action on the screen, a sense of understanding crept in. This might actually be an interesting game. Could be. Possibly.

"Maybe we'll just leave you in creative mode," Rio said, and those were all words that made total sense.

"No, no, I think I get it," Agatha said, "and if I give it a try I'm sure..."

Rio's watch beeped, and she groaned.

"Crap. We gotta go. Here, love."

Agatha found herself in possession of the controller as Rio grabbed the two matching backpacks by the coffee table, tossing the smaller one to Nicky.

"C'mon, mijo. Time to head out."

Nicky hugged Agatha fiercely, and she smiled, kissing his cheek before he could pull away. He was already at the front door as Rio leaned down and kissed Agatha softly.

"Just take it easy today, mi vida. Don't try to do too much. Alice promised to stop in and check on things when she drops Nicky back from school, and I'll be home in plenty of time to make dinner."

"I love you," Agatha said.

"Love you too."

"Love you, Mama!" Nicky shouted, and then "C'mon, Mami!"

Then they were gone. Her baby boy and the love of her life. Of course, they would both return eventually, but still, there was a moment when Agatha's heart shuddered, imagining a world where they might not. She decided it was definitely the pain medication kicking her ass emotionally.

Something on the television made a sound, and she looked to see things... Happening in the game. There was a cow. Okay. A cow was not so bad. She could...

She looked down at the controller in her hands. She studied it like it was vital to a case.

Shit. She had no idea what buttons did what.

^^^^^^

Rio slumped in through the garage. Alice's car was still outside, and that had worried her at first, but she figured maybe her old friend had just stuck around to keep Agatha and Nicky company. Alice was cool like that.

Going to the fridge, she started to pull out the ingredients for dinner, smiling to herself as she heard cheerful laughter and conversation from the living room. Her family was happy. It had taken them a while to get where they were, but...

"HOLY SHIT, AGATHA!"

"Language, Aunt Alice! Go, Mama, go!"

Setting aside the food, Rio decided she had better go and check on things, just a bit.

Agatha was on the couch, just as she had been this morning, injured leg stretched out and elevated, but she was twisted around at an awkward angle, her good foot on the floor as she leaned over the controller in the way Rio normally would playing a racing game. Nicky was in the big armchair, excitedly clapping his hands as he watched whatever was happening onscreen. Alice was sprawled on the floor, cheering Agatha on.

"Hey, how's everything?" Rio asked.

"Mami, Mama's about to get th' Ender Dragon!"

"What?"

"Oh, took me a little trial and error," Agatha said, "but I am about to whomp this thing."

"You... You've never played before today."

"Nope."

"You don't even like video games."

"Oh, I do find Ace Attorney diverting. Otherwise, no, I usually don't."

"So how..."

"I may have looked up some tutorials while I was, you know, figuring out how the controls even work."

"Wait, you..."

"Well, you and Nicky did manage to avoid even telling me how to move in this... Darn game, but eventually I got the hang of it."

"Rio," Alice said, "Agatha is tearing this shit UP!"

"Language!" Agatha and Nicky chorused.

Rio moved around behind the armchair, reaching down to ruffle Nicky's hair and watch as Agatha bulldozed her way through taking out the Ender Dragon. It was, in an odd way, glorious.

Later on, after dinner, after Nicky was in bed, Rio helped Agatha up to their room and sat with her on their bed.

"So, you conquered Minecraft in a day."

"What," Agatha shrugged, "like it's hard?"

"After we didn't even think to tell you how the controls work?"

"Sometimes, if you want something done right, you turn to loud young men on the internet. Well, some loud young men on the internet."

Laughing, Rio shook her head.

"You amaze me, Agatha."

Smiling, Agatha reclined back against her pillows and shrugged again.

"Don't tell anyone, but sometimes, I even amaze myself."

#agathario au #agatha all along #agathario #agatha harkness #rio vidal #nicholas scratch #agatha x rio #vidarkness #agathario family #vidarkness family #fanfic

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official-wales · 8 months ago

Note

Any advice for first language English speakers trying to learn Welsh?

sacrifice yourself to y ddraig goch and ascend into her kingdom of fire

Diolch yn fawr iawn! I'm a second language South Walian myself, so my Welsh is gonna be different to a first language North Walian, for example. But, we roll with it.

Start small

I don't know if you're in Wales, or elsewhere, but just introducing little Welsh phrases is a good place to start, like greetings. Don't worry about making mistakes, or being misunderstood. Everyone will know what you mean, and most people will be pleased you're using Welsh!

Hello - Shwmae/Helo

Good bye - Hwyl fawr

How are you? - Sut dych chi? (very formal), Sut wyt ti? (less formal)

Thank you (very much) - Diolch (yn fawr)

Please - O's gwelwch yn dda

Good morning - Bore da

Good afternoon - Prynhawn da

Good night - Nos da

Welcome - Croeso

If you ARE in Wales, look out for people wearing little orange speech mark badges in public places, like shops. These mean they are fluent, or learning Welsh, and will be happy to talk with you in the language.

2. Understanding pronunciation

Sometimes English speakers get tripped up by Welsh spelling, especially when mutations are involved. You've probably heard the old "it's just a keyboard smash language!", when honestly Welsh makes more sense than English (every letter is pronounced the same every time, unlike English, where it's a lottery).

Here's some major-ish differences to the English alphabet:

a - "ah" (apple)

ch - like a gutteral cat hiss? Or like you're trying to get phlegm out of the back of your throat.

dd - "th" (these)

e - "eh" (elephant)

f - "v" (velcro)

ff - "f" (fantastic)

i - "ee" (queen)

ll - like you're blowing air out the side of your tongue, while the tip is just behind your teeth. May take some practice, but it's a VERY common sound

r - roll that letter, baby. like an Italian

rh - like a breathy r. Use your teeth

u - "ih" (hit)

w - "ooh" (spoon)

y - "uh" (under) or sometimes "ih" (inside)

(there is no j, k, q or v in the Welsh alphabet. But that doesn't stop some anglicised words like "jam")

3. Mutations

Mutations are ways Welsh words change, depending on what comes before or after them. There are loads of mutations, but you can be understood without using them/forgetting them, so don't worry too much. They're quite easy to learn too.

For example:

Diflas - Boring

Mae Owen yn ddiflas - Owen is boring

The 'd' changes to a 'dd'. Because mutations. Don't ask me why.

Here's a guide to mutations that can explain it better than I can.

4. Find some sick Welsh media

Maybe you're into podcasts, or soap operas, or rock music, or food blogs, or children's books, or Eisteddfod poetry, or-

HERE'S SOME HANDPICKED STUFF FROM YOURS TRULY:

Hansh on Twitter, YouTube and iPlayer - comedy and more platform. Quite random.

Adwaith - Welsh-language, all-female, indie rock band from Carmarthenshire. Won the Welsh Music Prize in 2022.

Duolingo Welsh course - Recently, Duolingo announced they were going to stop updating the course, which led to some BIG OUTCRIES in Welsh news. Worth looking in to.

Learn Welsh - resources, schemes, audiobooks and more to help people learn Welsh in a way that suits them. 16-25 year olds can learn for free. You can book face to face lessons, online self-learning, learn with other learners, search courses near you and loads of other stuff. Good to explore.

Ap Treiglo and Ap Geiriadur - free apps to help with mutations and vocabulary. Ap Geiriadur is designed by Bangor University.

Siarad - Voluntary scheme to help people increase their confidence using Welsh. You're matched with a fluent Welsh speaker, and can go through three levels of proficiency. You arrange to meet up, or learn online - whatever suits you!

S4C - The Welsh language broadcasting service. Has everything: news, Gogglebocs Cymru, drama, documentaries, you name it.

Doctor Cymraeg - really successful tiktok and instagram account. Teaches about bitesized Welsh language facts, vocabulary and funny things. Also always films them when out on a walk, with the expression of a high school teacher who's just watched his pupils try and fail to make the leaning tower of pisa out of gluesticks. Classic.

5. TYMBLR

There are LOADS of people learning Welsh on here for the first time, and interacting with them is one of the best ways to get into the language online. #dysgu cymraeg is a good tag.

Sorry for the long post, but ta da! I am by no means an expert, but with your help anon, we can get everyone speaking Welsh by nightfall. The plan is in motion. Godspeed.

#postio cymru #cymraeg #cymru #iaith #wales #welsh #dysgu cymraeg #cwestiynau

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belit0 · 24 days ago

Text

Hymn for the Vicious

AO3 Madara was built by violence. Raised under fists and blood-soaked floors, he learned early that the world bends for the cruel. Never looked twice at the quiet ones, those girls who kept their heads down, who knew better than to draw attention. Until her. Uri doesn’t run. Doesn’t cry. Doesn’t beg. She takes it, the same way he and Izuna did growing up under a father who broke them for sport. And when Madara catches her sleeping in parks at night, bruises on her throat, knife tucked in her palm, he recognizes her for what she is. Not a victim. Not prey. A creature built from the same rot. What starts as a hunt turns into something worse. A sick gravity neither of them can name. He corners, she snaps. He taunts, she swings. Violence traded like a language only they speak. A bond stitched with blood and old scars, where survival looks like obsession and possession feels like home. Madara was never meant to want anyone. But if he’s going down, he’s dragging her with him.

Finally, Madara's love story in my HS AU!

Not on AO3 yet, I'll post it there later, but do let me know what you pips think of it so far, PLEASE.

This one is challenging as fuck for me to write, so I do appreciate feedback on it!!

The streets were empty.

Not in that peaceful, midnight kind of way, but hollow, eaten clean by the sort of darkness that clung to old neighborhoods like mold.

Cracked asphalt, half-dead streetlights flickering like they were too tired to keep fighting the dark. And Madara moved through it like a shadow with nowhere to be, shoulders rigid, a cigarette he didn’t bother lighting hanging from his split lip.

His right eye was swollen, skin a shade of ugly purple-black, the cut on his cheekbone still seeping faintly. Tajima had gotten him good this time. Knuckles to the face, a boot to the ribs, whatever else the bastard could get in before Izuna pulled him off.

Not that it mattered.

He just needed out.

It had always been like that in their house.

Since before either of them could remember how old they were when the beatings started.

Tajima didn’t need a reason: sometimes it was the way Madara looked at him, sometimes the way Izuna’s breathing sounded too sharp in the kitchen, sometimes the fact that the room was too quiet and he needed to fill it with the sound of fists breaking skin.

He wasn’t a man you reasoned with.

He wasn’t a man you pleaded with.

He was a storm that moved through the house, tearing through whatever he caught first, and you either got out of his way or you paid for it in blood.

What made it worse was the way his presence never really left a room, even after he was gone. It was something else, that thick, heavy tension lodged under the skin, the kind that made your stomach knot up and your hands clammy just knowing he could walk back in.

And if he did, he wouldn’t forget who pissed him off last.

Even now, at eighteen, Madara and Izuna could drop guys twice Tajima’s size without thinking, cut throats and crush windpipes like it meant nothing.

But Tajima wasn’t about size.

It wasn’t about strength.

It was about what he meant.

He was their father, and in that house, that meant God.

That meant you didn’t look him in the eye.

You didn’t talk back.

You didn’t so much as move wrong if you heard his boots on the floorboards.

Izuna still slept with his back to the wall out of habit, even in places where Tajima couldn't reach him. Madara still caught himself holding his breath when a door slammed too hard.

It wasn’t weakness, it was conditioning, something wired so deep into their bones no amount of spilled blood or violence could burn it out.

And the worst part was the unpredictability.

Tajima could go months without laying a hand on either of them, sometimes even laugh with them, offer them a cigarette, a drink, like a father should. But those moments were never safe. They were landmines dressed up as warmth, waiting for the misstep, the wrong word, the wrong glance.

And when it came, it always came without warning.

A slap, a backhand, a chair across the room. The aftermath was silence. No apologies. No explanations.

Just silence.

Madara stopped believing in redemption for men like him before he was old enough to drive. He stopped fearing the pain a long time ago too; the bruises healed, the ribs set, the blood always washed away.

But the thing Tajima left behind in his head, in that place behind his teeth where rage lived, that never left.

It sharpened him and Izuna, made them monsters before they had a say in it.

Even now, walking out of the house with his face wrecked and his ribs aching, the cold air hitting his skin, it wasn’t the pain that rattled him.

It was the fact that he could still feel the man’s shadow behind him, like a noose around his neck.

Madara could kill him, he knew that.

Izuna could too.

But neither of them did, and neither of them spoke about why.

Because the thing about monsters was, you didn’t kill the one that made you.

You carried him with you.

But right now, after that storm, Madara needed out.

And there was only one place left worth rotting in.

The old park near his house hadn’t seen a kid in years.

Rusted swings, graffiti-strangled slide, sand turned to dirt turned to dust. He’d claimed it long ago as his own graveyard. A place to bleed and smash his fists against the world until his bones ached too much to lift anymore. The city didn’t bother sending anyone to fix it. The park belonged to the forgotten, and him.

His sneakers hit the ground with dull, careless thuds as he stepped through the broken fence, ignoring the way branches clawed at his jacket. He didn't bother pulling the hood up.

Let the cold bite. Let it fucking hurt.

He crossed the empty lot, aiming straight for the tree in the far corner. The one with his knuckle prints in it. The one that had met the side of his skull more than once when the fury needed out faster than his fists could give it.

But a weird shape stopped him.

He caught it in his peripheral, a smear of something small curled against the slide.

For a second, his mind read it as trash, a bag, maybe a pile of old clothes. But then the shape shifted, shoulders moving with slow, sleeping breath, knees drawn tight to a chest wrapped in baggy sleeves.

A girl.

A fucking girl.

He stared, not moving, one hand twitching by his side.

No one came here. No one.

She was slumped against the metal of the slide, head tipped down, hair hiding most of her face. Oversized clothes swallowed her frame, almost like hiding, hands jammed between her knees like someone who knew how to survive the cold.

The way she slept wasn’t careless. It was survival.

Like she hadn’t meant to fall asleep but had no other place to be.

Madara didn’t say shit.

He turned his head away, jaw clenching as he stalked toward the tree.

Let her rot, for all he cared.

Another broken body in a dead place. He had his own ghosts to beat down.

The trunk greeted him like an old friend, rough bark against knuckles already split from earlier. The ache in his ribs was a slow pulse, hot beneath his skin, but none of it registered past the hollow ringing behind his ears.

And then his fist met the tree.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

A fourth.

Skin splitting, bone jarring, the violence of it less about damage and more about taking the edge off the kind of anger that didn’t go away. The kind you didn’t talk about because nobody gave a fuck.

Blood smeared across the bark.

Madara didn’t glance back at the girl.

Not once.

Didn’t care why she was there.

Didn’t care if she was dead or alive or fucking high out of her mind.

He came here to bleed, not play savior.

The night was thick, a bitter wind slithering through the broken jungle gym, the metal creaking like the bones of a carcass long picked clean.

Somewhere nearby, the girl shifted in her sleep. A soft, barely-there sound of fabric against metal.

His knuckles thudded into the tree again.

And again.

Until the pain started to matter less than the need.

Until the world shrank to the raw ache in his hand and the pounding in his temple and the gnawing knowledge that Tajima was still living somewhere not far enough away.

He stayed like that, breathing hard, blood dripping from split knuckles to dead leaves.

And in the corner of the forgotten park, the girl slept on.

The third night was colder.

Not enough for breath to frost but enough for the air to bite through whatever half-assed warmth the day left behind. The streets stank of spilled beer, gasoline, and the kind of sweat that clung to party kids too desperate to matter.

Madara hadn’t planned to end up there again, but plans didn’t mean shit when the night got under his skin like it did.

The girl hanging off his arm wasn’t special.

Too much makeup, skirt barely covering anything, glassy-eyed from shots and pills she didn’t remember taking. He hadn’t even bothered catching her name. It wasn’t necessary. All she needed to do was look easy, look desperate, and she had.

She thought she was lucky.

There was no need for charm, no line about her being hot or different.

He just grabbed her by the wrist when she got too close, smirked, and dragged her out the back of the party like a man on a mission. She followed, because girls like her always did.

The park swallowed them both.

Same busted fence.

Same dead swings.

Same half-rotted tree leaning like it might snap in half one day and crush whatever fool thought it was still standing guard.

The place stank of damp earth and old blood and Madara’s own exhaustion.

But it was private.

That’s what mattered.

The girl giggled, swaying on unsteady heels as he shoved her toward the nearest piece of metal playground equipment. She pressed against it like she thought it was a date, like she’d get a cigarette and a kiss after.

Fool.

He grabbed her by the hips, spun her around, yanked her skirt up without a word, panties aside. She gasped like she wanted it to mean something.

-It’s cold…- she half-whispered, biting her lip, turning her head like she expected a look, a word, anything.

Madara’s belt was already open, the leather hanging loose as he dragged himself free, condom on, spitting to his palm out of habit. No teasing. No warning. He slammed into her in one brutal thrust, the sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing too loud in the dead space of the park.

The girl yelped, grabbing the rusted bars, arching her back like she thought it was a porno. Madara didn’t care. Didn’t see her. Didn’t even hear the breathy noises she made trying to sound sexy. He drove into her hard, over and over, chasing nothing, using her body the same way he used his fists against the tree.

A pressure release. Nothing more.

She tried to talk.

-Fuck, you’re so… ugh… Madara. I’ve alwa-ays wanted—

-Shut the fuck up.

The venom in his tone cracked like a whip, and the girl whimpered, clinging tighter to the frame, her voice dying in her throat.

It was only then, mid-thrust, sweat sticking his hair to his temple, that movement flickered in the corner of his eye.

There.

Same spot.

Same shape.

The girl from before.

Curled up against the dead slide, knees to her chest. Not asleep this time. Awake. Eyes half-lidded, staring ahead at nothing, not reacting to the way Madara’s body moved, the obscene slap of skin, the shallow moans of the party girl gasping beneath him.

Like she wasn’t there.

Like they weren’t.

Like she’d seen worse.

Madara’s rhythm faltered for a half-second. Just long enough for his gaze to lock on hers, dark, heavy-lidded, unreadable. Not shock. Not fear. Not disgust. Nothing.

Like the world burning around her didn’t register anymore.

The girl beneath him whimpered, trying to grind back against him.

-Fuck, Madara… don’t stop…

His jaw clenched, hand tightening in the bitch’s hair, shoving her face down to the cold metal as he buried himself deeper, his stare never leaving the one girl in the park who wasn’t trying to get something out of him.

Same spot.

Same position.

Same fucking emptiness.

And she didn’t even blink.

A week slid by like the slow rot of a carcass.

Same streets, same violence, same fuck-all emptiness gnawing at the edges of Madara’s head.

He hadn’t fought Tajima again, hadn’t dragged some half-dressed girl into the dark to fuck the noise out of his skull, hadn’t even bothered showing up to school more than twice. Nothing felt sharp enough to bother with. The world stayed muted, gray and useless, and it pissed him off more than he knew how to name.

And yet, somehow, his legs carried him there.

The park.

That same sunken shithole of a lot, left to bleed into the landscape like an old bruise.

He didn’t tell Izuna. Didn’t message Shisui. Didn’t want a cigarette or a fistfight or a distraction.

He didn’t even know why he was there.

Maybe to punch the tree again.

Maybe to scream.

Maybe to drown.

But the second he stepped through the fence, he knew.

Of course she was fucking there.

Same crumpled shape, knees to chest, arms around herself, like the metal of the dead slide belonged to her now. Baggy sleeves hiding her hands, head down, dark hair spilling like a curtain. The air was sharp, enough to sting the lungs if you breathed too deep, but she didn’t look like she felt it.

It hit him wrong.

Like a fist to the ribs from the inside.

The park was his.

His place to rot.

His violence, his blood, his fucking ghosts, not hers.

And she didn’t get to just keep showing up like some silent passenger on the sinking wreck of his nights.

He stalked toward her, each step loud in the brittle dirt, boots crushing old leaves and beer bottle caps. His fists twitched. Not clenched, not ready to strike yet, but close. The itch under his skin started up again, the need to wreck something, to provoke, to tear open the scab the world kept stitching shut.

When he was close enough, his voice cut the air like a blade.

-You got a fucking death wish, or you just too stupid to pick somewhere else to crawl into, huh?

No reaction.

Not a flinch.

Not a glance.

Not a twitch of her mouth.

Just a dead, automatic kind of mumble.

-Sorry.

Like it was muscle memory. Like someone had taught her to say it before anything else.

Madara’s jaw flexed.

He stepped closer, looming, letting his shadow swallow her whole.

-Yeah? Sorry? That it? You squattin’ in my space for what, a week now, and you just sorry? You think that works for me? Think I’m the type to leave a fuckin’ stray mutterin’ sorrys in my ear?

Another mumble, soft and dull and empty.

-I won’t stay long. Won’t bother you.

It wasn’t pleading.

Wasn’t fear.

It was the lifeless, checked-out tone of someone who learned exactly how to survive men like him.

Say whatever keeps the boot from hitting your ribs.

Don’t make it interesting. Don’t make it worse.

And for the first time in months, something hot and ugly cracked in Madara’s chest.

Not because she was scared.

But because she wasn’t.

No tremble in her hands.

No shrinking away.

No eye contact either.

She wasn’t trying to be brave or defiant.

She wasn’t anything.

Just this pliant, nothing-shell giving him the easiest out a person could offer, and it made his skin crawl.

Because people always reacted to him.

They got scared. They got wet. They cried, laughed, begged, fought, something.

This girl?

Nothing.

And it drove him insane.

His boot scraped against the dirt inches from her leg.

-Say it again.

She blinked once. Not fast. Not slow. Like she barely registered the order.

-Sorry.

No tone. No meaning.

He wanted to hit something.

The tree, the slide, his own fucking head.

His blood felt hot and his hands twitched and his teeth ground against each other.

-You’re not sorry. You don’t even give a fuck, do you? You don’t even see me, you stupid bitch.

She didn’t look up.

-Mm.

A non-committal sound.

Not agreement, not denial.

An empty space filler.

A sound like the static between stations.

Madara felt the fury hit then.

Not the kind you throw your fists behind. Not the loud, reckless kind. The sick kind. The kind that curled up in your throat and made you want to shake a person just to see if there was anything inside.

He dropped to a crouch, one hand catching the edge of the slide by her shoulder, leaning in until his breath hit her skin.

-What’s your deal, huh? You got some glitch in your head? Or you just dead already and no one buried you yet?

Nothing.

Not a tremor. Not a hitch in her breathing. Just the faintest shift of her eyes toward him, flat and dark and so violently empty it made his stomach turn.

-You done?- she murmured, not like a challenge, not like defeat.

Like someone asking if the storm had passed.

Madara stared at her like he’d never seen a human being before.

And hated her for it.

The way she wouldn’t flinch, wouldn’t scream, wouldn’t spit, wouldn’t even hate, it gnawed.

And then something snapped.

His fist slammed into the rusted metal of the slide with a sharp, ringing crack, the old structure rattling beneath his knuckles. The impact vibrated through his bones, but the sound it made wasn’t what he was chasing.

It was what came after.

That flicker.

That split-second fracture in her stillness.

Not a jump, not a scream — no, it was worse.

It was familiar.

The kind of involuntary twitch you only learned after too many nights waiting for footsteps on old floorboards. That single, sharp muscle-tighten in the shoulders, like she expected the next sound to be pain. Like she’d been trained to brace, to ready for the hit that always came next.

And for the first time, Madara saw it for what it was.

The same look Izuna used to wear when they were too small and too scrawny to fight back, waiting for Tajima’s boots to cross the threshold. That terrible, brittle mask that said I won’t ask you not to do it, because you’re going to anyway.

The sick thrill of recognition whipped through him, sharp and cold and dizzying.

But then she moved.

Not away, not to cower, not to run.

Her hand slipped into the pocket of her jacket and came up with a flash of metal, small and dull-silver in the half-dark. A switchblade. The kind cheap enough to come from a gas station, sharp enough to leave a mark.

The blade flicked out with a soft, deadly snick, and before Madara could grin, she was pressing it up under his throat.

Not deep. Not enough to break skin. But the tip bit into the sensitive hollow beneath his jaw, and her eyes finally locked on his.

And it hit him like a gut-punch.

There was no defiance there. No triumph. No terrified pleading.

Just raw, wired, exhausted instinct. A move made a thousand times in her head before she ever drew the blade.

Not because she wanted to. Not because it made her brave.

Because it was the only card she had.

The only warning a cornered animal knew to give.

Madara didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

His pulse kicked, hot and electric and so goddamn alive it made his head buzz.

A reaction.

Finally.

The first real thing she’d given him in nights of dead-eyed emptiness.

And just as fast as it came, it was gone.

She pulled the blade back, no show, no lingering threat, and scrambled to her feet in one sharp, practiced movement, never turning her back on him. Her hood fell back as she moved, hair sticking to her cheek, eyes flicking around like someone checking for exits.

And then she was moving, not running, not sprinting, but moving, fast and careful, slipping out past the fence and vanishing into the ink-thick dark of the streets beyond like smoke.

Gone.

Like she’d never been there.

Madara stood in the aftermath, the sting in his hand where it met the slide dull and aching. He let out a slow, sharp breath, a grin twitching at the corner of his mouth like a cut that hadn’t scabbed over.

His voice rasped out, half-laugh, half-threat.

-Fuckin’ finally.

And the night swallowed him too.

#naruto shippuden #naruto #naruto imagines #uchiha clan #madara uchiha #uchiha madara #izuna uchiha #uchiha izuna #izuna #madara #uchiha tajima #tajima uchiha #tajima #Hymn for the Vicious #HS AU #Mafia AU

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animalsalvationassociation · 5 months ago

Text

A Love Letter . . .

A lovely friend reminded me of my worth tonight. It was small, but it was prominent.

So I drew this for you. Yes you, staring down at your phone when you should have been asleep hours ago, or you who’s been questioning everything in your mind with no real answer to follow. Or perhaps you’re none of those things but a simple enjoyer.

Whoever you are. You are Loved. You are Strong. You are Kind. And you are Intelligent.

It doesn’t matter what sizes you wear or how tall you are. It doesn’t matter if you’re loud, or if you’re quiet. What you enjoy, or what you hate.

What matters . . . Is that you’re human just like me.

We can’t fix everything in this life, but we can surely do everything we’re able to in order to meet whatever the world has in store for us.

Things are scary . . . And they’re unknown. The world is scary—people are scary . . . But hiding away only means that they’ve won.

I was never aware of my body until I matured. I didn’t notice the growing of my tummy or thighs. I didn’t see the marks and scars on my face, or the lack facial expressions, making people think I’m upset. The squintiness of my eyes or the smallness of my mouth. I was insecure, but in different ways.

The only reason I knew my smile was crooked was because the school photographer could never get me to smile wide enough.

In sixth grade my teacher stopped me one day and said, “Madison, I want you to know that I love your smile.” I’ve never hated it since.

I only noticed the beauty of my eyes when I was told that they were “windows to the soul” that you could learn anything about anyone, just by looking into their eyes. A reflection of battles untold, of sunsets yet to be seen and hills yet to be climbed.

I walk funny, I say silly things, and make silly noises when I’m stressed or need to get energy out. There are hundreds of voices in my head overlapping and looping, a side effect of my mental abilities, which can only be calmed by music. My hands feel dirty even though I’ve washed them ten times, and it only stops when I just let my hands sit under the running water for two seconds.

Math never made sense to me but I could tell you a 110 facts about animals I’ve never seen in real life. I can explain every Ninja Turtle universe/generation without blinking an eye. I collect things that make me happy. Movies are my love language, my guilty pleasure is watching kids movies that are clearly bad but no one ever had the guts to actually watch and see if it was. I love to laugh but find myself crying more every year.

I’m a story teller, an artist, a creator of beautiful things. I have thousands of worlds inside my head, a woman lives there too. A woman who reflects what I see when I forget about my mirror image. The world, the people, they inspire me. Yet I’m terrified of making it wrong, offending someone, or breaking a rule within the confines of a set system, even if that means destroying what I worked so hard in making.

I could rant and rant for hours. My special super power when someone finally asks questions about . . . me. About who I am.

I’m too loud, too quiet, too slow but I walk too fast, too short, but I’m average height, too spacey yet I remember the little details. Saying never mind doesn’t help, and actually hurts my feelings because I couldn’t hear you, I lost part of my hearing when I was ten and it can’t be fixed. I make weird gasping sounds but I’m only popping my ears to relieve the constant pressure.

My knees click, I have the muscle strength of an 85 year old because I’ve been in the work force for over six years. I’m blind as a bat and get overwhelmed when I can’t see, so much so that I’ve mapped out an entire root to get to certain locations when I don’t have my glasses.

I’m well thought out but I take too long so people don’t think I even looked at their message. I speak as if I have a point to the end of my story. They changed the sizing again so now I can’t wear what I thought would fit. You can tell me any secret in the world and I’ll forget two seconds later. I complain too much but never say anything.

I’m stubborn but that’s only because you cut me off. You don’t let me finish. My heart has become weak because it’s been abused from using too much kindess, too much naivety. People and things, have hurt me in ways you can’t imagine—but the moment I say why, you shun me? You tell me I’m wrong because you have a different opinion? That all my efforts of staying away from this were nothing?

My inner thoughts are filled with demons. I care too much about everyone that instead of seeing the beauty that’s obviously there, that I acknowledge the moment I see it, I judge them. The things I could say if only my mouth would open, if only my jaw would unclench. Sins of my childhood still linger, causing me to look at people inappropriately because . . . that’s what the internet said I should see.

I am human.

And that . . . is beautiful.

You are beautiful.

All life matters. So stop trying so hard to pretend it doesn’t.

I love you.

Isn’t that enough?

Even if we’ve never met, even if I knew everything you’ve EVER done. I still love you. I still care.

Like is different than love. I don’t have to like you to love you.

You are irreplaceable.

You are . . . beautiful.

And that itself is beautiful . . . Isn’t it?

Sincerely and with all the love I have to offer . . .

Thank you.

Madison

#octonauts #octonauts fanart #octonauts oc #octosona #mental health #self love #i love you

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otomehonyaku · 1 year ago

Text

Diabolik Lovers More,More Blood Vol. 12 Ruki ☽ 7Net/Stellaworth Tokuten CD ☽ Monopolising Her

Original title: 彼が貴女を独り占めするCD Voiced by Sakurai Takahiro English translation by @otomehonyaku Click here for the audio (kindly provided by @karleksmumskladdkaka!)

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Please do not reuse or post my translations elsewhere or translate my work into other languages without my permission.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

I took a little break from translating this past week but I'm back at it again ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡ Thank you to @otomeheroines for suggesting this tokuten to me! It was pretty cute and now I know the Japanese words for stuff like 'chlorine' and 'limescale' lol

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

00:00 Hey. I’m coming in. You still aren’t ready? If we don’t start soon, we won't be done in time. Hurry up.

[You’re surprised.]

I’m shocked. Don’t you know what day it is today? I told you well in advance. It’s our once-in-a-month big cleaning day. Though I assume you could tell by the mop and dust cloth I’m holding. You sure are thickheaded. Anyway, I bought a new mop. Our previous one was getting pretty old, and I got this one on sale for quite the bargain.

[Ruki shows you the mop.]

It’s pretty suitable, don’t you think?

[You mope a little.]

What’s that? I can’t hear you. Alright, well, you know the plan now. Hurry up with your preparations and follow me. I left Yuma and the others in charge of the groceries. The two of us will do the cleaning.

[You feel that it’s a daunting task.]

It’s not that big of a deal, is it? It’ll be alright if we do it together. Well then, let’s start with the kitchen.

01:22 [Ruki is scrubbing something.]

Great, the grease is coming off quite nicely. I’ll take care of the ventilation fan, you do the sink.

[The two of you clean side by side.]

You’re a dimwit most of the time, but you do come in handy with simple tasks like this. I don’t even have to order you around. I see no harm in you lending me a hand, I’ll give you that.

[You ask him whether you still have enough cleaning supplies.]

Yeah, I restocked the citric acid and baking soda. They’re on the bottom shelf, so use whatever you need. Just make sure to ventilate the room when you use chlorine detergent. And don’t forget to use latex gloves, too.

[You make a face.]

What’s that face for? You look like you have something to say.

[You tell him he’s a professional.]

That’s all? Those are the absolute basics when it comes to cleaning. I’m not asking for your praise. But… you could say I’ve got the fundamentals down. Citric acid works well against limescale. Baking soda is good against grease stains. And neutral detergent is good for a lot of things, too. Chlorine, however, could react with other products and release toxic gases. So you should avoid it coming in contact with acidic liquids at all costs. You would think this is just common sense.

[You’re getting frustrated.]

02:50 Stop complaining so much. I don’t remember the first time I heard these things, but I learned a lot about cleaning from a women’s magazine. It had an article on year-end cleaning.

[You ask him why he would read a women’s magazine.]

Don’t misunderstand. I ran out of books to read, so I ended up getting it for the sake of it. I was desperate for just about any printed text. But come to think of now, it was pretty informative. It’s not so bad to learn things you can apply directly in your daily life. Besides, the magazine was a worthwhile read. The articles it had on making dishes out of leftover vegetables were interesting as well.

[You tell him he reminds you of a housewife.]

03:30 Watch your mouth when you speak to your master. What about me makes you think of a housewife?

[You tell him you meant it as a compliment.]

Heh. And that would be a compliment how, exactly? Explain it in a way that satisfies me.

[You tell him his future wife must be happy that Ruki is so good at housework.]

Oh… you are so naive. Where did you get that idea from? That if I got married, my wife would be the happiest on the planet? You’re thinking in extremes. Let’s say that I would become someone’s husband. If I did all the housework, that would certainly make my wife’s life much easier. But then again, that’s not all there is to happiness, is there? If my wife simply left all of the housework to me, she would spiral into depravity herself. She wouldn’t be able to live without me. Then again, there’s a certain charm in keeping a pet beyond its useful life (1), but unfortunately, I refuse to take someone like that as my wife.

[You wonder whether that statement includes you.]

Well, no, that’s out of the question. I don’t think you’re that dependent on me. We divide the housework equally and we both benefit from it. That’s not bad, is it?

04:55 Why are we even talking about this? Leave the talk about our futures for now. Come on, let’s put those hands to work again.

[You continue cleaning.]

[To himself] Good grief, that was uncalled for. But a future with her… If I’d be permitted to share my life with her, and the two of us could support one another, that would not be so bad either.

[You ask him what he was saying.]

No, it’s nothing–don’t mention it (2). After I finish the ventilation fan, I’ll get to work cleaning the bathroom. You do the living room. Let’s get this done before the others come home.

05:42 The bathroom is all done. How’s it going here?

[You tell him it’s going well, but…]

Hey, what are you doing on that ladder?

[You tell him you’re cleaning the shelves.]

Right, I can see that you’re wiping off the shelves, but that’s not what I mean. I’m asking you what on Earth you think you’re doing. Knowing you, it’s no question that you’ll slip and fall from such a height. I’ve told you before to refrain from these kinds of things. Hurry up and get down from there.

[You quickly climb down.]

Wait, slowly! Haste will only–

[Lo and behold, you fall off the ladder. Ruki swoops in and catches you.]

Gosh, I didn’t think you would be that predictable. You actually fell. Or was this just a ploy for me to come save you?

[You apologise.]

Don’t just apologise. Learn from your mistakes, at least. Leave it. I’ll do it.

[Your face falls.]

If you’re going to pout, you should have just behaved in the first place. It would be a terrible misunderstanding if you thought I was angry. I know full well what a dimwit you are. You can’t anger me so easily. If you got hurt and I would have to take care of you, though, I would have even more on my plate. For example, if you broke a bone, that would make it difficult to move when I feed on you. Just keep that in mind. Next time, I’ll let you know if I need your help.

07:20 Why are you smiling like that? It’s creeping me out.

[You tell Ruki that he’s kind.]

Huh. You must be completely infatuated if you take those words for kindness. Though I was aware of that already, of course. If you can still move, go and sweep the hallway. I’ll make tea when we’re done. I made an apple pie this morning, so we can have some of that, too.

[You’re excited.]

You shameful creature. To let yourself be lured in by food like that... You have to put in the work first, got it?

08:07 Looks like we finished right on time. Azusa contacted me and said they've just finished grocery shopping, too. The three of them must be pretty exhausted right about now. There were quite a lot of items on the shopping list I gave them. It had a month’s worth of daily necessities on it. Body soap, kitchen paper, laundry detergent, things like that. You can save quite a lot of money if you shop during the sales at the end of the month. Did you think I’d miss out on that? Well, it seems we’ve taken care of most of our chores now. We’ve restocked our daily necessities and the mansion is squeaky-clean. Feels good when everything goes according to plan.

[Ruki takes a sip of his tea.]

09:04 Besides, it’s nice to see the living room spotless. It’s as if the tea even tastes better because of it.

[Ruki puts down his cup, motioning towards the apple pie.]

Hurry up and take a bite. Ah, but if you don’t want any, I won’t force you to eat it. I’m sure Kou would appreciate the extra serving.

[You quickly start eating.]

Heh. Don’t choke on it. You know what’ll happen if you ruin my good mood. Or do you? You look like a hamster in a pet shop window with your mouth stuffed like that. (3)

[Ruki stands up and comes closer to you.]

Maybe I should start calling you that from now on instead of Livestock. Your mouth is covered in crumbs. No manners, huh?

[Ruki runs his fingers over your mouth. You’re surprised and drop your fork.]

10:02 Why are you so surprised? I only brushed away the crumbs. It makes me want to discipline you, really, but I’ll let you off easy this time. You worked hard today. I appreciate it. However, it would be a shame if the floor got dirty when we’ve only just cleaned it. I’ll feed you.

[Ruki breaks off a piece with the fork and holds it out to you. You try to refuse.]

You have no right to refuse. As your master, I want to reward you for your efforts. Be thankful and accept it.

[You take the bite.]

[To himself] If I could marry her (4) in the future, I wonder if our days together will be just as peaceful as this one. Livestock is quite the handful, but if we could live together quietly, just the two of us… that does not seem so bad.

飼（か）い殺（ごろ）し : Lit. ‘to keep and kill (a pet),’ meaning to keep a domestic animal beyond its useful life or keeping a person on the payroll without utilising their skills

Not a translation note but the way he talks in this drama CD fucking kills me, this man is secretly such a tsundere (and a clean freak. I love)

In Japanese these past few lines sounded really suggestive so I hope that vibe carried across…

契（ちぎ）りを交（か）わす: Lit. ‘to exchange (wedding) vows.’ I just briefly want to mention that 契り is also a euphemism for having sexual relations even though he… obviously doesn’t mean it that way in this context but do with that knowledge as you will hehe

#now with karl's audio instead of the youtube link that i had earlier!#yesterday i said i'd post on saturday but sike i couldn't wait to post this one (plus it's been nearly 2 weeks since i posted the last one)#diabolik lovers #dialovers #diabolik lovers translation #diabolik lovers translations #diahell #otomehonyaku #my translations #mukami ruki #ruki mukami #diabolik lovers more more blood #more more blood #diabolik lovers drama cd #diabolik lovers drama cds

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drsbutmakeitspicy · 11 months ago

Note

Hi! I would love to know more about that arranged marriage carcar idea, if you want to 🥰🧡

(I'm sorry about any mistakes, English is not my native language and my autocorrect can also fuck it up)

About the arranged marriage Carcar:

(non F1 driver Carlos, Oscar need sponsors for F1, Mark Webber has a good network okay ? He only wants the best for Osco)

Part I here (it's more like an idea thing)

Thanks @seasidefae for plating this on my brain.

---

I can see Oscar arriving at the restaurant wearing a new suit Webber got him just for the occassion

He sits at the reserved table, which is located separately from the others, in a balcony like structure.

It's a nice night to be out, too bad he will spend little time in this place.

The plan is:

*Introduce yourself

*Apologize and explain mark is absolutely crazy, he doesn't want to marry right now

*pay for whatever he had

*leave

He forgets the plan as a handsome guy introduces himself while sitting down BY HIS SIDE - Mark didn't say is was Carlos Sainz JUNIOR - he read the 'Carlos Sainz' had kids but didn't click on more info.

Carlos asks him if he have any food allergies and if they could order the food before they talk - Oscar is glad he doesn't show much emotion on his face, the man smell so nice he wants to eat him.

While they wait for the main course they enjoy some drinks, they talk about formula 1 and their thoughts on the current championship. They get deep into talking about life, he learns about Carlos Karting days and how now he has his own Kartódromo. They talk about video games, sports, ciclying.

Oscar is enjoying his night.

And then after they finish their food Carlos apologizes and proceeds to explain that his Father is crazy, he goes own on how he didn't really want to marry someone he didn't really know, that his dad has been searching for the perfect bride for him for years now but Carlos doesn't like women. And as he tells Oscar some funny stories of past experiences he had in dates like this the Aussie feels a little something, maybe a bit upset, he was really having a good night with the guy.

"You know, my Dad never told me you were a guy, I was relieved to see you here."

"He didn't told you anything? At all?"

"Nope."

"Huh. Well, my manager didnt tell me your full name so I was a bit worried you were a 62 years old Rally legend wanting a Sugar baby."

"But you came anyway?"

"I came to reject him properly. No offense to your dad but he's not my type."

They laugh about it, order desert and while enjoying it Oscar realizes they are sitting really close, he's looking at every detail of Carlos face while he's talking about a funny family story.

His lips are very distracting.

"I wouldn't mind getting to know you better." Oscar says it out loud and is surprised to see his date blush

Carlos was thinking the same thing

They agree to talk about the sponsor part another day, wanting to focus on knowing eachother first and by the end of the night Carlos drives him back to Mark's apartment and Oscar is feeling too many things as he sits down at the sofa with Mark walking around the living room asking how it was.

"It was nice. He's hot. Thanks Mark."

#carcar #5581 #ficsicantfinish #A.M.CARCAR #arranged marriage carcar

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tricia-fic-recs · 11 days ago

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Fic Rec | Soukoku

Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya (Soukoku)

note: please mind the tags when you click on the links, some are rated E for explicit.

Drop the Act by writingfromtheshadows

the one where Dazai’s been a Port Mafia spy all along

last words of a shooting star by hriraes ★

in which two boys forced to grow up too fast talk about the past, the present, and everything else that lies ahead.

When You Are Close to Me, I Shiver by ultramarcypan

Dazai is possessive, and Chuuya will always indulge him.

the usual fairytale by setosdarkness

Snow White AU. In order to thwart Queen (?) Fyodor’s assassination attempts on him, Snow White Dazai insists on fake-dating the Grumpiest Dwarf Chuuya.

Smug Victory by StarshipDancer

When Dazai woke, it was with the horrible realization that he’d managed to sleep through the night. He kept his eyes closed and tried to figure out what had happened to land him in a slug’s unfortunately very comfy bed.

and the cracks begin to show by ExorcisingEmily ★

By twelve, Chuuya would kill for him. By fourteen, Chuuya would go to war for him. By sixteen, Chuuya was ready to die for him. By eighteen, Chuuya was ready to destroy everything to save Dazai.

And isn't that just the problem.

if you save me once by avereas

“I said that you could do anything to me.” Dazai shifts on the bed. “So could you—”

Chuuya presses a chaste kiss to the back of Dazai’s hand, at the bisector where bandages meet skin. “Nope.”

before we get too old by avereas

Chuuya gets out from Poe's book, and pays a visit to his ex-partner.

A Quirk by underneathestars

Chuuya never knew guessing Dazai's password would lead to all of his current dilemmas.

i'll follow you into the dark by communist_sasuke

“In that other world, the original… What’s it like? Are you happy?” Dazai just stared at him, so Chuuya kept talking. “Because I’m kind of sick of seeing you sad, you asshole. Tell me. Are you happy?” “…I’m trying to be.” Chuuya smiled. That was enough, wasn’t it? He thought it was.

when the sun dies out by ymirme

In which Chuuya learns he should be more careful with his wishes

Nostalgia is an Unfair Weapon by frozenCinders

He absolutely shouldn't have lowered his weapon and allowed Dazai to walk forward just because of the way he said his name, just because of the way his stupidly well-conditioned body responded to the familiar tone of his voice. Just like how Dazai shouldn't be so obsessed with committing suicide, shouldn't have left the mafia, shouldn't have come back just to break Chuuya's heart again. There were a lot of things they shouldn't do, but they never were ones to listen to common sense.

Can't Remember To Forget You by SapphireSunstone

“Listen, what I’m about to say is insane, but I have amnesia.”

Chuuya blinks for a second, a beat passing, before he tries to slam the door on Dazai’s face._

this is how the world ends by setosdarkness ★

Chuuya wakes up to a world where he witnesses Yokohama’s most beloved couple – Dazai and Oda, also known as soukoku – complete their good deed for the day, holding hands as they do so.

Chuuya wakes up to a world where—he’s supposed to be fighting Russian Fy o d—no, he’s supposed to be the benevolent boss of the Port Mafia. Wakes up to a world where everything is—wrong.

fluency in the sixth language by Camichuu (orphan_account)

chuuya is seven different languages all on his own. dazai is fluent in four, five – wholly by accident – and now, six, by necessity.

the corruption takes its toll on chuuya, and dazai converses with the ward's liveliest convalescent.

Nothing but your spine by osamuchuu ★

“Oi, Dazai. We’re here.” Chuuya reached into the car to shake Dazai’s shoulders a bit, rearranging his coat to lay over the man’s back. Dazai swayed and blinked up at him. Whatever painkillers he’d been given had stolen the sharpness from his face. Dazai looked fifteen again, wide-eyed and vulnerable.

And then he smiled. He smiled and Chuuya’s heart stuttered because it was so fucking real, so small and different from all the painted faces he wore now.

This was dangerous.

Anything that touches by osamuchuu

Chuuya said kindness like he wasn’t, for all his violence, still the kindest thing in the universe to have ever touched Dazai. To have known him, even at the height of his cruelty, and touch him softly now, in spite of it.

Love is not a victory march by osamuchuu

Dazai’s lips were warm and wet under his, and Chuuya felt strength sing in his core as he cupped the sides of Dazai’s jaw to seal the moment in place. He lost himself in the sensation, in the push-pull between them made physical and real. He swallowed the sounds that crept up Dazai’s throat and wanted more.

The shape of a falling star by osamuchuu

It hurt, and yet, it was also vaguely welcome— that heavy, wet feeling almost like an embrace. Over the years pain had become a reliable sort of presence in Dazai’s life, it was the only constant.

Excess by Nilaic

Dazai hated this.

The feeling of being here.

He shifted where he was curled on his futon, and the way his skin rubbed against each other made him want to hurl.

That fat, that incessant unyielding fat that just refused to come off-

He hated it.

He wanted it off.

Doubling Down by neverbesatisfied

Or the one where Chuuya and Dazai take down a gambling ring.

The sun doesn't shine as bright by AnonLearnsToWrite

Chuuya is missing. Dazai is handling it the best way he knows how. That is to say, he doesn't handle it well at all.

The City Where Wind Blows by Raven_Rein

Dazai has long since known that he'd die either by his own hand or Chuuya's.

He just never thought the end would come like this.

Plate :( by forest_raccoon

Alternatively: local brilliant strategist has a slight meltdown over small uncontrollable part of everyday life

Pat me down, officer. by DeadDrabble (MisakillDatMonkey)

The 5 times Dazai tried to get arrested and get into Chuuya's pants and the 1 time Chuuya let himself be cuffed for life.

I Was Screaming Your Name Through the Radio by ElectricSpatter ★

“Four months from now will be the seven year anniversary of when you and Osamu Dazai released your hugely successful first and only album Double Black and its diamond single Corruption. After performing with Dazai earlier this year, are you planning anything special to celebrate?”

“Corruption is insanely overrated, and I would prefer to never hear Dazai’s voice for the rest of my fucking life.”

Mark by Raven_Rein

Dazai was afflicted with a curse and the only way to lift it is by kissing the person who loved him the most.

Naturally he took the chance to laugh at everyone's expense.

the ship that has pledged itself to the sun by setosdarkness

BEAST!Chuuya crosses to the original BSD world, and realizes many things.

Admit Defeat by StartshipDancer

Something was wrong.

Something had been wrong for several days now, and Dazai still couldn’t pinpoint just what it was that kept making his chest ache so horribly. He felt like he was slowly dying, his very being swallowed up by the gaping hole that had opened up where a normal human’s heart would be.

“Chuuya,” Dazai started again. The ache was back, amplified by the sight of such a loathsome hatrack, and Dazai swallowed around the lump obstructing his throat. “Chuuya, I think I’m dying.”

A Dreamless Man's Wish by asphxdelus

There's a certain kind of loneliness in the act of killing the other half of your soul.

I slithered here from eden ( just to sit in front of your grave ) by urranus

Chuuya used to think he'd be done grieving at sixteen. Now, at twenty two, he understands there is no end.

He has a body too small for all this pain.

A Torch and a One Eyed Cat by alaruya

An AU where Chuuya is the champion of Durmstrang, Dazai of Hogwarts, and their meeting and what follows.

#skk #soukoku #dazchuu #bsd skk #bsd recs

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lunarw0rks · 2 years ago

Text

Old Bones | Chapter Eleven

Summary: After fleeing a toxic relationship, you fear for your safety and hire a bodyguard. He's masked, impassible, and damn good at what he does.

Warning(s): PTSD/abuse themes, explicit content (18+), strong language, depictions of nightmares/panic attacks, hurt/comfort, smut, p in v sex, unprotected s*x, hehe

Word Count: 6.2k

A/N: Watch by Billie Eilish + Fine Line by Harry Styles inspired this chapter. Not proofread entirely, so don't mind mistakes. Enjoy!

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST // have a request? ⋆ ⚘ 🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ prev. chapter | next chapter | ao3 ver. | playlist ꒦꒷ O.B MASTERLIST

Watch Me Burn

“Think this is the last of it.” Simon huffs, setting down the last box.

You were finally back there, standing in the middle of the home Cal and you once shared. Selling it was too much of a hassle, and it was decently sized. Perhaps it was a calm before a storm; how tranquil you felt standing in the middle of the entrance hall. Or the kitchen, the dining room, worst of all—the bedroom.

But you were here now, and he was soon to be cremated. There was no room for dwelling, at least that’s what you’ve been telling yourself. And Simon? His awkwardness has been well disguised if there is any left by now.

The drunken kiss—it was just that; a drunken kiss.

With the horrible shit you two had been through to land you here, unresolved tension became the new way of communicating. You began to think you both fed on the chaos like if things were too calm, the world would implode.

“Thank you.” You say, playing with the new house keys. Internally, you were showing gratitude for more than just him moving a few boxes, it was how resilient he had been, despite all your baggage and unpredictability.

He merely nods, reaching into his pocket for his carton of cigarettes. He was going to leave you to do… whatever it was you needed to do in order to be comfortable here. Simon hadn’t expected you to ever want to be back here, to want to spend your new riches on travel.

However, if Simon learned anything about you during these months; life on the road didn’t suit you, especially not with him. And in truth, he had no plans once you got settled here. At first, he was going to move straight to his next op, forget about this one.

It was abundantly clear he was well past self-control, though. That’s what frightened him the most.

You turned yourself in a circle a few times, admiring the high ceilings and decor still left behind. It was the same as Christmas Eve, only the evidence of Cal’s tantrum had been long cleaned up. He really wasn’t here when he was hunting you—he had sent a housesitter, most likely, given the fact that there wasn’t a speck of dust in the main living area.

There were only small reminders; the scuffs on the hardwood, the dents by the china cabinet, and a nasty scratch in the dining table from the night you left. You’d be lying if looking at the damages didn’t paint a vivid image of each blow that causes them.

When you gazed at the scuffed hardwood, you remembered the way he flipped the table the first time you fought. Then, the china cabinet—merely a cabinet of things for him to hurl in your direction. Worst of all, the dining table with a scratch from the knife you grabbed, scraping across the oak when he dragged you across it.

In each small area, you were rewatching the moment as a numb spectator, as if you had a third-person viewing of your fight for your life.

You hadn’t realized, but you had been literally walking down memory lane, physically tracing your fingertips along each reminder. “Found this in the truck, must’ve fallen out of your bag.” His sudden presence startled you, but it was a blessing. Any longer, and you would’ve probably ripped up the real estate papers and kept moving.

He was outstretching one of your necklaces, one you definitely didn’t want to be left behind. “Thank you,” you said it again, a double entendre barely concealed with your wavering voice. His poker face made it hard to decipher his awareness—for all you knew he could be feeling nothing towards you.

Simon’s eyes found the dent in the wall, recalling just how long your fingertips skimmed it, the nauseous look on your face. He debated on this next move, but his feet found a position behind you anyway since you didn’t take the jewelry from him yet.

“I hate the carpet. And everything in the dining room.” His subtle breath was the only thing alerting you of his close proximity, or you probably wouldn’t have even noticed. Two hands came in front of you, opening the necklace and slowly wrapping it around the base of your neck. If you hadn’t just been morbidly reminiscing, perhaps your breathing would’ve changed a bit.

He clicked the necklace in place, his gruff voice gentle and appreciative, “so get rid of it all.” It was almost a whisper like he was giving you the permission you didn’t need but were so obviously asking him for. It was your home to renovate, not his.

Simon’s breath smelled of fresh cigarette smoke, lingering in a cloud around you even after his simple words concluded. A hand lingered on your shoulder, giving it a small pat, before he retreated out to the untouched living room.

There was no sense in keeping the reminders, and none of it was to your taste. It was time to get to work if you had any shot of moving on from Cal.

Once you got started, you found it hard to stop.

Tearing out furniture and ripping up the carpet was surprisingly therapeutic, even with the emotional baggage the material things carried. The place was empty, but not understimulating. To you, it was a pleasing blank canvas you had full power to refurbish and leave the old behind. Cleaning up the mess was just an afterthought, but soothing to your soreness from all the handy work.

Of course, Simon would carry heavy things out, or assist in moving something for you. But when you were aggressively hammering a nail and grunting? He… found it beneficial to stay out of your way, with no clue whose face you might’ve been picturing while doing it.

The kitchen was shockingly tidy; the fridge was empty, as were the cabinets. You tackled that room last, disinfecting and placing the few food items you brought with you. Of course, it was a depressing sight; all those cabinets with only a few canned items and some granola bars. On the bright side, you’d only ever seen Simon eat once, so he wasn’t your worry.

Groceries would be a task for tomorrow. For now, you need to rest your legs and feet.

Simon claimed the spare room, which once was Cal’s office. You peered inside of it when you strolled down the hall—he had already laid out a blanket and pillow on the daybed. It was nice enough, for someone like him, at least.

You were taking advantage of the king-sized bed, though. Not one night in your marriage, did you ever get it to yourself. Sometimes you would snuggle in it, hopeful that this would be the night Cal didn’t come up the stairs and join you—or more commonly, that he would be too drunk to drive home.

He never was, of course; a natural buzzkill and energy vampire.

But it was yours now, the whole master bedroom. It had the nicest view of all the rooms; two large windows above the nightstand that overlooked the street, the bed in between them, and a fireplace seating area in the corner. Not that you ever needed this much room, or could even fill the space with all your belongings, but you had earned the right to spoil yourself. It was your home as much as it was his, even though it didn’t feel that way with Cal.

You practically expelled all the air in your lungs, the second your back hit the plush mattress. You sprawled out, almost in a starfish position as you looked around at your new room. The walls had always been kept white, as did the sheets—allowing you to picture it entirely renovated, to your design taste.

Though, if you had another minute of thinking about renovation, you would’ve lost your mind. You hadn’t even taken off your shoes, and your eyes were fluttering shut. In all honesty, you were too worn out to care about the position you were in, or the shoes still on your feet.

—

You sat up in the bed, feeling yourself in the exact position you had snoozed. You looked at the alarm clock to your right, red numbers being one of the only sources of light.

12:32 AM

Clearly, you needed it, because you hadn’t even moved in your sleep, or pulled the covers up. You reached up a hand, rubbing your tired eyes. Of course, you were now wide awake at midnight. Just your luck.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, embraced by the softness of the bed beneath you. A warm tingle was overtaking you like you were taking a soothing shower or bath. It was perfect… Too good to be true, right?

The bedroom was the same, nothing disturbed. But, as comforting as it was, something was off balance. There was no faint sound of the TV downstairs or the occasional clearing of his throat, only the white noise of the AC.

Now that you’ve moved and gathered your bearings—it was icy cold, more than what could be blowing from the vents. And… there was a mumble growing louder; a man’s voice you couldn’t decipher from your room.

Your legs swung off the edge of the bed, taking an instinctual look over your shoulder as if searching for the source of this ill feeling. There was no monster in the shadows, or a hand from under the bed grasping at your ankle. Not even the feeling of a presence—but you knew there was one. Who was talking, at this hour? The confusion made your brows knit, and your mouth hang open slightly.

Normally, you would’ve just got up and investigated the sound. But, getting to your feet was taking some courage right now, and you were moving about half the speed you would any other time. When you turned your head toward the bathroom, the door was still open—the washroom was nothing but a pitch-black abyss right now.

And the closet? You were too shaky to go in that direction, shaking your head at the idea immediately. That left the door in and out of the bedroom, where the muffle was coming from somewhere in the home.

You fingered the brumal knob, feeling it sting against your steaming flesh. The air was cold, causing goosebumps, but you were simultaneously burning up from a feeling of impending doom. The hinges cracked, almost sounding similar to the low-octave male voice still audible.

The door opened and it was… the hallway. The same way it was when you went to sleep, only illuminated by one of the sconces. Still, the sound was coming from the spare room. When you looked, there was a near-blinding light coming from under the door.

A hushed, growly whisper went past you—no, through you, like a stranger passing you on the street while speaking. You shivered again, eyes darting down each side of the hall. Down the steps, it was like the master bath, a dark abyss you didn’t want to trek through.

That left the spare room in all its blinding glory, and whoever, whatever was behind the door. This time, you pushed forward with all the speed you could muster. Not even a light jog, as if you had the weight of the Earth constricting your joints.

The muffle got louder, even overbearing when you opened the door to the spare room. It wasn’t the empty room with stray boxes and tools—it wasn’t your house at all. You squinted and held up your forearm to shield the light, taking several seconds for your eyes to adjust. It was the large windows—those large windows from the office building. And now, you could hear the voice clearer now.

You turned the corner and saw yourself. The moment Cal was creeping up on you, touching your waist. Though you were watching it from a different angle, seemingly watching it play out the same way it happened—it wasn’t. The woman you were watching, she wasn’t moving, not budging against his hands. She was… just standing there, white-knuckling the glass of whiskey her husband poured for her. He leaned closer, and as he tightened the grip on her waist, you felt two hands on yours, two that felt very lucid. So tight you felt like the assailant had sharp claws.

You could smell him; the stench of whiskey and cruelty warm on your neck. But you couldn’t speak, not scream, or resist. Just like the replay of the day he died, you were standing there like her, the guilt of being weak-kneed made you sick.

He could’ve clawed you in half, how harshly he was holding you in place. It was like a mockery of watching what would’ve happened if you didn’t break the glass over his head—and he was making you watch. Every second, every struggle, every cruel thing Cal would’ve said if you let him touch you.

This wasn’t you. You wanted to bellow at her to fight him, and more so at yourself for not making a run for it. Why couldn’t you move? Despite his hands feeling like they were going to tear you in half? It was pure humiliation—the woman in front of you that once got off the kitchen floor on Christmas Eve, now a face of blood and bone.

You turned around slowly, feeling salty tears go from your face all the way down to your lips.

His sneer would’ve been seen for miles—the sadism written on Cal’s face as if he was still feeding on your tears, even in death, even in your dreams. It wasn’t just his mortal face, it was the one he was left with in death—a spewing bullet wound through the forehead soaking you in his blood.

You could taste it after a few seconds, the metallic taste coating your face and body the closer he leaned in. His lips brushed against yours, just like the day they did in the office. The crimson was filling your mouth, causing you to hack and reach for your throat.

Your shoes squeaked against the marble floor of the office, looking down and seeing gallons of the stuff pooling. You could feel his blood trickle and seep into the fabric of your clothes, in the whites of your eyes with an excruciating burn.

As badly as you wanted to call out his name, your mouth was too coated to get the words out. It was hot, so hot it made you stumble. Your vision was gone—replaced by the blood that flooded your irises. You felt yourself nearly fall, as you ripped yourself from his grip.

You were palming through the ruby of your vision, arms outstretched. Though you couldn’t see, you could still feel him looming over you, watching in amusement as the pools of blood squelched under your feet.

Then, you felt your hands grip something, or someone. You hung on for dear life, blinking away the currant that washed your vision. It still seared, still coated your throat and face, but you could finally make out the figure; Simon.

You blinked rapidly, a chest cough followed by more blood as you watched him. He was staring straight ahead at first, until he felt you beating on his chest, yanking on the fabric of his clothes, just like you had done when strangled. The lifeless version of Cal, he had fizzled out the second Simon approached, nowhere to be seen in the shadows of the office anymore. As well as the alternate version of Cal and you—they were gone too.

Left in the room, it was you and Simon. One soaked with blood, gasping for breath. The other was tattered and seething at the sight.

Simon’s eyes widened as if he had just now noticed you. His hulking, veiny hands are outstretched, cupping each side of your saturated face, taking a step closer to you. Under the mask, you could see the fabric move, like he was speaking to you—but your sound was muffled again.

You plummet from a great height. Adrenaline-fueled rush courses through your veins, instantly jolting your senses awake. The wind roars past your ears with an ear-piercing howl. Your stomach clenches and churns, a sensation that feels like a roller coaster taking a wild descent. The feeling of weightlessness washes over you as if gravity has momentarily lost its grip, leaving you suspended in a free-falling void.

The pit of your stomach seems to drop with each passing moment as if trying to catch up to the plummeting rest of your body.

The blackness seizes hastily—your view is of widened amber eyes, and you can feel the same hands cupping your cheeks, just like the nightmare. The burn in your throat wasn’t from blood, it was from your screaming. The searing in your eyes, it was stemming from the tears streaming down your cheeks.

For the first few seconds, you were still half-in, half-out, pounding on his chest with all the shaky strength you could muster.

“Look at me, look at me.” Simon kept repeating it, only gripping the sides of your face faster. If he wasn’t restricting you, you were surely going to hurt yourself or him, so he had to. You were hyperventilating, still stuck in that dream-like state of terror and the threat of him attacking you. His pressing weight was caging you in place, no matter how much you yelped and thrashed to get running.

In a swift movement, Simon tugged at the edge of his mask, pulling it entirely off his head. “It’s me, it’s me!” He raised his voice, his identity now in your full sight. When he was wearing the mask, he probably appeared more like a masked intruder than a comforting soul—he had to snap you out of this, even if it meant breaking his own rules.

You could see him now; a chiseled jaw and protruding eyes cloaked by years of dark circles, a faint stubble across his chin, and that scar you had touched a few nights ago. It wasn’t an assailant or Cal, it was Simon.

Your hollers halted, now only quiet sobs against his chest. Everything in the dream felt so vivid, so real, lucid enough you were controlling your every movement, but not enough to rid yourself of the threat. The adrenaline you felt during the night terror left you unable to shut your eyes or stop wailing as if you were being actively hunted for sport.

“I’m sorry. It felt too real, Simon.” You whispered against his chest, one hand digging your nails deep into his bicep. His knees were on either side of your waist, anchoring you up enough to use him as a pillow. It seemed the only way he could successfully wake you was to straddle your frame, to cup your cheeks.

What he had done in the present, injected its way into the night terror—perhaps the reason it all felt too real.

“I know.” A calloused thumb stroked your cheek, his head resting against the crook of your neck. He didn’t need to ask the source of the nightmare, and he wasn’t going to. It was a natural reaction, being in this house all day reminded of your worst memories. You tried to hide it throughout the day, but Simon was too observant for his own good.

When he heard your shrieks in the next room, half-asleep on the daybed, he knew. This would’ve happened eventually. Just because Cal was dead, didn’t mean he was dead to you. His ghost still loomed in every room of that place, a constricting weight on your shoulders.

He had witnessed his fair share of adrenaline highs and experienced plenty on his own too. Only then, he didn’t have the luxury of a shoulder to cry on. There was no way in hell he would damn you to that same loneliness he had, no matter how much his inner voice bellowed at him to put the mask back on.

“Sit up, you won’t be so shaky.” Once hovering over you, he eased up, a gentle tug on your wrist to get you sitting up. Eyes still wide, tear stains on yourself and the fabrics of the bed. He looked behind him, seeing the armchair by the fireplace. Simon guided you to it, allowing you to sit down somewhere other than the bed occupied with memories.

He dropped to his knees in front of you slowly, a fist finding your ankle. You flashed a look of confusion, but you weren’t in any position to protest. It felt safe, despite the outward appearance Simon had—broody and dripping with masculinity.

His fingers found the tongue of the shoes you fell asleep wearing, pulling them off slowly.

“Better?” He asks, figuring out the answer quite quickly based on your silence. You nodded in response, wiping your cheeks with your sleeve. It felt the same as it did when you were younger; embarrassed for being afraid of a nightmare. It was just that—a nightmare, but that didn’t mean you didn’t feel every bit of it.

The light from the hallway was the only thing allowing you to see his face; washed out by the golden tint of the light bulb, but pleasing to look at. “Thank you, Simon.” God, how many times you said it that day, probably too many times. He would never accept it, not since the beginning of this road, and especially not after what happened at the apartment.

But, without his mask, he didn’t have his usual safety net of anonymity. His face was as blank as you expected it would be, aside from the slight scowl on his lips. “Stop sayin’ that.” He wanted to get up, but his palm remained wrapped around your calf, gazing at you with confliction.

You tilted your head to the side, leaning against the backrest of the armchair, “yeah, but I meant it.”

“I know you did,” he replied, his speech still a mumble even without the mask, “that’s why I said not to.” Simon didn’t deserve the gratitude, as far as he was concerned. Especially not from you. The last thing on your mind should be thanking him, being kind to him, and even looking him in the eye. But you did—every single day.

“You know you don’t have to stay, right?” You asked, the flicker of the hall light still concealing his pout slightly. You didn’t mean here, you meant in general; he didn’t have to, but he always did. You inhaled sharply, feeling his thumb still caressing your calf soothingly. “And… I’m not upset with you. You have to know that, at least.”

Perhaps it was the fog in your mind or the nerves still working overdrive, but his silence was too still for your liking. It wasn’t distaste, it was his old habits keeping him from indulging.

The hand was removed quickly and placed back on his own knee. You heard the shuffle of his pant fabric like he was going to stand up and leave the bedroom. But he didn’t—his head dropped in the direction of the floor.

“Simon?” Your tone was hushed, eyes squinted with unsettle.

“Stop it.” He grumbled, the whites of his eyes still glowing within the dim lighting. Simon blinked slowly when he met your gaze again, unable to accept the perturb. There was so much he wanted to say, but he didn’t. That much was obvious.

He heard you stammer, a sentence cut short when he spoke so firmly. “Stop being so fuckin’ nice to me.” Though the words themselves were harsh, it was nothing more than a defeated whisper—a plea to halt your tenderness before he lost all self-control.

What he desired was to find the mask he flung only minutes ago, slip it on, and slam the door behind him. His presence remained; a commanding voice, despite being the one kneeling in front of you. And you? Ever persistent, and he despised it with every fiber of his being.

You scoffed, but it was coming from a place of intense empathy. “Am I supposed to scream at you? Beat you bloody?” The question hung in the air for a few seconds, followed by a snappy retort. He would never let himself relax, even feel, could he?

“No, you need to stop treating me like someone you deserve. You’re not that stupid.” Simon hissed with a slight roll of his eye. You clutched each armrest tightly, mouth slightly hung open from his self-pity.

His shell was breaking—the umbrage was just the last futile attempt at restricting you before it shattered completely. When that happened—and it would—he had but a clue about his next step. Why had he remained in this spot for so long, kneeling so closely to you?

“Why did you stay then? The night at the cabin, after Cal?” It surely wasn’t because he had to. You were onto him, and you weren’t going to let him go now, not unless he packed up and left right this second.

His stammer said enough, the tightened grip on his own appendage as if he was squeezing the reply from his own body. If he said what he wanted to, it wouldn’t be something cruel. He couldn’t be cold to you. That’s what frightened him the most.

You hunched forward slightly, a hovering hand on his shoulder. Simon tensed out of reflex, but didn’t physically stop you—he couldn’t anymore. Tonight was a breaking point, and his face had been in your sights for several minutes now.

“Don’t do this.” Finally, he gathered his bearings and clamped a hand around your wrist, the sheer size of his hand swallowing yours entirely. He let out a heavy breath, his glowing eyes burning holes into yours.

Your reply was as simple as blunt as you could muster; a one-worded question you’ve had for a long time. “Why?”

His fingers clenched a little tighter, expecting you to squirm. But you didn’t. “Because I won’t be able to stop myself,” he blinked slowly, eyes drooping with the small sliver of weakness he was showing you right now. Who said you wanted him to stop? In fact, nothing about you did. Not even your reddened eyes, or the tension you carried. It was a simple concept to grasp, but someone as stubborn as himself hadn’t. Yet.

This time, it was you who initiated the intimacy. It wasn’t sensuality; it was reassurance—something Simon needed desperately. You pressed your forehead against his, fingers finding the stubble you could finally touch.

He breathed heavily into the kiss, an instinctual hand protecting the back of your head when he pushed your weight back into the armchair. Somewhere in it, he had stood up again, able to deepen the lip contact by hovering over you. Simon should’ve fought it, but he didn’t. He wanted you to pull away and realize how ridiculous he felt against you, but you did not.

His lips pulled away with a moist squelch, still a hand on the back of your head. The drunken kiss was messy and heated. This was stone-cold sober—much needed and full of feelings. Simon seemed to be searching for hesitance, any excuse to halt his desires. You only breathed heavily from the loss of air, unblinking and desperate for more.

You nodded slightly, an unspoken plea for that part of him that couldn’t stop himself. Though it seemed like you were leading things, you didn’t have a clue what the hell you were doing either. It just felt right at the moment. After the nod, his free hand clasped the collar of your shirt, pulling you to your feet. He scanned the room around him, though he already memorized the layout the first time he walked in. It was as if he was searching for prying eyes that weren’t there—an instinct when his face was visible.

Instead of the sides of your head, his fingers found your waist, digging into them as he backed you against the dresser. Without a struggle on his end, he lifted you on top of it so he could stand between your parted thighs.

It couldn’t be the bed; it was too domestic for the both of you. He needed somewhere you could easily pull away from him and walk away, as he’d convinced himself you were going to. There was no way this act would carry out completely, right? The rational portion of you had to be buried deep in your lust.

Simon’s fingers gave your waistband a tug, pulling your bottoms off entirely. His eyes remained trained on yours the entire time, expecting some sort of resistance. Hell, he was expecting a slap on his cheek that never came. You wanted this; you wanted him.

The pad of his finger found your swollen clit, rubbing paced circles on the nerves. You felt your breath hitch at the sensation, a clench around the wooden edge of the dresser. Despite how much you wanted this, it was like an out-of-character blur. Simon, being the face to match the lustful hands? You never thought of that as a sight you’d see, never in a million years.

His heavy breathing was just as arousing, how lustfully he was watching despite not being the one being touched. Words weren’t coming out, but the language of stares was all the two of you needed right now. Simon could keep searching for refusal, but he wasn’t going to find it. Not while he was massaging your clit so intimately.

The pleasure built rather quickly, as did the pace of your hips rocking against his hands. It had been so long since you touched yourself, let alone a sexual partner doing it for you. When his finger ceased, you let out a small mewl from the emptiness.

From the moonlight illuminating his features, your eyes wandered at the sound of his belt unbuckling. He did it with such haste, such experience. He unzipped his jeans next, pulling them down to his knees to allow access.

Instinctively, you outstretched a hand to palm him through his boxers. It was what you were used to: I do something for you, you have to do the same for me.

“No.” Simon hissed, placing your hands back at your sides. It wasn’t because he didn’t want you to stroke him—he didn’t want the focus on him. You seeing his face was all the focus he could handle right now.

You kept your hands on either side of you, respecting the boundary he had put up, though you didn’t understand its purpose. He pulled down on the waistband of his black boxers, stroking himself for a few seconds, followed by another hiss. Simon stepped back to his original position between your thighs again, only he pulled them further apart—enough for his wide frame to fit comfortably.

You felt his length pressing against your folds, the knuckle of his hand on your inner thigh as he guided it into position. Before he did, he searched for a nod again, or anything, really. You obliged, bracing yourself by clamping down on his shoulder. It had been a long time since you had sex, so it wasn’t going to be particularly comfortable at first. A man of Simon’s stature, no matter the amount of arousal that pooled—you would have to be eased into it.

He guided the tip in first, eyes darting up and down as he slowly pushed his hips forward, his length coated in the lubricating slick caused by his fingers. You let out a pleasured gasp, not yet feeling the stretch that was coming.

When he was sure of the next phase, he placed his lips against your gasping ones, silencing the inevitable whine of discomfort. Still at a snail's pace, he entered even deeper, enough that you needed to sit with him like that for a moment. It was just that; discomfort, not pain. Yet another factor of intimacy you weren’t accustomed to as of late. “Is that… good?” He whispered against your mouth, still only thrusting a portion of himself out—and slowly.

Since he’d given you time to adjust, the discomfort did fizzle away. “More,” you replied, a slight nod of your head. Now, you were arguably enjoying the sensation more than he was.

This time, he didn’t wait for a refusal.

With an abrupter thrust, he bottomed out inside you. It wasn’t roughness, not yet—just his way of ripping off the bandaid. His lips found yours again, allowing you to bite down on his lower lip at the sudden stretch. The angle he was at; you sitting on top of the dresser with your hips slightly raised, and him standing, it felt euphoric, not agonizing.

“Shit…” A guttural groan fell from his lips as his movements began, methodical and pleasuring for both of you. Every sound you made, every little reaction; it made him twitch deep inside you. This is what he wanted when you two finally gave in—you, writhing in front of him and forced to do nothing but enjoy it.

His tip kissed your cervix with each pump, just enough to make your eyes roll slightly. What the hell you two were doing, the consequences tomorrow, none of it mattered. Lust truly did cloud the two of you this moment, and he wasn’t going to stop unless you asked him.

You felt tears prick at your eyes, but it wasn’t from pain or repulsion. It was from how long you had gone without this shared feeling of desire, the closeness of two people. Simon slowed his movements, wiping away the tear with his thumb. He could tell, it wasn’t a fear of him or the past that haunted you—it was pure satisfaction.

You needed this, no, deserved this from someone who truly deserved you.

His experienced hands found your hips, tugging you closer so your chests were touching. You let out another sharp gasp, holding onto him just as tightly. The tug allowed him to hit a deeper spot inside your walls if that was even possible.

The change in position allowed you to raise your knees higher against him, so much you probably could’ve placed your feet up on the dresser. Simon grunted and increased his speed, one hand on your thigh, and the other a flat palm against the wall in front of him. The furniture piece hit the wall with each relentless thrust, the thumb masked by your shared moans of delight. And they were becoming desperate ones, plain desperate.

Your stomach was doing flips, tightening and churning the longer he went at it like this. And Simon, his head leaned back ever so slightly, he was close too. There was no turning back now, too deep in the sensations. But still, you iron gripped him—as if pleading for him not to pull away—something he had no intention of doing.

“Let it out, love.” He rasped in your ear, his hips still going an uninterrupted pound. Love. The unexpected pet name made your already shaking knees turn to putty. You truly would only last seconds at best, especially with that accent smothering you.

What once was a moan with each thrust, now became a growing holler. That breaking point that had been bubbling, the one he gave you permission to, finally struck you—destructively. Each muscle in your abdomen constricted, your head thrown back against the wall at the feeling of euphoria hitting an all-time high. Simon’s hand, once gripping your thigh, was now protecting the back of your head as it thrashed against the wall. His tongue traced along your jaw and chin, the combination of sensations only prolonging the interval.

His fist balled in your hair, just enough to only cause an enjoyable sting. He leaned back slightly to have a better view of his length going in and out of you. The sounds of your high delighted him, the final permission for him to enjoy his own climax.

When he felt a more violent twitch, he pulled himself out, using his hand to finish the rest. Still, he wouldn’t allow you to touch him, you were sure of that. You panted heavily, mouth still agape in awe of the attraction you felt towards this. Your fingers clenched the sides of the dresser once pulled away, feeling the spew of his cum land on your folds.

Simon trembled slightly, giving one of your clothed breasts a yearning squeeze as he drained himself of his seed.

Then, clarity hit him as quickly as his climax did. “You wanted that, right?” He whispered, eyes now full of searching rather than lust. God, his cluelessness would be the death of him before any enemy. You quickly nodded, now slightly more slumped than before. You thought it was obvious, but he did always have a way of shocking you—in more ways than one, now.

Inside, you were shaking your head and smacking sense into him for his own stubbornness.

“Simon,” you panted, tightening your thighs around his waist, “just shut up. Please.” You pushed your head against into chest, using it as a surface to catch your breath on. The sensations you felt replayed already, leaving you sensitive and breathless, but heinously calm in spite of what you two had just done.

It happened so quickly, but it wasn’t regretful or dissatisfying. It was the exact opposite.

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