#unattended reader

[ladyrosemone]

History does not remember blood, it remembers names

Using Google Translate here, sorry for any spelling mistakes or inconsistencies 🗣‼️‼️

Tw: allusion to child prostitution, prostitution, death of a secondary character, abandonment of minors, allusion to negligence.

It wasn't always like this, you know.

You weren't like this when was younger, when mom would put you hair in those cute braids or dress you up to match her on dress-up Wednesdays, or even when she taught you how to put on makeup instead of buying the bike you wanted, one that you friend Michelle had. It was metallic blue, with white streamers hanging from the handlebars, and you still remembers it clear as the sun because that was the first time you felt envious of something foreign.

You was never blind to injustice, you saw it every day; at school when the teacher took you away recess because some brats weren't silent, at home when mom didn't give you dessert for some stupid reason, but the most recurrent one was the one that took the bread out of their mouths.

You understood it when you turned nine, when you woke and you beloved mother decided it was time for contribute to the household; On you birthday she took you to a fat old man, whom she said was his boss, he dressed you the way her mother dressed on a Wednesday and a Thursday and a Friday and a Saturday and a Sunday and she put so much makeup on you that you eyes burned.

She didn't want to do it, she wasn't going to do it, but when your boss comes to your home to demand protection money and sees you child, what else do you do but make things easier?

That's what adults love most.

She was not a bad mother, she was loving and protective, affectionate and self-sacrificing, but she was also a woman desperate to fulfill the most basic needs of a human, to eat and sleep safely one more night, and if she must use her little girl for that, may God forgive her on his last day.

And you loved her too, but not enough to intervene when you saw being pulled into a car, or asked her boss for help when others did, and you'll be damned if you refuses to be taken to the police station to take a statement, poor baby.

"Is in shock" they say that word a lot, even now "Leave in a foster home, there is no room in orphanages"

Like divine intervention, an old but royal gentleman like a general entered his life.

Alfred Pennyworth took you to a large house one day; He apologized for taking a while to find her, saying that he would never have expected that a child of Bruce Wayne would have been born in a prostitution ring and lived there for eleven years.

Suddenly you had a father and a brother, but it was like you didn't have them at all.

Bruce not a father, never a father was distant, like one of those men who only rented you to pretend to be a therapeutic doll, and Richard was...annoying, angry, lashing out at everyone all the time, a brat who left you without dessert because of his tantrums.

But you were good at something, at pleasing; It was never touched, thank God, but you're observant and you've learned a few tricks to cajole people.

That didn't work in them, not until Jason Todd came along.

He was better than Richard without a doubt, and for a few years he was you best friend; two peas in a pod, vanilla and chocolate, brothers of everything but blood, and for a time you found home in him.

And then Joker took him away.

You were never interested in being vigilante, dressing up as a traffic light and running across the roofs at night, but in those years you wished could have gone with him, to be a Robin just so you could avenge your brother.

Shortly after, Tim Drake arrived, Bruce's shadow, his little chameleon copying his movements, his gestures, his personality and you hated him with every part of your being.

At that time you stopped trying to bond with Bruce, you would never be his son, and quoting what he said;

"I don't have time, not now, not for you"

But yes for Barbara, yes for Stephenie, yes for that spawn of hell with whom you share blood, and yes for her adored daughter, Cassandra.

It was the straw that broke the camel's back, finding out that Jason, your brother Jason, had come back to life and never came to you, the only person who has entered your heart besides your mother, had abandoned you, betrayed you.

And then a metahuman arrives and they open the doors to him as if it were nothing?

Well, fuck them.

Although in reality, it was not your plan to return to your origin, who would have thought that finding your old friend Michelle in an alley after being thrown out of a van on the verge of death was going to give you the biggest reward in Gotham.

Loyalty.

Unlike you, Michelle did not have a millionaire father who claimed her like a carnival puppy, and her fate was no different from that of her dead mother, but she had contacts, people who knew things about more people and that a third spectator like you could use.

And if you learned anything in that damn mansion, it was to sweeten their words, caress egos and say what they want to hear, you learned to deceive and pretend, to disguise your intentions and attack without killing.

You learned to be a snake instead of a bat.

And like sweet karma, divine intervention or whatever you like to believe, starting your business from the brothel where your mother sold you by giving that fat bald guy to his enemies and taking his place, wasn't a bad way to start his story.

"Don't you think that's a brutal origin story?" You ask, looking with amusement at the infiltrated man now slowly bleeding out on your rug, Is it considered a fur rug if it's the skin of the past boss?

—Liar —he mutters in pain, writhing in pain and under the gaze of your cruel eyes — You killed them in cold blood! Your poisonous tongue made us destroy ourselves from within! Two-faced whore!

“I always like how creative they get when they’re dying” you reply, leaning back in your leather swivel chair, because no animal cruelty for you, you are not a monster “Anyway, I hear Ivy needs test subjects for her new fragrances, but I think you’d make a better fertilizer, Michelle dear”

Your right hand opens the door, where two men grab the traitor and take him out while he continues screaming, varying between cursing her and crying out for mercy "I hope it helps Pamela before the hyenas eat him"

Now you're Gotham's super predator, and your heart is hungry.

[annievrse]

me or 100k?

dazai x fem!reader —ᡣ𐭩 blurb

"would you rather kiss me for $100,000 or the prettiest girl in the world for $1m?" you ask your boyfriend, phone in front of your face.

dazai hums. "i'll take the $1m."

you don't realise your face drops at his response until he sits up from his place on the couch.

"what? i get to kiss you too, so i don't see the problem."

raising your eyebrows, you smile at him. "you think i'm pretty?"

"pfft," dazai laughs, reaching forward to grasp your hands. "of course, i think you're pretty. i think you're prettier than pretty."

you shove your face in your hands to avoid his eyes, but you can't help the thundering beat of your heart in your chest.

"c'mere," dazai giggles, pulling you toward him. you land with your face on his shoulder and laugh, peering up at him.

"i would kiss the prettiest boy in the world for $1m, too."

the only indication that dazai heard you was the immediate bloom of red on his cheeks. "we're not talking about me."

"yes, we are," you nod, pressing your lips to his neck. "you're prettier than pretty."

dazai scoffs, but it's a weak attempt at diverting your attention. "we gotta get to work."

you gasp, lips upturned. "osamu dazai insisting we go to the agency? who are you?"

"shut up," he whispers, dragging you to stand from the couch.

once dazai locks the front door, you turn to him. "i can't wait to let everyone know my boyfriend is the prettiest in the whole world."

"do that, and i'll tell ranpo what you did to his candy stash."

[starrysquid51]

woke up thinking about yoohankim and therefore it is no longer my problem. spoiler warning

so anyways I was thinking of a kind of missing scene fic idea, when yjh remembered the 0th regression in real time he only like zoned out a bit while running with hsy. and I think it would take longer than a few seconds for hsy to adjust to getting the memories from her 1863 self. so what if it took like a day or so for her to come back to herself and for when she's processing she's almost unresponsive besides the incoherent mutterings. yjh takes her to lee seolhwa but nothing seems to be wrong with her and so all they have to do is wait for her to wake up.

(joonghyuk watches over her in the night, it reminds him too much of Kim Dokja passing out for days on end, barely coherent and wondering if one day he will never open his eyes again. he wonders if she too, will leave him.)

when she does wake up, incoherently mumbling about the author of his existence and her, of course he is curious but they have no time to talk, they have to save the one who left them behind.

the 4th wall confirms what he was already thinking, but there is no time left, and they are faced with their failure as kim dokja scatters away.

(this time he doesn't even entertain asking han sooyoung about how, why she became the author. the pain and guilt he sees in her eyes before he leaves the company are the same as his throughout every turn)

when they start working on the novel so that maybe one day Kim dokja will read it,they still don't talk about it, but han sooyoung asks if joonghyuk thinks they remembered their lost memories because dokja finally read that part of a story, she is met with silence.

(they do however, make a promise to each other, a pact almost, to bring that "fool/bastard" back to them)

[theconfusingfrog]

Sometimes I think about that time I got my hands on a copy of War of the Worlds by HG Wells when I was six. I couldn’t sleep for weeks and instead of helping solve the problem all the adults in my life just gaslit me into thinking I didn’t read it.

I still had nightmares and shit, I just firmly believed that I’ve never even laid eyes on the book war of the worlds. My problems truly stem from some innocent unnamed children’s book and an overactive imagination.

AND THEN WHEN I WAS NINE ONE OF MY TEACHERS WORE A WAR OF THE WORLDS GRAPHIC TEE TO SCHOOL AND I HAD FUCKING FLASHBACKS AND REALIZED I WAS FUCKING RIGHT ALL ALONG! IT FUCKING WAS HG WELLS’ FAULT!

[ashlinxsloves]

When babygirling hits too hard, and I'm here just kicking my feet and twirling my hair like some main character (I'm working on that Old man Logan fic + some Arcane ones too)

[kitkatscabinet]

TAKE ME TO YOUR BEST FRIEND'S HOUSE

Pairings: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne x fem! reader.

Summary: So, he might be going against "bro code". He can't help it, though; his best friend's sibling is just too cute.

A/N: Reader can be imagined as biological/adopted/found family.

DICK GRAYSON & WALLY WEST

How Dick hadn't learnt to not leave his phone unattended was beyond Wally, especially when, for a vigilante, the man had such lax security for his personal phone. Nor should he have ever trusted Wally with the password.

Already drafting his absolute PR nightmare tweet on Dick's account, he's mentally rubbing his evil little hands together when his thumb hits the banner notification that pops up on the top of the screen.

My Heart: Thinking about you, come home soon xo

Alongside the text is a photo, a very suggestive photo of a woman dressed in nothing but one of Dick's hoodies. Wally knows because he bought Dick that hoodie, he's also very familiar with the woman in the photo on account of it being his baby sister.

He shrieks, the phone slipping from his slack with shock grip and landing on his big toe.

He doesn't hear the ringtone over his sudden stream of pained expletives, hopping on one foot, until he hears your voice from the speaker.

"Hey babe! You left your hoodie at - "

"YOU!" Wally screams, blubbering incoherently, pointing an accusing finger at the phone like you can see him.

"Jesus Christ," he can practically see you recoiling away from your phone, "Wally?" You've heard enough of your brother's meltdowns over the years that you can recognise him from just a single word.

"YOU, YOU - YOU HARLOT!" You snort at his words, staying silent until his stream of consciousness is finished.

"You done?" You hum, completely unphased at the tantrum Wally's just thrown for the past seven minutes.

"Am I, am I done? No, I'm not done." He squawks, "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME!" There's a beat of incredulous silence on your end.

"Excuse me? What have I done to you?"

"DEFILED THE SACRED BOND OF BROTHERHOOD IS WHAT YOU'VE DONE, HE'S MY BEST FRIEND"

"The sacred bond of brotherhood? I'm your fucking sibling, you're supposed to attack him, not me!" Wally can't help but notice how you don't deny his words.

"Oh, believe me, Dickhead is gonna get what's coming to him."

"Yeah, whatever, I'm hanging up now, tell Dick I'm getting pizza for dinner."

"Don't you dare - " He doesn't even get to finish his sentence before you've followed through.

"Hey Wally, have you seen my ... phone?" Dick trails off as he spots the item he's looking for in his agitated friend's hand.

"You don’t fuck your best friends younger sibling. That’s like the number one rule of bro code!” Wally shrieked, not greeting him like a normal person, and not giving Dick even a second to realise what was happening before he was being grabbed and shaken by his shoulders.

"I love her." No explanation, no apologies, just pure earnestness and the softest look Wally had ever seen on his friend's face.

The declaration takes all the wind out of his sails, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He drags a hand down his face slowly,

Finally, he groaned and dragged both hands down his face. "Ugh. I hate that you’re so genuine. It ruins my ability to stay mad. Barry's not going to be happy you kept this from him though."

The mental image of the Flash going protective uncle giving him the slightest bit of sick satisfaction, until Dick shatters his dreams by casually saying, "he already knows."

"He what?! Am I the last to know?" Dick makes a show of thinking about it before shrugging with an unapologetic grin.

"Kinda, yeah."

"I'M SURROUNDED BY TRAITORS!" Wally yells, sinking to his knees in defeat.

JASON TODD & ROY HARPER

Nobody had ever accused Roy of being a detective. He might not be as smart as the bats (an impossible hurdle in Roy's opinion), but he wasn't completely fucking stupid.

An unfortunate reality for his sister, who he'd caught sneaking into the Titans Tower at the ripe time of 4:47 am, wearing a familiar leather jacket with a bullet hole in the sleeve. A jacket that could only mean one of two things.

You had joined a biker gang.

You were dating Jason Todd, AKA, his best friend, AKA dead fucking meat.

Because while option one terrified him, he'd still prefer it to the option he had a sinking suspicion about was actually correct.

The next afternoon, he finds Jason working out in the Tower's gym, and he grins wickedly. Bastard didn't even have to make Roy track him down.

"Hey, Roy." Jason greets, never once faltering in his reps, entirely unbothered, like he hadn’t committed emotional treason.

Roy thinks he could be forgiven for his following action, he could have done a lot worse than picking up the nearest kettlebell and throwing it at his unsuspecting friend.

"WHAT THE FUCK ROY?" Jason screeched as he dove for cover.

"YOU’RE DATING MY SISTER?!"

"Um, what?" He squeaks, before clearing his throat, "I mean... I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't try to gaslight me!" Roy jabbed a finger at him, seething. "You're supposed to be my best friend, and you went and... and started... canoodling my sister."

Jason’s brows shot up in amusement despite himself. "Canoodling?"

"Don't try and deflect either." Roy flushed as red as his hair.

"I’m not—well. Okay. I am. But in my defense, it wasn’t like I planned to fall for your sister."

"Have you kissed?"

Jason contemplates lying but bites the bullet and nods.

Roy gasped like an old lady hearing someone say cunt. "ON PURPOSE?!"

Jason gave him a flat look. "No, Roy, I tripped and fell. Of course, it was on purpose. More than once, too." He smirks, unable to stop himself from prodding the bear.

Roy spasms.

"Ok, let's not make this weird." Jason huffs.

"Make this weird? It's already weird, we're neck deep in it, NAY!, We're drowning in it!"

"Oh dear god," Jason sighs, squeezing his eyes shut and speaking before he can think better of it, "I love her."

Roy chokes, Jason startles, clearly surprising, even himself, "Oh my god, I love her."

There's a heavy, pained silence before Roy croaks "... Bro"

"I know." Jason tugged at the roots of his hair.

"…BRO." Roy was trying to prevent a panic attack, his panic fuelling Jason's.

"I know."

"You love me?" A slightly giddy voice breathes from the doorway.

Both men groan for different reasons as they spot you bouncing toward them.

"Babe, I -"

"I love you too," you beam, throwing your arms around Jason's neck and kissing him like your life depends on it.

Roy gags, forcing you to pull away. "God, this is gonna ruin every group hang for the rest of my life." He whined.

"Nah. You’ll get used to me kissing your sister in front of you."

"I SWEAR TO GOD —"

TIM DRAKE & CONNER KENT

Conner's knee is jiggling furiously. From across the room, Cassie raises a questioning brow, but Conner makes no effort to stop as he checks the time for the fourth time in less than three minutes.

You're late. So is Tim, but it's not him Conner's worried about. You're never late; you've always been a perpetually early person, and you always get so anxious if you aren't. Conner knows, having been on the receiving end of your time-anxious meltdowns more than once.

"Dude, calm down, they're not even five minutes late yet," Bart says, looking at him as if he's the weird one here, when clearly, something terrible has happened to you.

You've been in a car accident (you don't drive), you've been shot, (you're bulletproof), you've been taken hostage by Lex Luthor (plausible), you've -

"Hi guys, sorry I’m late, I slept through my alarm." You laugh bashfully, avoiding Conner's gaze, which narrows in suspicion.

"That never happens." He scowls, his enhanced hearing picking up the slight stutter in your heartbeat.

"Well, it did today." You rolled your eyes, crossing the room to sit next to Cassie.

Barely two minutes later, a harried-looking Tim scurries through the door, brushing his sweaty hair from his face, and in doing so, accidentally reveals a hickey just beneath the neckline of his shirt.

It's only for a second, but that one second is all he needs to connect the dots.

"No." He says, glaring at Tim as everyone else, including you, watches in confusion.

"No?" Tim repeats.

"NO!" Conner snarls, jumping up from his seat and pulling down the neckline of Tim's shirt to display not one, but three love bites.

"YOU’RE SLEEPING WITH MY SISTER?!"

"Technically, there wasn't much sleeping involved - " Tim mutters, with absolutely zero regard for his well-being.

"I trusted you with my life, and you go behind my back to DEFLOWER MY INNOCENT BABY SISTER?!"

"You're the same age?" Tim mumbles at the same time you scoff.

"Deflower? Innocent? Are we living in the Middle Ages? Are you my owner?"

"Stay out of this!" Conner whirls on you, his gaze dangerously red.

"Stay out of my own sex life?" You guffaw, ignoring the way Conner puffs up like an angry cat. "Besides, Tim's hardly my first."

Your words are enough to shock your brother enough that he drops Tim, reeling back with a hand on his chest like he's suffering a heart attack.

You take the opportunity to scoop your partner into your arms, flying away before Kon can recover, until you reach the safety of the bed you've both only just left.

"I think he's actually going to kill me." Tim mumbles, burying his face in your chest.

"Hmm, guess you''ll just have to keep me around forever, for protection."

"Sounds perfect." Tim dreamily says, clutching you even tighter in contentment.

BRUCE WAYNE & CLARK KENT

Once, there would have been a time when interviewing Gotham’s Bruce Wayne would have left him an anxious wreck, but now, Clark relished in the opportunity. Giddy that his best friend, no matter how much the man denied it, would turn to him (him! A Metropolis interloper), instead of someone like that tart Vicki Vale.

(That thought has him mentally apologising to his ma for his crudeness, but what she wouldn't know, couldn't hurt her.)

Needless to say, Clark was excited to have been given the chance, and he refused to squander it.

They were in Bruce's "office," a room they both knew he hardly ever even stepped foot inside, but had occupied to keep up the facade.

A brilliant facade it was, Clark thought in amusement, as he watched Brucie Wayne ramble on earnestly. Nobody would ever suspect the man, reaching for his wallet to pull out a picture of his kids in an interview on Wayne Enterprises' newest ventures, to be the fearsome Batman.

Clark, ever affable, just smiles, nodding along until a second picture flutters onto the desk. Bruce freezes, his perfected mask slipping just a fraction, but enough for Clark to notice as the unshakeable man's eyes widen in sheer panic.

Bruce was composed. He was always in control, a master of self-control. Bruce was unflappable, he had a plan for everything.

Bruce, evidently, did not have a plan, beyond freezing in horror, for when an intimate Polaroid of his girlfriend, Clark's sister, landed face up on the table between them.

You're wearing one of his button-up shirts, seated sideways across Bruce's lap, the man's large hand clasped over your thigh, as you stare up at him like he's your whole world.

Clark paused, staring at the photo on the desk like it was a live grenade.

Bruce, very carefully, snuck a hand out to retrieve it. Only to be thwarted by Clark's superspeed. He holds it between his thumb and his index finger like it might bite him, the blinding grin never once fading from his face.

Bruce thinks it's the most terrifying Clark has ever looked.

There's a long pause, with Bruce mentally calculating how long it will take before he has some Kryptonite on his hands and whetehr or not Clark will flatten him before then.

"Oh my god," Clark said.

Bruce grimaced. "It's not what it looks like."

"It looks like you're dating my sister."

"Ok, it's exactly what it looks like, but—" He cuts off once more as Clark speaks with surprising giddiness.

"You carry her around in your wallet. Like a real boyfriend, it's sickeningly sweet."

Bruce opened his mouth, closing it and opening it again repeatedly like a stunned fish as he blushed a brilliant red.

Clark wasn’t finished; if anything, he looked like Christmas had come early.

"Is there more?" Bruce stiffens, "There is! Do you have a shrine? I bet you have a shrine!"

"Clark."

"Is it in the batcave?"

"Clark."

"What about a scrapbook? Is she on the manor walls yet?"

"Clark."

"Do your kids know? Wait, am I the last to know?!" He seemed genuinely hurt by that thought.

Bruce looked up at the ceiling like it could save him from the confrontation; he thinks he'd rather fight than... whatever the hell, it is Clark's doing.

[uppersidedreaminnn]

DAISUKI ★ N.RK

SYNOPSIS: in which you surprise your boyfriend by speaking japanese.

PAIRING: nishimura riki x fem! reader

GENRE: fluff, established relationship, humor

WORD COUNT: 1.0k

likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated. let me know your thoughts!

“kuso.” riki mutters under his breath, causing you to turn your head toward him.

the two of you are sprawled comfortably on the couch, riki focused on his game, clicking rapidly at the buttons of his controller, completely immersed. while you scroll mindlessly on your phone, both of you exist in your own little bubble.

“what does that mean?” you ask, curiosity piqued at the word you've heard riki mutter multiple times. though you already have a vague guess.

riki glances at you briefly before slowing down his movements on the controller. “nothing,” he brushes off, returning his gaze to the screen. you hum not pushing it further.

the night drags on, and soon, the two of you decide to watch an anime together—a movie you’ve both been waiting to release for some time now. nestled comfortably in each other’s arms, you watch as the story unfolds. before you know it, the credits roll. the two of you done for the night, you both get ready for bed.

waiting for riki to finish up in the bathroom, you lie alone in bed and remember the moment earlier. ever so curious, you grab your phone and search for the word riki often mutters under his breath. no doubt it was in his mother tongue, japanese.

the search results make you chuckle, confirming your suspicion—the words he often whispers are curse words. falling into a rabbit hole of japanese vocabulary, you practice the words that show up silently.

“daisuki?” your eyes scan the screen as you scroll down a beginner’s guide. “'daisuki' is a japanese word and expression that means to like or love something a great amount.” your gaze lingers on the next line.

“it's often used to say you love someone.”

hmm. these words might come in handy. 

the following days with riki are chaotic, to say the least. your boyfriend always keeps you on your toes, constantly teasing you, play-fighting with you (seriously, are we ten?), and worst of all, stealing your food. after a long day of dealing with his hyper energy, you sigh, in desperate need of a time-out.

your eyes trail to the couch and the controller left unattended on the coffee table, practically calling your name. you plop down, turning on the game, controller in hand. before long, you’re fully immersed, fingers gripping the buttons tightly as gunfire and other game sound effects echo in the room. the victory chime rings, and a smug grin spreads across your face. clicking start, you prepare for another round—

until a hand swiftly snatches the controller away.

“riki,” you whine, standing from your spot to reclaim it. agile and a lot taller than you, he swiftly dodges your movements.

“nu-uh,” he tuts, shaking his head in amusement as he moves further away. rounding back to the couch, he plops down. “it’s my turn now.”

you roll your eyes, huffing in annoyance at having been cut off short of your game.

“uzai.” you mutter the japanese word foreign on your tongue, sending a death glare in riki’s way, sitting comfortably in your spot.

you knew the word would elicit some sort of reaction, and you were right.

“what?” riki looks at you immediately, his expression unreadable, though amusement flickers in his eyes.

you take a few steps forward, arms crossed. “i said,” you repeat slowly, “uzai.” you try to sound confident in your pronunciation, though you barely remember the proper way to say it from the japanese guide you read.

riki chuckles, his confusion morphing into pure amusement. “hontou ni?” he replies, clicking start on his game. his response making you annoyed at yet another phrase you had no idea the meaning to.

“where’d you learn that word?” he asks as he begins his round, eyes still locked onto the screen.

“google. where else?” you shrug, plopping down beside him, watching intently as the game unfolds.

riki doesn’t respond to your sarcasm, too focused on his game. you smirk, seizing the opportunity and snatching the controller from his grasp.

“hey!” he exclaims, frowning at you, lips tugging into a pout as he watches you start playing.

you only chuckle. “you started it.”

things wind down as the night progresses, the two of you tangled on the couch, exhaustion finally settling in. an anime plays softly on the screen, but neither of you pay much attention. you snuggle closer to riki, sighing in contentment at the much more peaceful atmosphere.

just as you feel yourself slipping into sleep, riki speaks.

“since when did you start speaking japanese?” his voice is low, curious.

you hesitate, suddenly feeling shy. “uhm…” you start, trying to find the words. “you say things i don’t understand all the time.” you explain. “so, naturally, i got curious and looked them up.” you shift slightly. “i guess i just picked some up. don’t blame me.” you finish off your explanation.

riki lets out a soft laugh, his chest vibrating beneath your cheek. “that really caught me off guard, baby.” he tilts his head down to look at you. another thought crosses his mind. “what other words did you learn?” he asks, interest piqued. secretly, just wanting to hear you speak japanese again. even, if it’s just to tell him off.

you hum, feigning sleepiness. “there is this one word,” you murmur, a smirk ghosting your lips as you remember its meaning.

riki watches you, anticipation clear in his eyes.

you pause for a second, recalling the pronunciation as best as you can.

“daisuki?” your voice is soft, hesitant.

riki freezes. did he hear that right?

“again?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. the atmosphere shifts, the teasing laced with something more intimate.

this time, you say it firmly. “daisuki.” you lift yourself from his chest to meet his gaze, a soft smile playing on your lips.

riki groans, heat rising to his cheeks. “such a menace.” he mutters, looking down at you fondly.

finding the effect of the word on him amusing, you tease further. “daisuki, riki.” you say clearer. 

his breath hitches. he drags a hand through his hair before shaking his head, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips.

“daisuki.” he says back to you. this time it was his time to make you flustered as he pulled you even closer.

“guess i should learn more words now,” you muse, laughing softly against his chest.

[boneless-mika]

“Yanks don’t understand not everywhere is the USA” is for when you say “oh yeah you can get on the school bus even if you’re an adult who doesn’t go to school as long as you have a valid ticket” to other Swedes online and yanks decide to argue with you that actually that isn’t true even though you have done it many times

[tonycries]

Freak On The Cam! - C.K.

Synopsis. Choso always loved watching you - his pretty lil’ camgírl - from behind the screen. Who knew he’d love being on-screen with you even more?

Pairing. Choso Kamo x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, camgírl! reader, spítting, Choso has rings and piercings, first times + loss of vírginity (Choso’s), oral (fem receiving), exhíbitionism, DOWN BAD Choso, cúmplay, use of “ma’am”, Sukuna is a menace, víbrators, light jealousy (Choso’s), some HEINOUS things, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 6.5k

A/N. Meant to post this last week but hehe here we are. Also I’ve GOT to stop using Unc-kuna so much lmao.

“Wanna see a movie or do you wanna make one?”

Choso was screwed. Completely and utterly screwed. So badly, in fact, that he might as well just wipe off every trace of himself online and go into hiding - preferably forever.

All because he had been so stupidly careless as to leave his phone unattended for exactly 1 minute and 47 seconds around Sukuna. 

In the time it took Choso to raid the kitchen for his favorite brand of cereal, his uncle had managed to open his Twitter (because “that’s where all the juicy stuff is”), stalk your pretty page at the very top of his last searched, and send a god-awful pick-up line that would probably get him blocked. Or worse.

Damnit, he knew he shouldn’t have made his password Yuji’s birthday.

“Ya should be thankful I didn’t DM her myself, brat.” Sukuna chuckles, not even a shred of regret in his tone, way too amused with how Choso was frantically trying to tackle the phone out of his hands. “What’s the harm in asking? Such a pretty camgirl, n’ you look like you need some good pu-”

“She’s also my classmate.”

“Kinky. Even better.” 

No, not “even better”. God, this must be some kind of cosmic joke, and Choso just wished the Earth would swallow him up whole right now - and maybe his phone along with it too. 

It had taken him almost a whole semester to work up the courage to just sit next to you during your shared lecture. All gorgeous with your bright smiles, and your smart mouth. And Choso was very much content to admire you from afar - and from behind his phone screen, of course.

Never following, never liking. Never tipping you off as one of your hundreds of thousands of fans.

And now, not only had Sukuna revealed that he’d found your secret Twitter account - the one with those sinful little clips of yourself that had Choso opening the app way too much - he’d also propositioned you. Like some creep.  

“Ugh. This is why women hate you.” Still desperately grappling, he spits out more to himself than Sukuna at this point. “B-besides, she’s never even gonna respond any-”

Ping!

And the Itadori household had never been quieter. Never, on a random Saturday during spring break. Never, as the two men crowd the phone, jaws dropped and staring wordlessly at the singular message on screen. You. 

“Let’s make one ;)”

---

“So s’not a stream this time, jus’ a video. Is that okay?”  You hum from your desk, glancing at the man seated on your bed as he hastily nods along with whatever you said. Looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here. 

Weird. 

It had only been a few days of back and forth since you’d gotten that first text - the one that you’d honestly thought about blocking like the thousands of others. But there was just something about it that made you stop, something that had you clicking on the profile to delve a little deeper.

It hit you like a semi-truck back then - five of them, in fact - that this was someone in your class. Someone you knew. How the hell did he even find this account? 

You knew Choso as that sweet - albeit slightly gloomy - kid that sat next to you, always quick with his answers and even quicker to look away from your gaze, no matter how hard you tried to spark a conversation. You’d just guessed he was afraid of you or something.

So nothing could’ve prepared you for how ridiculously attractive he looked in that profile picture, all smug grins and dark locks falling effortlessly around his slightly smudged eyeliner. Shirtless, giving just a peak of- oh god, were those nipple piercings?  

Could you really be blamed? You just had to have him.

But, here - it was like he was just itching to run away at the first chance he got. 

“You’re not held at gunpoint, y’know.” you giggle at how he startles at the mere sound of your voice. The mattress dips as you stop fiddling with the camera to sit next to him, thighs flush against his muscled ones. “Are you sure you want-”

“Yes.” 

It seems that both of you were surprised by the abrupt response. Too quick. Choso clears his throat, cheeks flaring as he tries to dredge up some semblance of dignity, he drawls lightly. “I mean- Yes.”

You study him for a moment under the dim lighting, noting the way his hands clench and unclench in his lap, the way his chest rises and falls rapidly as he struggles to control his breathing. He was nervous. Nervous and horny - nothing quite like the suave impression his pick-up line gave off. 

But so irresistible just the same.

“Well…Cho.” you bat your lashes, voice dropping to a seductive whisper - not too heavy, for now at least. “Then why won’t you even look at me?”

Alas, Choso was not a strong man. 

Maybe at your words, maybe at that playful little nickname you gave him, he’s finally raising those dark eyes to look at you. Twinkling with- fear? anticipation? A flicker of something so dangerous as his gaze sweeps greedily over that tight dress you put on just for this occasion. 

Choso tries to ignore how sinfully it hugs all your curves. Or the way it would look a million times better on the floor. 

This was absolute torture. 

And God he thinks he could pass out right then and there as you lean in closer. Too close. The temperature in the room suddenly increasing by about 10 degrees as you purr, tone careful and balanced. “Much better. And now…” 

His breathing becomes heavier, eyes flickering downwards. Once. Twice. 

And you know you’ve got him in the palm of your hand. 

“...all you gotta do is touch me.”

Yeah, if Choso thought he was going to pass out before then he definitely wasn’t ready for those dangerous little words. Ones that have him shaken right to the core - fighting that urge to just take you how he’s imagined all those lonely nights.

“You- huh?” he lets out a shaky laugh, the sound strained as he crosses his legs with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, desperately trying to will away the blood rushing straight to his throbbing cock right now. 

But how could he? Not when you only shift closer, barely even a hair’s breadth between you two - relishing in his strangled gasp as your tits press so enticingly against his arm. Such an adorable pout playing on your lips as you mutter, “Do you not want to?”

And he did. Oh, how he did - has been imagining it for the past five months, in fact. And Choso lets you know, a little twenty times, actually, as the words spill panickedly from his lips. 

“-idiot trying to set me up and I’ve been dreaming of fucking you for so long but I’m just-” Heat rushes to Choso’s cheeks, as he abruptly shuts the fuck up. But it’s too late - the damage has been done.

You give him a wry smile, lips mere inches from his ear. “Just what?”

His breath hitches, muscles rippling so deliciously as he shudders beneath your touch. “I’m a-” Choking out - as if it physically hurts to  admit - “-virgin.”

Oh. 

Now, you might’ve expected many things - but certainly not this. Though, looking at the cute flush on the tips of his ears, all the way down to those big, needy eyes, you don’t mind. Not one bit.

With one, quick glance at the rolling camera - your mouth is moving before your mind. “Do you want me to…do something about it?”

And then it’s like something snapped. 

You don’t know who leans in first, just that Choso’s kissing you. And you’re kissing him - how could you not? 

Because goddammit it was always those pretty lips that you were staring at whenever he was spouting off answers in class. You just never expected he’d be kissing you back with such an infectious desperation. 

No sooner are you thinking about how sweet his lips are before he’s pulling away with a soft sigh, pressing hot open-mouthed kisses down your jaw. Your neck. Back to your lips like he wanted everything and anything.

You gasp licks a long, languid stripe up your neck - maybe at how utterly obscene it felt, maybe at that sharp cold feeling that makes you flinch. Fuck - a tongue piercing? The noise makes Choso’s mouth drop into a quick oh! surging forward to claim your lips again. Addicted. 

Only to be stopped by your hands cupping his face, letting out a pained grunt at how he was so close. Just a hair’s breadth away from your lips.

“Cho~ Open your mouth, baby.” you whisper, hotly. 

And he looked so pretty - dark hair askew, lower lip swollen and quivering with need, brows furrowing because he wanted more of your taste. But he obeys, of course he does, Choso thinks he’ll do anything you asked. And lo and behold, sitting right there in the middle of his tongue was a pretty silver piercing.

You just can’t help but thumb open his mouth further, looking him right in the eyes as you spit in his mouth. Once. Twice. 

“Bet no one else has done this before, huh?” Grinning at how sinfully Choso’s eyes roll to the back of his head at your taste, “Kiss me proper now.”

God, you were so good at throwing away whatever was left of his poor sanity. And it’s all that’s said before his kiss-bitten lips are crashing into yours again. 

“No. No one’s hah- done that before. Only you.” he’s panting into your open mouth, swirling his tongue with yours. “F-fuck only you. Only you only you-”

You barely even realize the way you’re on his lap now, sitting so prettily there that Choso half-deliriously wonders whether he should take a picture. Mind spinning too much with his throbbing erection under your drenched panties, a damp little patch at his fat tip. So hot and heavy already.

“Cho, do you want me to-”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You certainly don’t have to be told twice - especially with that little nickname. Fiddling with his belt, you’re so hazy with want - the need to taste Choso, to see if the rest of him was as sweet as his lips - that you almost miss the look of confusion that flashes across his face.

You bat your lashes at him almost-innocently, “You alright?” And Choso thinks he could cum right there and right now at the sight. If he wasn’t currently battling for his life, that is. 

“Yeah, s’jus’- what I wanted hah- was to…” His hands sneak down, cupping your heated pussy through your drenched panties. “-taste her. ”

“Oh?”

“Are y’gonna teach me how?”

Oh. Fuck.

You know you’re fucked. Completely and utterly fucked.

Only moments later, Choso’s wrestling you back onto the mattress, face-to-face with your sloppy pussy. So mean with the way he was pinning your hips down with one hand, all but ripping your panties off with the other. 

You feel his piercing before his tongue. Both the hot and cold so maddening on your cunt as Choso licks long, lazy stripes up your puffy folds - dragging his hot tongue all the way from your base. Just grazing your swollen clit. 

“Teach me- fuck fuck-” words muffled and slurring together, vibrations going straight to your pussy. “Use me. Use me how you want.”

You’re threading your fingers through his dark locks before you even realize it, grinding your sloppy cunt all over his waiting mouth. “Quirk your tongue like- ngh-” Angling him close enough so he bullies his soft tongue into your tight pussy. Piercing massaging all the right places. “Fuck-”

“Like this?”

“Sh-shit,” you gasp, nodding deliriously. “S’too ngh- good.”

And by God, did you mean it. 

“Yeah? Y’like this?” he’s groaning, wrapping his lips around your swollen clit. “Can feel you clenching around me. Shit shit shit, you love this, huh? So slutty on camera for it?” 

Getting wetter and wetter by the second as his tongue roams for that one-

“Oh! F-fuck, Cho. Right hngh- there. Deeper-”

Ah, found it.

Choso grins as you tug on his soft strands, you can feel it on your throbbing pussy. Pushing your legs all the way till they’re at your tits to hit that little spot each and every time. Again and again. Eyes glassy, torn between devouring that slutty expression on your face and how fucking drenched you were. 

“Shit, baby,” his words are so strained now, like his sanity was dancing away at each flick of his tongue. “You’re drooling everywhere. See? Show the camera now.”

You don’t have to look. Because you can feel it.

Can feel how wet his mouth is, just glistening with slick and saliva. Trailing all the way down his chin - to his wrist - only second to how sloppy your dripping cunt was. It was like he was getting messy on purpose, like a little reminder to himself that shit this was you and he was eating out your pretty cunt to insanity-

“Oh my god, think m’hooked.” Tongue dragging all over your swollen folds, catching on his piercing. “Think your pretty lil’ pussy’s hah- driving me crazy. Ruined me, Fuck-”

And it’s so embarrassing how he’s talking you through it, grinning at every lil’ whine and whimper that leaves your mouth. You were acting all shy right now in a way that makes Choso’s cock twitch so painfully. He barely even notices, though, with the way he was so drunk off your pussy. 

So messy - unable to decide between rolling his tongue over your ravaged clit and dipping into your sloppy hole. Too much. In and out in and-

“Faster.”

He goes faster. 

“H-harder.”

He goes harder.

Anything and everything for you - to keep those pretty moans falling from your lips, walls getting tighter and tighter around his tongue. And Choso might just consider himself a man addicted.

“Can you ngh- cum f’me, baby?” You flinch as he spits out the words into your cunt. Harsh. Fucked-out. Sounding just as delirious and breathless as you. “Cum f’me please. Wan’ to taste y’on my tongue. Please. Fuck- need it so bad. So bad.”

You’re so caught up in Choso’s pussydrunk little babbles that you barely even realize when you’re cumming. Just that you’re letting out a strangled scream of his name, dragging your sloppy pussy all over his mouth. 

And he has never seemed more blissed out. Long gone is that nervous little expression usually on his face around you, Choso looked like he could be suffocated in-between your legs right now and love it. Hope for it, even.

He tells you that, of course. As soon as you’re blinking back your vision, blood still roaring in your ears. Delicate strings of slick snapping where he parts from your quivering cunt, lips swollen and glossed so prettily with your sweet sweet juices. 

“Baby, y’think the video of lesson one came out good?”

Oh. Shit, what have you done?

---

That certainly wasn’t the last time you saw Choso - or the last time you had him in front of a camera, either.

A few weeks later, you found yourself with an entire album for the man - a hidden treasure trove under the simple name of “Cho <3”. Most of the videos favorited, all sorted so tediously in a way that showed you spent an obscene amount of time looking at all the ways he ruined you. 

So filthy on camera that you always wondered whether it was the same person in the sheets and in class, texting Choso for later. Just to confirm. 

But embarrassingly, only some of these videos made their way onto your Twitter account - with Choso’s pretty face largely out of the frame. The two of you hadn’t ventured into streams yet either, opting to hide him away. Because, okay, maybe you were slightly jealous of other people seeing him - but it was really hard not to be when he looked like that.

In spite of all that, you’d still gained a casual hundred thousand more followers since his appearance - ones who always commented on your solo streams asking where your “hot emo bf” was.

Comments you’d pointedly ignore, because, hell, you wished he was here on-stream helping you get off, too. Yet despite the endless flirting and videos, Choso actually hadn’t made it further than actually holding a full conversation with you. And you wanted more. 

For all you know, you might just be one of his many trysts - and it was just for the videos, right? You get the content, he gets the experience? A win-win situation, so why have you never felt more like such a loser?

Such a loser the way you’ve already lost count of the “lessons” but still haven’t gotten to feel him - to fuck him the way you wanted just yet. 

“S’alright if I take this, right, ma’am?” He smirks during one such session, knuckle-deep in your dripping cunt. Dangling your drenched panties like a badge of honor, flimsy and soaked with your sweet sweet juices. “S’alright if I-” And he can’t even finish the sentence. Your jaw drops as Choso raises the thin fabric to his face, breathing in your essence like a man possessed. 

Bzzzt-bzzzt-bzzzzt-

“You’re so filthy, Cho-” you manage to choke out once you find your voice. Squirming on his bed like such a slut for him. “Was the innocent thing just an act?”

“Nope.” he pops the p, licking lewd little circles on your neck, thumbing open your puffy folds to watch in amazement at the way you glisten and clamp around his fingers. Eyes flickering briefly to the recording phone in his hand. “But we gotta give ‘em a good show, huh?”

Right, you’d forgotten about the camera. But none of that matters anyway because-

Intensity setting 2.

“You’re so mean, too.”

“Am I?” he grins, teeth grazing along your racing pulse. “I think you taught that to me, baby. Shit, lesson 8 it was?”

God, he was addictive.

Choso’s having way too much fun playing around with the intensity setting of the bullet vibrator shoved inside your ravaged cunt. Sending quick, methodical vibrations all along your pulsing clit. In time with the breathless moans leaving your kiss-bitten lips, and it’s all you can to call out for- more? Mercy? Both? 

Bzzzt-bzzzt-bzzzzt-

“God, you’re so perfect. Shit, so messy f’me.” he groans, and you could tell that the video wasn’t going to be uploaded anyway. Too shaky, focusing in and out of Choso’s fingers. Knuckle-deep and pumping in and out of your filthy hole. Relentless. “Almost makes me wanna show off to an actual audience.”

“Maybe I want to, too.” you muse, shifting at his heated gaze. Dangerously pressing your thumb over those nipple piercings you’ve gotten to know so well lately - as if to support your point. God you wish he’d take off that snug shirt.

Intensity setting 3.

“That so?”

And no matter how many times Choso’s ruined you on camera - and watched the videos over and over afterwards - he always thought they weren’t enough to capture your perfection. 

“Such a slut f’me, baby.” To capture the exact moment in which your wet lips fall into a soft little oh! when he massages your walls in time with the pulsing vibrator. To capture that absolutely sinfully excited little glint in your eyes as he ruts his clothed erection against your pussy. “Y’always this dirty?” Quickly turning into a look of slight panic at the sudden jingle of keys from the front door. 

“Yo, brat. Where the fuck are ya?”

Ah, there he was, the reason that Choso usually locked his bedroom door whenever you were over, even if he was home alone. 

Intensity setting 4.

As the silence continues, so does Choso’s abuse on your cunt. In fact, he only gets more erratic - like he wanted you to cum. Needed you to cum right now, right here in front of Sukuna, footsteps only growing louder. Nearer.

“Cho-” you fight to get out the words. “He’s hah-.”

Bzzzt-bzzzt-bzzzzt-

“Can’t speak? That’s cute.” he coos, voice way too relaxed for someone whose mind was reeling with the realization that he couldn’t remember if he locked the door this time, and how adorable you sounded. Enough so that it made some raw, primal part of him wanna pull down his pants and fuck you right here right now. Cockblocks and his own virginity be damned. “C’mon now, use your words like a good girl. Tell the camera.”

Cocky bastard.

Bzzzt-bzzzt-bzzzzt-

“Close!” you yelp, unsure of whether you were talking about yourself or the looming Sukuna. Jaw slack, tears springing into your ears as you look up at Choso. “So close.”

God, you were addictive. And this video was definitely going in both your favorites.

“Mhm,” he hums, movements getting hastier. More desperate. “I know, ma’am.”

Intensity setting 5.

That’s all that it takes for you to cum, letting out a loud strangled moan of Choso’s name. Or, you would’ve - if it hadn’t been for the way he’s shoving two, thick fingers into your mouth.

Silencing you - and in your hazy brain you think that if this was his way of shutting you up, then you really didn’t mind. Because all you could taste was you and the cold, cold metal of his rings. Somewhat intoxicating.

“Shhhhhh.” he’s breathing out, still mindlessly grinding his hips into yours. Though, you realize with a pang that today won’t be the day you get to feel that achingly hard erection straining his pants. “These pretty moans aren’t for him, hm?”

Pressing on the back of your tongue, smirking at the way you nod tearily up at him, moans still muffled. Hell, do you even know how sexy you’re being right now.

“Mhm, all f’me. All for fuckin’ me.”

Knock! Knock! Knock! 

“Why the fuck are you locked up in here on a Saturday night?” Sukuna sounds impatient, but not surprised. Probably imagining all sorts of dorky things his nephew was doing to hole himself up in his room. “Come out n’ get this takeout- what’s left of it anyways.”

And with that, it’s like the magic is over.

Your high only just bating before Choso’s hurriedly ending the recording on a hazy still of your disappointed pout, cursing Sukuna for his impeccable timing. 

Slightly concerned about the door being broken down and someone else seeing you in all your fucked-out glory, he hastily moves to grab the spare cloth by his bedside. Cleaning you up with hushed promises of “sending the recording later”, and “s’alright, he’ll be gone soon.”

Close. You were so close.

A win-win situation - but you’ve never felt like more of a loser.

---

“By God, I never thought he’d get the balls to do it.”

You yelp in surprise at the deep voice from behind you, whirling with a defiant brandish of Choso’s (your?) keys. He’d given them to you a few lessons ago, saying it would make it easier for you to come and go from his apartment as you pleased. Which - to you - felt dangerously like something a boyfriend would say-

But that wasn’t important right now.

What was important was the older man suddenly towering over you right outside Choso’s front door. Big arms crossed over his chest, that leering smirk clashing with his pink hair. “I knew it was odd that brat had a pair of heels by the door.”

Shit. Sukuna.

Ryomen awfully-wingman-his-nephew Sukuna.

“Spill.” At your confused head tilt, he plows on. “Spill the tea. I need new blackmail on my lil’ nephew. How badly did he have to beg you to go out with him?”

You don’t know what was more bizarre - what he was saying or the way he actually pulls out his Notes app as if hanging on to your every word. 

“I-It’s because of you.” you manage to choke out, unsure of what Choso has told his family about you.  Eyes flitting between him and the door right behind you, sounding your very best not to sound just as guilty as you felt. “You’re the reason we have this weird…thing.”

A beat of silence passes. One. Two. 

And just as you’re beginning to wonder whether you’ve broken Choso’s infamous uncle, he throws his head back and laughs. Laughs, right in your face, sounding like he’d just heard the funniest punchline in the world. 

“Oh that’s hilarious.” he exclaims, wiping a mock tear. Cackles dying down as if he was suddenly aware that maybe Choso would hear and walk in on this impromptu interrogation. “Damn, that awful pick-up line is why you started fuckin’? I thought it’d get that sap blocked so he’d stop stalking your account so much.”

“No, we…” you hesitate, mind reeling with what Sukuna just admitted, and how bad it would really be that you’re divulging your sex life to a relative of the guy you’re fucking. Before thinking fuck it, might as well confide in someone. “...we’re just doing stuff for-” putting up air quotes. “-content.”

“Just content?”

“Just content.”

“And you like that fool?”

Your face burns at how glaringly obvious it apparently was, “...Yes.”

This seemingly sets Sukuna off on another wave of uncontrollable laughter. “Ohh, thanks for the blackmail on that emotionally-constipated brat.” Typing away on what you assume to be his Notes, he promptly turns to walk away, “See ya around, doll.”

“Wait!” you call after in confusion, making him stop and raise a brow. “Aren’t you supposed to like- I don’t know, give me advice for your nephew or something - like a good uncle?”

Scoffing, “Who said I was a good uncle?” He leans in ever-so-slightly, “Jus’ rock his world on camera or somethin’ n’ ask him out right in the middle.” Satisfied with being enough of a decent samaritan for today, he walks back with a half-wave, “He’d listen to whatever you say anyway.”

Oh. Is that so?

And Sukuna probably meant it as some joke. Something to tease the both of you with - but it’s something that sets the gears going off inside your head. Something that had you ignoring Sukuna’s slightly panicked, “Jus’ not too soon, I needa bully him with this first.”

---

You didn’t listen to Sukuna’s little plea, of course. Because only a few days later you’d steeled yourself to finally send that one text you knew would change your relationship with Choso. For the good, hopefully. 

You: 9pm my place. Get ready, cuz this time we’re gonna be live ;)

Cho <3: :0 

And with that, you’d thrown your phone on the bed, jittery about later tonight. Browsing through your wardrobe for that one set of barely-there lingerie in his favorite shade of pink. Hey, you could never be too prepared, right?

Nothing could’ve prepared Choso for this moment - absolutely nothing at all. 

He might’ve just died and gone to heaven the very moment he read that dangerous text - finally inviting him to join one of your streams. The ones that he’d always watch in the safety of his bedroom, lights dimmed, pants bunched around his ankles. 

Cock just achingly hard in his fist while he wished he was with you behind the camera. Getting you off so much better than any sextoy would. Just forcing those pretty moans from your lips - and everyone else could see that. Wish it was them ruining you instead. 

Alas, it was only a dirty little fantasy. 

Until now, that is.

slvt4u: Holy shit boyfriend reveal, about time.

uniwhore: THIS is the hottie from Twitter????? 

itsgenslut: idfc just fuck

“Nervous?” you smirk, looking down at the man sprawled so prettily on your bed. “You look just as close to an aneurysm as you were the first time. Though-” snaking your hand down, “-this is still the same as ever.”

You chuckle at the way Choso catches your lips with his, more to shut up those pathetic little moans threatening to escape him than anything. Because every glance at you in that sinful little pink bra gave Choso a mini heart attack. 

“B-baby-” he gasps, grinding his clothed erection against your palms. “I wan- hah-”

“Mhm?”

And God how you’ve ruined Choso - run him so utterly dry of his sanity.

Because he’s angling your head down, piercing cold against your tongue. “Spit.”

It was like that first time had gotten him addicted. So you do - right into his waiting mouth. Jaw dropping at the way he tips his head back, back, back to let it slide so obscenely down his throat. Moaning at just a taste of you, “God, I need to f-fucking ruin you.”

And if there’s anything you’ve learned after all these months with Choso, it’s that anything he says - he does.

The words have barely left his mouth before he’s pulling your bra off, ripping your panties easily off your hips. Each and every little regret about what a shame it was thrown out the window at the first sight of your pretty pussy. 

It never gets old - and Choso could never get enough of the sinful sight - your cunt so sloppy and ready for him already. 

“Cho-” you whine as ringed fingertips coming up to circle your sloppy entrance. Cold. Stretching you to insanity. “S-stop teasing.”

“Yes, ma’am. But first-” shifting you around ever-so-slightly on top of him. “Gotta show off how wet y’are f’me.”

uniwhore: did he just call her “ma’am”?? Me when??

roses101: idk who i wanna be they’re both so fucking hot ugh

“Fuck, y’look so sexy from this angle. Wonder if the camera thinks so too?”

Your face slightly burns at how he was seemingly taking over your own stream. Smug bastard, you think, glancing down at Choso, red-faced, hair untied, wearing a sly grin as his eyes slide over the flurry of comments. But two can play that game. 

“Cho~” fumbling with the hem of his underwear, “You’ve been holding out on me.”

A gasp leaves you involuntarily as you tug down Choso’s boxers just enough for his throbbing cock to spring free, hitting his sculpted abdomen. Blushed your favorite shade of pink - to match your bra - so so angry and soaked in precum. 

He was so intimidatingly long - longer than any of those toys you usually brought on camera. Thick enough that it had you wondering, shit, would you even be able to take it?

“S’this a-alright?” and for all his previous confidence, Choso sounded self-conscious. Peeking at you through his long lashes.

You grin, pumping a hand up and down his swollen cock, letting his precum drip down your wrist. “S’perfect.”

“God- fuck, baby. Oh-” Choso lets out breathless little profanities as you straddle his waist, dragging his weeping tip down your swollen folds. So fucking filthy as you sink down in by fucking in. Slowly. “Too- much-”

Apparently too slow because no sooner have you just taken in his fat tip, squeezing and clenching around him, that Choso’s flipping the both of you over. 

“M’sorry.” he breathes into your mouth as your back hits the mattress. “M’sorry m’sorry, fuck- just can’t-” fingers immediately drawing frenzied little circles on your pulsing clit to take your mind off the dizzying stretch as he bullies his massive cock into your snug cunt. “Can’t wait can’t wait- waited too fucking long. Want this so badly-”

You felt too good. Too perfect around him. 

“Ah! Hngh- Cho, oh my god. Too- ngh-” you moan, as he starts grinding in shallow, mindless little movements just to fit himself inside. Pushing and pushing, you wondered if he even realized what he was doing.

Sounding like his sanity was dwindling away with each little thrust, “S’too big? You can take it. Fuck fuck fuck please. Need this.” Pressing all the way into your lungs. “How do you wan’ it- how do you wan’ me?”

Honestly, Choso didn’t even need to ask, because he just bottoms out - heavy balls smacking against your ass, cock swollen and throbbing inside you - that you think that you just wanted him to ruin you. 

“R-ruin?” his voice breaks as he repeats - more to himself than you. Oh, shit had you said that out loud? You’re speechless as Choso throws your legs over his shoulder, dragging his swollen lips lazily across your ankle. “Yes ma’am.”

Oh. You might as well have just signed off your will. 

Because then he’s fucking into your sloppy cunt. Unforgiving. A man starved because he was. Jagged, quick thrusts, splitting you apart deeper and deeper on his rock-hard cock. 

“Fuck- fuck fuck fuck-” he pants into your open mouth, finding it so fucking difficult to find any rhythm when your tight cunt was milking him so good. “You feel so good. So messy. Ya love it like this, huh? Being hngh- watched?”

“Hngh-” you buck wildly into his body, reaching up to play coyly with his nipple piercings. Tugging and pulling lightly. “Feels too good- are- ah- are ya sure this is your first time?”

Honestly, it was a wonder Choso didn’t cum right then and there. 

Tojisslvt: need someone to fuck me like this the first time

22sabi: Typing with one hand is so hard.

DaStrongest: i could fuck her so much better than than inexperienced loser

Choso throws his head back in a cruel little laugh at that last comment, something that makes you tingle all the way from your burning cheeks to your stuffed cunt. Clamping down deliciously on Choso’s unforgiving cock in a way that makes his hips and fingers stutter. 

“Ya think you could fuck her better?” it takes you a second to realize he was talking to the camera and not you. Thrusts getting sloppier, getting familiar. “I’m the one that got her so messy like this.” Purposeful. Calculated. Like he was aiming for that one-

“Fuck!” you scream as he hits that magic spot. Once. And then over and over like a man possessed. Just so utterly ruining you the way you knew he could. “Cho oh my god- I can’t hah- ngh-”

The cold metal of Choso’s rings dig into your cheek softly as he turns you head to face him. God, this was the stuff of his wildest dreams.

You - teary eyed and looking up at him like such a slut. Pussy getting wetter - tighter - as he teases you in front of the camera. Torn between running away from his relentless cock and bucking up for more more more-

 “Fuck no no no- Keep your legs open, baby. Don’t hah- run away from me.” his fingers dig into your hips, pulling you impossibly closer. “Don’t- need this. Need this so ba- shit.” 

And he sounded so genuinely worried he’d lose the feeling of your heady cunt. Fingers bruising on your hips as he pulls you closer. Like he was trying to fuck out any and every shred of shyness out of your body. 

slvt4u: Always the quiet ones.

DaStrongest: heh, fuck off. i’d make her cum so much harder.

Now, Choso was fucking you like he had a point to prove, and it was probably the only reason he hadn’t passed out from how good your pussy felt wrapped around him. 

Both of you were barely-lucid at this point - and he was out of control now.

Pussy drunk thoughts unfiltered, “No one’s ever d-done this- got me hah- feeling like this.” And you had the distinct feeling he just beat you to your original goal, letting out sweet little babbles into your open mouth - though his hips were anything but. 

So hard that you were sure the creases of your sheets would leave marks for tomorrow - along with his balls on your ass, your ankles on his shoulders, lips searing against yours. It was like he wanted to prove something - to prove he was good enough to- the viewers? To you? 

Knowing your body well enough to hit that one spot over and over until you were sobbing. Fingers erratic on your clit. 

“Cho-” you squeal, tears springing to your eyes as he only gets sloppier. “I-I’m gonna-”

“Cum?” he breathes, as if he couldn’t believe it. And fuck if you weren’t the gates of heaven spread wide open for him then he didn’t know what was. “Fucking cum. Please please- hah- f’me. Cum on m’cock n’ make them jealous. F’me- Like you’re mine.”

You barely even realize when you are. Jaw slack, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you see stars behind your eyes, blood roaring in your ears. God, he was gonna have to go home and rewatch this stream all over again. 

“Ngh- m’cumming m’cumming oh-”

Not even realizing the way you’re dragging your nails down Choso’s sculpted back. Marking up his milky skin - and he lets you. 

Loved it in fact- the way he loved you. 

Your eyes go wide, and Choso knows he’s fucked up. Realizing with a jolt that words were tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them. But it’s the way you squeeze him tighter- giving him such a gorgeous little fucked-out smile that sends him over the edge.

Sharp canines digging into the crook of your neck like he wanted to break skin, holding himself back from breaking you while he cums and cums so hard it hurt. Over and over-

“Love you- love you love you love you-” he’s muttering into the skin, unbarred. “Since I first saw hah- you. Wanted this more than fuck fuck- air that I breathe.”

His seed was oozing out of you now, painting your ravaged pussy white, dribbling down your legs.  So fucking full and debauched. Thick, hot globs that were sure to stain those overpriced new sheets. But did Choso care for the mess? Not at all. 

Because you were holding him so impossibly tight, pushing away the strands of hair sticking to his forehead. Whispering little praises as he fucks you through his first time. Close. Warm. Everything he ever dreamed of.

“S’everything I ever dreamed of, too, Cho.”

And he knows he’s won. 

urfavslvt: Proudest nut. Want more.

uniwhore: does this mean couples content??? Pls say yes plsplspls

DaStrongest: invite me next time <3

“Thought you were embarrassed.” he licks soothingly over the bite. Voice shot, piercing smooth against his tongue. Embarrassing little confessions leaving him with each spark of electricity running through his veins. “Thought you didn’t stream w’me cuz of that- but shit. Dreamed of this f’so long. So long-”

Oh?

“Hey, Cho.” your voice rings through his hazy mind. Just enough for Choso to raise his head and meet your intoxicating, sultry gaze. Giving a sly, sidelong glance at the still-blinking camera. 

“Mhm?”

“Wanna film a week’s worth of ‘movies’ in advance?”

---

Sukuna (do not answer): Oi shitty nephew, where r u Jin made me come over with (half) leftovers.

You: Sorry, not home. At the movies rn.

Sukuna (do not answer): When tf do u go to movies?? 

You: Since now, on a date. You probably can’t relate.

Sukuna (do not answer): Stfu n’ stop lying, a date with who? Ur body pillow?? Not like u had the balls to ask out that pretty lil’ camgirl anyway.

Haha

Right? 

You: *girlfriend

Sukuna (do not answer): Huh?

You: Girlfriend.

Sukuna (do not answer): THE FUCKIN’ PICK-UP LINE WORKED??

A/N. This came out a LOT longer than expected. 

Plagiarism not authorized.

[girlinterupptedsblog]

You send your best friend nudes on aciddent

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x reader (Best Friends)

Summary: you wanted ro send nudes to guy you were talking to and without even realizing you sended them to rafe. He shows up at your house and he fucks you pretty

Warnings:(Explicit sexual content (18+), Rough, raw, and unprotected sex, Best friends-to-lovers tension, Possessiveness/jealousy, Strong language, Slight dominance themes, Mentions of nudes/sexting, Brief edging/denial)

-------------------------------------------------------

Your house was too quiet. Too empty. The kind of silence that made you restless, forcing you to find something—anything—to keep yourself occupied.

You had already scrolled through every possible social media feed, tried binge-watching a show, and even considered taking a nap, but nothing seemed to cure the boredom eating at you. The guy you’d been talking to—the one you had a… thing with—hadn't texted you all day, and for some reason, that only annoyed you more.

With a sigh, you plopped onto your bed, staring at the ceiling before an idea popped into your head. A reckless, stupid idea. But an exciting one.

Grabbing your phone, you opened the camera app, biting your lip as you hesitated. Then, without thinking too hard about it, you started posing, taking pictures of yourself—fully naked.

The longer you did it, the more confident you became, experimenting with angles, capturing the way the dim lighting cast shadows over your skin. By the time you finished, you were beyond pleased with how good you looked.

Your finger hovered over the screen as you scrolled through the pictures, feeling the rush of power that came with it. Maybe if you sent them to him—the guy you’d been talking to—he’d finally give you the attention you deserved.

Without another thought, you selected a few of your best shots and hit send.

The moment was thrilling. You smirked to yourself, placing your phone aside as you basked in the satisfaction of it all. You left your phone unattended for a while, assuming he’d take his time responding, so you didn’t bother checking right away.

It wasn’t until an hour later, when you absentmindedly picked up your phone to see if he had replied, that your stomach dropped.

36 new messages.

But they weren’t from him.

They were from Rafe.

Your heart stopped. Your entire body froze as dread crept up your spine. Confusion clouded your mind until you clicked on his name, your blood running cold as you read the first message.

Rafe: Tell me you didn’t just send that to me.

Your breath hitched. Your pulse pounded in your ears as you scrolled.

Rafe: Are you serious right now?

Rafe: Fucking answer me.

Rafe: Jesus Christ, what the fuck?

Rafe: Are you out of your mind?

Panic overtook your senses as you finally understood what had happened. Your fingers shook as you scrolled up, only to confirm your worst nightmare.

You hadn’t sent those pictures to the guy you’d been talking to.

You had sent them to Rafe.

Your best friend.

The same Rafe who had seen you at your worst, who had been there through everything, who—until now—had never seen you like that.

You felt sick.

Rafe: I swear to fucking God, tell me that was a mistake.

Rafe: Are you ignoring me on purpose?

Rafe: Do you even realize what you just did?

You stared at the messages, paralyzed with horror, your mind racing with what to do. There was no taking it back. No pretending it never happened.

Your phone buzzed again, and another text popped up.

Rafe: I’m coming over.

Your stomach flipped.

Oh. Fuck.

You barely had time to process the messages before loud, impatient knocking shook your front door. Your heart jumped into your throat.

Shit.

Rafe was already here.

Panic surged through you as you scrambled off your bed. You weren’t even dressed—still completely bare from your little photoshoot. With no time to properly throw on clothes, you grabbed the first thing within reach—an oversized shirt that smelled faintly of cologne. Rafe’s cologne. It was probably his shirt, one he had left behind on one of the countless nights he crashed at your place.

You barely managed to pull it over your head, the hem brushing mid-thigh, before the knocking got louder.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

"Open the damn door."

His voice was sharp, edged with something you couldn’t quite place—urgency, frustration… something more.

Taking a deep breath, you smoothed out the shirt, schooling your expression into something nonchalant. Like you didn’t just send your best friend a full spread of naked pictures. Like you weren’t freaking the fuck out inside.

You swung the door open, greeting him with a bright, innocent smile. "Hey, Rafe."

His eyes flickered over you immediately, scanning your barely covered frame. His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. "You’re fucking joking."

You tilted your head, feigning confusion. "About what?"

Rafe ran a hand through his hair, exhaling a sharp breath before stepping inside, shutting the door behind him with more force than necessary. "Don't do that. Don't act like you didn't just—" He stopped himself, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as his eyes dragged down your body again, lingering on your bare legs.

You crossed your arms, biting back a smirk. "Didn't just what?"

His jaw ticked. "Send me those pictures."

You shrugged. "It was an accident."

His blue eyes snapped to yours, dark and dangerous. "An accident?" He took a step closer, forcing you back slightly. "Tell me, how exactly do you 'accidentally' send someone half a dozen nude pictures?"

You swallowed hard, nerves creeping up your spine, but you refused to back down. You weren’t about to let him see how flustered you were. "I meant to send them to someone else."

His expression darkened, something flickering behind his eyes at your words. His voice dropped, lower, rougher. "Yeah? Who?"

Your lips parted, but no words came out. You weren’t sure why, but suddenly, saying his name—the guy you’d been talking to—felt wrong. The way Rafe was looking at you, staring through you like he was barely holding himself together, made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t prepared for.

His fingers twitched at his side. "Who were they meant for?"

You hesitated. "It doesn’t matter."

"Like hell it doesn’t," Rafe snapped, stepping in again, this time leaving no space between you. Your breath hitched. You could feel the heat radiating off him, his chest barely brushing yours. His gaze flicked to your lips for a fraction of a second before locking onto your eyes again. "You were really about to send those to some other guy?"

Your mouth felt dry. You blinked up at him, struggling to find your voice. "It’s not a big deal—"

His laugh was humorless. "Not a big deal?" His fingers curled at his sides like he was physically restraining himself. "You seriously don’t get it, do you?"

"Get what?" You whispered.

Rafe exhaled sharply, his jaw clenched so tightly you swore he might break his teeth. Then, in one swift motion, he grabbed your chin between his fingers, tilting your head up to look at him. Your breath caught in your throat.

"Don’t ever send shit like that to another guy." His voice was low, dangerously soft. "Not when you have me."

Your heart stuttered. "Rafe—"

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head slightly like he was at war with himself. His grip on your chin tightened just enough to make you dizzy. "Do you have any idea what you just did to me?"

You swallowed, your skin buzzing under his touch. "I—"

"You think I didn’t like it?" He scoffed, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip. "You think I’m mad because I didn’t want to see you like that?"

Your stomach flipped.

He leaned in, his lips just barely grazing the shell of your ear as he whispered, "I’m mad because now I can't stop fucking thinking about it."

A sharp breath left your lungs.

His other hand trailed down, gripping the hem of your—his—shirt. His fingers brushed against your bare thigh, sending shivers up your spine.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

The second you didn’t tell him to stop, Rafe took that as a green light.

Before you could process it, his hands gripped your waist, and in one swift motion, he lifted you off the floor. A startled gasp left your lips as he placed you on the nearest surface—the hallway counter—knocking over a few things in the process.

Your legs instinctively spread, your oversized shirt riding up your thighs, exposing just how bare you were beneath it.

Rafe wasn’t blind. He saw everything.

And fuck, he wasn’t about to pretend he didn’t notice how worked up you already were.

A dark smirk tugged at his lips as his hands slid up your thighs, fingers tracing your soft skin. "You didn’t even think about putting something on, huh?" His voice was low, teasing. "Almost like you wanted me to see you like this."

Heat crawled up your neck, but before you could snap back, his fingers were already moving.

Without hesitation, he slipped between your thighs, brushing against your slick heat. A breathy moan slipped past your lips as he ran two fingers through your folds, feeling just how wet you were for him.

"Shit," Rafe groaned under his breath. "Look at you."

Your head tilted back slightly, hands gripping the edge of the counter as he teased you, his fingers barely dipping into you before pulling away again. Your hips bucked slightly, chasing the friction, and he chuckled.

"Needy, huh?"

"Rafe—" Your voice was a quiet plea, but he wasn’t feeling merciful tonight.

He pushed two fingers inside you with ease, the stretch making you gasp. He wasted no time, his fingers curling just right, pressing against that spot that made your entire body shudder.

"That’s it, baby," he murmured, his free hand gripping your thigh, keeping you spread for him. "Fuck, you’re already squeezing me."

Your legs twitched, the pleasure overwhelming as he pumped his fingers inside you, slow but deliberate. His thumb found your clit, rubbing small, calculated circles that made you whimper.

"Bet you weren’t even thinking about that guy when you took those pictures," he taunted, his pace never faltering. "Bet you were thinking about me."

You didn’t answer, but your body betrayed you—the way you clenched around his fingers, the way your thighs trembled.

He leaned in, his lips ghosting over yours, but never closing the distance. "Say it," he murmured. "Tell me who you really wanted to send them to."

Your pride held on, but your body was already giving him the answer.

You didn’t answer his question. You couldn’t. Saying it out loud would mean admitting it—to him, to yourself. That you never meant for those pictures to go to anyone but him. That the only person you wanted to see you like this, touch you like this, was Rafe.

But your silence didn’t matter. Your body told him everything he needed to know.

You gasped, yanking his wrist, pulling his fingers out of you before you could tumble over the edge. Rafe’s brows furrowed, his fingers glistening in the dim light, but before he could question it, your hands found his waistband, tugging at his jeans.

He let out a low chuckle, but it was rough, almost breathless. "That desperate, huh?"

You ignored him, too focused on shoving his jeans down. The second they pooled around his ankles, you took a moment—your breath hitching as you took him in.

Fuck.

You already knew he was big, but seeing it—thick, hard, already leaking at the tip—had you swallowing hard.

Rafe didn’t give you time to think. He grabbed your hips, dragging you to the edge of the counter, spreading you wider. He didn’t bother with teasing or stretching you any further—he knew you could take it.

And you did.

The moment he pushed inside, a strangled moan left your lips, your hands flying to grip his shoulders.

"Shit," Rafe gritted, his fingers digging into your skin as he bottomed out in one sharp thrust.

It was rough. Raw. Deep.

He didn’t give you time to adjust—he pulled back just enough before slamming into you again, knocking the breath from your lungs. The counter rattled beneath you with every thrust, his grip bruising, his pace relentless.

"Look at you," he groaned, watching the way your body took him, how you clenched around him with every movement. "This is what you wanted, huh? Not him—me."

Your nails scraped down his back, a broken moan escaping as he angled his hips just right, hitting that spot that had you seeing stars.

"You feel that?" Rafe panted, his forehead pressing against yours. "This is mine. You're mine."

You couldn’t even argue.

Not when you were falling apart around him, your body trembling as you came, his name spilling from your lips like it was the only thing you knew.

And Rafe? He followed right after, burying himself deep, groaning your name as he spilled inside you, claiming you in every way possible.

[mariasont]

Sugar, Spice, Spencer's Advice - S.R

everyone expects spencer reid to fall for purely intellectual types, but what they don't know is your ability to remember his rambling lessons and your diligent googled research makes him feel irrationally turned on

pairings: spencer reid x bimbo!receptionist!reader warnings: established relationship, some suggestive content, brief mention of food-play (non-graphic, discussion only), spencer being protective, fluff af, spencer's negative outlook on sugar/food (super brief), teasing/banter, flustered spence wc: 1.4k request: here!

You’re happily licking at your ice cream cone, eyes soft with uncomplicated happiness, and Spencer thinks he’s becoming entirely too familiar with this feeling. It’s habitual. To observe you is like revisiting his favorite passage in a beloved book, each time discovering nuances he’s missed before.

He’d given in the instant your expression had turned imploring — big, pleading eyes, soft pout — your most effective weapon. Spencer has abandoned all pretense that he can resist your nightly sugar-driven rituals.

He’d pondered briefly the psychological undercurrents of your craving, but each theory usually ends up dissolving when he’s confronted by the smile you give him when he caves.

His attention drifts back just as your feet land on the dashboard. Spencer half-smiles at the sight of those slip-ons, your comfy choice through the entire day of painfully predictable romance movies. He was pretty sure he lost the plot somewhere around hour two — another mistaken identity plot twist, seriously? — but keeping track of said plot wasn’t really the point anyway. 

He’d watch paint dry if it meant hearing you laugh like that, but thankfully you usually pick slightly better entertainment. Usually.

Spencer reaches over instinctively, his hand finding its place on your thigh, patting twice for good measure.

“Hey, feet off the dash, please,” he says. “Airbags deploy faster than you think, and personally, I’m pretty attached to the current arrangement of your features.”

His mind trips over the calculation against the embarrassment of sounding like an overbearing parent. He’s not even your husband yet. Yet.

But you immediately drop your feet without complaint, settling into a position that looks decidedly safer. Spencer breathes a little easier. He gives your thigh a grateful squeeze, his thumb brushing back and forth just once in a wordless thank you.

You tuck your legs beneath you, body angled toward him, elbow planted on the center console, cheek resting in your palm. 

“My face appreciates you looking out for it,” you tease gently. “Always looking out for me actually. Is there anything else I do that’s, like, secretly super dangerous?”

Spencer’s eyes catch yours, and he lets out a laugh, shaking his head. 

“Come here,” he murmurs, lifting his hand from your thigh to sweep his thumb along the edge of your mouth, collecting the vanilla ice cream that’s smeared there. “As far as dangerous decisions go, I’d say your habit of leaving candles burning unattended ranks pretty high. One of these days you’re going to burn the whole place down, sweetheart.”

“But you said most fires from candles happen because of flammable stuff near them, not just leaving them burning,” you remind him sweetly, nose wrinkling with affection. “So really, as long as I keep things away from my candles, I’m totally safe. And I always listen to you about that.”

His heart flutters with messy pride and affection that makes him feel embarrassingly sentimental. Sure, conversations about Marcel Proust or string theory aren’t exactly your cup of tea (he’s pretty sure you’d turn your nose up at the mere thought), but there’s this distinctly genuine and wonderful way you navigate the world. 

You absorb everything he says — half-formed ideas, scattered facts, fleeting memories — in a way that weirdly puts eidetic memories to shame. 

It’s dizzying, actually, the way you’re smiling at him right now, effortlessly beautiful and clearly unaware that he’s suddenly acutely conscious of how his pulse is pounding. 

He loves you, he knows he does, deeply, and apparently by the way his face flushes hot and his breathing quickens, he’s more turned on by your quiet brilliance than he ever expected.

“Okay, so candles are covered,” he says with mock seriousness, “but what about all my advice on not talking to strangers or, I don’t know, not accepting free candy from mysterious vans? Are those making the cut too?”

“Come on, Spencer, you taught me better than that,” you say proudly. “I know all about risk assessment now, if someone seems sketchy or pushes too hard, it’s probably a danger sign. And,” you add with a satisfied smile, “that’s why you’re the only one allowed to take me for sweets. Want a bite?”

Spencer eyes the melting ice cream warily, the overly sweet scent doing nothing to tempt him, it’s essentially frozen sugar, after all, objectively terrible for him. The mental list of reasons to politely decline is endless.

But the knowledge that your lips have just been there sets off a chain reaction, desire eclipsing logic. Suddenly, he’s more than willing to abandon nutritional morals for the vague promise of an indirect kiss. Though, admittedly, he would much rather prefer the direct approach. But he’s fairly certain that running into a telephone pole would rank even higher risk wise than unattended candles or dashboard hazards. 

So, instead, he ducks his head, taking a careful bite, instantly regretting it when the sticky sweet cold paints his cheek.

Your giggles ripple, making him smile sheepishly as you shift closer. He expects your thumb, mirroring his earlier gesture, but then your lips brush against his cheek, your tongue catching the vanilla drip. Every ounce of rationality deserts him into one helplessly smitten mess.

“You know, saliva actually cleans better than wiping,” you announce thoughtfully. “So, you’re welcome, Spence.”

He’s half certain he’s never mentioned anything about saliva enzymes, but then again, he’s so thoroughly distracted by you most of the time he might’ve. It sounds exactly the kind of oddly specific detail he’d share.

“Okay,” he manages, unable to suppress a smile. “Where exactly did you learn that one?”

“I googled it.” You tilt your head. “Like, I thought food-play might be fun to try with you?” You shrug lightly, expression utterly innocent as if discussing something far less suggestive. “But then all these articles said it can get kinda gross and messy, and honestly, Spencer, I realized you’d probably just stress about germs and clean-up, and there’s no way I’d enjoy it if you weren’t totally relaxed and happy.”

Of all the things he anticipated you might say tonight, casually mentioning food play research was not on the list. It lands like a dropped grenade, exploding into fragments of thoughts he cannot possibly hope to piece together.

His cheeks burn hot as images — sticky and indecent images — flood his mind without permission. Vanilla dripping slowly down your collarbone, lips parted in invitation, eyes sparkling with that innocent curiosity he adores.

But beneath this sudden rush of desire lies something even softer because he can almost see it — your earnest expression as you scroll through webpages, considering all the possible complications, all the ways he might react. 

Spencer’s chest aches in a way he can’t pinpoint, a vulnerability spreading through him that he rarely allows himself to feel. He’s not used to people taking such gentle care of his anxieties, treating his quirks as something precious rather than burdensome. A small, quiet part of him wonders if he deserves this kind of thoughtfulness, this careful, intentional love you offer without hesitation. He wants to believe it, wants to let himself trust it completely, but the tender astonishment that grips him right now makes it hard to think straight.

“You know, angel, next time just come straight to me, okay? I promise my answers are better, and less traumatizing, than whatever you’ll find online.”

“Well, don’t blame me when you start getting texts at two a.m. about my random questions.”

Spencer raises an eyebrow at you. “I think we both know that if my phone goes off at two a.m., you’re probably not looking for statistics.”

You smile at that.

“I mean, yeah, probably,” you concede. “But honestly, Spence, I did read this thing about late-night dopamine spikes or whatever and —,”

He doesn’t think. He can’t think. The moment the car is in park, his body moves on its own, leaning across the console, hands gently cupping your face as he silences your adorable scientific ramble. He’s never felt such urgency, such an intense, overwhelming need to kiss someone as he does right now. It’s impulsive, reckless, completely out of character, and yet he feels no regret. Only relief. Only you.

For once in his analytical life, Spencer lets instinct win, savoring your lips and the small, surprised sound you make against him. He hopes you hear in his kiss everything he can’t yet put into words.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[gf2bellamy]

Hear me out…reader on Spencer’s glasses and he’s struck by how pretty she looks. Or, reader puts her glasses on at work after her contacts dry out, and the team tease her for her glasses, but Spencer can’t help but find them adorable

pretty — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: fluff a/n: i went with the first idea !! such a cute one <3

Spencer Reid took off his glasses for two seconds.

Literally.

Just long enough to scrub the sleep from his eyes, to blink away the exhaustion. The team had been working nonstop, and even his brilliant mind was starting to fog over. He set the glasses down on the table, rubbing his face with both hands before letting out a long, slow breath.

And that was all the opportunity you needed.

You had been bored out of your mind, stuck in the same chair for what felt like eternity, flipping through the same reports, waiting for something to happen. So when Spencer’s glasses sat there, unattended, you acted on impulse.You snatched them up before he could even register they were gone.

Spencer was too busy yawning, his jaw cracking as he stretched his arms above his head, his eyelids heavy. For a second, you thought he might actually slump forward and pass out right there on the table.

Grinning to yourself, you unfolded the glasses and slipped them onto your face.

The world immediately blurred. Wow. You hadn’t realized just how bad his eyesight was.

Everything beyond your own hands was a hazy mess of shapes and colors. You blinked a few times, adjusting, but nope, still useless. How did he function like this?

You were still grinning when Morgan walked in.

His eyes landed on you immediately, and a slow, amused smirk spread across his face. “Well, look at you,” he said, voice loud enough to make Spencer jolt slightly in his seat. “Looking all nerdy.”

Spencer turned toward him, squinting, which was generous, because without his glasses, he could barely make out more than vague blobs of color. But then his gaze shifted to you, and his breath hitched.

There you were, his glasses perched on your nose, your lips curled in a playful smile.

“How do I look?” you asked, tilting your head.

Spencer’s mouth fell open. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because you looked nice. No, not just nice.

Pretty. Really pretty.

Something about seeing you in his glasses made his chest tighten in a way he couldn’t explain.

Morgan dropped into a chair across from you, his smirk deepening as he watched Spencer’s dumbstruck expression. “Took the words right out of his mouth. Literally.”

You giggled, reaching up to take the glasses off, but Spencer’s hand twitched forward before he could stop himself.

“No, you, uh. You can leave them on. If you want.”

Your eyebrows lifted. Spencer swallowed, heat creeping up his neck. “You… uhm. You look very pretty.”

The words came out in a rushed mumble, barely audible, but you heard them. A soft warmth spread through your chest as you bit back a smile.

“Thanks, Spencer,” you said, deliberately ignoring Morgan’s quiet chuckle from across the room. But then you carefully slid the glasses off anyway, holding them out to him. “I think you might need these more than I do.”

Spencer’s lips twitched into a subconscious pout before he could stop himself.

“You know,” you teased, “to see things.”

He turned even redder, suddenly mortified by his own words. Why would he tell you to keep them on? He obviously needed them to see. But before he could spiral further, you leaned forward in your chair. Spencer’s breath caught.

Your fingers brushed against his temples, gently sweeping his hair back as you carefully slid the glasses onto his face. You nudged them up the bridge of his nose with a light touch, your fingertips lingering near his skin just a second too long.

Spencer stared at you, wide-eyed, his pulse hammering in his throat.

“You look pretty too with them on,” you murmured, your voice softer now. Both of you were silent.

Spencer stared at you. Wide eyed. Mouth hanging wide open.

And then Morgan cleared his throat. “Is he still alive?”

[livecrow]

You're out with friends and joke that you're “un-kidnappable”.

John Price and the lads think that’s interesting. 

Soft!Dark!John Price x fat fem reader

cw: debatable self-deprecation, kidnapping, noncon

You don’t recall exactly how it came up. Maybe it was the latest episode of a popular true crime podcast a couple of your friends mentioned listening to the other day.

All the same, while lounging in the familiar bar’s cozy glow, the atmosphere at the table stayed light and relaxed, despite the morbid topic.

Between drinks, your friends detail stories of encounters with dubious men and swap self-defense strategies—anything to avoid an impromptu debut on a Dateline special.

They were mostly the basics. Remember to lock your doors immediately. Keep your phone on you. Never leave a drink unattended. Always travel in groups. Oh, and carry pepper spray. It turns out all of your friends carry some.

Not you, though.

When you are inevitably questioned on the matter, you concede that you have some, "...somewhere."

Your mom gave you a little canister years back. But you don’t actually know where it is, much to the displeasure of your friends. Upon further interrogation, you guessed it’s probably forgotten in a drawer somewhere, lost among AAA batteries, tangled cords of unknown origin, and appliance instruction manuals. 

As one friend suggests the classic keys-between-your-fingers trick, some of the men at an adjacent table laugh.

“Best use for keys when you’re attacked is opening a damn door.”

Apparently, they had been following your conversation. It was the oldest man who spoke, rumbling over the rim of his glass with aplomb that leaves little room for argument. He has a resonance that makes you pause, reminding you distinctly of the distant rolling thunder that forebodes a coming storm. 

The dark, handsome man at his elbow agrees. “'Sides, they’re not brass knuckles. No stability. You’re not actually gonna cause any damage like that.”

“Aye, ye’r better off jus’ takin’ one key an poppin’ the bastard’s een out.” A man sporting a mohawk added with a grin, crudely miming gouging an eye out with his free hand.

“Fine, I’ll punch them out then!” the smallest of your friend group counters, palming her fist loudly while trying to keep a straight face.

That just earns more amusement, of course. The huge masked man at the end of their table scoffs, “Like that you’ll jus’ break your fuckin’ thumb.” He proceeds to instruct her how to make a proper fist. 

It's all in good fun. They’re an interesting bunch, probably military of some sort, you’d wager. Three Brits and one Scot. Your group welcomes the interruption, despite the biggest one of the lot looking particularly murdery himself, decked out in all black and a fucking skull balaclava. 

The gregarious, younger two made up for it. They were all smiles, speaking candidly as if they’d just run into some old friends. Before long you’ve practically joined tables. Why not? After all, the four certainly look like they know what they’re talking about, each man large and brawny.

The younger men did the vast majority of the talking, answering questions and enthusiastically offering techniques to their audience while Voorhees only interjected a brusque retort every so often. Your friends were utterly charmed by the Scot’s cheeky beam and the pretty Brit’s warm eyes as they moved from outlining bodily weak points with an emphasis on “soft targets” to discussing the pros and cons of different weapons.

But there was something about the man who initiated the discourse—some quality. He held an unspoken commanding presence, despite saying little. Here he was, the catalyst of the entire interaction, and yet he seemed content to observe rather than participate. It brought to mind some indifferent, deist higher power.

You estimated he was a decade his mates' senior, give or take. Apropos stormy eyes framed by heavy brows and the beginnings of crow's feet. Odd, antiquated facial hair, wood brown with smatterings of grey. Privately, you thought it suited him—looked distinguished. At some point earlier he caught your gaze.

He introduced himself as “John.” Although, curiously, none of his cohorts called him that or introduced themselves in turn. Not that your friends seemed to mind; that, or they didn’t notice. 

Along with his name, he offered a subdued Duchenne smile that disarmed you, softening his gruff countenance in an instant. For an instant, anyway.

You’d swear that, even in the bar’s low lighting, you caught his eyes twinkle. Some uncharacteristically childish sentiment swept over you for a moment, making you want to believe that the look was for you and that he wasn��t in reality only being polite.

“...honestly, if you have the stomach for it, your best choice is always gonna be a strap.”

The Scot readily agreed with pretty-boy, as he reclined, his chair balancing precariously on just the back two legs. However, they did quibble over the type of handgun, debating various specifications that were gibberish to the rest of you. While they all listen enraptured, only one of your friends really seems truly open to the idea. The rest unsurprisingly remain gun-shy. 

Another friend suggests a taser as a compromise.

“Not for me,” you laughed, “there’s absolutely no way my ass wouldn't immediately accidentally taser myself."

“No mace, no taser, no knife—not even one of those keychain alarms!” your friend groused. “You should have something—”.

Your eyes met again. You and John. Even with the subtle haze of alcohol relaxing you, it felt penetrating. 

Your eyes retreated down to his drink seeking relief. One of his large hands flexed slightly around his glass, thick tendons shifting under the skin and scattered vellus hair peeking over his cuff, dusting as far as his knuckles.

He seemed to be in thought as he took a drink. Whiskey you think it was. His shrewd eyes didn't leave you; maybe he was just looking through you—

“How do you keep yourself out of trouble then, love?” 

His timbre immediately cut through the chatter. If you weren’t feeling so fizzy from the drink, you might feel put on the spot when suddenly everyone’s eyes are singly on you.

You were effectively the token “fat one” of your group. While the rest of this friend group happened to be straight-sized, there was absolutely nothing “straight” on your body. Hell, there was hardly a part of you that didn’t jiggle, at least a little bit.

You didn’t resent it; you were just self-aware. You were perfectly cognizant that you blended in among them about as well as a hippo “blends in" with oxpeckers.

If you were entirely sober, you might be a bit put out, might worry he’s being mean, poking fun at your expense. But no, the alcohol thankfully chased away any anxiety from building in your gut.

Besides, there’s no humor to be found in his expression, no edge of malice in his eyes. None of his mates crack a smirk either, apparently also interested in your answer.

You were mid-sip when the question was lobbed your way, and you used it to stall. You weren’t sure precisely why, but you found yourself squirming in your seat a bit before recovering half a second later. 

“Me?”, you grinned around your straw, cocking a brow. “Trust me, I’m not worried about it. I’m practically un-kidnappable,” you asserted, in a way that sounded suspiciously boastful.

John’s focus remains steady on you, appraising, but the other men share a glance. 

You could have left it at that, but pretty-boy chimed in, brow furrowing. "How do you figure that?" 

You weren’t completely sure that the men weren’t just being intentionally obtuse, but you’d entertain a ridiculous question with a ridiculous response. Flippancy came naturally. 

You carefully set your drink back onto the table. You lean in, voice lowered to a grave tone, biting back mischief that threatened to give you away. “Listen, my strategy is airtight,” you paused. “If some guy comes along, tries something?" You hold again for dramatic effect.

"...Sit on him."

"Oh my god," your friends groan collectively.

But you went on, unfazed. "It's all over for him! Why would I need a weapon when I have positional asphyxia? Besides, if that doesn't kill him, the embarrassment will."

Any outrage falls on deaf ears considering your friends are fighting back grins.

Buoyed, you continue. "It’d be like someone trying to ‘kidnap’ a grizzly bear. I am not gonna get abducted unless the guy just happens to show up with a forklift—", that earns a swat from your friend sitting closest.

"—And if that's how I get caught? Honestly? I’d have it coming if I somehow missed the fucker rolling up and can't, what, power-walk out of there?"

Another friend beseeches, "Be serious!" 

“I am serious!" you shot back, laughing. "Those things go, what, 5 miles an hour, tops?"

Apparently, the rest of the group also found the image of a low-speed fucking forklift chase funny, judging by the Scot's almost spit-take that left him choking a bit. You were pleased that he and pretty-boy had a sense of humor and didn’t bother with the pretense of finger-wagging. 

You were disappointed you didn't get John, though. He only hummed thoughtfully, an odd liminal not-quite frown on his lips that was mostly obscured by his glass as he took another sip. 

Tough customer.

One friend challenges you, “Oh, yeah? You say that, but what if he pulls a gun and tells you to get in the car? What then?”

You pressed your lips together, tilting your head in consideration.

"Well, at that point, I guess I’d have to accept I'm going to die.”

"What?!"

You shrugged, "There's no way I'm getting in that car. You never go to a secondary location. Everyone knows that. Why drag things out unnecessarily when you can die in the street? After all, there are plenty of worse ways to go than by a bullet—besides, at least then my body will be found."

Worried the last bit would have more of a sobering effect on your company than you intended, you pivot and retrieve your drink. You tilt your chin up, gazing off into the distance dreamily, gesturing with your glass.

“My final words? 'Good luck trying to dispose of my corpse, asshole. Hope you know a good chiropractor.'"

With that you slurped down the dregs, ice clinking noisily at the bottom, finally giggling with everyone else at your own joke. Cue lots of your name and "Stop it!"s.

Hell, you even eked out a single low "heh" from Hot Topic that you’ll claim as a proper laugh. You were 3 for 4.

Your friends, bless them, are extremely predictable when you’re so candid self-deprecating. They laugh only to retreat to feigning scandal. When they recover, you’re peppered with more scenarios and protests. 

You’re barely able to suppress an eye-roll at their persistence. "I mean, it's a moot point from the start. I'm not the mark for that kind of thing in the first place."

Before your friends could cut you off, you clarified, “I’m not saying anything bad. I would just be—" you paused, searching for the right word—"an interesting choice." 

"No, I’m not the target demographic for something like that.” You waved a hand dismissively. “I'm simultaneously not preferable aesthetically and not worth the hassle logistically. So that ends up pretty convenient, considering I’d rather not be kidnapped." 

You swabbed the ring of condensation you left on the table with a bar napkin absently. "They want some dainty thing—they don’t want me,” you gestured to your person flippantly. “They want a trophy, but not the 'big game' variety," you gave a lopsided smile.

Your friends’ chastisement was swift, distracting enough that it didn’t quite give you a second to contemplate the strange, tenebrous emotion that was simmering just under the surface of John’s expression or that of his mates’. The nuance was lost on you. 

Mercifully, after experiencing a couple more variations of “You should be more careful!” from your friends, the topic finally changed.

It transformed and split, becoming a bit too chaotic for you to follow in your current state; several simultaneous threads of conversation going at once turned into white noise.

After a while you must have zoned out a bit, because among the din you didn’t notice that John was now sitting near you. He leaned over discreetly, at a respectful distance that still made your head foggy and face warm, voice low.

“They’re right, you know. You might think you're an exception, but you’re not. Is dangerous to think that.” 

You're so struck by the intensity of his steely gaze that you were slow to catch up to the actual words. You couldn’t fathom how blue eyes could feel so searing; you’d swear you could feel their heat. Completely caught off-guard by the sudden seriousness, you struggled with how to respond to that. “I—”

Before you could say anything, you realized the Scot was talking to you, asking you something, reeling you back into the fray.

…

Time seems to pass differently after that; you have no idea how long it’s been, all talking and laughing, sharing bants. More rounds of drinks. It’s a good time. 

But the night is winding down for you; you can feel exhaustion creeping in. By the time one of your friends’ partners shows up ready to continue the fun elsewhere, you decline the offer.

You hated being seen as a wet blanket, but right now all you wanted to do was go home and take a hot shower. Peel off your “going-out” clothes and change into something comfortable. Maybe order in and catch up on a show. A little, "dolce far niente".

They invited the men too, but apparently they had other plans. Your friends didn’t waste any time pouting, exchanging quick, tipsy goodbyes before heading out.

It’s much quieter after that. Even the light conversation between the men has fizzled out. The small bar that night was particularly slow, consisting mostly of your two groups to begin with. You pull out your phone to check the time, frowning when you find it dead.

“...I can call you an Uber?” John suggests, as you stand.

The silence is loud, somehow. Oppressive. It looks as if the men are waiting. The air is heavy with something unsaid, some kind of significance that’s entirely lost on your fuzzy mind.

You never noticed the inscrutable look Voorhees sends John after he spoke. You’d find too late that a lot of things skipped your boozy notice that night.

Your lip tugs at the offer. “Thanks, but I promise it’s fine. I actually live pretty close.” 

John simply inclines his head, doesn’t press further. As you’re headed to the door, glancing back, you offer an earnest, albeit tired, smile. “Was nice meeting you. Maybe I'll see you around?” 

“Maybe.”

…

You were barely halfway home before suddenly, out of the darkness of a Cimmerian passing alley, arms locked around you, ripping an undignified squeal out of you.

When you catch sight of the familiar faces of your “attackers”, you clutch your chest, trying to calm your hammering heartbeat.

“Fucking hell!” you heaved.

If you weren’t so rattled and clamoring over your words, you would have been especially mortified by the incidental contact on your squishy middle. You couldn’t remember a time someone has grabbed you so brazenly. By process of elimination, it must have been Hot Topic’s large form who was holding you against his front.

“Shit! You guys are assholes,” you exclaimed between pants. “That’s not funny!” Your hands grasped at the large forearms around you, yanking fruitlessly.

It was John who was standing in front of you, thumbs hooked in his pockets, backlit by a streetlamp, haloed in faint breath vapor. It was the first time you’d recall seeing him standing; he was even bigger than you expected. They all were. 

“You left, what—” he pulled out his phone and glanced down at the blueish light in his hand, “20 minutes ago?” His eyes return to your face, raising his thick brows. “Not very ‘close’, is it? Your home.”

John spoke conversationally, a picture of ease, like he was commenting on how chilly it was for this time of year, and hadn't just jumpscared you.

“Dinnae even try tae throw a punch, no’ even one o’ those girly slaps—” the Scot muttered, not particularly quietly, to pretty-boy, who kissed his teeth in disapproval.

You’re running on fumes, so your brain is moving in slow motion, only just processing John’s words, not yet able to summon even a glare for the Scot’s commentary.

“It is close,” you insist, coming out slightly more defensively than you intended. You’re still embarrassingly working overtime to catch your breath while trying to pull away from the hard body at your back in irritation. “Besides, how do you define ‘close’? That’s completely subjective.”

Not as if that’s any of your business. You held back that particular remark.

You took a measured breath or two more. “Look, of all people, I appreciate the commitment to a bit,” you clawed uselessly at Voorhees’ iron grip around you, “but can you call your dog off?” 

Hot Topic’s previous abridged facsimile of a “laugh” echoed in your ear, an amused huff so close that it made you flinch. That wasn’t really what you expected from your unadvisable barb.

You think it was the material of his mask that you felt slightly graze the shell of your ear, but it was fleeting enough that you couldn’t be certain.

“You can call me Ghost, sweet’eart”.

On any other day that edgy moniker would have garnered some kind of mirth, but your clouded brain didn’t seem fit to supply a witty retort with some strange man at your nape.

While John said nothing, something in his expression must have communicated to Ghost. You instinctively relaxed when his arms released your middle.

It soothed your nerves a touch, enough that you didn’t register that you were in the process of being edged backwards and were now partway through an alley you should have passed on your route home.

You crossed your arms, opting to ignore the introduction in lieu of another shaky inhale. “Just wait till my friends hear that you guys blew them off just to fuck with me. So much for having ‘plans’, huh?”

You tried to tease, still desperately attempting to slow your heart, recoup some composure, and match the men’s nonchalance. You’re not sure how convincingly you pulled it off. Some nagging anxiety still seeped out of you in a slow leak, despite your best effort to pull yourself together, to not be a buzzkill in response to a technically harmless pran—. 

“This is the ‘plan’, love.” John replied simply, not missing a beat.

You huffed in exasperation, brows pinched. “...What, ‘making a point’?”

John paused for a moment, seeming to weigh his words, “That’s one way to look at it, if you’d like.”

There was a pregnant pause, and suddenly the scrape of shoes on the dirty pavement seemed loud in your ears. The smell in the alley is particularly damp and musty now. Had you been moving this whole time? You’re getting all turned around—

Pretty-boy cut in, “You know, your whole premise was faulty from the start. ‘Sides you didn’t account for more than one person being involved”. 

“Involved in what?” you blinked, bewildered. 

“Your kidnapping, obviously.”

“My k—?”.

“—Speak for yourself, Gaz. I’d ‘ave ‘er either way.” Ghost interrupted, making you jump, a stark reminder of the presence still at your back.

You were stunned into silence for a couple of excruciatingly long seconds before choking out a pained laugh.

“Ha-ha. Alright—alright, fine. I get it.” You raise your hands in surrender, head swiveling back to John as you turn to press your back against the rough brick of the alley wall, trying to keep them all in your field of vision. 

“I’ll get a taser or something, is that what you want?” you offered, wearing your best expression of deferent contrition.

When John finally peels his eyes from you, he just sighs heavily, shaking his head at the pavement; either in disapproval or disbelief, you couldn’t be sure which. 

“Bit late for that now.”

“…What—what the hell is that supposed to mean?” You stutter indignantly.

You were starting to feel woozy; maybe you drank a bit too much.

Your sole scuffs against some debris, almost tripping you up completely if not for the brick wall to steady you. Your palms sting as they slide slightly on the stone, but you don’t dare take your eyes off them to look down for even a second. 

Suddenly, with a furtive glance over Ghost’s shoulder, you realize you're almost out on the other side of the street. His massive form fills the alleyway, destroying any hope you’d be able to squeeze your wide body past him or John and the others on your opposite side.

Your mouth is painfully dry. Your throat works, trying to swallow but still managing to somehow choke on nothing. You force some authority you don’t feel into your tone, but it tapers off rather weakly.

“Listen, you’ve had your fun. I really need to get home.”

You were struck by how different they all seemed compared to hardly a half an hour prior. The shift was dramatic—made your head spin. It was hard to rationalize that the people who were just sitting across from you in the homey local bar sharing drinks and the people now caging you into a dreary, abandoned street corner were one and the same. 

An approaching streetlamp visible through the yawning maw of the alley cast harsh shadows on their faces. A literal “light at the end of a tunnel” that only offered you dread.

You swayed slightly on your feet, head darting around, desperately trying to keep an eye on the four of them. You were feeling suddenly inexplicably drunker than you felt mere moments before.

As your knees quivered and you tried to steady yourself, John remained a pillar in your wobbly field of vision. Watching. Waiting. 

You're not sure which was preferable, the ominous comments or the ominous silence.

You weren’t small. You’d never felt small in your life. But with a group of large men looming over you, it was suddenly hard not to. It was not a feeling you were accustomed to and one you didn’t enjoy now.

You needed air, it was getting impossible to think. You tried to speed your gait to no avail; you couldn’t gain any distance. They prowled, following you closely, as if there was a gravitational pull anchoring them to you. 

“Fine. Fine! Okay, you proved your point, alright?!” you exclaimed, getting more frantic by the second, louder. “Let me pass. I’m serious.”

“Oh, so now she’s serious…” Gaz teases, somewhere off to your left.

“You think I’m not?” John husked, sounding incredulous, forehead lines deepening as he raised his brows, tucked his chin to stare down at you through hooded eyes. “Love, I’m serious as a heart-attack.” 

Then he was smiling at you again.

It looked the same as before. Sincere. But where previously it endeared you, now, now it makes your heart stall, then shudder in your ribcage; fill you with the sensation of a freefall, the one that jolts you awake while on the very precipice of sleep, leaves your heart racing, despite the tranquil darkness. 

His eyes flick over your head.

Before you are able to register the glance, Ghost is suddenly on you again, grabbing you round the middle quicker than someone his size had any right to be, this time actively herding your large form forward.

You realized dully that his last grip on you must have been relatively loose compared to his grip on you now; it was clearly only a fraction of his actual strength.

“What are you doing?!” You cry, a hair's breadth away from a shriek. Your head whips back to John, imploring, “Stop—Stop, I don't know what you want!”

This is probably what it feels like to be a frog. Pounced on and scooped up roughly by some huge creature—some grubby kid’s scrambling fingers. Slippery, round body gripped tight.

You were finally out of the alley, pulled by Ghost as well as your own unsteady feet, your body's instinct to try and avoid cracking your cranium on the concrete abetting him, betraying you.

“What we want?” Ghost chaffed over you, mimicking your voice. “Go on then,” he urged, “give your ‘ead a wobble?” 

You could practically feel him cocking his head, feel his smile even with him against your back, even behind the mask.

The open air did nothing for you. It didn’t clear your mind or relieve the claustrophobia churning in your belly a single iota. After all, it wasn’t really the walls closing in on you—it was bodies.

“You’re just trying to scare me!” You accuse sharply, voice strained, grunting as you only manage to nearly heimlich yourself on the last attempt to free yourself from the steel grip around your midsection.

Gaz and the Scot chuckle.

John says your name. He utters it like it was a complete sentence, but you're not sure what it means, what he wants. Either way, it made you regret giving it to him. You suddenly preferred not hearing it on his lips in that rumbling baritone.

Ghost scoffs. “For ‘avin such a smart mouth she’s a bit thick, eh, Soap?” he comments meanly over your head.

Soap’s responding before you have a chance to voice any displeasure, somewhere between a laugh and a scold.

“A bit? Haud yer wheesht!” He turns his attention quickly back to you, leaning in close, “Aw, pet, dinnae pay him mind…Lt kens our bonnie is well thick”, he pats your cushioned hips affectionately.

A shocked gasp slips out of you unbidden at the brief but unmistakable gentle fondle of your fat love handles.

They all drank in the vulnerable, little noise. It would be the first of many. It was impossible to interpret the gesture as anything but “familiar”.

Your body jolts. You would have practically jumped a foot off the ground if not for Ghost anchoring you. With the hold, stark realization floods you like a bucket of ice water—there’s quite literally nothing you can do to avoid any of their touch. Your skin crawls at the unfamiliar contact and doubly so at the threat of more yet.

“Dead fit,” Gaz says readily, sounding like an agreement if you’ve ever heard one, his eyes roam your form.

Words were stolen from your overheating brain, still trying desperately to reboot, to process what the fuck is going on.

“Captain ‘s a man of taste—such a pretty, dainty thing,” Ghost sneers in your ear. “Playin’ coy now, when she was practically battin’ ‘er lashes all night.” 

“—It’s not too late—it’s a joke, right? Let’s—we can just forget about this—”

Ghost completely ignores you. “Soft thing like you prancin’ ‘round, cunted at this hour, thinkin’ you're safe?”

“Cun—? I’m not fucking drunk!”

“You’re lucky someone with bad intentions didn’t hear you.” The grin is loud in his tone, oozes off every syllable.  

“You think I'm a dog? So you knew wha’ you were doin’ then? You were teasin’ a ‘ungry dog, waving a juicy steak under ‘is nose. Rubbing it in all our faces, of any bloke ‘n earshot? That it?”

“What—what the hell are you talking about?! You—you can’t be serious!” You finally parroted uselessly, equal parts baffled and horrified. These men are crazy.

“She keeps sayin’ tha’,” Soap comments, perplexed.

“‘Denial’ ‘s not just a river,” Gaz shrugs.

Ghost continues. “Captain—” A big hand is suddenly on your jaw, centering your gaze back on John, ”—‘s doin’ you a kindness. Keepin’ you safe n’ sound, makin’ sure you don’t get yourself chewed up and spit out 'n some dirty fuckin’ alley,” nodding back towards the way they came, “Nice of ‘im, innit?”

You flailed desperately, hoping to catch Ghost off guard for even a second. You send your elbow into his ribs, as hard as you could manage at the awkward angle.

It was akin to hitting granite. You sucked in air through your clenched teeth as pain radiated through your ulnar nerve. His grip on you didn't waver, he didn't flinch. He laughed.

A true, low “heh, heh, heh”, that you regretted ever wanting to hear—could have happily gone your whole life without hearing. It sent rogue shivers down your spine and piloerection up your arms as you gawked up in shock, pain forgotten.

“Och, that’s a bit better, Bonnie.” Soap feigns, judging your strike like he’s trying not to hurt your feelings.

“John—” you plead helplessly, turning your gaze back to him. But saying his name was a mistake, deepening the look already there. Rubatosis filled you.

“Think you're strong, eh?" His words still swollen with caustic amusement, "That you could ever ‘urt any of us? Show ‘im you can fend f’ yourself then.” Ghost wobbled you to and fro, shook you, as if you were some weightless bauble.

As your world tilted, you instinctively gripped his arm for dear life, dizzy, afraid you would topple over.

You knew he was right, of course; there is no point denying it. 

But a man like him, like them—saying it? It was wrong—it chilled your blood. It felt needlessly cruel, to rub in how weak you are compared to them. The provocation freezes you, making Ghost’s dark eyes crinkle. 

“Slim pickings, huh? Must be feeling desperate?” you bit out, before you could stop yourself, voice bitter and thick with emotion—panic and anger congealing into snark. A hole is a hole, after all. Bad luck that you happened to be the one around.

Who would you trade places with? Better you than someone else, your conscience whispered faintly.

“You really don’t get it?” John wonders aloud, bafflement mixing with a heady intensity.

“Imagine thinking no one would want all this—” Fingers grazed your curves. Touched every roll, every hill and valley on your side with a reverence that shocked you for the hundredth time that day, left your mouth literally agape. 

“—thought is an utter travesty. One of life’s greatest pleasures is a big, soft girl. Nothing sweeter,” he declared breathily despite himself. “Nothing. So much more to hold, to squeeze—”

There was a certain palpable greediness to his touch, even while he was clearly restraining himself. Groping, not bruising. He only went so far, skirting frighteningly close to your more private bits.

At least it appeared your actual debasement was not going to happen on this particular street corner. His hands make a slow jaunt, mapping your contours. Down your back, your side, your belly, your thighs—kneading and squeezing your ample flesh.

A pitiful, “Please stop—” is eked out of you. Your unadulterated fear on full display, sincere and raw. Begging. You were begging, or trying to, anyway. Your breath hitched, flesh jolting with every unwelcome brush against you, sending your nerve endings alight, already feeling overstimulated. 

There was that expression again, that you didn’t recognize before. But it was no longer just simmering under the surface; it was boiling. Emanating out through his pores, muddled with a touch of pity. You finally recognized it—hunger.

“I’m not cross with you,” he adds oddly. “You don’t understand now, but you will. This isn’t a punishment—it’s a consequence.” 

Your throat clamped painfully, words tumbling out of your mouth incomprehensibly, trying to find the right thing to say to make him stop. “Please, I don’t, I can’t, wh—”

More hands were on you, pulling your wrists together in front of you.

“Am not going to hurt you. You have my word.” The solemnity of the promise rattled you. Maybe he truly believed it, but you certainly didn’t. After all, you’d wager you had different definitions of “hurting”. You’d die on the hill that this was “hurting” someone.

Somewhere inside you, your body was screaming at you to do something. You’d take the inspiration.

Scream what, exactly? You couldn’t be sure. You should scream “fire” not “help”, right?

But you’d never get the chance, because on your inhale, John’d somehow divined your intentions, and suddenly a hand was clamped over your lips before a sound could escape them. The pressure of the palm was close to bruising this time, unyielding—he wasn’t taking any chances, apparently. 

Jerking your head did nothing to dislodge the hand, unlike those on your limbs. It followed the movement rather than impede it. As fate would have it, your struggles only left your head spinning, vision partially obscured by the force of the hand pushing your plump cheeks into your eyes. Whiplash pinched in your neck at the frantic jerks. God, you felt sick.

After that, everything happened very quickly. Suddenly it felt like there were hands all over you, everywhere. Grabbing, holding, pressing. You could hardly tell up from down.

You’d shut your eyes for even a momentary reprieve, willing the vertigo to cease. For everything to stop. For all of them to stop touching you. Hoping desperately that you’d wake up and find yourself safe in bed, this all a bad dream. 

Then there was a ripping sound, then a couple more. Someone was pushing stray hairs out of your face. The hands on your wrists moved up instead to grip your forearms. No sooner than you heard it, the large hand had fled your lips only to be immediately replaced by some large sticky substance that was stretched taut across your mouth, from cheek to cheek.

Startled, your struggles renewed, some expletives trapped by the stuff, transforming into useless “mphhhing!” as your hands jumped to pull the offending material from your face. An entirely fruitless endeavor considering the grip on your arms, which didn't budge an inch. John seems fit to ignore your pitiful struggle, simply smoothing it out carefully, layering a couple more pieces. He hums in satisfaction, wide palm patting his work, cupping your mouth and jaw again for good measure.

There was that sound again. With the fear it shot through you, it might as well have been a gun racking. You couldn’t see it, but this time your sloshy mind recognized the distinct creak and shrill shrrrrrrrrrrrp. It was duct tape being pulled from the roll, then wrapped noisily around your wrists, aided by the hands forcing your arms together. 

Trying to shove, to bully yourself between them was hopeless. They were all too close, too strong, too heavy, all bearing down on you. You didn’t have room to throw your weight around or even properly kick out at them. Round and round, the tape went, and round and round again for good measure before the end was ripped, smarting where it snagged slightly on the hair on your arms. 

You're quite literally fighting for your life, sweating with exertion and panic, panting behind the tape, but your desperate flailing didn’t deter them at all; you didn’t receive even a single hitch in any of their breath for your effort. Hell, it couldn’t even hinder some conversation. Not that you caught most of it with your head swimming, heart pounding loudly in your ears.

“—‘course she’s scrikin’, we’re nicking ‘er,” Ghost rolls his eyes. 

Something else was said, probably by Soap, based on the accent.

Ghost just doubles down. “No point tryin’ to talk sense into ‘er. Thing doesn’t know what’s good for ‘er—“

John took his time; he’s dedicated to his task. Precise yet generous with the tape. As soon as the hands left your forearms, more tape was applied where they departed, this time around your entire body, effectively pinning your arms down at your front, circling you enough times that you lost count.

Your struggles and thrashes reinvigorate, an absolutely method portrayal of a snared rabbit. It hurt—hurt how hard you were pulling against them. Bruises would undoubtedly bloom in the coming days wherever their hands gripped you from your wild jerking. That is, assuming you lived that long. Your chest heaves with anxiety. The men allowed you a bit more space, enough that you didn’t feel actively compressed on every side. By them at least.

Not John, though. It was his face that filled your vision, his eyes that pinned yours.

“Shhh. There’s a girl. It’s already over.” You hadn’t yet noticed the tears gathering, that you were so close to falling apart. He said it like it would be some sort of comfort, cupping your plump cheeks delicately. John spoke to you gently, in the softest tone you’d heard yet, softer than you would have believed his husky voice capable of, and yet, with an disturbing finality. “It’s done. Nothing you can do now,” he whispered into your terrified face. 

He was too close—there was a little mole on the right side of his nose you never noticed before. He smelled of smoke, and under that, something woodsy and spicy. A large, rough palm smoothed over your hair. Your terrified eyes squeezed shut, willing him out of your face, to stop looking at you. You’re certain he could feel your terror; hell, he could probably feel each little panicked puff of air forced out of your lungs on his face as you tried vainly to regulate your breathing through your nose. “There you go,” he praised, “In and out.”

Shining tears wobbled precariously in your waterline. You tried with all your might not to let them loose, to salvage any shred of dignity. Any sense of control. As if that would somehow make things worse, as you sucked in a wet, sniveling sound.

Your internal pleas for space were less than useless, as John leaned in ever closer, cradling your skull in his hands, pressing his lips to your crown in a chaste, whiskery kiss.

The sheer intimacy of the gesture made you balk. Held and boxed in, there was no way to move away, making you whimper pathetically. Sounding foreign to even your own ears. A savourable sound, that went right to John’s belly.

Trying to hold it in was all for naught; as soon as John’s lips touched you, your resolve shattered. Shattered into so many pieces even Kintsugi couldn’t repair it.

Your face was soaked with the onslaught, tears traveling as far as down your neck. Dizzy with panic, the duct tape swallowing up most of your damp sobs. You couldn’t recall the last time you'd broken down like that in front of another person, much less four near strangers. 

“I’m keeping you.” He says suddenly. He waits for you to take in the words, thumbs stroking slow circles into your cheekbones.

You hiccup behind the tape, teeth chattering in your clenched jaw as you realize you’re shaking. Face tacky with tears. You angrily tried to pull away again, but John just held you still as you quake. 

…John didn’t need Ghost for muscle, you realized dully. His grip was an epiphany, the promise of strength in his hands alone—it made you feel all the more useless.

Calloused thumbs rasped over your cheeks, wiping away the wetness there, only for more to replace them. “I won’t try to stop you from crying, won’t punish you for being upset,” he rumbled, “but, you have to understand it won’t change anything. What'll happen. From now on, you’re mine—but I take care of what’s mine. You’ll see.”

Why?! Your heart ached. You couldn’t understand how people you’d been chatting and laughing with mere minutes ago could do this to you. People who had seemed so normal—

Gaz smirks, nudging Soap, murmuring, “Oh, don't worry, she’ll feel heaps better when she’s creamin’ on—”

You didn't think you were capable of feeling worse. Your eyes bulge in horror, breath snagging again in your throat.

John sighs, interrupting him with a harsh jangle of metal as he pitched some keys to Gaz, who caught them easily in one hand. “Bring the car ‘round will you?” John asks, but it’s really not a request.

“On it!” Gaz’s reply is prompt and cheery as he steps off the curb into the darkness beyond the reach of the streetlamp, practically a spring in his step. 

You sniffled, sinuses starting to burn, following your eyes’ watery influence. Feeling humiliated as you can feel your nose start to run, tickling your philtrum. Soap cooed over your teary face. You flinched as he raised his hand to you, but he only wiped your nose, disgustingly with his own sleeve. 

He had the nerve to look chagrined at your reaction. When he spoke again, it was uncannily quiet compared to his familiar boister, as if he was trying to soothe a spooked horse. “Dinnae fash, it’ll be awricht, bonnie, swear it.”

His words were worthless; didn’t pacify you at all. You were possessed by a primal terror of a cornered animal that couldn’t fathom what was going to happen to it. Your eyes flooded, everything in your vision warped by tears. You couldn’t see, couldn’t hear over your own hammering heart. Soap’s cursin’, saying something. Maybe it was fucking Gaelic, you didn’t understand what he was saying.

“—Wee lamb, greetin—”

“‘Nough fussin’, Soap. You’re almost as bad as ‘er.” 

“Ah ken, ah ken…”

“I did warn you, even gave you an out.” John sighed, commiserating, as if he weren’t the source of your angst. It wrung completely hollow, he didn't sound disappointed in the slightest with any of the events. If anything, you'd suspect we has trying to tamp down the opposite.

“Jesus wept, Cap—” Soap blurts, any remorse apparently long forgotten as he suddenly grips your ample belly possessively, making you shriek, “—almost made us lose out,” he grumbled. “Ah knew ye were tryin’ tae tip ‘er aff”.

You thrashed in his rude hold, face hot, but he just grinned, loved how your squirms just showcased your enticing bounce. Despair and humiliation ached in your chest, heavy like lead. You just wanted to go home.

Headlights round the corner.

In a last-ditch attempt, you allow yourself to completely go limp, following through on the threat of being unmovable. You barely start tipping before Ghost and Soap are on either side of you, holding you up between the two of them, completely halting your descent.

Your mind shuddered to a halt with the idea they might actually be able to lift you. When you tried to buckle your knees, they went ahead and confirmed your fears true. Not even a slipped grunt of exertion gave you any satisfaction, when you were being half carried, half dragged practically kicking and screaming to the car. Well, as much as you could through the tape. As you’re urged onward, you lock your knees as your legs jam against the car’s running board.

“You’re going one way or another,” John calls simply, tapping something into his phone.

“Watch your head, trophy.” Ghost grins, huge hand spanning your skull, pushing you down past the door frame, but you think you just might have preferred the concussion. Your own weight does the rest of the work, sending you sprawling belly first onto the back seat, teary cheek smooshed against the cool, leather interior.

You should have been prepared to be absolutely as difficult as possible, regardless of whether or not it’d change your fate, but you were utterly spent. Your limbs ached at all the struggling. You couldn’t muster any more fight as Soap and Ghost maneuvered you into the middle seat. Your plentiful "handholds" aiding the process.

The lone lap belt buckled tightly across your lap before Ghost and Soap followed you in, sandwiching you, sitting in the seats on either side. You were practically spilling over onto them, it was a tight fit. 

You couldn’t quite swallow a yelp as rough fingers were wedged under your plush form on either side. Apparently unsatisfied with your positioning, you were swiveled so your ass remained in the seat while the rest of your body lay flat. Your upper body in Ghost's lap and legs curled in Soap’s, the seat belt digging into your soft belly at the awkward angle.

You were normally hyperaware of the space you occupied and tried to be as respectful as possible about it. You would be mortified, feel a bolt of white-hot shame if any squishy bit of you even accidentally brushed up against someone else. You’d do anything to risk a stranger's look of annoyance or disgust, god forbid someone say something. And yet, here you were, your fat body draped across two men's laps, both looking quite fucking pleased with the arrangement. There was nothing you could do about it, as Soap paws at your thigh, humming happily.

“Behave, you lot.” John stoops, smiling at the group fondly as he shuts the door.

The car is moving.

You were completely adrift. Maybe you were in shock. All it took was a handful of seconds for your life to become entirely and irrevocably derailed. 

While lying prone, the motion rocked you slightly. Outside the window, the world flitted by. All you could make out from your vantage point was the wide expanse of sky, purplish, the color of a dusky developing bruise, only swagging power lines and the tops of towering street lamps flashing across the horizon.

Just like that, slow conversation started up again, right above your head. It was as if they were back at the bar; the normalcy of it was chilling. Soap’s hands were still resting over your thick thigh, petting you. Repetitive strokes up and down your thigh that also eventually blended into the background. The car was so warm now—John must have cranked the heat. You feel the warmth dust across your face where it filtered into the backseat.

You're feeling floaty—disconnected. Your body couldn’t sustain the level of terror that should still be at the forefront of your mind. Adrenaline burned everything out of you, drained you till there was nothing left but fog, thick and cloying. It became a task to keep your eyes open.

You were so tired. 

Your limp body bounced lightly as the car went along. The voices were even more distant now, a muted background noise, like someone speaking on the phone in the next room over—you can just hear the mumble through the wall but can’t decipher any of the words.

…

“—get some proper rest on the plane.”

(I horked this up originally after re-reading one of @391780 posts. I think it was the one where Simon calls dibs on you while you're out with friends? Clearly things deviated a lot, but still. Do yourselves a favor and read all of their stuff.)

[khioneee]

CATER 2 U

synopsis. rafe knew you weren’t a hardcore partygoer. but every once in a while, you’d indulge him and come along. pairing. rafe cameron x reader content. lowkey fluffy. dotting boyfriend (mans down bad). slight jealousy. alcohol. word count. 1.1k

the moment you walked in, rafe was already in protector mode. he found you a comfortable spot to sit, clearing the area like a professional bodyguard.

‘here, baby,’ he said, handing you your kindle, which he’d thoughtfully grabbed from the car. ‘brought this just in case you needed it.’ he crouched down in front of you, his hand brushing against your knee as he smiled softly. ‘water or soda? unless you’re planning on drinking tonight. your choice, sweetheart.’

you shook your head, amused at how seriously he was taking this. but you knew it was just his way of making sure you were comfortable in a space that wasn’t naturally yours.

throughout the night, rafe’s eyes would drift to you, even while he was in conversation with his friends. he’d glance your way, mouthing a quick ‘you good?’ from across the room.

you’d nod, and he’d give you a satisfied little smile before turning back to whoever had his attention.

at one point, he returned with a big bag of chips, setting it in your lap. ‘here, sweetheart. the kitchen’s packed, wouldn’t want you to get caught in a stampede.’ you couldn’t help but laugh at how thoughtful he was, even in the middle of chaos.

when you needed to use the restroom, he was right there, following close behind and standing outside the door like a loyal guard dog. he leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning the hallway for any sign of trouble. he didn’t care if anyone teased him.

he knew how unpredictable parties could get, and he wasn’t about to take any risks when it came to your safety.

when someone drunkenly stumbled too close to the door, he stepped forward, his broad frame blocking their path entirely. ‘keep walking,’ he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

and when you emerged from the restroom, his eyes immediately softened. ‘all good?’ he asked, one hand instinctively brushing against your back as he guided you back toward the main party.

it was little things like this that reminded you why you felt so safe with him.

as the night wore on, rafe found himself caught in a lengthy business interaction outside. but even then, he wasn’t about to leave you unattended.

‘lover boy’s doing business,’ topper announced as he plopped down in the armchair near you, a playful smirk on his face. ‘hi, doll.’

you looked up from your kindle, surprised but grateful for the company. ‘he sent you over?’

‘of course,’ topper said, crossing his arms and leaning back as if settling in for the long haul. ‘can’t let you fend for yourself, can we?’

you chuckled softly, pushing your undrunk beer toward him. one of the many drinks rafe had brought for you earlier. ‘want this? i’m not gonna finish it.’

topper waved it off with mock seriousness. ‘no, ma’am. i’m on duty.’

you raised an eyebrow, amused. ‘duty?’

‘yep,’ he said, leaning forward slightly, his tone teasing but good-natured. ‘rafe made it clear—keep an eye on you. so,’ he gestured toward your kindle with a grin, ‘what are we reading tonight?’

you laughed, appreciating how even his friends were roped into rafe’s overprotective tendencies. but that was just rafe, always making sure you were cared for, even when he wasn’t by your side.

as night blurred into morning, rafe wandered over to you, his steps slow and deliberate. you glanced up at him with a soft smile as he crouched slightly in front of you, his hand reaching up to gently brush a stray hair out of your face.

‘you good, sweetheart?’ he asked, his voice quiet, almost lost in the muffled bass of the party music.

you nodded, though the faint yawn you tried to stifle didn’t go unnoticed.

his lips quirked up into a knowing smile, his thumb grazing your cheek for just a second. ‘just say the word, and we’re out of here, alright? we don’t have to stay if you’re tired.’

you shook your head lightly, touched by his attentiveness. ‘i’m fine, rafe. really.’

but he tilted his head, narrowing his eyes just a bit. ‘no need to be polite, baby. you know i’d rather be with you anyway.’

rafe’s sharp eyes caught sight of you across the room, and he froze mid-conversation. there you were, sitting on the couch, your usual spot.

but this time, someone else was next to you.

a guy.

he was leaning in, his arm casually draped along the back of the couch, too close for rafe’s liking. worse, you were laughing at something he said. you were laughing, completely unaware of the tension building across the room.

rafe’s jaw tightened, the edges of his calm facade slipping as a flush of irritation rose to his cheeks. his friends followed his line of sight, their chatter dying out.

topper raised a brow, muttering, ‘uh-oh.’

rafe didn’t respond. he didn’t need to. he was already moving, cutting through the crowd with purpose, his broad frame towering over anyone who didn’t step aside quickly enough.

reaching the couch, rafe didn’t say a word to the guy. instead, he dropped onto the arm of the chair beside you, his movement sharp and intentional. as he sat, his hand brushed against the guy’s arm, deliberately shoving it off the back of the couch.

the guy flinched, looking up at rafe, only to be met with an icy glare that sent him reeling.

‘hey, baby,’ rafe said, turning to you with a smile that was a little too tight.

‘hey!’ completely oblivious, you beamed up at him. ‘we were just talking about books. turns out we’ve read a lot of the same ones.’

rafe let out a low, unimpressed hum, his arm moving to rest on the couch behind you, claiming the space the guy had just occupied. ‘is that so?’

the guy stammered something about needing another drink, his confidence wilting under rafe’s glare as he quickly stood and disappeared into the crowd.

you blinked, glancing at rafe. ‘did you scare him off?’

rafe tilted his head, his lips twitching into a smirk as he looked down at you. ‘nah, baby. he just realized he wasn’t needed here.’

you furrowed your brows but let it go, leaning back into rafe’s arm as he relaxed against the chair.

after a moment, rafe glanced down at you, his voice softening. ‘let’s go home.’

you smiled, nodding as rafe helped you up, his hand steady on your waist.

and as you left the party together, rafe cast one last glance at the guy from across the room—a silent warning that needed no words.

after a beat, rafe tilted his head down toward you. ‘you don’t need anyone else to talk books with, baby,’ he murmured, leaning in close, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. ‘you’ve got me.’

[moonstruckme]

Hi!

I just watched 'me before you' (so sad wtf)

Anyways the one scene with the bumblebee tights? I can't stop thinking about it and was wondering if you could write something with whimsical!reader and the marauders (individual or poly) inspired by that?

Oh that is the cutest little storyline! Thanks for the request angel <3

cw: reader has hair long enough to have a clip in, but the hair itself isn't described

James Potter x whimsical!reader ♡ 1k words

James grins at the blue vervain hung above your front door before he knocks three times, hiding the small gift bag behind his back. You open with an easy smile on your face. It widens once you see him. 

“James,” you say, voice a pleased hum. “I thought we already went on our date?” 

“We did,” James agrees, “yesterday, but…” he digs in his pocket “...I think you left this in my car.” 

“Oh.” Your eyes widen delightedly at the large acorn he holds out in his palm. “I did! I was going to call and tell you, but I thought surely by this morning it would be gone.” 

James feels his eyebrows bunch even as he smiles. “Where would it have gone, lovely?” 

“Well, it’s a very nice acorn, so I thought for certain faeries would pluck it up if I left it unattended. I wouldn’t have blamed them, it’s only fair.” 

James doesn’t see anything particularly remarkable about the acorn—aside from it being rather large—but you often see beauty in stuff that James doesn’t. It’s one of the things he loves about you. He’s learned that you collect these sorts of things the way other people might collect postage stamps; it’s not for him to question. 

“I’m glad it was still there, though,” you say, pushing up on your toes to give him a kiss that, in James’ opinion, is far too brief. “Thank you for keeping it safe.” 

“It was no problem.” He leans forward for another kiss, but you’re already turning, disappearing into your home. 

He follows you inside, though you haven’t invited him in—sometimes these things simply don’t seem to occur to you; James is learning to interpret your cues. 

“You look lovely today,” he says. 

You send him a curious look. “You always say that.” 

“It’s always true.” 

“It can’t be the same amount of true every time,” you say, finding a place for your acorn on the windowsill above your kitchen sink. You’ve a small collection of things there, from propagated plants to dead bugs to little origami stars. 

“Can’t it?” James asks. 

“My hair never looks exactly the same,” you point out, not arguing so much as musing in the way you’re given to, “and last week when you saw me I didn’t have any spots, but today I have two.” 

James captures you in a gentle embrace, his hand on your cheek. “You’re just as lovely,” he vows, kissing you, “every single time.” 

Your eyes have gone soft and cloudy; you’re easily mollified. “If you say so.” 

“I do.” He kisses you again, smiling. “I have something for you.” 

“Mm, for me?” 

“Who else?” He reveals the gift bag. The tips of his fingers are buzzing with excitement. “Open it.” 

You take the bag, appearing bemused. “It’s not my birthday.” 

“I know that.” 

“Is it a holiday?” 

“No.” 

You look at James, still not opening the bag. “What’s this for, then?” 

“Maybe I just like to give you things,” he says. “It made me think of you.” 

“Oh.” You relax, the mystery resolved. “Because you’re nice.” 

“Sure. Would you just open it, please?” 

“Okay.” You give James a puzzled sort of smile, but part the folds of the bag. “Oh.” Your voice softens as you look inside. “Oh, James, this is lovely.” 

“Yeah?” he asks, suddenly nervous as you draw it out. Up until just this moment, he’d felt nothing but confidence that you would love it, but now he’s unsure. “Do you like it?” 

“Yes.” You turn over the barrette in your hand, expression awed. It’s a dragonfly, larger than life and incredibly detailed, with wings an iridescent green color that shimmer in the light coming in through your kitchen window. “It goes in my hair?” 

“Yeah, but there’s a trick to making it work.” James leans closer, giddy. “Can I show you?” 

You nod mutely, and he leans over, blowing gently on the gift. 

In the palm of your hand, the dragonfly comes to life. You gasp as its wings shift and flutter, the colors becoming even more vibrant. If you look really closely, even its tail is moving, the only still part of it the legs so that they stay fixed in your hair while you’re wearing it. It took a nifty bit of charmwork to achieve that amount of specificity. 

Your eyes are alight with wonder. It’s the sweetest thing James has ever seen, and he knows—if the ministry cracks down on him, if he’s never allowed to practice magic again—he knows he’s done the best thing. 

“It’s beautiful,” you say, softly, as though afraid to scare the creature. “Where did you find this?” 

“Just—at a market.” James tries to sound casual. “It was a pop-up, I think. Cool that they make them like this, yeah?” 

You make a sound of agreement, eyes still on the dragonfly as it begins to settle down. “It’s like magic.” 

James leans over to kiss your forehead. “Want me to put it on for you?” 

Your expression lights up as though the possibility hadn’t yet occurred to you. “Could you? Please?” 

“Of course, lovely. Give it here.” 

You transfer the barrette to James’ hand delicately. He smiles at how preciously you treat it, turning you by your shoulder to fix it in the back of your head. Once he gets it situated—James really isn’t very experienced at styling hair—he draws you into the bathroom so you can approve. 

“Can you blow on it?” you ask when he holds up a mirror for you to see the back of your head, barely leashed excitement in your tone. 

James does, and you make the most elated sound he’s ever heard from you. He laughs as you turn to put your arms around him, his soft-spoken, placid girl nearly jumping with glee. 

“Thank you,” you say, pressing your lips to his. “Thank you, James. No one’s ever gotten me anything so thoughtful.” 

James reckons he has a thing or two left to do about that.

[rukkiya]

didn’t mean a thing

˚✧ ﾟneuvillette x reader, wriothesley x reader (separate) ˚✧ ﾟ

(they say something mean to reader when reader tries to surprise them)

━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━

neuvillette

The chief of justice often feels the pressure of his role. Lately the cases have been weighing heavy on him, more so than usual.

The amount of unattended cases and trials to come up only makes the judge more anxious, more stressed, and worst of all more irritable.

He hasn’t been taking care of himself, often prioritizing his job over his health and it breaks your heart. You’ve caught him taking naps in his office when you’d stop by to visit so you thought of making him something to help him during his times when he sleeps.

You're a local seamstress, but you have a good hand for crocheting as well. You often make small crochet plushies for the orphans and melusines so you thought a small pillow would work wonders for nevi when he takes naps in his office.

The iudex is sat at his desk reading over one of the many cases piled up next to him. His migraine forms as he sighs, taking a sip of cool water in hopes to somewhat ease it.

He hears a soft knock at his door and ignores it at first. The people he works with know not to bother the chief when he has this much work to do. but the knock is heard again making him sigh, putting the documents down.

“Come in.” He calls out, seeing your head peek in, a soft smile already playing on your lips.

“Hello love!” you beam, you love visiting your husband at work. You don’t get to see him home too often, you take any chance you get to drop by.

“Hello,” he greets back, mouth forming a straight line. “Is something the matter?” He asks, wasting no time.

“No, I just wanted to drop off something for you.” You smile, feeling how off he was right away. He must be so drained you think, trying to dismiss the uninterested tone in his voice.

You pull a small bag from behind your back and walk up to him, holding it out for him to grab.

His face remains neutral and you feel small under his gaze, regretting interrupting his work.

It’s strange though, he usually always welcomes you with a warm smile, ushering you in to spend time with him. Today was different.

He begrudgingly moves his chair back and eyes the bag.

What’s so important that you have to interrupt his work?

He grabs the bag from you and you pull your hand back as he peeks in, moving the wrapping paper aside.

His hand comes up to the bridge of his nose when he sees a small pillow with blue and white lace trimming at the edges in the bag.

He doesn't know what he expected and he doesn’t understand why he feels so bothered but he can’t help it.

“Is this all?” He asks, putting the wrapping paper back on top, handing you the bag back like it was something that made him upset.

“I made it for you. You often take breaks and sleep in your office so I thought-“

“That’s the problem you know.” He cuts you off before you can finish, making you step back a bit.

“You think, what you do will make things better for people or you know what people need.” He brushes off the small gift like nothing.

“I just wanted you to get proper rest, you look tired. I know you haven’t been getting much sleep because of all the cases and-“

“And you’re the one stopping me from finishing them right now, right? I don’t need you always checking up or stopping by when you feel like it. Some of us take our jobs seriously. It’s suffocating having you stop by everyday. I need space and time to do my own job alone. Thank you very much.” He’s almost out of breath by the end of it, his eyes narrow at you, you feel what the verdicts of the cases feel when he judges them.

You don’t know what to say. You feel small under his gaze and he doesn’t even flinch, after all he’s said he stands his ground.

“Forgive me for worrying in the slightest, it won’t happen again.” Your voice falls flat, you dig your nails in your palm to stop the sting in your eyes as you turn to leave.

Reaching the door you half expect him to stop you, apologize or something but it never happens. You step outside and feel your tears drop, lowering your head from gazes around you.

You head to your home with a heavy heart. You feel utterly stupid. You should’ve seen the signs, you knew he was on edge because of work and you walked right into it like a spider's web.

You reach your house feeling drained. You slowly make your way to your room to continue working on small plushies for the orphans to take your mind off the harsh words you hear earlier. Throwing the small pillow you made into the trash before you get to work. He doesn’t want it and neither do you.

Neuvillette lets out a content sigh. He’s done his work, more than half of the cases he’s reviewed and he feels better. Enough to call it a day and head home somewhat earlier than normal. Maybe he can catch a meal with you, something he hasn’t done in ages.

He opens the door to your shared home and takes note of how quiet it is. Is it usually this quiet when you’re alone?

The living room was dim, the only source of light was flooding the from the cracks of your shared bedroom.

He hangs his coat and makes his way to your shared bedroom. He wants nothing more than to spend time with you.

You hear your bedroom door creak but don’t bother to turn around, already knowing who it was. You made a promise to yourself to stop being overbearing with him, he told you it’s suffocating, you never want him to feel that way with you.

He feels his lips tug upwards a bit at the sight of you. You were stitching some plushies, your work always so beautiful and delicate.

“Hello my love.” He speaks softly, he knows he acted out of place earlier but he wants to make it up to you. He knows you only care, that just the kind of sweet genuine person you are.

“Hello.” You welcome him barely above whisper, not looking up at him. You lay in bed crocheting a small plushie.

“Are you going to drop those off at the orphanage tomorrow?” He asks, heart filling with utter adoration at the sight of you making your beautiful plushies.

“Yes.” You answer, nodding your head as you cut the end of the yarn off.

“Would you like me to assist you?” He asks, you feel like it’s a trick question. After all he has told you today he asks this?

“No need. You have work, I can go with Navia.” You decline, he stands there for a second before clearing his throat.

“Why of course, please send my regards when you stop by.” He asks and you nod.

What’s wrong? You’ve never declined his offers of helping you. Were you not feeling well?

“I’m going to wash up dear, afterwards I’ll make us something to eat.” His voice is much softer than earlier. You don’t understand what he wants anymore. It’s confusing.

While Neuvillette was showering you warmed up his portion of the dinner you made, setting it up on his bedside table. You were hurt by his words but you still want him to eat.

After preparing his meal on his bedside table, you grab your pillow and an extra blanket heading to the living room couch. As much as his words hurt you, you still want to hold him, talk to him and have him close but he doesn’t want that. He made it more than clear in his office.

After Neuvillette’s shower, he’s greeted with a meal on his nightstand. He looks around the room and notices you're not in bed anymore. He catches sight of your plushie on your nightstand and thinks you went to use the other restroom.

He gets changed and smiles at the meal you made for him. Always helping him when he knows you work just as hard as he does, if not even harder than he does. You’re passionate about your work and he adores that side of you.

He buttons up his shirt and sits in bed, looking at the clock. It's been over 15 minutes since he’s gotten out. Why weren't you back in bed?

He stands and walks over to your side of the bed where the plushie lays on the nightstand. From the corner of his eye a blue and white lace trimming catches his attention and he looks down at the small bin next to your side of the bed.

He reaches in and pulls out the small pillow you had brought to his office earlier that day, he feels his heart sink. Remembering his harsh words and how he gave it back to you without a second thought. He feels guilty.

You threw this beautiful pillow away because of his foolish outburst. He feels like a fool for talking to you in such a way. Your guarded attitude made more sense now that he realizes it.

He clutches the small pillow in his hold and looks to your side of the bed, noticing your pillow missing.

His legs move on their own, opening your room door greeted with the dark living room only a candle being your source of light.

He can see you laying on the couch and he feels his eyes burn.

As he nears you he hears you crying and his heart tugs at the sound.

He wouldn’t dare let you sleep alone, ever.

He says nothing as he turns to you and you quickly turn away to hide your tears.

He kneels down a bit. Arms circling under your legs and head, picking you up with ease as he grabs your pillow before making his way back to your room.

You feel more tears spill. What was all this? What does he want?

He stops in the room after closing the door behind him. The only sound to be hard was your sniffling before you heard rain, rain droplets hitting your window.

He holds you closer, tighter in his hold.

“My love, I’m terribly sorry for my words that have caused you to feel the need to distance yourself. I’m sorry I disregarded your gift for me. I will cherish it forever.” He whispers, his legs moving once again making his way to your side of the bed.

He softly lays you down before standing again, you see the pillow you thee away on your nightstand and feel more tears spill.

He turns, he knows he should give you space, give you time alone and as much as he wants to hold you he has to respect your boundaries.

Before he can get too far he feels a hug in his wrist, he feels his own tears spill.

Your heart, which is too kind and forgiving, knows him too well. He truly doesn’t deserve you.

“Please don’t leave.” You whisper, he only nods, who’s he to say no? After all he’s done today he’d be a fool.

He climbs into bed, arms immediately grabbing you, laying you on top of him as the rain outside gets louder.

“My love, I apologize for my actions. Please find it in your heart to forgive a fool like me, not right now but when you can.” He can only whisper, if he speaks any louder he’s scared he’ll cry more.

You nod your head as it lays on his chest “yes my love, I do.” you hug him, if he didn’t care, he wouldn’t be here right now you tell yourself. The fact that he’s here right now shows so much.

You hear his heartbeat steady and the rain outside subside. Knowing he’s calmed down, feeling your eyes grow heavy. Neuvillette holds you closer, making a promise to himself and you to never act out of place like that again. Not with you, who’s so caring and giving he’ll cherish you forever along with the pillow you made for him today.

wriothesley

The duke is in charge of many things, running the fortress of meropide is one. Dealing with troublesome inmates to make sure they know their place and meetings that consist of various things for him to arrange.

Wriothesley was making his way back from a meeting with Neuvillette. He has asked him about an inmate, asking him to bring him up for further questioning, giving him the inmates name and number before he left.

Neuvillette had given him a small paper with the number and name. Wriothesly had memorized it just after a few glances at the small paper. But during his busy day out he has misplaced it. And as the day went on he was worried he’d forget.

He didn’t want to trouble Neuvillette with another meeting to give him the number again so he’s been repeating it while making his way to his office.

You decided to bring Wrio some food and tea. Upon arriving at his office you found it empty and decided to surprise him for when he comes back. Sitting on the small couch by his desk, setting up his meal for when he comes.

You often have one or two days out of the month where you catch up and eat lunch together in his office. It's one of the ways that you get to see him more besides when he comes home to sleep.

No one dared to stop the duke as he made his way to his office, the look on his face alone was screaming don’t approach me right now.

You hear his office door open and hear his footsteps echoing up the staircase, you stand up and wait by the edge of the stairs happy to see him.

He doesn’t even look your way when he reaches the top, instead he brushes past you. Mumbling some numbers under his breath.

“Wrio.” You call out softly, making him whip his head back. He didn’t even notice you were here, let alone see you standing right by him.

“What’re you doing here?” He asks, it comes out harsher than he intends.

“I brought you food! We haven’t had lunch in a while, I made your favorite too. It’s been sometime since we’ve sat down and had a home cooked meal.” You beam, smiling at him and pointing to his desk behind him where you set up the food.

“That’s great, but right now isn’t the time.” He brushes you off. Walking to the cabinet where all the inmates' files are repeating the number in his head still.

“I'm not trying to tell you what to do, but you tend to look over your health because of work. This can help you focus on your work more! I even brought your favorite tea to go with it.” You walk to his desk and pour the hot tea into his favorite cup.

“Just take a second and eat, take care of yourself and-“

“Do you ever stop?” He feels his grip on the cabinet tighten as he closes his eyes, taking a deep breath.

You stop talking and look over at him.

“I’m sorr-“

“I have an office to do my work, for peace and quiet as I do so. No one has the right to waltz in here and think they can have a tea party and talk their heads off while I work.” He slowly turns to you.

You only swallow, not knowing how to respond.

“You know I have more important things to do than have a meal with you. You talk so much, too much sometimes and you don’t know when to stop and it’s bothersome. Learn how to stop at times and not bother people when they’re working, yeah?” He scolds, roughly shoving the cabinet closed.

You look down at the desk, too embarrassed to look him in the eyes.

You feel like you’re glued to the floor. You can’t move.

“I’d like to get back to work, I don’t have time for all this. I’d be best if you went back to work as well.” He sits at his desk with a file and you feel your eyes sting.

Leaving the food on his desk and grabbing your bag. Walking downstairs and away from his office that felt suffocating, you should’ve just minded your business.

You walk out of his office, closing the door softly as his words ring in your head.

Seigwinne sees you, walking up but stopping In his tracks when she sees your solemn expression. She’s studied humans enough to know that the emotion you were feeling was sadness.

You make your way home, stepping inside and locking the door as you feel the first tear run down your face.

You know how much you talk, you know many people don’t like it but Wriothesley never said anything about it. He’s always listened to you, saying it helps him relax. During work he’s often doing the talking so hearing you talk, it brings him peace. He also loves your voice.

When did he start getting annoyed? Has it been a while? What if he’s been tired of hearing me this whole time? You question yourself. Coming to the conclusion that you need to stop. Stop talking so much and taking up his time. It’s for the better.

When Wriothesley ends the meeting with the inmate he finally feels some tension release from his shoulders. He’s been running around all day and he hasn’t had time to sit in peace.

From the time on the clock he sees it reaching seven pm and decides to call it a day. He’s done the most important task already. He can attend other matters tomorrow.

As he cleans up his desk he notices the food and tea, remembering you stopped by earlier to chat with him. Remembering what a jerk he was and how he told you to leave.

He sighs when he notices what you made. You have a habit of putting others' priorities before yours and he feels bad for how he responded. He packs up the food to take it back home, to reheat and eat with you like you wanted.

When he arrives home, he notices how quiet it was inside. He pushes the door open and is met with a small lamp in the kitchen and spots you sitting on the couch, book in hand.

“I’m home darling.” He calls out, seeing you turn to him, giving him a small smile then turning back to your book.

His eyebrows draw together, he loves coming home and seeing you. Always so excited and giddy asking him about his day and telling him about yours but you didn’t even respond to him.

“I brought the food you made back home, I wanted to reheat it and eat with you. We haven’t spent time with each other in a while.” He speaks up, pulling his tie down a-bit as he still sees you reading your book.

Why weren’t you responding? He thinks, you’re never this quiet.

“Have you eaten?” He pushes, trying to get something out of you, anything.

“Not hungry.” You answer, simple and quick. Not even looking away from your book this time.

He feels nervous. He feels something off.

“I’ll heat it up, if you want some please eat.” He sighs, the tension is heavy but nothing happens. He knows something’s off with you.

In silence the duke eats alone on the table, sending you glances as you continue to turn the pages of your book. Not indulging him in your ranting he’s come to grow ‘annoyed of’. He made it clear earlier.

“The food is delicious, thank you for making this.” He tires again, this time you look up. He smiles a bit but you do something that makes him believe something is off, you only send him a thumbs up in return.

He finishes his half and saves you yours for when you get hungry, putting it away and making his way to you.

“Y/n darling. Is something the matter?” He asks, making his way closer to you. Seeing you shift uncomfortably from where you sit.

“Nope.” You shake your head, not daring to look at him. You can feel him coming closer.

He kneels down, inspecting you. The corners of your eyes were a bit red, but nothing else seemed off. Were you feeling sick?

His hand reaches up to feel your forehead but you move away.

“I’m not sick.” You speak up as you dodge his touch. He feels his hand freeze.

“Use your words, what’s wrong? Why aren’t you talking to me?” He asks, placing hands next to both sides of your legs caging you in.

“I’m not one of your inmates, don’t order me to do things.” You speak up, still not daring to look up at him, you can feel his piercing eyes on you.

He’s taken aback at your response.

“I’m not ordering you y/n, I’m just worried.” He sighs, pulling your book down to get you to look at him.

“I said I’m fine, can I get back to reading?” You glance up at him. Trying your best to not let anything slip though. You don’t want him to see how much his words hurt you.

He decides to stop, for now. He knows something’s wrong. You’re too stubborn to tell him though.

He walks into your shared bedroom and into the bathroom to shower, racking his brain to think of what possibly could have made you so upset. The whole time he spends in there he can’t think of why you’re refusing to respond properly.

It’s already later when he gets out, the steam from the bathroom becoming visible when he opens the door.

He sees you in bed and he can help but feel at ease. You came to bed at least. He walks over to the closet eyes you as he does, a small smile making its way onto his lips at the sight of how you look.

He starts changing and notices you’re faced away from him. He quietly steps around and sees you hugging a pillow and he feels this heavy feeling in his chest again.

Did he do something?

He lays down next to you, you feel the bed dip and try your hardest to not turn around. You’d probably hug him and start talking and annoy him again. He probably doesn't want that.

You feel like such a fool. All day his words have been affecting you. You’re too scared to speak again.

You hug the pillow closer to you and feel your eyes burn once again. Hearing those words from him hurt more than anything. You don’t want to show him how much it hurts you though. He doesn’t need to know. He said what he said and what’s done is done.

He lays there for a bit, the tension still surrounding you. He’s unsure of what to do. He wants to hold you, pull you in but what if you move again.

That’s when he hears it, the small sound of sniffing. He freezes. His heart drops making him stand.

You feel the bed move and hear him stand, you think the worst. Maybe he’s leaving because he’s annoyed. He doesn’t want to deal with this. You don’t know why you’re crying but it won’t stop. He just told you something that bothered him and you took it too personally. You’re both hurt and upset and you don’t understand why.

It’s quiet for a few seconds but then you feel a firm hand gently grab your arm, lifting you off the bed effortlessly.

You try to hide your face but Wriothesley has had enough of this.

“Hey hey, look at me.” He softly calls out.

You try to hold it in but you feel more tears run down. Placing your hands on his chest and pushing him away but his sturdy frame doesn’t budge.

“I’m fine, j-just tired.” You try to sound convincing despite your voice cracking. Struggling against his hold, pushing him a bit harder to move.

You resist in his hold and he feels his heart break even more.

“Y/n what’s wrong?” He grabs your hands, stopping your struggle and you look down, not wanting to look at him.

“Nothing, I’ve talked enough today. I don’t want to anymore.” You try to sound convincing, trying to pull your arms out of his grasp.

He’s taken aback, talked too much? You haven’t even talked at all. Where is this even coming from- oh.

oh

He stills, eyes boring into your head as you avoid his gaze.

“I didn’t mean it earlier y/n. I didn’t mean anything I said earlier. It doesn’t excuse if I was mad or busy telling you that wasn't something I ever meant. I love hearing you talk. I love your voice. Don’t ever think that I want you to stop.” He explains, knowing he was the reason for it all now. What a jerk he’s been.

He drops his head, resting it on yours. He waits a bit seeing if you’d pull away but you don’t. “Darling, I’m sorry. From the bottom of my heart I am. I miss hearing you talk. The house is eerily quieter without your beautiful voice and laughter echoing through these halls.” He speaks softly, hearing a small sob escape your lips.

You move back a bit, looking up at him and taking a breath. “But you told me- I don’t want to annoy you.” You hiccup, finally letting more tears fall. It’s been eating you alive. It hurts. It hurts so bad because someone you love told you.

“No no, you’d never, and you never ever had. Do you understand?” He makes it clear, seeing your pretty eyes filled with tears he grabs your face.

Your behavior makes sense now, how could he have been so mean to you? He truly is such a fool.

His hands slowly lift to your face, testing the waters to see if you’d pull away, but you don’t pull back. “Please talk to me. Don’t hold back or hide your voice dear. Scold me, tell me what I did wrong.” He pleads, the look in his eyes desperate.

You nod, wiping your tears when he brings your head to his chest hugging you close. “Please forgive me.” He repeats, squeezing you tighter when you let out a small ‘yes’.

He holds you close, and though you said you forgive him. He can’t take you for granted, not when you’re the best thing to ever come into his dull life. So he repeats it over and over, until you both fall asleep.

_________________

authors note: hello my lovelies HIIIIII!!! (/^▽^)/ it’s been a while but I come with a gift ANGST!! hehe neuvi and Wrio are such sweet men this was kind of a rough one but them with them seems so AMAZING! I hope you all had a lovely holiday and you’re all taking care! Hope I enjoy yet another angst with comfort! take care loves, bagel miss u all mwahhh <33 ^~^! (DISCLAIMER!! this was not edited or looked over, apologies for any misspelled words or incorrect grammar!!)