#and i will give my life up just to be in his presence

[st4rpiece]

sleeping separately after an argument pt. 2

SFW

characters: mihawk, crocodile, and buggy x fem! reader summary: how cross guild would react to you sleeping alone after an argument CW: mainly fluff, slight angst others: not proofread, lowercase intended, and pictures found on pinterest

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Dracula Mihawk

mihawk is known for his stoic and composed demeanor. however, an argument that leads to you sleeping in the guest bedroom would shake his calm exterior. mihawk values control and precision, not just on the battlefield but also in his personal life. The argument would leave him feeling a sense of imbalance, disrupting the harmony he strives to maintain.

initially, he would analyze the argument with the same meticulousness he applies to his swordsmanship. he would replay the conversation, seeking to understand your perspective and where he might have gone wrong. he would be restless and his castle, usually a sanctuary of peace, would start to feel unusually empty and cold.

his conclusion? being right wasn't worth you being upset and distant with him. especially not when it meant sleeping alone.

"dear?" his voice uncharacteristically gentle as he enters the room.

"I would save this for the morning, but that would not sleeping in your arms tonight," he says, kneeling beside the bed and lifting you up bridal style. his actions catching you by surprise as you subconsciously wrap your arms around his neck for support.

"you can tear me a new one in the morning," he jokes (something he rarely did), before placing a gentle kiss on your forehead as he made his way back to your shared room.

Sir Crocodile

crocodile would initially react to an argument and subsequent separation with a sense of indifference. or at least that's how it looks on the surface. the argument would leave him brooding as he is not one to easily admit fault, and his pride would make it difficult for him to do so immediately.

he would spend the first half of the night in his office, surrounded by the trappings of his power, telling himself that you'd get over it soon.

as the night wore on, your lack of presence would make him realize that you weren't going to get over it soon. and by this point, he has had enough. he would make his way to the guest bedroom. without even bothering to knock, he would burst through the door, staring down your curled-up form. a pang of guilt would run down his spine as he looked at you.

"when are you coming to bed?" his voice rough, a complete contrast to the worry in his eyes and the guilt that he felt. he already knew the answer, so when you don't respond he would just lift you up, throwing you over his shoulder before landing a firm slap on your ass.

"you're mad? fine, be mad, but be mad in our room," he says sternly as he walks back to your shared room.

Buggy the Clown

buggy with his flamboyant and often comical personality would react to an argument with you more dramatically. the idea of you sleeping separately would initially infuriate him causing his pride and insecurities to flare up.

he would spend the initial moments of the separation grumbling and throwing a minor tantrum to anyone who could listen, convinced that he was right (he wasn't). however, as the night wore on, his anger would give way to the loneliness and regret he felt.

he would pace outside you door, muttering to himself as he debates whether to knock or not. not sure if you even wanted to see him after what he has done.

she's probably waiting, arms wide open, for me

or maybe she's packing her bags finally tired of my antics

oh nika i hope it's not that

in the end, he would knock on the door and try putting on a confident front even though he's low-key expecting you to ignore him. so when the door opens, the first thing you are greeted with is a shocked buggy, making another one of his goofy faces. this subconsciously cracks you up unknowingly breaking the ice for him.

"sugar! oh, how i've missed you," he would immediately pull you into a tight hug. and without much of a warning, he would start word-vomiting his apologies.

"i'm so sorry about my actions from earlier sugar and i’m sorry for being so stubborn about it. I understand now that i went too far and that i should’ve acknowledged that instead of arguing with you. but i promise that it won't ever happen again. so please forgive me this once, sugar?"

you don’t have it in you to send him away after all that so instead you would simply pull him into the room before turning and going back to bed this time with him following suit.

—————

part 1

hi guys! thanks again for reading, this is the second part and honestly the last, for op at least. buggy was surprisingly the easiest to write while mihawk was the hardest TvT. hopefully i did them all justice tho!!

i have a few ideas of what i want to write but if you have any suggestions for plot or character please let me know, i’m open to any ideas :).

[azsazz]

Shots & Spins

Hockey!Azriel x Ice Skater!Reader

Summary: Req from @kristijenner19: I saw you were thinking about hockey!AZ because same. How about a fic where she's a figure skater and they're trying to teach each other their respective sports. Imagine poor Az trying to do a spin/jump/twizzle and a reader who can barely ever make a shot into a goal

Bonus points if they switch their skates and have to re-learn how to skate with the new blade

Warnings: Mild panic attack, mentions of readers injury (torn ACL), trauma from coaches (verbal) mentioned.

Word Count: 3088

Other Fics in the Hockey!Az AU: Penance, Shut Out, Out of Order, All's Well That Ends Well, Brr-eakdown

HOCKEY SZN SOON MY LOVES 💙💙

Notes: I swear I meant to make this cuter but of course, I had to give it some angst 😅

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“What is this?” You question. You’re probably being rude, with your nose scrunched in disgust. With the way you’re holding the pair of skates as far away from your body as possible, you’re pretty sure you look like the biggest bitch on all of campus. But for the life of you, you can’t figure out why Azriel has handed you hockey skates.

“They’re skates,” Azriel answers. You rip your glare from the offending skates at his obvious response. Your heart stumbles in your chest at the sight of his pink lips twitching, begging to reveal that grin he spends most of his time expertly hiding.

You don’t even realize you’re leaning closer in anticipation, so eager to see that smile until the hitch of his breath snaps you back to consciousness.

You rock back on your heels so quickly you nearly tumble over. Would tumble over if it weren’t for Azriel’s quick reflexes, his large hands enveloping your waist and steadying you back on your feet.

“Thanks,” you reply flatly, dipping your chin to the ground to hide your flaming cheeks. There’s not an ounce of amusement in your body.

“You’re welcome.” You don’t like the smugness in his tone or the way he’s playing with you. Tilting your face back up, you muster all the annoyance lancing through your veins at his retort, shooting him the nastiest glare.

“That’s not what I meant, Az, and you know it. Why am I holding a pair of hockey skates?”

Azriel sits on the bench beside the empty arena, and you want to pout. Why would you want to spend any more time at the rink than you already do? You’re bone-fucking-tired and your knee is feeling stiff. You overdid it in practice this week, trying to get back into the shape you were in before the time you’d been forced to take off, and it’s hitting you hard. All you really want to do is crawl home, roll out your muscles, and dive into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.

When you don’t join Azriel, he says, with a humor you don’t feel, “Don’t tell me you forgot about our little bet. Or how you so gracefully lost it.”

Of course you hadn’t forgotten. Who could forget losing at something as simple as a race across the arena? Afterwards, you tried to blame it on the differences in the ice, how it was colder and harder than you were used to, as it was prepared for the hockey team’s game later that weekend.

A rookie mistake, honestly. One that you’ve been kicking yourself over up until this very moment. Well, if you could kick with your injured leg, that is, you’d be doing just that.

You grind your teeth as a memory rises to the forefront of your mind. Your coach’s voice rings in your head, shrill and reprimanding. Why would you take such foolish chances? You need to get your head in your sport or you’re never going to make it on the Olympic team, let alone the University team.

Shame presses down on you, and your eyes prick at the criticism you should be used to by now. Your private coach from your time before Velaris University, Amarantha, had been very creative with her insults, always coming up with comments worse and harsher to cut down any semblance of confidence you had in your sport.

You bet she’s thrilled that you won’t be back in her presence until you’re healed enough. If you heal enough to relearn the very trick that took you out of the running for the Olympic team in the first place.

It must be a thing, coaches insulting their prodigies. You glance at Azriel from the corner of your eye and wonder if his coach is the same way. If Rhys is brutal with his teammates.

And you hate losing. It was Azriel who you wished forgotten about the bet you’d so stupidly agreed to, but here he is, wearing the same look that got you into this position in the first place.

You take your time studying him as you mull over how to get out of this. Azriel’s broad shoulders take up the space of two people, and his deep, dark hair falls over his brow, growing out into the perfect flow all the players seem to be sporting right now. You wonder if it’s superstition or they actually like the look. His thick lashes sweep as he bats them, and your cheeks take on a pink hue as he pretends to preen under your attention.

“Look,” he all but sighs, giving up his act. He leans back, reaching over to grab something out of sight. When Azriel rightens himself, he holds a pair of figure skates, a sheepish smile on his face. The apples of his cheeks mottle with pink. “I got myself figure skates, so we can both look like fools out there. Together.”

Fuck. The sentiment makes your throat tighten. He doesn’t have to be so damn thoughtful, you’re hardly even friends for Mother’s sake.

“Fine,” you manage when you can speak again. You plop onto the bench beside him. Your knee throbs dully in protest, but it’s nothing you haven’t been able to smother before. You’ve worked through worse conditions than hockey prepped ice, have skated in casts and aches so deep you weren’t sure you’d be able to compete at all if it weren’t for your raw love for the sport and your brutal stubbornness, holding yourself to the highest of standards.

And it’s not like you’re going to be doing your usual tricks. No, that’s all Azriel. All you have to manage is a few forward spirals, twizzles, and perhaps an axel just to show off a little, because there’s no way he’ll be able to recreate all of that in one go.

You just hope your knee stays steady for a few more hours.

The both of you lace your shoes in silence. The hockey skates are so different from your figure skates, you note. The blade is much thicker than you’re used to, more curved too. The boots are shorter, and you grimace at the lack of ankle support.

Not to mention you’re not entirely sure how well you’ll be able to stop without your toe pick.

Azriel leads you to the ice. You step on tentatively, giving the new skates a test. They have a lot more give than you’re used to. They’re not as snug, but easy enough to navigate. Muscle memory kicks in and after a few sluggish runs up and down the ice, you think you’ve gotten the hang of it.

The rest of this bet should be a breeze, especially compared to how Azriel is faring.

His face is contorted with a concentrated frown. He looks stiff as a fucking board, which make you giggle and him complain about. “How the hell do you wear these things? I can barely even move my ankles!”

“Practice makes perfect, young Padawon,” you tease, testing how best to shift your weight on the new blades. The pressure on your knee isn’t terrible, thanks to the looseness of the hockey skates.

“Yeah, yeah,” Azriel waves you off. He trails behind you at a slower rate, focused on getting used to the stiffness of the figure skates on his feet. “Just wait until we scrimmage.”

Ugh, no thanks. This is just perfect for you, the both of you out on the open ice, all alone. You don’t want to ruin this peaceful bliss by bringing your competitive personalities into it.

“I knew if we raced under different conditions I’d have won!” You exclaim, zipping past Azriel again, showing off. He glares playfully, but you’re much too busy admiring your skates to notice the way he’s tucked his lip between his teeth, hiding a satisfied grin.

His toe pick digs into the ice, grinding down as he gets a feeling for the foreign piece, but his eyes stay glued on you.

“Ready for a stick and gloves already, sweetheart?”

“I don’t know,” you throw a smirk back in his direction, crossing your arms over your chest and cocking a brow. “You ready for twizzling?”

“Twizzlers?”

You roll your eyes at his lame joke, but your heart still skips at his wry smile. It’s more than cute. You push off your blade, moving closer to him.

Which is fine, until you try to use your toe pick to stop, only for the realization to hit that there isn’t one on these skates.

You go barreling into Azriel, who catches you in his arms. Your motion throws him off balance and before you even have the chance to squeeze your eyes shut and brace yourself, you’re both falling to the ice.

Azriel hits with a grunt that reverberates through your bones. You’d think that Azriel breaking your landing would be less painful than it is, but with the way the muscle is packed on his body, he’s just as hard as the ice that’s no longer beneath your feet.

“Sorry,” you cringe. It comes out breathless and embarrassment flushes your cheeks, but you’re frozen to your spot and all too aware of how his large, warm hands are wrapped firmly around your waist.

“No worries.” Your lashes flutter as his breathy whisper caresses your face. He’s probably just winded, that’s why he sounds like that. Yes, that’s exactly what it is. “Didn’t think to remind you how to stop.”

“I know how to stop,” you argue, but there’s none of your usual fire tainting the words. You can’t even muster one of your famous glares that you reserve for the normally broody hockey player. You break eye contact as the humiliation begins creeping in. You scratch your nail distractedly down the waffled fabric of his olive colored henley. “I just…forgot, I guess.”

The hitching of his breath in his chest shifts your body and you jolt, the situation slamming into you like a truck.

You scramble off Azriel, grimacing at the sound of your blades clinking against his. His grip loosens, hands falling away as you slip to the ice beside him.

You shoot to your knees, then not-so-carefully climb to your feet. Azriel holds his hands out from where he’s still lying on the ground, like he’s more than ready to catch you again should you fall.

You’re positive the heat of your cheeks could melt the entire arena’s ice right now. You need to get the fuck out of here before you embarrass yourself further. You need to never show your face around here again. You’ve already transferred schools once, what’s one more time?

Azriel calls your name, but you hardly hear him over your racing thoughts. If the sheer embarrassment wasn’t enough, Coach Weaver’s voice now fills the rest of your head, screeching about your recklessness and how you could’ve injured yourself—

He’s quicker than you thought, or you’ve been trapped in your mortified headspace for too long because Azriel’s on his feet, towering over you and pulling you into his chest.

“I’m sorry,” your voice trembles and his hands tighten around you. He lets you bury your face into his chest and pretends not to notice the tears dampening the fabric of his shirt. You’re fucking trembling, and his heart is pounding just as hard.

This is all his fault.

“Breathe, sweetheart, breathe,” he tries to console. He looks around frantically, like one of the sports therapist students or coaches might be walking past the rinks this late at night. There’s no soul in the building besides the both of you, everyone resting for their busy weekends of competitions and away hockey games. “Please.”

You focus on his words, how he guides you, three seconds in, three seconds out. You focus on the soothing patterns he’s drawing down your back, focus on the beating of his heart and latch onto his scent: night-chilled mist and cedar.

“Sorry,” you croak when you finally manage to calm yourself and slide a step back. Your gaze sits pointedly on the ice. You don’t want him to see you like this, a woman who’s about to fucking crumble.

“Don’t be,” Azriel says softly. His hand finds your face, and as much as you don’t want him to, he lifts your chin. You don’t fight it, emotionally exhausted. You should have asked for a raincheck, but you can admit to the fact that Azriel’s gentle touch is a comfort that you can’t help but lean into.

Sad, hazel eyes meet yours. They’re more golden brown than green, a forest of hues backlit by a burst of gold. Your breath hitches as he drags a thumb softly across your lips. They part, even though you don’t mean them to, and the whisper of breath that leaves you passes over his hand, crawls up his arm, and sends shivers down his spine.

“You okay there, sweetheart?”

You’re not sure you can hold yourself together enough to answer his question without completely melting into a puddle at his feet.

Your silence must be answer enough. Azriel takes both of your hands in his own and guides you back toward the bench where you left your shoes. His grip is reassuring, and you’re so tired that you don’t even have it in yourself to sling a witty remark his way.

For what might be the first time in your life, you allow yourself to be taken care of.

You can’t even muster a chuckle at the way he stumbles over the toe pick on his way off the ice, or the way you’re waddling in these skates. You feel anything but graceful and strong right now, but with Azriel’s hand in yours, it’s not as off-putting as you feared it might be.

“Sit,” he says, keeping his fingers clasped around yours as you heed his command. It brings you eye-level to his hands, puckered and pink and scarred to hell. They’re beautiful in every way. He embraces his story, and it’s an incredible strength, one you’re much too terrified of attempting to recreate.

“Azriel, no,” you protest, jolting forward when he lowers himself to his knees before you. You plant your hands on his shoulders, ready to force him away because you’re more than capable of taking your own skates off.

He catches your wrists, and you didn’t think his eyes could soften any more, but they do, and you melt. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Let me take care of this for you.”

You try to swallow past the knot in your throat to thank him but are unable to. Instead, you nod and reluctantly sit back.

Azriel’s gentle with his movements, like you’re a wild doe that he’s helping free from a snare. He unties the tight knots, and your heart pinches when he struggles for a moment. You wouldn’t notice if you weren’t watching so intently, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

Like he knows you need to see this.

You carefully keep your mind from wandering into how good he looks like this before you.

He slips the first skate off, and you stretch your toes. It’s a reflex. Azriel smiles, peeking up at you just in time to catch your blush. His gaze ducks away before you become embarrassed, setting your foot down and holding your other ankle, lifting to get to work.

You hiss softly at the ache in your knee.

“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” Concern laces his voice, and you’re quick to reassure him.

“No, no,” you cringe a little at the lingering sting. “It’s nothing.”

“Sweetheart.” Azriel says sternly. Seriously. “That reaction wasn’t nothing. What’s wrong?”

You sigh, defeated in more ways than one. You don’t want to admit that the injury that threw your entire career off-kilter is acting up again. You’d rather not have anyone know.

Perhaps Azriel is different. Or, maybe he’s forcing you, because the gold in his eyes is intense, pinning you to your spot. His mouth is set in a straight, firm line. He looks like he means fucking business.

You avert your gaze. You’ve never admitted defeat like this, but if Azriel can wear his scars so proudly, maybe you can too.

“I tore my ACL a few months ago.” You admit, sniffling. You can feel the shock in Azriel’s gaze, but you refuse to look him in the eye. He’s the first person at this school outside of your coach who’s hearing it. You’ve never been so vulnerable, especially with someone you hardly know. You press on nonetheless. “It’s been fine up until now.” A white lie. “But it’s been a little sore since I started practicing my jumps again.”

“How many months is ‘a few’?” He questions, and he’s not going to like the answer, so you opt for brushing over it.

“I’ll go back to seeing my therapist,” you offer instead, but even you’re not too sure how much truth your words hold.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Azriel says, and you don’t want his sympathy, but you’re too exhausted for your usual anger to stir to life. “You need to take care of yourself, before it gets any worse.”

His sentiment has your nose stinging, eyes prickling once again. What the fuck is wrong with you these days? Get it together, girl. You can cry in your own room, not in front of the hot boy who’s helping you with your godsdamned shoes.

You drag your gaze back to his. “I will.” You think.

He studies you for a moment before nodding, accepting your answer whether he believes it or not. You don’t have it in yourself to care right now. No, you just want to be back in the safety of your dorm.

Azriel is even more careful removing this skate and helping you slip into your shoes. He makes quick work of his own, and while his head is down, you admire his stature. Broad shoulders and chest that tapers into a tight waist, an ass for days.

You’re not done drooling over him when he stands, offering you a hand.

You slip your palm into his, ignoring the electricity that zips down your arm. You’re hyperaware of him by your side, and it’s only when he’s absolutely sure that you’re steady on your feet that he drops your hand.

You try not to feel too disappointed at the loss.

“Let’s get you home, sweetheart,” Azriel offers, and you trail him from the arena, your heart feeling a bit fuller with the nickname.

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Azriel Hockey!AU Tags:

@whyonearthisyourusernamethi-blog @going-through-shit @crazylokonugget @lilah-asteria @girl-who-writes-stuff @moosemahboi @sherayuki @lyinginameadow @acourtofatboydreams @blackthorngirl @shadowsingercassia @evergreenlark @hannzoaks @bloodicka @whyshouldihaveanam3 @elle4404 @cherry-cin @quinzzelx @i-am-infinite @feeriqueivre @blightyblinders @kennedy-brooke @nyxbranwenn @dee-writes-smut @konaanaria13

[gay-dorito-dust]

:33 can you imagine Ford reading his book trying so hard to focus on the paragraph but like- He’s so distracted by Reader’s kisses and snuggles like like they’re acting like a cat and Ford just kalskskdjskdk

Ford was trying his hardest to get through the paragraph, he really was, but when you were sleepy ford found that you tended to become more affectionate. As was the case when he felt you snuggle up into his side as closely as you physically could while pressing tender kisses to his jaw and side of his neck.

‘Beloved.’ Ford said softly.

‘Yes my dearest?’ You purred, nuzzling your head into his chest, pressing a kiss there because you felt like it, that and you didn’t think you give Ford as much affection as he deserved…also the little hitches in his breathing were delicious.

‘I’m- im trying to read and you’re being quite-‘

‘Distracting?’ You asked and you could see the blush spreading across his face as his fingers toyed with the corners of the pages belonging to the book he was reading. For someone as smart and eloquent as him, you lived for the days where you got to see him be flustered and unsure of himself when it can to displaying affection, especially seeing as he had went without such for a good majority of his life.

‘I’m afraid so my dear, you know how easily affected I am by your preferred form of affection.’ Ford replied, feeling his mind falter and freeze upon feeling your lips once again kindly greet the skin of his jawline, little kisses scattered across it that it almost felt ticklish. He knew you were smiling and feeling proud of yourself because he could feel it pressed up against the pulse point of his neck.

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about my sweetheart,’ you spoke against his skin, closing your eyes as you felt his skin grow warmer under your lips as his pulse pulsed against them as though eagerly reciprocating your kisses with his quick it was going, ‘I thought a man like you could keep his composure.’ You added with a chuckle, knowing from firsthand experience that wasn’t the case at all.

‘I’m afraid that does not count when in the presence of a true beauty of a person such as you may love.’ Ford felt you stiffen as he smiled to himself, yes he could be poetic as they come, he had to read Jane Austen’s books for a class once in college and could recite anything from that book off by heart from how often he annotated the poor book front to back, and in incredible depth too.

‘Who knew you’d be a man of such flattering words Stanford.’ You teased as you were now practically half sat on his lap that Ford had to lay a hand against the small of your back to keep you pressed against. Ford chuckles as he hurries his face into your head, hiding his sweet smile, ‘only for you my dear, only for you.’ He chants softly and you couldn’t help but thank whom ever for bringing Ford to you, for he was the best thing to have ever happened in your life, and you would gladly dedicate yourself to showing him just how much you adore him; it was the least you could do for the man you loved to death.

‘You deserve to be caressed by words, not showered in them. kissed, not smothered. Praised with words whispered in your ears rather than out loud in public as though it was a spectacle. I want to love you in moments like these, soft, slow, forgettable to most but memorable to others who don’t live life in the fast lane and forget to cherish the quieter parts in life.’ You tell Ford sincerely as you positioned your head back to rest against his shoulder, while his hand absentmindedly stroked your side softly, slowly; his book long forgotten as you both decided to enjoy each others company without making a freaks spectacle out of it.

[angel1010xx]

ｃｉｇａｒｅｔｔｅｓ

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Pairing: Sanji x Reader

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You hated cigarettes.

Cigarettes were stuffy and overwhelming, the scent lingered for hours, and the smoke made your lungs feel closed up. They were complete bombardments to your senses, and genuinely? You felt as if the world would be better off without them. Smoking is a bad habit, after all. Why would anyone willingly choose to give themselves lung cancer and an early grave?

The Thousand Sunny was having a lively night. Brooks was merrily serenading the crew, while each of them were on their own missions. Zoro was drinking (to death, probably, how was his liver still functioning?), Usopp was reliving the latest battle with Luffy, Franky, and Chopper (with embellishments, of course, not that his audience would be able to detect them), and Nami and Robin were sucked into their books (they were so perfect, the crew hardly deserved the gift of their presence). That just left Sanji.

Running around, fawning over “Nami-Swan,” and lighting yet another cigarette.

Yes, he was a phenomenal chef. Yes, he was doting and chivalrous. Yes, he was charismatic and consistent, and it was so hard to find a man that to actually abide by a moral code. But God, he was perverted. He was unbearable. And he reeked like menthol.

Sighing, you crossed your wrists over each other and leaned on the railing of the ship. The Grand Line was dangerous, but it was beautiful when the moonlight reflected across the water. The sights, the wind in your face, and the freedom made all the trouble worth the adventure. You were apart from the main crowd, opting for some personal space at the front of the ship. The Straw Hat crew was your family; and true to life, everyone needs their elbow room sometimes, even from the ones they love most. 

Approaching footsteps interrupted your peace. Looking over your shoulder, you spotted Sanji walking towards you. Great, you thought. He gazed at you with a slight tension in his brow. “The fish is ready. Are you going to eat?”

“In a little bit, yes,” you responded. “I just wanted some fresh air and quiet right now.” Sanji settled in, standing beside you, mimicking your pose by also leaning against the railing. “I hope you come down soon,” he spoke in a low voice. “Our princess-warrior needs her strength just like the rest of us.” 

A smile tugged at your lips. “I’m scared, Sanji,” you whispered, choosing to open up to him. “The world is changing. I worry about my people at home. I know there’s ample resources and military force to keep them safe, but…” you trailed off, eyes shifting from focusing and losing focusing on the sea waves. Sanji let out a hum, and pulled out a cigarette and a light. You cocked your head towards him, this time with a slight lip curl. “You just had one. Do you really have to smoke another one, right here?”

He let out a puff of smoke and a chuckle. “Mon amour, we all have ways of dealing with our stress.” 

Sanji shifted to face his body towards you, but kept one arm on the railing. “You can’t sit there and worry about your people all day and night. I see it on your face every time I look at you. It practically breaks my heart,” he paused to place his free hand on his chest. He broke out into a warm smile. “Right here and now, princess, you are safe, and they are safe too.” 

You let out a deep breath, doing your best to soak in his words. “Thank you, Sanji.” He let out another hum, put out his cigarette, and brought you in for a hug. “Of course, mon amour.”

Yes, he smelled like menthol. Yes, you had a hard time breathing. But he also smelled like cologne. He was warm, and the feeling of his breath down the side of your neck made you shiver. A thought came into your mind for a split second—what would it be like to taste the cigarette, if you were to press your lips to his own?

It’s a fine line between love and hate, after all. 

[ninyard]

no because ohhhh my god ohmygod. aaron's triggers are so *specific* like it's a bathroom door not a front door. a certain type of lock rattling. rustling but not footsteps. he's a doctor he's got technical brilliance he made it through D1 varsity sports + pre-med + mafia fuckery + neil josten's presence AND YET he can't predict what will set him off. also the deep-rooted fear of being an unpredictable parent is so Him and so There. exy strength to break down the door, surgeon's perception to check for blood, and aaron has to leave.

GODDD that's the thing Aaron has always been the sane one, the normal twin, the functioning one of the family, everyone always saying, "it must be so difficult to have a brother like Andrew," and never "does Andrew find it difficult to have a brother like you?"

Aaron is the well adjusted twin. The one who kept strong when his mother passed away, the quiet child, a glass child of sorts, finding himself on this pedestal of being "the normal one". So Aaron is the normal one, and he holds himself together with textbooks and exy racquets.

But his biggest fear is being like his mom, his biggest fear is losing control, his biggest fear is his kids seeing him be the man he was before he met Katelyn. Aaron isn't always afraid of racquets or strong men or angry women. But Aaron hates when Andrew wears the same clothes as him. He's terrified of locked doors, he panics at the feeling of hands in his hair. Aaron doesn't know what he's afraid of. Usually he can let Andrew leave the table at family dinners without panicking. Sometimes he can't. Most of the time he doesn't freak out when the locks on doors don't unlock first try. Sometimes he does. Most of the time he can smell whiskey and not feel like he's going to throw up. But sometimes he just. Can't.

And he doesn't know when it's going to happen, when he's not going to be strong enough to keep it together. He can't predict it, he can't tell.

God, Aaron has spent so long being the normal twin, that when suddenly he has problems he feels like he has no right to have them in the first place. How can he complain that he has flashbacks about that night, and wakes up screaming and crying after a nightmare every other night, when Andrew was the one who was hurt? Aaron doesn't feel like he can say "I can't breathe when there's just one door closed in a hallway" when Andrew was the one behind that closed door.

Just... Aaron feeling like he can't be traumatised. Aaron feeling like he isn't traumatised until something simple, something small, something totally normal triggers him and he's reminded how this thing, this part of his life, is never going to leave him. He can save a mans life, he can give a child a second chance at living, he can move on after the toughest patient death because that's his job. But still he will always be 19 years old and scared. and he will always be locked in a bathroom, crying, begging Andrew to let him leave. He will always have Andrew hands on him and did he touch you and he will always be covered in the blood that almost sent him to prison. Aaron growing around his trauma, but never really getting rid of it. Yeah.

[disciplined-cornfed]

🐃 Bucking Bronco 🐂

Jake slouched in his office chair, eyes glazed over from hours of staring at a computer screen. The city buzzed around him, but he felt numb to it. The relentless clamor, the towering buildings, the rush of people—it was draining. The city had once been exciting, but now it just felt like a cage.

He sighed, leaning back, wondering if this was it. His life had turned into a cycle: work, home, sleep, repeat. There had to be more. He longed for something simpler, something that felt real.

That evening, he found himself at a local dive bar, his usual escape. As he nursed his drink, a figure caught his eye—a man at the other end of the bar. Broad-shouldered, dressed in a worn flannel, cowboy boots tapping lightly against the floor, and a cowboy hat perched low on his head. He looked out of place in the city but completely at ease. The man’s presence radiated confidence, something Jake hadn’t felt in a long time.

Jake couldn’t help but stare. The man caught his gaze, raised an eyebrow, and motioned for Jake to come over.

“What’s eatin’ at ya?” the man asked in a low, easy drawl. His voice was calm, steady, like he had all the time in the world.

Jake chuckled nervously. “Life, I guess. Just feels like I’m stuck.”

The cowboy grinned, flashing a bit of understanding. “You look like you’re searching for something, son. I used to be in the same boat, till I figured out what I needed.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “What was that?”

The cowboy reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone, flipping through something until he found what he was looking for. “Here,” he said, sliding the phone across the table. “Watch this video. Changed my life, and it might just do the same for you.”

Jake hesitated, then grabbed the phone. It was a subliminal—the screen flashed with phrases like “strength,” “discipline,” “confidence,” and “cowboy.” He smirked. Subliminals? He didn’t buy into that kind of thing, but something about this man, his confidence, his calmness—it was intriguing.

“I’ll give it a shot,” Jake said, not fully convinced.

The cowboy tipped his hat. “Might be what you’re lookin’ for, son. Embrace it, and you’ll be surprised where it takes you.”

The next morning, Jake sat at his kitchen table, staring at his phone, his curiosity getting the better of him. He hit play on the video. The music was soft at first, but soon it picked up—a low hum of country tunes overlaid with affirmations. Phrases flashed on the screen: strength, discipline, focus, cowboy grit.

Jake scoffed at first but decided to let it play while he worked from home. The video rolled on in the background, and slowly, something inside him began to shift.

Over the next few days, Jake felt… different. It was subtle at first, almost like a shift in the background of his mind, but as the days went on, the change became undeniable. At work, where the constant hum of city life usually gnawed at him, something had shifted. The noise of the city—horns blaring, engines rumbling, people rushing past in a frenzy—had always felt like an attack on his senses. But now, it was like his mind had learned to filter it out. The overwhelming rush of coworkers demanding this and that suddenly felt less important, like background noise rather than a storm he had to weather. Jake wasn’t reacting to every little inconvenience like before. Instead, he felt… steady.

He couldn’t explain it, but it was as if something inside him had found its footing. Where there had been anxiety, there was now calm. Where there had been stress, there was a sense of grounded strength. It was almost as if nothing could shake him anymore, as if he had discovered a deeper part of himself that thrived on patience and discipline. The chaos of the city didn’t matter as much now, because somewhere inside him, he was becoming someone bigger, someone stronger than the noise around him.

Then there was the gym.

Jake had always been someone who dabbled in working out. He’d go for a jog every now and then, maybe hit the weights when he felt guilty about skipping too many days, but it had never been serious. Now, though, something inside him had woken up. There was an urge that hadn’t been there before, a desire to push himself that felt raw and real.

One evening after work, instead of heading straight home like usual, Jake found himself walking into the gym with a sense of purpose. Without even thinking about it, he made his way to the free weights, eyeing the barbell in front of him. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt compelled to load more weight than he ever had before. Maybe it was the subliminal taking effect, or maybe it was something deeper within him that had finally stirred awake.

He gripped the bar, feeling the strain as he hoisted it up. The weight was heavy—heavier than anything he’d lifted in a long time—but instead of stopping when his muscles began to ache, he pushed through it. There was a strange kind of satisfaction in the burn, in knowing that he was going beyond his limits. Strength and discipline became his mantras as he lifted, each rep feeling like a step toward something bigger, something stronger. It was no longer just about the physical challenge; it was about mastering himself.

By the time he left the gym, drenched in sweat, he felt something he hadn’t felt in years—pride. Not just in the effort he’d put in, but in the realization that he could be more. That night, as he showered and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, something else caught his attention. His shoulders—they looked broader. His arms seemed fuller, his chest tighter. He brushed it off as the post-workout pump, but the next morning, when he looked again, the change was still there.

As the days passed, the transformation continued. Jake’s body wasn’t just changing—it was growing. His shirts started to fit differently, snug across his chest and arms. He found himself flexing in front of the mirror after every gym session, admiring the way his muscles swelled under his skin. The pleasure he took from seeing his growing physiquewas undeniable, and with each flex, he felt a surge of confidence he hadn’t known he needed.

It was satisfying in a way he never anticipated. The bulky cowboy build he had admired on the man in the bar—the cowboy who had given him the video—was now becoming his own. He felt powerful in a way that was more than just physical. It was as if the strength he was building in the gym was seeping into his mind, reinforcing that calm, grounded feeling he’d been experiencing.

But it wasn’t just his body that was transforming—his mind was changing too.

Jake’s tastes began to shift in ways he hadn’t anticipated. He found himself taking an interest in things that had once seemed distant, even irrelevant. At first, it was subtle—a feeling, a slight tug when he passed a country station on the radio. He couldn’t quite place it, but there was something about the twang of the guitar and the way the lyrics captured a sense of simplicity, of life lived at a slower, more meaningful pace.

He resisted it at first, brushing it off as a fluke, but as the days passed, country music started to sneak its way into his playlists. It wasn’t long before he found himself actively seeking it out, drawn to the stories being told in the songs—the honesty, the grit, the appreciation for the small things. Lyrics about long dirt roads, endless skies, and working with your hands spoke to something deep within him, something that felt almost forgotten.

The more he listened, the more it felt like home—a place he had never been but somehow knew. The noise of the city, once his soundtrack, began to feel hollow, like it was missing something real. The lyrics in the songs reminded him of a life that was stripped down, pure, and authentic, and as he absorbed more, he felt a pull inside, something that whispered that this was the life he had been missing. It was as though the music was gently coaxing him to remember who he was meant to be.

It wasn’t just the music. Images of open fields, horses galloping, the simple joy of watching the sunset from a porch—all of it stirred something in him. It was like a veil had lifted, and he began to see the appeal of the cowboy lifestyle. The rush of city life, the constant pressure to move, to climb, to consume—it all started to feel like a distant memory, something that had once held meaning but now seemed meaningless.

One weekend, without much thought, Jake wandered into a western wear store. The smell of leather hit him as soon as he walked through the door, earthy and rich, filling the air with a sense of tradition and strength. For a moment, he hesitated, glancing around the store with a bit of uncertainty. This wasn’t him, he thought, or at least, not the version of himself he’d always known. The Jake who wore button-down shirts and polished shoes didn’t belong in a place like this.

But then, something shifted. He couldn’t explain it, but there was a pull. The smell of the leather, the rows of cowboy boots, the racks of flannel shirts—it all felt right. Like he had been here before, like he belonged. He found his feet moving almost automatically, drawn toward a pair of cowboy boots that caught his eye—classic, brown leather, with a worn-in look that spoke of adventure and resilience. Without much thought, he picked them up and tried them on. They fit perfectly.

The feeling didn’t stop there. His hands moved to a pair of jeans, thick and sturdy, built for work, not just for show. Next came the flannel shirt, its weight and warmth settling over his shoulders as if it was made for him. Each item felt like it was calling to him, like they were pieces of a puzzle he hadn’t realized he needed to complete.

When he stepped into the changing room and put them all on together—the boots, the jeans, the flannel—he felt something click. As he looked at himself in the mirror, his breath caught. The man staring back at him was different. The broad shoulders, the muscular arms that strained against the fabric of the flannel, the rugged look—he didn’t just see a reflection. He saw strength, capability, a man who was connected to the earth, to something primal and real. He looked like someone who worked with his hands, who knew how to take care of himself.

He flexed, watching his biceps swell under the fabric, the seams stretching with the movement. A grin spread across his face. He felt powerful, like he was stepping into the man he was always meant to be—one who was grounded, strong, and in control. There was a pleasure in it, a satisfaction that came not just from how he looked but from how it made him feel inside. The clothes were more than just clothes. They were a symbol of the change he was undergoing, a physical manifestation of the strength he had been building—both inside and out.

It wasn’t long before hunting and fishing became his weekend routine. Jake found himself rising with the sun, craving the stillness of early mornings by the lake or in the woods, rifle slung over his shoulder, or fishing rod in hand. There was something almost meditative about it—the way the world felt calm and silent, the only sound his breath, the crunch of dirt under his boots, the rustle of leaves in the wind. The quiet of nature was the opposite of the city, and it gave him something the city never could: peace.

But it was more than just peace. The patience required in hunting, the skill needed to wait for just the right moment—it all felt right. Every time he lined up his shot or cast his line, he felt connected to something ancient, something essential. The physical strength he had built in the gym had a purpose here. It wasn’t just for looks. It made him feel capable, in control, like he could handle anything the world threw at him.

The rest of his old life started to fade away. The noisy nights at crowded bars, the constant pressure to stay on top of things that didn’t really matter—it all started to seem so… irrelevant. Instead, Jake started watching videos made by cowboy content creators, following guys who lived the life he was slowly stepping into. They talked about rodeo, horse riding, and working on trucks. He found himself nodding along, absorbing every bit of their wisdom, eager to learn.

It wasn’t just learning—it was becoming. He was becoming something more, something truer to himself. One afternoon, as he got under his pickup truck to change the oil, his hands covered in grease, he couldn’t help but smile. This was real. The feel of the tools in his hands, the satisfaction of fixing something with his own strength—it was what he had been missing all along. Each turn of the wrench, each smear of grease on his skin felt like a connection to the life he was embracing.

For the first time in his life, Jake felt truly in control. Not just of his body, but of his mind, his life. He was becoming the man he was always meant to be—a cowboy, through and through.

Finally, after weeks of change, Jake found himself back at the same bar where it all started. The city lights flickered outside, but they seemed dull compared to the quiet strength he felt within himself. He walked into the bar, boots heavy against the wooden floor, his stride confident, his presence commanding. The weight of his broad shoulders, the bulkof his arms straining against his flannel, and the calm demeanor he now carried set him apart from the crowd. He felt more than just different—he felt like he belonged somewhere else, somewhere deeper.

The cowboy was there again, sitting at the counter, his hat tipped low. It felt like a full circle, like Jake had come back not as the man he had been but as the cowboy he had become. He slid onto the stool next to the man, a quiet confidence radiating from him.

The cowboy glanced up, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Well, look at you, partner. You’ve changed.”

Jake nodded. “More than I expected. I didn’t realize how far off track I’d gotten.”

The cowboy chuckled, his voice steady and warm. “That’s life. Sometimes you lose sight of what’s real, what’s true. But it looks like you found your way back.”

Jake looked down at his hands, calloused now from working on his truck, from hunting, fishing, and lifting at the gym. He didn’t need to say anything. He felt it in every fiber of his being. Strength, not just in his body, but in his mind and in the way he faced the world. He had become something more—grounded, disciplined, and powerful. He wasn’t just another city guy trying to fit in. He was a cowboy, inside and out.

But as Jake looked around the bar, he noticed something else. He saw others, the way they slouched in their chairs, glued to their phones, drowning their stress in drinks. It was the way he used to be, always chasing something but never feeling truly connected to anything real. Now, he could see it so clearly—the potential in them, untapped, waiting to be unleashed. They were like ponies, timid, lost, unaware of the strength they held inside, waiting to become bucking broncos—waiting for someone to show them the way.

Over the next few weeks, Jake couldn’t shake the feeling that he needed to do more, not just for himself, but for others. He had found something real, something powerful, and he wanted to share it. When he talked to his friends, his coworkers, even strangers he met at the gym, he could see it in their eyes—that same restlessness he once felt. The dissatisfaction with the grind, the search for something meaningful.

Jake started to subtly plant the seeds, talking about his transformation, about the cowboy code he had adopted, the simplicity of the country life. At first, they were skeptical—laughing off his suggestions, joking about his new flannel-and-boots look—but Jake didn’t mind. He could see beyond their reactions. He could see the potential in them, the part of them that craved the same thing he had craved—freedom, strength, and a sense of purpose.

“You’re chasing the wrong things,” he would tell them, his voice calm and confident. “You don’t need the city noise, the pressure, the constant distractions. What you need is something real. Something that makes you stronger—inside and out.”

Some brushed him off. But others… others listened. Slowly, they started to come to him for advice, curious about the changes they saw in him. Jake became a mentor, guiding them through the same steps he had taken. He showed them how to build physical strength, but more importantly, he showed them how to find mental strength. How to stay calm under pressure, how to live with honor and discipline, and how to embrace the cowboy lifestyle that had given him so much clarity.

He started taking a few of them to the gym, pushing them through workouts the way he had pushed himself, watching with pride as their bodies began to change. But it wasn’t just about the physical transformation. It was about helping them unlock that mental resilience, the calm strength that had become his foundation. He encouraged them to get out of the city, to take up hunting, fishing, and working with their hands. He knew that the more they embraced the cowboy code, the stronger they would become, not just in their bodies but in their minds and in the way they faced life.

For Jake, it was about more than just muscle or a new wardrobe. It was about turning ponies into broncos—guiding those who felt lost or weak into becoming the powerful, capable people he knew they could be. He could see the wild strength in them, the potential to break free from the chains of their old lives and ride through life with confidence, just as he had.

Each day, he watched them transform—slowly at first, then with more certainty. Their shoulders squared, their voices deepened, their confidence growing with each step they took toward the cowboy life. Jake felt a surge of pride with every person he helped, knowing he was giving them more than just advice. He was giving them the tools to become themselves, the strongest, most resilient versions of who they were meant to be.

One evening, after a long day of working with a few of his friends, Jake found himself back at the same bar where his journey had started. He leaned back against the bar, cowboy boots scuffed and dusty, his flannel rolled up to his elbows. He smiled as he glanced around the room, noticing the subtle changes in the people he’d helped. He’d started something—something bigger than himself.

The cowboy from that first night appeared again, almost like a figure of fate. He sidled up next to Jake at the bar, his familiar grin back in place. “Looks like you’ve been busy, partner.”

Jake nodded, his voice steady. “More than I thought I’d be. They’re coming around, one by one.”

The cowboy tipped his hat, looking around the bar, the room filled with people who were on the same path Jake had once walked. “That’s the thing about cowboys,” he said, voice low. “We don’t just ride for ourselves. We ride for others. Show them the way.”

Jake smiled, looking down at his hands. “Yeah,” he said. “We do.”

As he stood there, feeling the quiet satisfaction of not just his own transformation but the changes he had sparked in others, Jake realized that he had become more than just a cowboy. He had become a leader—someone who lived by the cowboy code, someone who helped others find their way back to what was real.

And as he looked around the bar, he knew he wasn’t done. There were still ponies out there—waiting to become broncos.

[mikashisus]

HSR MEN WITH AS IT IS SONGS !

PAIRINGS: dan heng, aventurine, sunday, jing yuan, blade x gn!reader

CWS: angst

NOTES: all of u can blame gwen and jun for the dan heng section. anyw ive been so hyperfixated on as it is lately bc they just announced they’re coming back from hiatus and RAHHHH IM SO EXCITED, ive been waiting so longgg i missed the pookies sm <//3 ermm this is not proofread sorry for any errors !!

WC: 1.1k

THE FIRE, THE DARK — DAN HENG

“she’s all i want, now that i’m on my own, now that she’s really gone” …

on the days where his mind wasn’t occupied with the data bank or memories of his past life, his thoughts always drifted to you.

you, who always kept him warm with your body heat. you, who always filled the express with constant laughter and chatter. you, who never failed to distract him from his work. your smile that could light up an entire room and your joyful presence that beckoned others to you.

but he let you slip through his fingers. and now, his bed was cold and so was he. his room was quiet, almost devoid of life except for his soft breathing. the parlor car was empty, except for welt and himeko’s occasional whispers. breakfasts weren’t any fun anymore, not when you weren’t there to rile up march and shout “food fight!”

his life was dull without you, the fire that kept him going. now there was a different fire, but it didn’t burn as bright as you. it never would. now that you were gone, traveling elsewhere in the cosmos, you were all he ever wanted.

DIAL TONES — AVENTURINE

“i’ll mend your heart and break it in the same breath, all we ever share are dial tones” …

another night of the same shit. you had been waiting for the inevitable ringtone that always sounded when he called you.

same time every night without fail. sometimes, he wouldn’t call at all. he’d blow off your dates and then gift you things you didn’t need to try and make up for it. but all you really wanted was to spend time with him.

you waited, cuddling a plushie he gifted you to your chest. the clock struck midnight and still no call. you were just about to give up and call it a night, when your phone screen lit up and the caller id displayed his name. you eagerly sat up, reaching for your phone, when you suddenly paused.

he was going to recite the same words. you could feel it. you let your hand drop back onto your bed and sighed as you turned your back to your phone. you wouldn’t answer. not tonight.

when you woke up the next morning, his side of the bed was still empty, but a small note rested on his pillow. you picked it up, only to see the same lame half-assed apology he always gave. you crumpled up the piece of paper and grabbed your phone, dialing his number.

THE HANDWRITTEN LETTER — SUNDAY

“i need you when i’m bruised, i need you when i’m broken” …

he fell from grace. he was no longer the esteemed head of the oak family. he was now… a fallen angel. a fugitive of penacony.

and yet, he came crawling to you for help again. even now, when he knew that involving you meant you would be a fugitive too. but he needed you— needed your smile, your laugh, your presence, your embrace. everything about you.

you always healed him when he felt broken and bruised. you always welcomed him into your home without question, tending to his broken state of mind and allowing him a moment of solace from the outside world.

he knocked thrice, waiting for the door to the shop to swing open like it always did. but there was no answer from the other side, no sign of life. he knocked again, only to realize the sign in the window. the shop was closed, and sold.

you were gone. you didn’t tell him you were leaving. why didn’t you tell him? why didn’t you stay when he so clearly needed you?

he fished out his beaten up phone and sent you a text, only for it to not go through.

THE TRUTH I’LL NEVER TELL — JING YUAN

“how long's it been, it must be months, i swear this time I meant to keep in touch, like always” …

how long has it been? months? years?

he swore he’d keep in touch with you even after you moved to the yaoqing, yet he never took that one step to sending you a text or dialing your number.

it was slowly getting harder for him. his mental health was getting worse. all of his past friends were showing up again, all of them completely different from the people they used to be. they were familiar faces, yet he didn’t recognize any of them.

you were the only one thing that stayed constant in his life before you also left. you moved, and you slowly changed, just like everyone else.

he wondered if you moved on, found a new partner, had kids…

he could easily text you, or call, and ask to catch up sometime. but he was scared. you’d ask about his wellbeing, and he wouldn’t be able to tell you because he didn’t want you to feel disappointed. he didn’t want you to feel guilty for leaving him by himself.

you sent him texts. he read each one. he’d reread them when he missed you terribly. yet, he couldn’t find the courage to reply. you sent him letters once in a while, yet none of them told of how your own life was going. you always asked about him. how he’s been, how yanqing was doing, how fu xuan was faring.

you asked about dan feng once, and that was the only time he responded, telling of his reincarnation. that was the last and only time he replied.

PATCHWORK LOVE — BLADE

“i won’t forget you, i won’t regret through the pain, the years i gave to you” …

he knows you used to love him, but you don’t anymore. you loved who he used to be.

yingxing was the man you fell in love with once upon a time. it’s been years since then. did he even remember that time? you did. you oh so clearly did.

whenever you reconnected, you’d bring it up. you’d talk about all the things you two used to do, where you’d go, the holidays you spent together. it seemed as if your head was filled entirely of memories from the past. as if your heart still beat for the man he used to be, when all he used to do was smile. when all he said to you were words of love and encouragement.

but it’s been years since then. and he was not the same man you knew. he was mara-struck, his mental health unstable and teetering on the edge of insanity at every moment.

yet, you seemed to be the same. somehow. you’d text him now and then, and he knew you felt guilty for what happened, even though it wasn’t your fault in the slightest. he never blamed you for anything.

you’d ask to meetup, and when you did, he saw how you were almost the exact same as you used to be. just, now, your eyes were duller, no longer filled with that wonder he always loved the most about you.

you talked of how your life was going. you were faring well— way better than he was. you had kids. they were all grown up with families of their own. your heart no longer beat for him. it seemed as if you finally moved on.

he wouldn’t ever forget you. he swore he wouldn’t. not when thoughts of you kept him sane. although the past you shared was no more, he still felt himself again when he was with you. as if nothing changed.

© 2024 mikashisus. do not plagiarize, copy, repost, feed to ai, or translate my works to any other platforms.

[criminal-act7]

The Worst

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Blk reader

Genre: angst and nothing but angst. Smut is just a bonus.

Summary: You left the BAU 4 years ago in pursuit of a new career. You and Spencer made the long-distance work until you couldn’t. Two months after the breakup, Spencer and you meet up for closure.

Warnings: unprotected sex, oral sex (f), fingering

Notes: it's been so long since I've written smut, so I'm kinda rusty. Low key I had Don't Smile by Sabrina carpenter in mu head now. I hope you guys enjoy!

Two days ago, everything was perfect. You had returned to D.C. to visit your old friends and colleagues at the BAU, and of course, to see your boyfriend, Spencer Reid. It had been two years since you left the BAU to study music theory in the Twin Cities, and now you were about to start teaching in Minneapolis. While you missed Spencer dearly, and he missed you, too, the long-distance visits hadn’t been enough. But this time felt different. 

Spencer surprised you with a romantic dinner, and just when you thought it couldn't get better, he proposed. You had dreamed of this moment for so long, knowing Spencer’s cautious nature meant the timing had to be just right. But when he finally asked, your answer was easy. Yes. Of course, yes.

Now, curled up in his arms on the couch, you feel the warmth of his presence, the joy of being together again. But tonight, as Spencer begins to talk about the future, you realize that your dreams may not be as aligned as you once thought.

“You’re not serious right now,” you say, disbelief threading through your voice.

“I am,” Spencer replies, his gaze steady on yours. He gently brushes his fingers across your knuckles.

“Spencer, I can’t just drop everything and move back to D.C. I just started teaching in Minnesota.”

“I know, but if we act now, we can get this amazing house—”

“Wait, what? You’ve already been looking at houses?”

He averts his eyes for a moment, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. “I found one. It’s perfect for us. There’s even a wishing well in the backyard. We’re getting married, Y/N. Why not plan for the future?”

“We got engaged two days ago! Spencer, we have time. We don’t need to rush.”

“I know,” he says, his voice softening, “but I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you. Besides, we don’t know what could happen.”

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “I get it. I used to work at the BAU, I understand. But I don’t want to give up teaching. This is something I love.”

“You don’t have to give it up,” Spencer says, leaning forward, trying to bridge the gap between you. “You could teach in D.C. or even Virginia.”

You shake your head, already knowing where this conversation is headed. “Spencer, I’m not leaving Minnesota. These kids need me. Music gives them a creative outlet. It helps keep them out of trouble.”

He pauses, his voice quiet now. “What about me?”

Your heart tightens at his words. “What about you? We text every day, we talk on the phone, and we video chat when we can.”

“It’s not the same,” he murmurs, his thumb grazing the back of your hand. 

“If you miss me so much, you could come to Minnesota,” you offer with a hopeful smile. 

“And do what? Teach?” He lets out a small laugh, but there’s no real humor in it.

“You’d make a hot professor,” you joke, trying to lighten the mood, but it doesn’t land. 

“I don’t want to teach, Y/N. That’s your dream, not mine.”

“And that’s exactly why I’m staying in Minnesota,” you reply. “This makes me happy. I’m finally doing something meaningful, something that fulfills me.”

“You were doing meaningful work before,” Spencer argues, his voice rising slightly. “You saved lives. You were a great profiler.”

“And how many lives did we lose? How many victims never got justice?” Your voice wavers. “I wasn’t happy in that life, Spencer. Not like I am now.”

He exhales, his frustration evident. “So, how do we make this work? You in Minnesota, me in D.C.?”

“I don’t know,” you admit quietly. “I thought we’d figure it out.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t just ‘figure it out.’ What, do you think we can hop on planes every weekend, or after I finish a case?”

“Well, if you didn’t have this all figured out, why did you propose?” you ask, feeling the tension rise between you.

“Because I did have it figured out!” he snaps, his voice sharp. “You’re the one who changed the plan, refusing to come with me.”

“I didn’t refuse,” you say, your tone turning defensive. “I just can’t drop my life because you want me to live yours.”

“We’re in a relationship, Y/N! You’re not single anymore. I’ve always supported you. Why can’t you do the same for me?”

“I’m not saying you haven’t supported me. But why should I give up my dream for yours?”

“Because I don’t think you’d be happy long-term!” Spencer exclaims. “You never mentioned any of this before. Then suddenly, you tell me you’re teaching in Minnesota, out of nowhere.”

You stare at him, the weight of his words settling in. “You don’t think I’d be happy?” he looks you in the eyes, his gaze starting into your soul.  

“Not in the long run. No.”

“And who’s to say I’d be happy with you?” The words slip out before you can stop them.

Spencer’s face falls, his expression pained. “What do you mean?”

“You think I’d be happy moving to D.C., working at the BAU again, getting married, having kids? That’s your plan, Spencer. Not mine.”

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” he says, his voice faltering. “We talked about this before we even started dating—marriage, kids, everything.”

“That was seven years ago. We’ve both changed. I’ve changed.” you pointed at yourself as you tell him the truth.  He realized that too of course the distance away from him was going to change him. 

His face hardens, hurt mixing with anger. “Then why did you say yes?”

“Because I love you, Spencer,” you say, your voice cracking. “And because I thought maybe, somehow, we could still make it work.” you cry as tears fall down your face.

“But how can we, if you’re across the country?” The silence that follows is thick, heavy. You both know the answer before it’s spoken.

“We can’t,” you whisper.

“So… that’s it? We break up?” His voice is hollow, as if he’s already accepted the outcome.

“I—I think we have to,” you say, tears stinging your eyes.

He nods slowly, his jaw tight. “Alright.” You reach for his hand, but he pulls it away gently.

“Spencer… I’m sorry.” you let out a sob trying to wipe your tears away. 

“Me too.” he says getting up to go into his room and you stayed on the couch crying as you knew he was doing the same. Neither of you wanted this outcome but you also didn't want each other to be miserable. 

The next morning, you woke up before Spencer. Quietly, you packed your things, your heart heavy with the weight of last night's conversation. You had booked an earlier flight back to Minnesota, hoping to slip out unnoticed, to avoid another painful confrontation. 

As you approached the front door with your bag in hand, you paused, glancing toward the bedroom—the one you had shared with him so many times before. To your surprise, Spencer was awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes red and swollen from a sleepless night.

"I thought you'd at least have the courage to say goodbye," he says, his voice low and rough. He looks just as broken as you feel, like neither of you have gotten any rest.

“Spencer…” you start, but the words don’t come. He doesn’t look at you, staring at the floor instead. Now he was angry seeing you sneaking into his room to leave the ring and some note. 

“Just… leave the ring and go. Please.”

His words hit you harder than you expected, and you reach for the ring on your finger. Slowly, reluctantly, you pull it off, feeling the cool metal slide away from your skin. For a moment, you just stand there, staring at the symbol of the future you had once wanted so badly.

Tears blur your vision as you gently place the ring on the nightstand beside him. "I'm sorry," you whisper, knowing it’s not enough. Without another word, you turn and walk out the door, leaving behind the life you thought you would share. 

That was the last time you saw Spencer. The breakup was rough on both of you. No matter how much time passed, reminders of him lingered in your life. A month later, a couple of boxes from Spencer arrived at your doorstep—your things from his apartment, meticulously packed and sent back to you. It was everything you had left there, down to the smallest items. The gesture felt like a final goodbye, a clear sign that he had moved on. Yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to do the same. You still had his things. A couple of his shirts, some books, and photos. They haunted you in the quiet moments when you were alone, a reminder of a future that would never be.

Your friend Cassie had advised you to collect his things and move on. “You need closure,” she told you, gently pushing you to take the steps toward healing. But you didn’t at first. You couldn’t. Then, without telling you, she set you up on a date.

His name was Scott. He was a high school English teacher, loved to read, worked out, and was just coming out of his own messy breakup. On your first date, you clicked in a way that surprised you. It felt easy with him, natural. The two of you saw each other a few times, and before long, it had been a month of dates, good conversation, and the start of something promising. But there was one problem.

Every time you went home, Spencer’s presence was still there. His shirts hanging in the closet, the photos of you two tucked in drawers, even old messages you hadn’t deleted. Sometimes you would sit in silence, imagining what his life was like now, wondering if he had moved on in the same way. You’d catch yourself thinking about texting Garcia to ask how he was, but you stopped yourself. Your former colleagues—your friends—were all still close to Spencer. You couldn’t bring yourself to reach out. Not after what happened. You figured it wasn’t your place anymore.

One evening, after a date with Scott, Cassie sat with you in your apartment, and you confessed the nagging feeling you couldn’t shake.

“I feel stuck,” you admitted, pushing Spencer’s shirt aside in your closet. “Every time I try to move on, it’s like he’s still here.”

Cassie nodded, understanding. “You need closure. Real closure. Get rid of his things, talk to him if you need to, but you can’t keep holding onto pieces of him if you want to move forward.”

Her words sunk in, and you realized she was right. So, you broke things off with Scott—kindly, letting him know it wasn’t fair to either of you while you were still processing your past. Then you sent Spencer a text, asking if the two of you could meet to talk. You weren’t sure if he would reply, or if he’d even want to. But you needed to try.

Spencer had tried to move on after the breakup. On the outside, he seemed fine—throwing himself into work, keeping busy with cases. But back at home, it hit him harder. The apartment was eerily quiet without you there. Your photos, the calendar you’d hung with important dates for the both of you, the clothes you left behind—all were reminders of a life that wasn’t his anymore.

What broke him the most was the engagement ring. He found it on the floor after you left, a painful symbol of what could have been. After a sleepless night, he called Derek to vent about it.

“You have to start moving on, man,” Derek had said over the phone. “It doesn’t have to be today, but the sooner you let go, the better you’ll feel.”

So, with Derek, J.J., and Garcia’s help, Spencer gathered all your belongings, packed them into boxes, and sent them to you. It felt like closure at the time, like he was making a step toward healing. He thought he was done with it. Done with you.

Until your text came.

At first, he didn’t recognize the number. It was a message from someone he thought he had put behind him, someone he wasn’t prepared to hear from again. The message explained that it was you, asking if you could meet up to talk.

Spencer stared at his phone for a long time. He felt his heart tighten in his chest, fear rising up. He didn’t want to see you. Getting rid of your things was one thing, but seeing your face—he couldn’t handle that. Not now, not after the progress he had made. So, he never replied.

---

Time has a strange way of healing, but also of leaving scars. Neither of you contacted the other again. A month after you sent that text, you realized you didn’t need to hear his voice to get the closure you sought. You packed up his things and put them away then, you tried to forget.

But life, as it often does, has its own plans.

Two months later, Spencer found himself heading to Minnesota. He never imagined he’d end up there, of all places, in the middle of February. You had moved on in your own way, and by then, you had nearly forgotten that you once asked to meet up. You had put the past behind you—or so you thought. But some things refuse to stay buried.

“Are you sure about this, Reid?” Morgan asks, raising an eyebrow as he leans against Spencer’s hotel door. They had just finished a case today and the team was leaving Spencer had decided to stay another day. No one needed to question why he needed to as they knew the answer.  

“Yes, I think it’s time,” Spencer replied, though his voice wavered ever so slightly.

J.J. leaned forward, her face full of concern. “Do you think it’s wise to meet with her after she contacted you two months ago?”

Spencer sighed, running a hand through his hair. “No, probably not. But she said she wanted to talk, and I should at least hear her out.” J.J. exchanged a glance with Morgan, but neither of them said anything. They both knew Spencer was the kind of person who needed closure, even if it hurt. Pulling out his phone, Spencer dialed Garcia’s number. It rang twice before her familiar voice came through the line.

“You have reached your tech goddess. How may I help you today?” Garcia chirped, her usual brightness evident even over the phone.

“Garcia, can you check if Y/N has a new address?”

There was a pause. “Wait… you want to see Y/N? Are you okay, Reid?” Her voice softened with concern.

“Yes, I’m okay to meet with her,” Spencer replied, but the hesitation lingered beneath his words.

Garcia was quiet for a beat before she said, “Are you sure *she’s* okay to meet with you? I know she asked to meet you, but that was two months ago, and—”

“I know,” Spencer interrupted gently. “I’ll call her before I show up.”

Garcia let out a long breath. “Alright, if you say so. I don’t know if this is a good idea, but her address is still the same. I’ve sent it to you. Good luck, and please, be safe, okay?”

“Thank you, Garcia,” he said, appreciating her concern. 

“This is a bad idea, right?”  Morgan questioned as he watched Spencer walk out the door going off to see you. A bad feeling coming onto him.

“Oh, it is,” J.J. agreed, crossing her arms.

It was an ordinary Thursday night, or at least it started that way. You sat on your couch, a bottle of wine nearby, your laptop on your lap, grading papers turned in by your students. The TV was on in the background, playing a movie you’d seen a hundred times. The cold Minnesota winter had gifted you a snow day, so you decided to get some work done now and relax later. 

That plan was interrupted when a knock echoed through your apartment. Setting your laptop aside, you paused the movie and stood, walking to the door. When you opened it, you blinked in confusion. 

There stood Spencer Reid, bundled up against the cold, his breath visible in the frosty air.

"Reid, what are you doing here?" Your voice was flat, surprise and confusion mixing with a slight edge.

“I came to see you,” Spencer said, shifting nervously on his feet. “I know it’s been a while, but I got your text and thought… why not?”

You stared at him, brow furrowed. “Reid, that was *two months ago*.”

“I know I’m late,” he said quickly, his eyes flicking to the ground before meeting yours again. “But I just finished a case, and I thought—”

“Thought what?” you interrupted, your tone sharper than you intended. “Look, I know I texted you first, but that was then.”

Spencer’s face tightened, a flash of frustration crossing his features. “Well, I wasn’t ready to see you *then*, that’s the issue. You want what you want when you want it.”

You folded your arms, eyebrows raised. “Who doesn’t?”

The tension hung between you for a moment before Spencer sighed. “Look, I didn’t come here to fight, Y/N. Please, can we just talk?”

You paused, considering. After a long breath, you relented. “Fine, you’ve got 30 minutes.”

“Give me 15,” he bargained, his voice quieter, almost pleading.

“You have 10 minutes," you replied, stepping aside and motioning for him to come in. "Starting now."

Spencer shifted nervously, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, snow still clinging to his shoes. You stepped aside, allowing him to enter. He walked in slowly, glancing around as if expecting something to have changed, but your apartment was much the same as it had always been—warm, cluttered with books and papers, and smelling faintly of the lavender candle you always burned.

You crossed your arms, leaning against the doorway. “Alright, ten minutes. Start talking.”

Spencer hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath. “I didn’t respond right away because… I wasn’t ready. After everything that happened, I had to figure out how to deal with it. Losing you—losing us—it messed me up more than I realized. I thought sending your things back would help me move on, but it didn’t. I needed time, and I’m sorry I didn’t answer you earlier.”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “I get it, Spencer. But you don’t get to just show up here months later and expect me to drop everything. I’ve been working on moving on, too.”

“I know,” he said quickly, looking down at the floor. “I’m not here to mess that up. I just… I thought if we could talk, maybe we could get some closure. Properly this time.”

“Closure?” you repeated, a touch of bitterness in your voice. “And you think showing up unannounced is the way to do that?”

He winced, realizing how it must have looked. “I didn’t plan it well, I know. But I’ve thought about you every day since the breakup. I’ve wondered if we could’ve handled things differently, if we could’ve made it work.”

You stood there, feeling your heart race. Part of you had longed for this conversation, this chance to get clarity on what had happened. But now that it was here, all it did was stir up emotions you thought you had buried.

“You think about it now?” you asked, voice quieter. “You’re the one who packed up my things and sent them back like we were just some temporary fling. That hurt, Spencer. It felt like you had already moved on.”

Spencer’s face softened, regret written in his eyes. “I didn’t mean for it to feel that way. I thought it would help you… and me."

You shook your head, pacing a bit to release the tension building inside. “I’ve been trying to move forward, Reid. I was even seeing someone And you know what? I liked him. He’s a good guy, but I couldn’t fully be with him because I kept holding on… to us.”

Spencer looked at you, his expression tightening at the mention of Scott, but he quickly pushed it aside. “I’m not asking for anything other than to talk. I don’t expect us to get back together. I just didn’t want us to leave things the way we did.”

You stopped pacing and looked at him, really looked at him, noticing the weight he carried in his eyes. “So, what do you want from this conversation, Spencer? What do you need?”

"I just wanted to talk to you to see if we could I don’t know be friends again"

"Are you serious?" you said, your voice sharp with disbelief. "I wanted it to work so badly, Spencer. I uprooted my life to try and meet you halfway, but it was like you couldn’t see that."

Spencer’s expression tightened. "I didn’t feel like you were meeting me halfway. You were building a whole new life in Minnesota, and I felt like I was barely a part of it. You didn’t tell me about your teaching job until you had already accepted it."

"I didn’t think I needed to ask your permission to follow my dreams," you shot back, frustration bubbling to the surface. "I wanted to do something for me, something that gave me purpose."

"And I get that," he said, his tone softening, "but I was supposed to be part of your life too. I felt like you were pulling away, like every decision you made was just... you choosing a life without me in it."

You sighed, the weight of his words sinking in. "I wasn’t trying to choose a life without you, Spencer. I was trying to find a life where we could both be happy. But it felt like every time I chose something for me, it meant choosing against you."

Spencer rubbed his hands over his face, clearly torn. "I wanted you to be happy too. I just... I wanted to be part of that happiness. But I didn’t know how to balance your dreams with mine."

“I know. And that’s why it didn’t work.” You shook your head, the sadness creeping back in. “We both wanted to be happy, but we didn’t know how to make that happen together.”

“So now what?” Spencer asked, his voice heavy with uncertainty.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “You came here for me. We talked it out. I’m done talking. I have your things. I can ship them out tomorrow.”

“You still have my things?” he asked, a hint of surprise in his voice.

“I can’t forget you, Spencer. Unlike you did,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

Spencer looked at you, his eyes pained. “That’s my girl! Still can pull the verbal punches!” he says sarcastically as he watches you disappear into the hallway. 

“I’m not your girl anymore!” you snapped, feeling a surge of frustration. As you look through your closet for Spencer’s box. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Spencer said quickly, his tone apologetic as you came back into the room. Once you find it you look at your room one last time and then you see it. That Sanrio plush Cinnamonroll, it was the first birthday gift Spencer had given you. You loved the thing and still do. 

“Here’s your things,” you said, handing him a box filled with his belongings.

He reached on top of the sealed box and grabbed the small cinnamon roll plush. “This was a birthday gift... You’re really giving this back?”

“Yeah,” you said, tears threatening to spill. “It’s the last reminder of you, Reid.”

“Y/N, I’m sorry. But whether you like it or not, we’ll always have a part of each other in our hearts,” Spencer said softly.

“I know,” you replied, trying to hold back your tears.

“And I’m never going to forget you,” Spencer added, his voice breaking.

“I know that,” you said, your own voice trembling.

“But I have to do what feels right,” Spencer said. “And so do you.”

“Yeah…” you agreed, wiping away a tear.

Without warning, Spencer stepped closer and kissed you gently. The kiss was full of unresolved feelings, the pain of the past, and the hope of what could have been. It was a goodbye you both needed, but it was also a reminder of what you once had.

As the kiss ended, you both pulled away, your eyes locked with his. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the weight of everything unsaid and everything you both had shared.

Spencer took a deep breath, his face etched with sadness. “Goodbye, Y/N.”

“Goodbye, Spencer,” you whispered, watching as he walked out the door, taking a part of your heart with him.

Thirty minutes later, as the storm outside raged on, Spencer found himself knocking on your door again. The wind howled, and snow battered against the windows. His team had left an hour ago, and he’d been unable to reach his hotel due to the worsening weather. With nowhere else to go, he found himself back at your doorstep.

When you opened the door, Spencer’s heart sank at the sight of you still crying. His own emotions surged as he took in your tear-streaked face. Without a word, he pulled you into a fervent kiss. It was a kiss filled with all the words you both hadn’t said, all the pain you hadn’t fully expressed.

"I'm sorry-" kiss "I didn’t mean-to comeback I just- fuck" he tried to explain himself but he couldn’t stop your lips from meshing with his. This was messed up and you both knew you just didn't care. The kisses become more passionate as he pushes you against the door, grabbing your hips pinning you. Kissing down you neck as you let out a heavy sigh finally able to think.

"Spencer what are we- fuck what are we doing?" You ask as Spencer brings his hands under your  and grabs hold of your breasts. It turned him on knowing you had no bra underneath this shirt the whole time. 

Pulling up your shirt over your head he answers "what feels right" he says going back to kissing you this his tongue slides his way into your mouth. Your body wanted no need for this as you decided to speed things up Spencer had another approach. He quickly slipped his hand inside your panties, feeling how aroused you were. 

"Fuck-" He groans the tip of his fingers running against your slick folds as  you moan. "You're so wet for me" you couldn’t respond to him as he pushes his fingers inside you both groan. You move your legs wider and you need more as he pushes in deeper, your hips pushing against his hand. His fingers curl up inside you, as you start to whine. Pushing them in and out second by second driving you crazy and he didn't want anything but that. 

"Fuck I forgot how good you are at this" you let out as Spencer says nothing getting onto his knees then pulling down your shorts along with your underwear. You stared at him as he completely removed his hand from your pussy. Before he could say anything he brought one of your legs onto his shoulders before completely devouring you. Groaning at the taste of you, he missed this he missed you. The sound of your moans were music to his ears as he licked in-between your folds. Your hands going into his hair hoping he'd push his tongue into you. That was all Spencer needed; he never forgot how to please you. He knew your ticks inside and out. His pants felt so strained against his cock bust first he wanted you to cum on his tongue for him and only him.

"Ohhh god Spencer!" You cry as he pushes his tongue into you feeling it tense up inside you making your thighs clench in response. His tongue moves vertically and then wiggles slightly pulling you into this back and forth of need and desire.  The pleasure makes you feel dizzy, pulling on his hair tighter. Spencer lets out a groan sending a vibration through your very core. He licked your clit with long, slow strokes, his tongue pushing inside you as he ate you out aggressively. He used his hands to spread your lips apart, giving him better access to your pussy.

"Spence, ohhh yes! Yes!" Spencer loved how responsive you were, your hips bucking against his face as he continued to devour you. He felt your hands grip his hair tightly once again, pulling him closer. He could barely breathe, but he didn't care. He just wanted to make you come on his face.

"Spencer!" You screamed his name as Spencer felt your body tense, he gripped your hips tightly, holding you down as he continued to ravish your core. He felt your body convulse, your thighs quivering as you shattered against his mouth. He lapped up your juices, cleaning you up before helping you back onto your feet. He wasn't done and you weren’t either.

The two of you kiss passionately as you move to the bedroom as you both try to get Spencer’s clothes off. His vest, shoes, and belt laid in a trail towards your bedroom. When he finally gets into your bed you both couldn't help entangling your bodies together.  Both of your moans and groans fill the room as you grind against one another. Spencer knew how worked up you get when it came to clothing. He wanted to watch you squirm under him, beg him to fuck you. Maybe beg him to take you back. But you were impatient tearing his shirt as buttons flew everywhere. You then changed your positions as you sat on top of him kissing his neck and down to his chest.

He looked at you surprised as then at your body. He pictured you riding him for the last time. Admiring how pretty you look and starting picturing you crying as you reached your climax coming apart for him. Even after all this time you were still so pretty to him. Like a goddess, his goddess. If this was the last time he couldn't ruin you like he wanted to, he wanted to make love to you once last time.

Flipping you back over onto the bed he gets up and starts removing his clothes. While he does this you can't help but wonder was this right? Whatever this was, it was messy and complicated and I thought this was one night. What's going to happen tomorrow? 

"Spencer, are you sure you want this?" You ask as Spencer looks at you.

"Y/n I just had oral sex with you 5 minutes ago and you're asking me if I want this?" Your heart starts beating faster as he moves closer to the bed. That look he gave you as he slowly walked towards the bed. 

"I-I know but-" "But what baby?" You don't say anything as the grabs onto your ankles and pull you towards the edge of the bed. 

"Spencer tomorrow-" he cuts you off looking at you in the eyes, his body pressing against yours as his fingers trails down your thighs and back to your pussy. Touching your folds running circles on your clit before dipping it inside of you again. His fingers pumping in and out of your hole until he had enough.  

"Fuck tomorrow I want to make love to you tonight" he says kissing your lips once more as you let him push his cock inside you. All doubts expelling in thoughts as all you could think about Spencer putting his dick inside you. Spencer groaned softly as he slowly entered you,  he missed this he missed you. Pushing inch by inch gives you both time to readjust. Laying kisses down your neck, his hands cupping your boob's as he kisses those too. Sucking on your nipple as he thrusts inside you. 

"So good you feel so good baby" he whispers in your ear, setting a steady pace. His hips snapping against yours as he fucks you. 

"Ahh- I miss this so much" you moan out as Spencer doesn’t say anything going a little faster as he looks you "you're so fucking pretty" he groans as you run your fingers in his hair pulling him into another kiss. His hips moving faster feeling you clenching around him. Your legs wrapping around his and his hands starting to grip your hips. The bed creaking and the frame hitting the wall but you both didn't care. 

Spencer buried his head into your neck as his thrusts had  gone harder and faster. You were milking him clenching around him, you were close he knew it. He needed you to cum all over his cock. 

"Spence- Spence please!" You cry as Spencer looks up at you in awe "shhh you don't have to beg baby, I'm here" he groans as he shifts his weight and it drove you crazy.  Keeping with that angle he thrusts harder and harder making you do nothing but cry and scream his name.

"Look at me baby" you look Spencer in the eyes, something in the way that he looked sent you over the edge. You came around his cock and in a few more thrusts he couldn't take it anymore. You felt his cock twitching inside you. 

"Spencer cum for me please" Spencer tried to pull out but you quickly pulled him back in. He let out a cry as he came inside you for the first time in a long time. 

The two of you didn't stop there, you both couldn't keep your hands off each other. On your floor, the dresser, in the shower, and in your bed again. Both leaving marks and scratches behind on one another. You didn't know how tomorrow was gonna go but that was something you wanted to deal with in the morning.  

The next morning, Spencer woke up first. The soft light of dawn filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow on your face as you slept beside him. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to feel happy. Being with you again, in this quiet, peaceful moment, felt right.

But then the weight of reality sank in.

Nothing had been solved. If anything, last night had made things even more complicated. The storm outside may have passed, but the one between you both still raged, unresolved. Spencer stared at the ceiling, the feeling of unease growing. 

He gently slid out of bed, careful not to wake you. As he stood by the window, staring out at the snow-covered streets, Spencer’s mind raced. How could he go back to D.C. after this? Could he even walk away again, knowing what had just happened between you.

"Good morning, pretty boy," you say, looking up at Spencer with a sleepy smile, your hair a mess. He stares at you, noticing the faint hickies on your neck and the light bruising on your chest. You seemed happy about last night, and that only made the guilt gnaw at him even more.

This couldn't work. He knew that. 

"Y/N, we need to talk," he says quietly, his voice laced with uncertainty.

You roll onto your side, propping your head up with your hand. "I know, Spencer. Look, I miss you like crazy. And I know we hooked up last night, but... give me a year or two, and I'll come back. I could teach in D.C., or Virginia—wherever. I just want to be with you."

"I can’t," Spencer interrupts, his voice tense.

Your face falls, confusion clouding your expression. "What? Why not?"

He sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Y/N, last night was... great, but I think we shouldn't have done it."

It hits you like a punch to the gut. "No," you whisper, disbelief setting in. "You're not doing this to me."

Spencer looks at you, his face pained. "I think last night was just... spur of the moment. We were both emotionally vulnerable, caught up in everything. I think the only reason you're so quick to compromise is because of the sex."

"Are you—" You sit up, fury bubbling in your chest. "You're an asshole, Spencer. You know that?" You shake your head in disbelief. 

"I want you to be happy," he says, his voice soft but firm.

You let out a bitter laugh. "That's rich."

"I'm serious. I don't want you to make a decision based on one night of meaningless sex."

"Is that how low you think of me? You think this was *meaningless* to me?" Your voice cracks as the anger mixes with hurt.

"No, it’s not that. But you love teaching here, and I don’t want you to come back for me and wake up one day realizing you’re not happy with your life. You deserve more than that." You couldn’t believe this, you couldn’t believe he was here saying this to your face. Here you thought you could make your relationship work again.  Hold onto the love you once shared. Thinking that you could compromise yet here Spencer was breaking your heart all over again.  

"Get out of my apartment," you snap, your voice cold, the betrayal clear.

"Y/N, at least understand—"

"No!" you cut him off, your eyes flashing with anger. "You said everything you needed to say last night. Now leave." He wanted to say something else, he wanted you to know that he loved you and that he was letting you go because he did. "Go!" You screamed, making him jump as you threw your pillow at him and missed. 

Spencer stands there for a moment, his eyes searching yours for any chance to explain, but the message is clear. He quickly gathers his things, his heart heavy with sadness as he walks out of the room, the door closing behind him with a final, painful thud.

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

Hi could I request a drabble please?

I recently found out that apparently Asra and MC shared a bed (I assume it’s because it’s implied they were together pre-plague, and they just never got another one after MC was revived) so could you maybe write something about like their nighttime routine post-resurrection/pre-relationship?

Here's your drabble friend! And if you're curious, here's my take on Pre-Prologue Asra and MC and a quick overview of my best guess at what their relationship was like. (Though of course, it's purposefully vague so each reader can decide what their MC's journey was lol)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Asra?"

"Hm?"

"Why do we share a bed?"

Your mentor pauses, the outline of their shoulders stuttering as they reach for the last candle lighting up your bedroom. You give them a moment to collect their thoughts as they silently snuff out the flame and sit at the foot of the bed.

"Would you ... rather not?"

You shrug. "I don't mind. I was just curious."

You see his silhouette heave a deep sigh against the window's block of starry sky, one hand reaching up to run through his hair as you've learned he does when he's facing a problem. His body slumps in defeat and he responds ... oddly cheerfully.

"You remember your first few days here ... you needed a caretaker. There isn't enough space for another bed, and you couldn't see me when I slept on the floor, so ... that's why." You watch the shadow of their head turn in your direction with a bittersweet chuckle that's been the soundtrack of the last few years. "I guess I never broke the habit."

"Did we share a bed before?"

"Did we -" He trails off and stands, walking slowly around the bed to his side and thoughtfully smoothing the tattered old blanket lying there, still not climbing in next to you. His voice is thick when he speaks again. "Are you sure you want to remember?"

You grimace at the thought of your recurring migraines. "No." You toss in place, uneasy at your friend's hesitance to sleep when their presence at your side is one of the most constant things in your life. "I was just curious if ... you remember."

He responds with an airy laugh and climbs into bed, tone light and carefree. "Even if I didn't, would it matter?" With your eyes adjusting to the light, you're able to see the relieved smile on his face and the genuine joy in his eyes. "We're both here now, aren't we? These memories are a gift ... and we're still here, with more to make."

You barely catch the way they whip their old blanket under their pillow, one colorful faded corner left out to tuck under their chin. You'd asked who the baby was that it belonged to once, and don't remember getting an answer. Speaking of questions and answers -

"Aren't people who share beds usually lovers?"

His eyebrows shoot up in awkward surprise. "Yes ... yes, they are."

"But we aren't."

"No, we're not." A firm confirmation with a studied poker face - this isn't something they're up to talk about right now.

You think to the lonely moments in the shop when he's away on a trip, the sight of couples walking by outside with linked hands, the one time an attractive tourist paid you with a wink and left you with an unexpected blush. "Do you think ..." you mumble softly into the dark room, "do you think I could ever have a lover?"

They smile so gently your pillow feels softer. "I'm sure you will, if you want one."

"And if I do?"

He burrows deeper into his pillow, fingers tightening around the old baby blanket. "When you find one ... I'll be right there, celebrating your happiness."

[kteezy997]

Lady in Waiting-Part Eight//King Hal

The day had come. Lady Sophia was to marry her King. Your Hal.

It felt as if an entire lifetime had passed since you had arrived at the royal palace in England to start a new life with your Lady, the future Queen. But the change truly started when you met the King. He had initially mistaken you for his bride, and the rest, as they say, is history.

You fell in love with him and his quiet, private charms. The man was as tender as he was handsome. It was the most genuine affection you’d ever felt; a deep, loving connection that you shared together.

You worried for the future. How would Sophia react to your affair with the King? Would she ever find out? And on the other hand, how would you deal with having to share the man you loved?

He did not love her, or even desire her. But he would have to pretend his affections in public settings and then commit his marital duties in his bedroom at night.

You wondered if feelings may develop for Hal as he spent time with his Queen. Could he possibly forget about you? No. Of course not. He loved you, right?

Then, there were the royal children to come. Little ones running around the castle with Hal’s dark, wavy hair and green eyes. But they would be Sophia’s children. You would raise them, love them, but it would not be the same as if you and Hal had brought them into the world together.

Would children be on the horizon for you? It would be a dream to have a family with your beloved Hal. But would that be permitted? Would Sophia be able to turn her cheek and give her blessing? Kings had had royal mistresses before, though you had such a distaste for the word.

It was common for a married noblewoman to find a match for her lady in waiting. Sophia would likely follow this practice. But the Lord knows you had no interest in any man if he was not Hal. He was the one for you.

…..

She really did look elegant, regal even. The layers of her plush, ivory gown, her blonde hair curled and pinned into an updo; the image would fit perfectly on the cover of a storybook that would inspire a generation of young girls. You wondered if Hal would be impressed. It would be difficult not to be.

You could not imagine what must be going through the mind of the man you had slept with just last night. He held you all night long, as if he were desperate to cling onto a life with you.

Sophia was giddy as could be. "This is going to be the best day of my life!" she exclaimed. She sighed happily, looking at you, "Oh, y/n, this is a whole new chapter of our life." She would at times lump the two of you together, as if you, her handmaiden, were merely an extension of herself.

"Yes, indeed it is, my lady."

She made a 'tsk-tsk' sound between her teeth, holding up a finger to you, "Nay, nay, it is "Your Grace" now. I am even better than a lady."

"You are right, my apologies, Your Grace." you performed a light curtsy to her. "It is a habit I am trying to break."

"It is understandable. I have been your lady for quite a long time now. Also, you must work on your curtsy, there is plenty of room for improvement for you there." Sophia paused, took one last look in the mirror. "Now, hold my dress. It is nearly time."

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

You accompanied Sophia, carrying the train of her dress, to her bridal party. There were gasps and gushing at the sight of the bride from her bridesmaids. You could not help but smile at the scene before you, despite your uneasy feelings on the inside. You were holding on tightly to Hal's promise that nothing will change, that he will still love you after he is married.

"Psst, my lady y/n."

You heard the whisper, recognizing the voice as Hal's guard, the same man who escorted you back to your room early that same morning. You turned to him, and he motioned you over. You made sure Sophia did not see and hustled to him.

"His Majesty requests your presence at once."

"Is something wrong?" you inquired.

"Follow me, milady."

......

"Hal?" you said as you approached him in his chambers.

"Oh, thank the gods you are here." he sighed heavily, hurrying over to you. He wrapped you up in his arms.

"Are you alright?"

"I needed to see you." You could tell he was jittery.

"You just saw me a few hours ago." you pulled away from the embrace to look in his eyes. "My darling, you were fine when I left this morning. What has happened?"

"Nothing, nothing has happened. I just do not think I can go through with this wedding." he looked down at the ground.

"Of course you can. You have to. You said yourself that nothing will change." you placed your hands on his cheeks. "I love you, Hal. Nothing will change that. Do you love me?"

"Of course, that is precisely why-"

"Then do this for me. Make Sophia happy. Keep her here in this palace, because as long as she is here, I will be here. We can sort things out later as long as we get through this day. You are not alone; I will be there. I will always be there."

Hal let out a little smile and huff, "As I am for you." He gave you a kiss, nodding, "I knew you would make me feel better."

"Even a King can get nervous, I suppose." you reassured him, returning a grin.

.........

It was a lengthy yet gorgeous ceremony. Hal looked directly into Sophia's eyes and kissed her lips after they said I Do. You could not help the pang of jealousy ripping into your chest as you watched. You knew he did not love her, but it did not make seeing them kiss any easier. You tried to not imagine them in Hal's bed, naked, touching.

The wedding reception followed and contained extravagant courses of food, cake, music, dancing and the decorations you helped arrange.

You noticed that Hal was able to let loose after a few alcoholic beverages. He had invited some old friends from Eastcheap, and they were all having a great time dancing and horsing around on the dance floor.

You decided to rest a bit and sip some wine as you sat at one of the tables. You enjoyed watching the wedding guests and Hal and his mates. But you kept drinking more wine, as you found it increasingly difficult to get thoughts of Hal making love to Sophia out of your mind.

After downing a few glasses of the red drink, you felt a little lighter, perhaps even numb. The space in your brain became more vacant, and you were glad for it.

The time came for the King and Queen to share their first dance as a married couple. A sweet tune came from the band's string section as Hal led Sophia to the floor.

It was, to the naked eye, a romantic moment for the newlyweds. The bride grinning from ear to ear as her groom held her waist, and she with her arms laced around his neck as they swayed to the music.

The sight of it all made you nauseous.

Afterwards, the dance floor became crowded again. And you were surprised when the Queen came over to you instead of tending to one of the vast numbers of her noble wedding guests.

"Y/n I think you should have a dance with Hal." she said with a smile.

You raised your brows, "Oh? And why is that, Your Grace?"

"Well, you are friends, are you not? Besides, I already mentioned it to him, and he is expecting you."

"That is very kind of you." you said, trying not to stumble when you rose from your chair. Maybe the wine was too much.

........

Hal was smirking as he stood in the crowd of dancing partners. He welcomed your body close to his when you approached him.

"How charitable of the Queen to offer her King to her Lady." you quipped.

He chuckled lightly, "Yes, well, at least we can enjoy a moment together." he slid his hands to your lower back.

You hummed at his warm touch, but you could not lean in, could not look at him too fondly otherwise suspicions would arise.

"I would never truly complain about an opportunity to be close to you, my King." you whispered.

Hal shook his head slightly, his jaw clenching noticeably. "Oh, the things I want to do to you right now." You could hear the rumble of desire in the lowness of his voice.

........

You spent the night alone in your bed. Luckily, the amount of alcohol you had consumed lulled you to sleep. You knew without it, you would have been up all night thinking about Hal and Sophia.

You woke with a small headache, but you drank a big cup of cold water to hydrate yourself some before leaving for Sophia's chambers. You felt much better, but you were not ready to hear about how amazing her wedding night was with the man you loved.

You knocked on her door but there was no answer, not even after a second knock. "Your Grace? Are you in there?" Was she still in Hal's room? Perhaps it would not be proper for a King to kick his Queen out of bed after consummating their marriage.

"Y/n?" you heard her call out faintly. "Is that you? Come in."

Sophia's voice was much softer than usual, and she sounded weak.

You opened the door to a dark room. Typically, she was already up and ready to get dressed and made up for the day. But now, she was in bed, covered up completely by her blankets. "My Queen, are you well?" you asked.

She pulled the covers down from her face. You were stunned to see her eyes swollen red and watery. "Oh, y/n, last night was terrible." she cried, covering her face again.

@gatoenlaciudad @thebetawolfgirl @musicandbooksaremyhappyplace @softhecreator @tchalamss @lixzey @bitchyunknownuser @ducktapebar @aoi-targaryen @yukideadinside @elloise0 @thatoneweirdgirl17 @mel-vaz @sammy-halpert @iwishchalamet @that-one-fangirl69 @jindongdongie @briefkittenearthquake @imnotoverlyobsessive

[sugashook]

wade goes "i need you" and he literally grabs logan and is very clear and consistent on it, like i need you, all the time. i think logan needs that clarity and certainty and forwardness..honesty, someone to push him and need him. someone with transparent emotions that will get him out of his head,

and wade needs someone to be there for him no matter what . it's like logan's no longer a puzzle piece for war, he's extremely important in wades world, his other half at the moment perhaps (bark)

wolverines entire thing is that he can take great beatings and come back seemingly fine and unaffected its like a very strong closed off person, a fortress that protects his emotions. i think he feels good having people to protect.

but that's also a bad thing because being really strong and feeling like you can take all the bullets you took in your life and bounce them off while at the same time suffering in silence seemingly unaffected by what happened to you is harmful to your psyche. and seeming this way to others as well is even a bigger issue, especially with logan who has the base need to be with people and be there for others.

and for that he NEEDS someone to dig deeper and pierce through his perfect disposition he is NOT easily open and easy going like wade he needs someone to see him and give him a chance and fight for him! wade will make way for himself in someones life, logan will go deeper into himself.

others could see you perfectly "unscathed" all the time and if they don't understand you or try to understand you and how much you can be dealing with complex emotions inside, they will grow resentful,you'll be rejected and treated badly.

wade is very fragile on the other hand, sure he regenerates, but the scars of his trauma are visible and harsh on him, he knows it , everyone knows it.

that's why he's so repulsive to others, his life beat him so hard that he can't control himself with his emotions and it weirds people out, they don't understand it and they get mad,upset,etc.

even scared just by looking at him, you survived trauma, but it shows on you how it affected you and it makes ME uncomfortable, that's pretty scary, you're different and you don't fit in anywhere. they judge him in the opposite way that logan is judged. your overwhelming presence is unnerving to me.

thats why wade hides with his suit his entire face, and the blood. dont notice me,my wounds, and the wounds i give to others. while logans suit screams "notice me!! i'm not okay!! i want people to see me!"

when he regenerates, wades body generates bad body tissue from his skin to his core. and the scars of all that trauma add new trauma so he's constantly re-traumatizing himself and it layers on. he doesn't get stronger or bounce it off himself, bad things such as trauma are just bad they create more bad and he's made out of all the bad things that happened during his life sort of, so he needs a lot of external support.

cause he has no strength left! all the trauma and SLS (shitty life syndrome) is like up to his gills. but he is very joyful and positive despite the harshness of life.

he is a little positivity clown bouncing around in wolverines fortress of solitude.

wolverine can sort of take attacks from life and endure and wade can attack life more easily, he's a positive, up beat, go getter. he loves the world and sees hope in it when there's none. and when the world doesnt love him back ,it crushes him and he cant take it. he doesn't understand how anything he tries he gets hurt by. but he never stops trying :)

logan shuts himself off from the cruel world with his perfect skin and metal bones, but the world has shut off from him as well. wade keeps being hurt and open to the world just like his open wounds and scarred body. even though the world hurts him through his openness.

[anna-the-undertaker]

Gn Reader who is a monster hunter.  So they wear a full set of armor at all time. They have swords that are made out of the claws of a ice dragon.  Reader has no fear and is willing take on any challenge. They keep looking for demons/monster to fight.  🗡️O(👀 )O

This was such a joy to write! It took me back to my roots when I first started writing for Dragon Age. Thank you so much for the request. enjoy! :)

Forged in Frost and Steel

A Walking Fortress

MC is rarely seen without their full set of armor—an intricate and heavy suit that reflects their years of experience as a monster hunter. The armor, engraved with runes and symbols of protection, glows faintly in the dark. It’s scarred and battered in some places, proof of the many battles they’ve fought, but they wear it with pride. Every scratch and dent tells a story, and they treat it like a second skin. Beneath that armor, though, is someone who’s always ready for action. They’ve trained their body to handle the weight effortlessly, moving with a surprising grace despite the heavy metal that encases them. When the brothers first meet MC, they can’t help but be impressed—and a little intimidated—by the sheer presence they exude.

Swords of Ice Dragon Claws

MC’s twin swords are a sight to behold, crafted from the claws of an ancient ice dragon they once defeated in the frozen peaks. The blades shimmer with a frosty sheen, and when they draw them, the temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. These weapons are not only incredibly sharp but also infused with the dragon’s icy power, allowing MC to freeze their enemies in battle with a single slash. They carry the swords proudly, often spinning them with practiced ease. The brothers are fascinated by the craftsmanship of the swords, though they’re all a little wary of the cold energy they give off.

Fearless to the Core

MC is the type of person who runs toward danger, not away from it. They’ve built their entire life around hunting down monsters, demons, and anything that poses a threat. Fear isn’t a concept they entertain—if anything, they thrive on the thrill of a challenge. Lucifer notices immediately that MC never hesitates, no matter the situation, and while he’s impressed, he’s also slightly concerned. After all, bravery can be a double-edged sword. "You need to learn to assess the risk," he warns, but MC just smirks and replies, "Risk is what makes it fun." Mammon, though nervous, can’t help but admire their confidence, while Levi thinks they’re straight out of one of his favorite fantasy games.

Always Looking for a Fight

Whenever they’re not on a mission, MC is searching for their next challenge. Whether it’s facing off against a particularly strong demon or taking on the next dangerous monster roaming the Devildom, they’re constantly on the lookout. If the brothers mention any local legends or rumors about monsters, MC immediately perks up. "Where?" is their first question, followed by, "How soon can we leave?" This relentless drive for battle often catches the brothers off guard. Even Beel, who’s known for his strength, is surprised by how casually MC takes on tasks that would terrify others. Asmo jokes that MC’s hobby is "collecting battle scars" while Satan appreciates their sheer determination.

Endless Confidence

MC’s confidence is unparalleled, to the point where nothing seems to faze them. They could be faced with a towering demon, its roar shaking the very ground beneath them, and all they would do is smirk and crack their knuckles, ready to jump into the fray. The brothers, used to being feared or revered by humans, find MC’s attitude refreshing and bewildering. MC doesn’t shy away from anyone, not even Lucifer. In fact, they have no problem challenging him head-on, which both irritates and intrigues him. "You think you can take me?" Lucifer asks, a hint of amusement in his voice. "I know I can," MC replies with a grin, their hand already resting on the hilt of their sword.

Unpredictable Tactics

In battle, MC fights with a combination of strategy and pure instinct. They’ve faced countless monsters over the years and have developed a unique fighting style that’s both efficient and unpredictable. They’ll use their environment to their advantage, launching themselves off walls or flipping over their enemies with ease. The brothers, who are used to traditional forms of combat, find themselves impressed by MC’s agility and creativity. When they see MC fight for the first time, they quickly realize why MC has survived as long as they have. Mammon often watches in awe, secretly glad that MC is on their side.

A Matter of Pride

For MC, hunting monsters and demons isn’t just a job—it’s a matter of pride. They’ve dedicated their life to perfecting their craft, and they’re proud of the reputation they’ve earned as one of the best hunters in their world. That’s why they wear their armor and swords so proudly, a constant reminder of the battles they’ve fought and won. Though they don’t brag about their victories, they don’t downplay them either. If someone asks about their latest hunt, MC will share the details with a casual confidence, often to the amazement of those listening. "You actually fought an ice dragon?" Beel asks one day, more curious than surprised. "It was a tough fight, but nothing I couldn’t handle," MC replies with a shrug, as if fighting dragons is an everyday occurrence.

A Cool-Headed Hunter

Even in the heat of battle, MC is calm and collected. Panic has no place in their life; they’ve seen too much and been through too many near-death experiences to let fear cloud their judgment. Their composure often surprises the brothers, especially in moments when others might be tempted to flee. When faced with a powerful opponent, MC will assess the situation, find the weak point, and strike with precision. This kind of confidence and tactical thinking earns them respect, even from the likes of Satan and Lucifer. "You’re not bad," Satan admits after watching MC take down a particularly difficult demon. "I’ll take that as a compliment," MC replies with a smirk.

Solitude is Second Nature

Being a monster hunter means MC is often on their own, and they’re comfortable with that. They don’t mind the solitude, finding peace in the quiet moments between hunts. But that doesn’t mean they don’t appreciate the company of others. While they may be used to traveling and fighting alone, they quickly adapt to working with the brothers. Over time, they find themselves enjoying the banter and camaraderie, though they rarely express it out loud. MC’s independent nature sometimes makes them seem distant, but the brothers quickly learn that when it matters, MC is fiercely loyal and protective of their allies.

No Fear of the Supernatural

MC has spent years hunting all sorts of monsters—dragons, werewolves, demons, you name it. So, the Devildom’s supernatural threats don’t scare them in the slightest. If anything, MC is intrigued by the opportunity to fight something new. When the brothers mention certain dangerous creatures lurking in the shadows, MC immediately wants to go after them. "What’s the point of coming here if I’m not going to test my skills?" they reason, much to the brothers’ exasperation. Levi thinks it’s cool that MC is constantly seeking out the strongest monsters, while Lucifer warns them not to bite off more than they can chew. But MC just grins, always ready for whatever comes next.

Lucifer

When Lucifer first meets MC, he can’t help but be intrigued by their presence. The sight of their imposing armor, coupled with the twin swords crafted from the claws of an ice dragon, gives them a commanding and fearsome air. He’s seen countless humans come and go in the Devildom, but none like this. MC’s confidence, their lack of hesitation in the face of danger, catches his attention immediately.

But that interest is quickly tempered by a sense of caution. Lucifer values order, discipline, and respect. MC, with their relentless thirst for battle and willingness to take on any challenge without a second thought, strikes him as reckless, someone who could disrupt the delicate balance of the Devildom if they’re not careful.

"You’re certainly bold," Lucifer says the first time MC challenges him directly. There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes, though his tone remains authoritative. "But boldness without restraint is a dangerous thing. You should learn to think before you act."

MC, however, is unfazed. Their unwavering confidence—and perhaps their lack of reverence for Lucifer’s position—sparks something in him. While others might cower or bend to his will, MC stands firm, ready to face him, or anything else the Devildom throws at them, head-on.

Lucifer’s respect for MC grows, though he won’t admit it aloud. Their resilience, their strength, reminds him of himself in a way. However, that doesn’t mean he’ll tolerate any reckless behavior. "The Devildom is not a playground for your challenges," he warns, his voice low and commanding. "If you want to survive here, you’ll need more than just courage. You’ll need control."

Despite his stern words, Lucifer can’t deny that he finds MC’s unyielding spirit admirable. In a world where fear is the natural response to demons, MC’s fearlessness stands out. Over time, he comes to see them as an asset rather than a potential threat. Their power, if honed properly, could be invaluable.

Still, Lucifer often keeps a close eye on MC, making sure their eagerness for battle doesn’t lead them into unnecessary danger. When MC embarks on another one of their hunts, Lucifer will offer a warning, his voice calm but firm: "You may be strong, but strength without wisdom is a flaw. Don’t let your pride lead to your downfall."

In the end, Lucifer’s relationship with MC is one of both admiration and caution. He respects their strength but seeks to guide them toward balance, knowing that unchecked power can easily spiral into chaos—something he will not allow under his watch.

Mammon

From the moment Mammon lays eyes on MC, fully armored with those impressive swords made from the claws of an ice dragon, his mind starts working overtime. He notices the way they carry themselves—confident, almost fearless—and immediately sees a potential goldmine. After all, if MC is out there slaying monsters and collecting rare materials, someone should be making a profit from it, right?

"Oi, MC," he says with his trademark grin, sidling up next to them after one of their hunts. "Those ice dragon claws ya got there… they fetch a real good price, ya know? I’m talkin’ serious grim. How ‘bout ya let me handle the business side of things, huh? You do the fightin', I’ll do the sellin’. It’s a win-win!"

He’s barely even subtle about it, his eyes practically sparkling with the potential grim he could make. Mammon is quick to imagine all the rare materials MC could harvest from the monsters they hunt—rare scales, horns, fangs, and more—and how much they’d be worth in the Devildom's underground markets. His greed kicks into high gear as he starts picturing piles of grim, a smug smile spreading across his face.

"Just think of it!" he exclaims, already counting his imaginary profits. "We’ll be rich! I mean, you fight the monsters, but I’ll take care of the rest, yeah? That armor of yours is already impressive, but with a bit of extra cash, we could really upgrade it."

MC’s lack of fear and willingness to take on any challenge only fuels Mammon’s excitement. He’s constantly pestering them after every hunt, asking what kind of materials they collected and whether he can sell the remains. "What’d ya get this time? Some kinda rare fang or somethin'? Don’t be selfish now, let your pal Mammon handle the transactions!"

Of course, beneath all the talk about profit and selling materials, Mammon does genuinely care about MC. He’s the Avatar of Greed, sure, but he doesn’t want them to get hurt. Whenever MC goes off on another dangerous hunt, Mammon can’t help but feel a twinge of worry. "Don’t go doin' anything stupid out there, alright? I can’t make grim off ya if ya get yourself killed!"

Even with his schemes to make grim, Mammon keeps a close eye on MC when they’re in battle. If they ever get into a tight spot, he’s there to jump in—though he’ll deny it was out of concern and claim it was because he didn’t want to lose out on potential earnings.

But once the fight is over, it’s right back to business. "Now, about that haul from your latest kill… How ‘bout we split the profits? 80-20. I mean, I am the one who knows the best markets for this stuff!"

Leviathan

When Leviathan first meets MC, fully armored with twin swords forged from the claws of an ice dragon, his immediate thought is that they look like they’ve stepped straight out of one of his favorite fantasy RPGs or anime series. His eyes widen in awe, and he’s almost too flustered to speak at first. It’s not often that someone so cool enters his life, especially in the real world.

"Y-You… you look like a character from Magical Knights of Dragonbane! Those swords… the armor… you’re like a real-life hero!" His voice wavers between excitement and shyness, and there’s a spark of admiration in his eyes.

Despite his usual insecurity around others, Levi is completely drawn to MC because they embody everything he’s always admired in fictional heroes. Their fearlessness, their relentless pursuit of battle, and their undeniable strength hit all the right notes for him as a fan of epic stories and battles. Of course, that admiration quickly spirals into his typical jealousy.

"Not that I’m envious or anything," he mumbles, though his expression says otherwise. "I mean, I could totally do that too if I wanted to! It’s just… I don’t have those swords. Or that armor. Or the skills. But still!"

Levi starts treating MC like a real-life protagonist, often comparing them to his favorite characters from games and anime. He constantly talks about how their latest monster fight reminds him of a boss battle from Ruler of the Abyss or a particularly intense dungeon raid. "That battle you had with the three-headed demon? It’s just like the showdown in Knight’s Quest VII, where you have to defeat the Hydra! You totally pulled a legendary move back there!"

Levi’s fanboying can get a bit overwhelming, especially when he starts bombarding MC with questions about their weapons and techniques. "How did you get the claws of an ice dragon? Did you have to fight it solo? Was it like the Frozen Tundra Arc from Legend of the Snowblades?"

However, Levi’s admiration comes with his usual dose of insecurity. He’s impressed by MC’s bravery and skill but can’t help feeling a little envious. In his mind, they’re living the kind of life he’s only ever dreamed of—taking on dangerous monsters, wielding epic weapons, and being utterly fearless. "You’re so lucky," he mutters during one of their conversations, eyes downcast. "You get to be the hero in real life. I just… stay in my room and live through games."

Despite his jealousy, Levi can’t deny that MC has earned his respect. He’s fascinated by their adventures, and even though he wishes he could be as brave as them, he finds himself cheering them on from the sidelines. When MC tells him about their latest monster hunt, Levi’s eyes light up, and he listens intently, hanging on every word like it’s part of an ongoing story.

"That’s so cool," he blurts out after MC describes a particularly intense battle. "You’re like… a real-life protagonist. If this were a game, you’d definitely be the main character. I’d be… I’d be the support class, I guess." There’s a hint of self-deprecation in his voice, but it’s clear that Levi admires MC more than he lets on.

Over time, Levi even starts imagining what it would be like to join MC on their hunts, despite his fear of real-life combat. "If I ever went with you on one of your monster hunts, I’d be like the strategist or the mage, right? I’d stay in the back and cast spells while you go in with those epic swords!" He knows he’s not cut out for the front lines, but the idea of being part of the adventure appeals to him more than he’s willing to admit.

Even though Levi feels like he’ll never be as brave as MC, he slowly comes to realize that being their friend is enough. "I guess I’ll just keep being your number one fan," he says with a small smile. "Even if I’m not fighting beside you, I’ll always be here to support you, just like in the games."

In true Levi fashion, he’ll also try to get MC to play his favorite monster-hunting video games, eager to compare their real-life experience to the virtual world. "C’mon, let’s see if you can take down the Frost King in Night’s Fall! It’s just like the ice dragon you fought, except, y’know… pixelated."

Satan

When Satan first encounters MC, fully armored and wielding swords crafted from the claws of an ice dragon, his reaction is not one of awe or intimidation but of intense curiosity. Unlike the others, who might be impressed by the sheer spectacle of MC’s appearance, Satan’s mind immediately begins to analyze the practicality of it all.

"The claws of an ice dragon?" he murmurs thoughtfully, observing the swords with a critical eye. "That’s not a common material. You must have gone through considerable effort to acquire those."

Unlike Levi or Mammon, Satan isn’t concerned with how cool MC looks or how much grim they could fetch for selling parts of their kills. Instead, he’s far more interested in the intellectual aspect—how MC hunts, what techniques they use, and most importantly, the kinds of creatures they’ve encountered. For Satan, MC represents a rare opportunity to expand his knowledge of monsters and battle tactics, and that’s far more exciting than anything else.

He immediately begins asking pointed, detail-oriented questions. "How did you handle the ice dragon’s frost breath? I assume you’ve developed a method to resist extreme temperatures, given the nature of your weapons. And what about its speed? Ice dragons are known to be incredibly agile despite their size."

Satan respects MC’s abilities, but he’s also fascinated by the process behind their victories. He admires their strength, yes, but it’s their intellect and experience that truly captures his attention. To him, a successful monster hunter isn’t just someone who fights well—they’re someone who knows how to outthink their enemies, and MC’s fearlessness only enhances that aspect in his eyes.

"You approach battle with the same decisiveness I would in a pursuit of knowledge," Satan observes, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Calculated. Efficient. You don’t waste time with hesitation, but neither do you rush in recklessly."

However, Satan’s admiration isn’t without its critique. He’s someone who values control and precision, and while he recognizes MC’s fearlessness as a strength, he’s also quick to point out its potential pitfalls. "You’re fearless, which is commendable," he says, leaning against a bookshelf in the library as they talk. "But there’s a thin line between bravery and recklessness. You might be skilled, but even the strongest can be undone by overconfidence."

His words are not a reprimand but a cautionary lesson. Satan respects strength, but he respects wisdom even more, and he takes it upon himself to ensure that MC understands the balance between the two. "A monster hunter like you should know—monsters can be unpredictable. No amount of strength can save you from the consequences of a single miscalculation."

That said, Satan’s own curiosity sometimes leads him to ask MC to go after certain creatures, not because he wants to see them in danger, but because he’s interested in studying the monsters themselves. "There’s a particularly rare species of shadow fiend in the northern caves. I’ve been wanting to study one for some time now. Would you be up for the challenge?" He knows MC is always seeking their next hunt, and while Satan has no interest in accompanying them on the battlefield, he’s more than eager to read up on their findings.

Satan is also fascinated by MC’s lack of fear. He’s used to humans being intimidated by demons, but MC doesn’t so much as flinch in the presence of the brothers, not even Lucifer. That fearlessness intrigues him, and he can’t help but poke at it sometimes, trying to understand what drives them. "You’re not afraid of anything, are you?" he asks one day, his tone more curious than condescending. "I wonder if that’s born out of experience or if it’s simply who you are."

Over time, Satan’s respect for MC grows, not just for their strength but for their mind. He values their input, their insights on the creatures they fight, and the methods they use. In many ways, he sees MC as a kindred spirit—someone who approaches life with intellect and strategy, even if their battlefield is more physical than his.

Still, he never stops cautioning them. "Remember," he says one day after MC returns from a particularly dangerous hunt, "knowledge is your greatest weapon. Even more so than those swords."

Asmodeus

Asmodeus’s first reaction when he sees MC in their full, intimidating armor, wielding swords made from the claws of an ice dragon, is a mix of intrigue and slight distaste—though not for the reasons one might expect.

"Oh darling," Asmo says, with a dramatic sigh, giving MC’s armor a once-over. "That armor is so... functional, but it could use some flair! Have you ever thought about accessorizing? Maybe a bit of sparkle or color to liven it up?"

For Asmo, appearance is everything, and while he’s impressed by the sheer presence MC commands, he can’t help but think about how their look could be improved. To him, it’s a missed opportunity for some fabulous monster-hunting fashion.

But underneath his superficial comments, Asmo is genuinely curious about MC’s abilities. After all, they exude a confidence that even Asmodeus finds intriguing. Most humans are easily overwhelmed by the Devildom, but not MC. They’re fearless, something that both impresses and fascinates him.

"Look at you, so brave, fighting monsters and demons without a second thought," Asmo purrs, his eyes sparkling with a mix of admiration and amusement. "But darling, don’t forget to take care of your skin! All that armor must be so rough on it. You must let me give you a treatment. After all, you want to look good while fighting, don’t you?"

Despite his constant fussing over their appearance, Asmo quickly develops a soft spot for MC. He admires their boldness and their unshakable confidence, something that resonates with his own vanity and pride. Asmo is used to people fawning over him, but MC? They’re different. They don’t seem to care about his beauty the way others do, which only makes him more interested in them.

He’s often playful with them, teasing them about their relentless pursuit of danger. "Honestly, darling, you’re going to give me wrinkles with all this worry!" he says after hearing about one of their hunts. "But I guess there’s something charming about someone who’s willing to fight monsters head-on. Still, you should let me pamper you every now and then. A little self-care never hurt anyone!"

Asmo isn’t blind to MC’s strength, and while he’s not one for battles himself, he appreciates MC’s power in his own way. "You’re like the lead in one of those epic romance novels, charging into danger and saving the day," he gushes one day. "But even heroes need a break, don’t you think? Maybe a nice spa day, just the two of us?"

Though Asmo’s focus is often on beauty and luxury, he subtly keeps an eye on MC’s well-being. He doesn’t say it outright, but he does care about them, and he often expresses that care in his own, Asmodeus way. If MC ever gets injured or looks particularly tired after a hunt, Asmo will hover nearby, insisting on helping them recover, even if his methods involve an elaborate skincare routine.

And while Asmo may not be as direct as the others when it comes to acknowledging MC’s strength, he does have his moments of sincerity. One day, after watching them return victorious from yet another hunt, he smiles softly and says, "You really are incredible, you know that? Fearless, strong, and so confident. It’s... tantalizing. But promise me you won’t forget to take care of yourself, alright? I wouldn’t want to see someone as beautiful as you burn out."

Of course, the moment is short-lived as he quickly shifts back to his usual self, adding with a playful grin, "Now, let’s talk about adding some flair to that armor, shall we?"

Beelzebub

Beelzebub’s first reaction when he sees MC in their full suit of armor, wielding the massive ice dragon claw swords, is a mixture of curiosity and hunger—not for them, of course, but for the concept of power and strength they represent.

He doesn’t say much at first, observing them with his usual calm demeanor. Beel is used to sizing things up, whether it’s food or opponents, and MC’s imposing figure certainly catches his attention. "You’re strong," he says simply, with a hint of admiration in his voice. "I bet you’ve fought a lot of tough monsters."

To Beel, strength is something that commands respect, but he doesn’t idolize it like others might. In the beginning, he’s indifferent to MC, seeing them as just another human—albeit one who could probably put up a good fight if it came down to it. But as someone who has fought through hunger and struggles, Beel recognizes determination when he sees it, and MC clearly has plenty of that.

What intrigues Beel most is how calm and fearless MC is when hunting. It reminds him of himself during his hungriest moments—when survival is all that matters. "You don’t seem afraid of anything," he says one day, watching as MC polishes their weapons after a hunt. "That’s good. Fear slows you down."

Despite his initial indifference, Beel can’t help but be curious about MC’s hunting style. He’s not the type to pry, but during meals (where food is always the focus), he’ll casually ask about the monsters they’ve fought, especially if they’ve faced anything particularly tough. "So, what does an ice dragon even look like?" he asks, in between bites of his massive sandwich. "I’ve never fought one, but I bet it’s a strong opponent. What does it… taste like?"

That last question comes out unintentionally, but Beel can’t help it. His mind is always on food, and ice dragons sound like something that could make a good meal—if it weren’t for the fact that they’re not supposed to eat otherworldly creatures.

Despite his hunger-driven curiosity, Beel develops a sense of respect for MC’s strength and the way they approach battle. He’s blunt, as always, but there’s an underlying admiration when he talks to them. "I can tell you’re not just strong," he says one day. "You’re smart about how you fight. That’s important."

Beel also notices that MC is always pushing themselves, always looking for the next fight, and while he respects their drive, he also worries that they might overdo it. "You’re strong, but you should rest too," he advises, his tone gentle but firm. "It’s important to take care of yourself. Even the strongest can get worn out."

In his own quiet way, Beel becomes protective of MC. He knows what it’s like to fight through endless battles—whether it’s for survival or against his own hunger—and he doesn’t want to see someone burn out because they never take a break. "Next time you go on a hunt, let me know," he offers casually one day. "I might not be a hunter, but I’m strong. I could help if you ever need it."

And of course, Beel being Beel, he can’t resist asking one final, food-related question every now and then: "You think any of those monsters are edible?"

Belphegor

Belphegor's initial reaction to MC, clad in their heavy armor and wielding swords forged from ice dragon claws, is one of disinterest. He yawns the first time he sees them, barely glancing up from where he’s lounging in the attic. Fighting monsters? Chasing down challenges? It all sounds exhausting to him. He doesn’t understand why anyone would want to seek out danger when they could be napping instead.

"Fighting monsters for fun?" he says with a lazy drawl. "Sounds like a lot of effort for something you could just avoid." His typical apathy towards things that require energy is in full force, and he can’t comprehend why MC is always on the lookout for their next battle. To him, strength isn’t about fighting—it’s about conserving energy and doing just enough to get by.

However, despite his indifference, Belphegor’s sharp mind quickly picks up on MC’s relentless drive. It’s the exact opposite of his laid-back nature, and that contrast both confuses and amuses him. "You’re always moving, always looking for something to fight," he observes, his voice tinged with mild curiosity. "Don’t you ever get tired of it?"

Belphie doesn’t have the same admiration for strength that his brothers do, but he’s not oblivious to it either. When he finally takes the time to notice MC’s no-nonsense attitude and fearlessness, he can’t help but find it a little… excessive. "Why fight when you can just avoid the trouble altogether?" he muses, half asleep in his usual spot. "Seems to me you’re just looking for reasons to work harder than you need to."

Despite his usual teasing, Belphegor occasionally asks about MC’s hunts, if only to pass the time between naps. His questions, however, are more about their motives than the actual battles. "What’s the point of fighting all these monsters anyway?" he asks one day, leaning lazily against a pillow. "Does it make you feel more alive or something?"

It’s not that Belphie doesn’t respect MC—he just doesn’t see the appeal in their constant pursuit of danger. He’s more likely to poke fun at their endless energy than to admire their bravery. "All that running around," he says with a sleepy smirk, "you’re making me tired just talking about it."

Still, there’s a small part of Belphegor that envies MC’s drive. While he’ll never admit it, he sometimes wonders what it’s like to have that kind of unwavering determination, to constantly seek out the next challenge without hesitation. "Maybe you’re just crazy," he jokes lightly, though his half-lidded eyes suggest a deeper curiosity. "But I guess it takes a little bit of crazy to do what you do."

In typical Belphie fashion, his interactions with MC are filled with teasing, laziness, and an underlying amusement at their seemingly endless energy. "Next time you fight a monster, do it quietly," he says, half-joking. "I’d rather not be woken up by your battle cries."

However, beneath the teasing exterior, Belphegor slowly develops a grudging respect for MC. They’re not like most humans who are easily intimidated by the Devildom or the brothers. In their own way, MC’s tireless pursuit of challenges reminds Belphie of the persistence he sometimes lacks—and while he’ll never admit it, he appreciates that contrast.

But true to his personality, Belphegor would much rather nap than fight any monsters. "You go ahead and handle all the battles," he says with a lazy grin. "I’ll be here… sleeping."

Diavolo

When Diavolo first meets MC, fully clad in their formidable armor with swords forged from the claws of an ice dragon, his reaction is one of genuine excitement and curiosity. Unlike most who might feel intimidated by their imposing presence, Diavolo is immediately intrigued. His eyes light up as he takes in their confidence, their fearlessness, and the clear battle-worn nature of their gear.

"Fascinating!" he exclaims, a wide smile spreading across his face. "You’re truly unique. I’ve never seen a human so... driven to face monsters head-on. You must tell me more about your adventures."

Diavolo, being the future king of the Devildom, has encountered many powerful beings in his lifetime, but there’s something about MC’s relentless pursuit of danger that resonates with him. He respects strength, not just in terms of raw power but in character, and MC’s determination and fearlessness leave a strong impression on him. He finds their willingness to challenge even the most dangerous monsters admirable, as it reminds him of his own desire to push the boundaries of what’s possible in his realm.

"You possess an admirable quality," Diavolo says, his voice full of warmth. "The kind of courage it takes to fight monsters, especially in a place like the Devildom, is rare even among demons. And yet, here you are, unafraid and ready for your next challenge."

While Diavolo’s naturally enthusiastic, he also understands the importance of balance and self-care. As someone responsible for an entire realm, he knows the dangers of constantly pushing forward without taking a moment to reflect. He’s quick to offer advice, though it’s always tempered with kindness. "Strength is an incredible asset," he tells MC, "but even the strongest warriors need to rest. I’d hate for your potential to burn out too soon. After all, the Devildom could use someone like you for a long time to come."

Though he admires MC’s fearlessness, Diavolo also sees an opportunity to learn from them. He’s fascinated by their experiences as a monster hunter, their techniques, and the mindset that drives them to seek out battles most would shy away from. He often invites them to the castle, eager to hear their stories and discuss how their experiences might help shape the future of the exchange program.

"I think there’s much we could learn from your approach to challenges," Diavolo muses during one of their discussions. "You possess a rare resilience, and that’s something we could foster here in the Devildom. Imagine what we could achieve if more people were willing to face their fears like you."

But even with his royal duties and his grand vision for the Devildom’s future, Diavolo enjoys lighthearted moments with MC. Their lack of fear makes them a refreshing presence in his life, someone who doesn’t treat him with the usual reverence or hesitation. He appreciates the directness in their interactions, and while most are wary of challenging him, MC’s readiness to face anything head-on never fails to amuse him.

"You know," Diavolo chuckles one day, leaning forward in his seat, "I think you’d make an excellent sparring partner. It’s been a while since I’ve faced someone who isn’t afraid of a little risk."

In his usual upbeat and charismatic way, Diavolo respects MC’s strength but also seeks to guide them in balancing their drive with wisdom. He sees a potential ally in them, someone who could help shape a stronger connection between the human and demon worlds.

"You’re quite remarkable, MC," Diavolo says, his voice full of genuine admiration. "And I believe your presence here in the Devildom is going to make a difference. Not just for the exchange program, but for all of us."

Barbatos

When Barbatos first encounters MC, clad in their armor and wielding swords forged from the claws of an ice dragon, he remains as calm and composed as ever. Where others might react with surprise or intrigue, Barbatos’s expression remains neutral, though his sharp eyes take in every detail. He’s not one to be easily impressed, but he quickly recognizes that MC is far from an ordinary human.

"Impressive craftsmanship," he comments softly, nodding toward the swords at MC’s side. "Ice dragon claws are not a material one encounters often. You must have gone through great effort to acquire them."

Barbatos, as a servant of the royal household, values discipline, control, and efficiency. He immediately notices MC’s fearless demeanor and relentless drive to fight, and while he acknowledges their strength, he views their constant pursuit of battle with measured caution. In his mind, strength must be balanced with wisdom, and fearlessness must be tempered with foresight.

"Strength alone is admirable," Barbatos says calmly, "but do not let it blind you to the subtleties of the world. Not all battles are won with force."

He watches MC closely, especially when they speak of their adventures, and though Barbatos doesn’t share Diavolo’s exuberance, he is quietly intrigued by MC’s experiences. Their boldness and lack of fear are unusual for a human in the Devildom, and Barbatos finds their demeanor both refreshing and a potential cause for concern. He appreciates individuals who are willing to face challenges, but he also knows that reckless bravery can lead to unintended consequences.

"You seem to seek out danger wherever you go," Barbatos observes one day, his tone gentle but firm. "I wonder if you have considered the value of patience. Even the strongest warriors must know when to wait and when to strike."

Though he rarely expresses his thoughts openly, Barbatos does respect MC’s capabilities. He’s meticulous in everything he does, and he admires those who are similarly skilled. However, his primary concern is balance and ensuring that MC’s drive to fight doesn’t lead to unnecessary chaos. Barbatos is a master of control, and he values individuals who understand the importance of restraint—something he subtly encourages in MC whenever they speak.

"You have great potential," Barbatos says, his voice steady. "But even the strongest can be undone by rushing into battles without proper preparation. I would advise you to consider each challenge carefully before acting."

Despite his calm demeanor, Barbatos is not without warmth. He cares deeply for those in the Devildom, and while his advice is always practical, there’s an underlying sense of protectiveness when he speaks to MC. Though he may not show it as openly as Diavolo or the others, he does not want to see MC’s fearlessness lead to harm.

If MC ever returns from a particularly challenging battle, perhaps showing signs of fatigue or injury, Barbatos will quietly tend to them, ensuring they are taken care of without making a fuss. "Even the strongest need time to recover," he says, offering them a cup of tea with his usual elegance. "I trust you will take the necessary time to rest before seeking your next challenge."

Barbatos respects MC’s capabilities, but he never hesitates to remind them of the importance of balance, patience, and precision. To him, they are a strong and valuable asset to the Devildom, but one that must be guided with care.

"You are formidable, there is no doubt about that," Barbatos says with a rare, almost imperceptible smile. "But true strength lies not just in the ability to fight, but in knowing when not to."

Simeon

When Simeon first sees MC in their full armor, wielding swords made from the claws of an ice dragon, his initial reaction is one of quiet admiration, though not just for their appearance or strength. He’s always been more interested in the stories behind people’s actions—the motivations, the journeys, the moments that shape them. MC’s fearless demeanor and relentless pursuit of battle intrigue him, not because of the physical feats they’ve accomplished, but because of the story that must lie beneath it all.

"You have the air of someone who’s seen much and learned more," Simeon comments softly, his eyes warm and thoughtful. "I imagine you’ve faced quite a few challenges on your journey. Would you mind sharing your story with me sometime?"

As a writer, Simeon is deeply fascinated by character and narrative. MC, with their relentless drive and unyielding courage, strikes him as someone whose experiences could fill volumes. He often finds himself observing them from a distance, not out of judgment, but out of a genuine curiosity to understand what drives someone to seek out danger so fearlessly. While others might focus on MC’s strength, Simeon is more interested in the why behind it all.

"What compels you to fight?" he asks one day, his tone gentle but probing. "Is it the thrill of the battle? Or is there something else that you’re searching for?"

Simeon’s approach to MC is always soft and considerate. He doesn’t push them for answers, but he often invites them to share their thoughts or experiences over quiet conversations, always eager to listen. His fascination with their life as a monster hunter stems from his belief that every person has a story worth telling, and MC’s story, with its focus on battle and strength, is one he feels could teach him something new about the world.

"Your journey must have been filled with many trials," Simeon muses, scribbling in his notebook one day. "Perhaps there’s a lesson in it for all of us—a way to understand the balance between courage and vulnerability."

He’s not just a passive listener, though. Simeon often uses his conversations with MC as inspiration for his writing. He subtly draws parallels between their stories and the narratives he weaves, finding beauty in the tension between their unyielding strength and the quieter, more introspective moments they rarely show. In fact, he sometimes writes fictionalized accounts of their encounters, always with a focus on the inner conflicts that must come with being someone who faces danger so often.

"You remind me of a character I’ve been writing about," Simeon tells MC one afternoon, a thoughtful smile on his lips. "A warrior with a strong heart but a soul that is always searching for something more. Perhaps you’ll find what you’re looking for in these battles—or perhaps, it’s something beyond them."

Unlike others who might caution MC against pushing themselves too hard, Simeon never directly warns them about the dangers of their lifestyle. Instead, he gently encourages reflection, hoping they’ll come to their own understanding of balance. He respects their choices and believes that the path they walk—dangerous as it may be—is part of their own story, and only they can determine where it leads.

Still, there’s an underlying protectiveness to Simeon’s interactions with MC. He may not wield swords or fight monsters, but his concern for their well-being is evident in his gentle nudges toward self-reflection. "Even the strongest warriors need rest," he says one evening, his voice calm and soothing. "Perhaps the next battle can wait until you’ve had a moment to yourself. After all, it’s in the quiet moments that we often find the answers we’ve been seeking."

Simeon admires MC’s bravery, but his true connection with them comes from his desire to understand the deeper motivations that drive them. To him, MC is more than just a fighter—they’re a living story, full of complexities and emotions that make them all the more fascinating.

And in his own way, Simeon hopes to be part of that story, helping them see that there’s more to life than battles and that sometimes, the greatest strength comes from knowing when to rest and reflect.

Luke

When Luke first meets MC, clad in their full suit of armor and wielding swords made from the claws of an ice dragon, his eyes go wide with awe. He’s immediately fascinated by their appearance and presence, especially since he’s never seen a human so fearless—or wearing such impressive gear.

"Wow!" Luke exclaims, practically bouncing with excitement. "You look just like one of those knights from the stories I read! Did you really fight an ice dragon? What was it like? How big was it? Were you scared?"

His curiosity is boundless, and he peppers MC with question after question, his childlike excitement bubbling over. To Luke, MC is like a real-life hero, and while he knows they’re a monster hunter, his youthful imagination casts them as a noble protector, someone who slays evil to keep others safe. He looks up to them almost immediately, seeing them as a role model.

"I bet you’ve saved tons of people, right?" Luke asks, his eyes sparkling. "You’re just like one of those brave knights in the stories! You protect everyone from scary monsters!"

However, despite his admiration, Luke’s protective instincts kick in. Even though MC is clearly strong and capable, he still worries about them, just like he worries about everyone he cares about. "But… you have to be careful!" Luke adds, his tone turning serious, his small hands clenched into fists. "Fighting monsters is dangerous! You can’t just go around looking for trouble!"

Luke, despite being a child, takes his role as an angel seriously, and he views MC’s constant search for battle with a mixture of awe and concern. He can’t understand why someone would willingly put themselves in danger, even if they’re strong. To him, bravery is important, but so is knowing when to stay safe. "You don’t have to fight all the time to be a hero," he says earnestly, his big eyes filled with concern. "You can help people in other ways too, you know."

Whenever MC returns from a hunt, Luke is always the first to run up to them, checking for any injuries, even if they insist they’re fine. "Are you hurt? Let me see! You have to be careful next time, okay?" He may be small, but Luke’s protective nature knows no bounds, and he fusses over MC the way an older sibling might.

At the same time, Luke looks up to MC and wants to learn from them. "Do you think you could teach me how to fight like you?" he asks eagerly. "Not that I’d ever want to hurt anyone! But just in case I need to protect someone!"

Of course, despite his fascination with MC’s strength, Luke still can’t help but view them through his innocent, childlike lens. He believes in the good in everyone and hopes that MC’s battles are always for the right reasons. "Promise me you’ll only fight the bad monsters," he says one day, his voice soft but firm. "Because I know you’re strong, but it’s important to be kind too."

Luke may be young, but his admiration for MC is tempered with his natural protectiveness and deep sense of morality. He sees MC as a brave hero, but he also wants to make sure they understand that being a hero isn’t just about fighting—it’s about doing what’s right.

"Just promise me you’ll stay safe," Luke says with a determined expression. "Because I’d miss you if something happened."

Solomon

When Solomon first meets MC, decked out in their imposing armor with twin swords made from the claws of an ice dragon, his reaction is one of amused fascination. He’s always been one to appreciate the unusual and extraordinary, and MC is no exception. His eyes gleam with curiosity as he takes in their no-nonsense attitude and constant thirst for battle.

"Well, aren’t you a sight to behold," Solomon says with a playful grin. "An armored human, hunting down demons and monsters with no fear in sight. I must say, you’re quite the intriguing puzzle."

Unlike some of the others, Solomon doesn’t feel intimidated by MC’s presence. If anything, he finds it refreshing. He’s met countless beings over the centuries, but someone like MC—who walks into the Devildom, ready to face danger head-on without hesitation—piques his curiosity. In true Solomon fashion, he’s eager to learn more about their abilities, techniques, and the drive that keeps them hunting.

"You’ll have to show me those swords up close," he comments casually, eyeing the dragon-claw blades. "Ice dragon claws… that’s not something you see every day. I wonder what kind of spells we could craft using materials like that."

Solomon, being the mischievous and ever-experimental sorcerer that he is, immediately starts thinking of ways to involve MC in his magical experiments. He’s always pushing boundaries, and having someone as fearless as MC around sparks all kinds of ideas for new spells, potions, and challenges. "You and I should collaborate," he suggests with a grin. "Think of the possibilities! We could combine your hunting skills with my magic. I bet we could summon something really exciting."

Of course, knowing Solomon, his definition of "exciting" usually involves a lot of chaos and unpredictability, so his idea of collaboration comes with a certain level of risk. But he’s confident that MC, with their fearlessness and thirst for adventure, would be up for it.

Solomon’s teasing nature also shines through in his interactions with MC. He can’t help but poke fun at their constant search for a fight. "You’re like a dog chasing after every stick thrown your way," he says with a chuckle. "Do you ever stop and relax? Or is hunting all you think about?"

Despite his playful jabs, Solomon respects MC’s abilities deeply. He knows they’re not just a warrior looking for their next challenge—they’re someone who has honed their skills to perfection. That kind of dedication resonates with him, and while he might joke around, he’s always paying close attention to how MC handles themselves in battle.

There’s also a part of Solomon that enjoys watching MC’s fearlessness in action. He’s spent centuries mastering magic and dealing with demons, but MC’s straightforward approach is something he finds amusing and endearing. "You really don’t back down from anything, do you?" he asks one day, leaning back with an amused smile. "It’s almost reckless. Almost."

Still, Solomon can’t resist pushing MC’s limits. He’s constantly challenging them, whether it’s through magical experiments or philosophical debates about the nature of strength. "Being fearless is one thing," he says thoughtfully, "but have you ever wondered if there’s something even you’re afraid of? Maybe it’s not a monster or a demon—maybe it’s something a little closer to home."

His tone is light, but his words are probing, as Solomon often likes to peel back the layers of people around him, especially those as intriguing as MC.

In the end, Solomon’s relationship with MC is one of mutual respect, sprinkled with his usual chaotic energy. He admires their strength and courage, but never misses an opportunity to throw a little unpredictability their way, always curious to see how they’ll react.

"Oh, and one last thing," Solomon says with a sly smile after one of their more intense conversations. "If you ever need a break from all that hunting, I’m always up for a little magical chaos. Just let me know when you’re ready to try something really dangerous."

[allwormdiet]

Interlude 6

Justice for Paige McAbee

This is. Fucking evil. Chaining a woman up like an animal and parading her around the courtroom. Like what the shit.

Utterly fucking barbaric

Brief detour I guess to provide exposition on the existence of rogues

Going from heartbreak to outrage this quickly in succession was some fucking whiplash when I first read this arc, fucking tell you what

Actual torture.

The inhumanity of this entire arrangement is borderline sickening to see play out. What an utter failure of the system

Oh hey you two

I can see how people would get. Touchy. About a power like that. But touchy enough for a life sentence is fucked.

Also, credit where it's due, Bakuda's ingenuity in this situation is still pretty well on display

Bakuda is playing with fucking fire here, and not just pyrokinesis, har har

Okay you know what, callousness and cruelty aside, this is a fucking badass display from Bakuda.

Okay so what the fuck is up with the ABB capes, actually. Bakuda built a bomb that would've devastated, like, the entire Eastern Seaboard, and probably even further beyond that into the west and north. I'd say that she was slumming it as part of a gang that's only got a minor presence in one city and a few neighboring areas, but honestly Lung feels just as cracked.

Dude basically only fights harder over time, he would've taken down everyone in that warehouse if Skitter didn't make a Hail Mary play with Newter's hallucinogen. Kaiser, Sundancer, Bitch, Newter, and one or both of the twins would've been fucking smoked, maybe Labyrinth if Coil's guys didn't bother to pull her out. This dude could've been putting up massive numbers throughout his entire reign as the head of the ABB.

So what the fuck was he doing instead? If he's a gang boss with this kind of power at his fingertips, where's the fucking appetite that should come with it? Skitter didn't even think he was an A-lister before they fought and he proved her wrong, she thought he was like, a step above Uber and Leet? In what world does that misconception become publicly accepted?

I'd say this is gonna bug me, but uhh, Lung's going to the fucking oubliette to end all oubliettes so it's a bit of a moot point, isn't it

Like, okay. Fucked up, sure thing. But this is still such a massive injustice; it was a one-time thing and she couldn't have possibly known if this was the first time it ever happened. You could've demanded training for her power, if nothing else, but you throw her into Hell on Earth. Fuck me.

This is a level of determination that I think has so far gone unmatched in this story. Like, I'll give Taylor time to pull off something even more outrageously self-harming for the sake of an objective, it's her story after all and there's a lot of words left, but Bakuda really is something else.

Of course that "something else" does include being an abrasive piece of shit, but hell, she's a parahuman, I don't think I've met one of them that's without some kind of baggage.

Maybe there's a world out there where after her trigger event she comes down on the other end of the hero/villain line. Bombs aren't exactly heroic but she could build non-lethally for standard use and save the big damage for shit like Endbringers. Plus the obvious potential of having a bomb Tinker as an EOD expert, that would be game-changing.

She'd still probably be an asshole, but like. You don't have to be pleasant to be a hero, we know that one for sure.

Alas.

I was torn between wanting Paige to get out of this and wanting Lung and Bakuda to get what's coming to them.

Hi Dragon, wish you weren't the warden of the worst prison I've ever heard of in my life, see you later in the story maybe

Also. Six hundred prisoners in the Birdcage. Not counting whoever's died. That's a fucking lot of them.

Wait what the fuck happened to Newfoundland

Oh, Dragon hates this too, well there's a small fucking mercy.

Also, "the hole the men opened into the women's half of the Birdcage" is a fucking alarming phrase. We're just fucking letting anything fly down here, huh? Jesus Christ.

Dragon's description of the Birdcage's security measures is. Fucking extreme. This is a fucking nightmare, an absolute cavalcade of human rights abuses that I can't even begin to fathom.

Have children been born in the Birdcage? If not, who's preventing that? Is everyone being covertly dosed with contraceptives to keep them from having children? Do the block leaders have people on hand to deal with abortions? How do you handle dietary restrictions? Religious restrictions? What if it turns out you were wrongly convicted?

Literally everything about this place is a horror show. Every implication is dark as fucking Vantablack.

Gross

I guess this is what passes for society down here, huh

Well shit, I guess I'm glad Bakuda has some enrichment at least.

Okay, so, Marquis is a supervillain who's taken over a cell block, and he's a Brockton native invested in learning what he's missed out on

...Easy money says he's Amy Dallon's old man.

Not entirely shocked that Lung's spent time behind bars, though I assume that was before he got his powers.

And uhh. I'm gonna be real, I feel kinda bad for Bakuda here. Like she's a piece of shit, obviously, but for all her insults she seemed happy to work for Lung, enough that she made a point of freeing him from the Protectorate and putting him back in charge when she could've stayed in charge, taken advantage of his arrest and done whatever she pleased

and now he's gonna kill her. Because she insulted him. Because it'll make life in prison easier.

I mean, shit. I do not like Bakuda's odds in this exchange. It probably doesn't take a lot for Lung to have her debilitated, and from there the kill is even easier. Maybe he dies too, but I don't expect that to be the case.

Current Thoughts

Justice for Paige McAbee

The Birdcage is, I think, a very reasonable simulacrum of Hell, and its very existence probably gives in-universe philosophers, ethicists, defense attorneys, and human rights activists fucking hives.

Also, justice for Paige McAbee

I'm not going to mourn Bakuda, but maybe I'll mourn the version of her that could've been in a kinder world.

Last thing, just in case we weren't clear:

Justice for Paige McAbee

[mrs-kodzuken]

hard to desire ⨟ kenma k.

chapter three

wutiwant saraunh0ly

❝More awake inside of my dreams, was that really you next to me?

Gimme what I want, who am I supposed to please?

Who am I supposed to please?❞

previous chapter next chapter

You couldn't help but to get absolutely fucking frustrated with Kenma. After so long, the little petty act from him had gotten so deep under your skin. You weren't one to tolerate something so stupid and childish, especially when you were nothing but courteous.

Kenma had somehow caused you to stop refraining from your usual nice manner and instead seemed to have brought a hateful part of you out.

It had all started when you had changed your seat in a class, seemingly nothing right? Wrong.

Apparently, the universe hates you because as you roamed the seating options, choosing once further in the back before class started, you had dangerously realized that Kenma had this class too.

The burning hatred on his face was more than known when you also apparently took his exact same seat. He stood there with his books in hand, now a bored expression on his face as if he was waiting for you to automatically get up.

"There's no assigned seats, find another one." You side eyed him, a cold tone encasing your words. A scrunch of his face was duly noted when he walked across the room, avoiding a seat near you as much as possible.

Somehow, that filled you with excitement, giving the exact same energy back to him as he had been doing to you.

That's what his mean ass gets, you smirked to yourself. However, you couldn't help the hot and cold shiver of excitement that coursed through you. Suddenly, it was extremely hot in the light brown sweater you had picked out today.

Kenma on the other hand, knew that you had this class with him on the first day. From that day forward, he watched you like a hawk. Every movement, every sip from your pink water bottle, every single interaction you'd have with a classmate.

He'd be in the back watching you, unable to take his eyes off the way you were just... you.

He couldn't help but to act like this towards you. You messed his life up from the beginning, knowing who you were even before you guys had properly met. The crosswalk incident never seemed to have crossed your mind when you saw him. It had been in his mind ever since he saw how absolutely beautiful you looked, listening to a song he knew which made you even more attractive in his eyes.

Anyways, deep down you knew that this eventually would not solve anything between you two. You actually had to talk with Kuroo about this now, before it really got too far. That's not something you really wanted to do though.

Class had blown by in a breeze, you couldn't stop staring at the back of Kenma's head as he wrote down notes, doodled a bit in his notebook, and even stretched to avoid cramping.

You were so enthralled with him; you could sense it. You shoved that down to only wanting to be friends and not wanting to fight with your roommate.

"Kuroo, I just feel like Kenma doesn't really like me." You confessed, sitting on the couch at home, wrapped in a blanket.

"Nonsense, Kenma can be ... something, but I'm sure he just hasn't warmed up to you yet." He spoke so surely that maybe you just have imagined the past few interactions with Kenma.

Except... you haven't. Kenma truly was being a dickhead to you, you knew that much.

Kenma on the other hand, knew he was too. He couldn't stand that you actually live with them. Your presence –your scent– was everywhere even if you weren't there at all.

He couldn't bare it anymore. The lustrous thoughts of you filled his mind and he loathed it. He loathed you. But he couldn't help himself when you and Kuroo were out of the apartment, and he took a peek into your room.

He found it girlish and utterly weird to say the least, however, that didn't stop from taking an article of clothing from your dirty hamper. Kenma felt so dirty, so invasive, but he was getting unbelievably hard at the fact you might have worn these the night before.

Your pink and white dotted panties with a pretty bow on them taken by Kenma as a trophy. The dirty act of doing it sent an electrical shock down his spine, he hated you so much, to the point where he craved you so badly.

His hard cock had strained against his underwear and sweatpants he had so often worn. Seeing a dried wet stain on them was the straw that broke the camel's back for him. Kenma's eyes were lidded with lust, knowing that he didn't have nearly enough time to fully please himself with this article of clothing till you or Kuroo came back to the apartment.

You didn't have a clue of any of this, of course, only focused on telling Kuroo to talk to Kenma for you – not wanting him to hate you anymore.

And you definitely left out the bits where you've cussed back at Kenma or sarcastically responded back just because he decided to be an extra asshole like. A recurring memory strikes especially during the Saturday nights where you had made dinner for everyone on the weekends, but he insisted that he was sure it would kill him if he ate it.

"If you say so," You responded, picking at your nails, not having anything else to say or better to do.

"How about you come with me? I was going to go meet up with some friends from high school and I'm pretty sure you'd like to meet them." Kuroo says with a smile, if you hadn't known any better you would think that he was trying to cheer you up from the nonsense that Kenma was on.

"I guess." you sighed, deciding that you'd use this opportunity to make some friends outside of class and get your mind off of Kenma's antics towards you.

It was a brisk walk that you and Kuroo took, catching up on his classes and how he was doing lately since it felt like you both haven't really talked a lot lately.

He was going on about how he has been staying after lectures to help some of his classmates with work they were troubled on. In Kuroo's head, it just seemed like the perfect excuse to help you, and Kenma got along better when he wasn't around. Clearly, so far it has been backfiring.

No matter how many times Kuroo tried to talk some sense into Kenma, obviously knowing how you feel when he acts like such a dickhead to you, he just wouldn't budge. He'd claim that you're the one who is always provoking him.

"Oh, so that's why you've been wearing those so much? I thought you finally realized how well they suit your face but no, you got a compliment from a girl." You rolled your eyes, giggling at how silly Kuroo was sometimes.

"She was cute, okay?" He tried defending himself, knocking on the white apartment door you guys arrived at, blushing ever so slightly at this girl he had class with and occasionally helped her with her work.

Luckily his escape from this conversation was when a man opened the door. He was tall, broad shoulders, and had a funny spiky updo of white-gray hair that had black streaks in it – it didn't look half bad.

However, the most peculiar feature about him wasn't his build, or his hair, not even his clothes, it was eyes. Those eyes... were strange to say the least. Round, stark golden-colored eyes watched you like a hawk – no, like an owl. It was almost eerie how similar you could compare the two together.

He looked attractive and magnetic to be around, you understood why Kuroo was friends with him after all.

"Hey, hey, hey! Kubro!" The man interrupted your thoughts, embracing Kuroo into a man hug.

"Sup bro! How have you and Akaashi been?" Kuroo asked as they broke from the 'bro hug' and the man opened the door wider so you both could enter.

"We're great! Who's this little thing here?" He peered down at you, a wide smile on his face which suited him a lot.

"Hi, I'm Kuroo's roommate. Y/n." You returned a smile back at him, his joyous grin becoming infectious.

"Ah, I remember now. I'm Bokuto, this is my apartment that I share with my boyfriend!" He announced to you, which you nodded to, not really sure what to respond with.

"Kaashi! Come meet Y/n," The man loudly called for, who you were guessing, his lover.

A man emerged from around the corner of the living room, you assumed that's what it was. He was wearing a sweater that suited him nicely matched with a pair of black slacks. He had glasses on, which flattered his angled face very well. If Bokuto was handsome and magnetic then Akaashi was pretty and elegant.

"Kou, you don't have to shout. I can hear. Hello, I'm Keiji Akaashi," He extended his hand to shake yours – something Bokuto hadn't done.

"Hi, nice to meet you." You shook it, being polite and offering a smile.

"Would you like some tea?" You answered yes to the offering, turning away from what Tetsu and Bokuto were talking about and followed Akaashi into the kitchen. It was very homey here, and even smelled great. He put a kettle on and let you choose which kind of tea bag you'd prefer.

You let out a gasp, seeing your favorite tea in the mix, which was cinnamon apple spice. "This one please, I love it so much!" You couldn't help but to gush.

That caught Akaashi's attention, and he immediately turned toward you, a newfound friend he could speak to about tea.

"Tell me about it, I love the after spice it gives." He smiled; it was alluring. It made your mind wander to Kenma and how he'd look when he smiled, not his usual grimace that covered his face when you were around.

After a few mindless minutes of comparing favorite teas and even going so far to discuss different brands the topic switched to something else – or someone else. And that twisted your stomach in knots, however, you weren't too sure if it was a good or bad thing.

"So, you're rooming with Kuroo and Kenma? How has that been?" He sat across from you at the glass table, both holding and sipping the teas.

"Well..." You trailed a bit, slightly chewing the membrane off the inside of your cheek. You didn't really know how to phrase how it was going.

Eventually, you went with your gut and began, "Honestly, living with Kuroo has been a breeze. I've known him since I was in primary school so there are no bumps in the road with him." Not even bringing up Kenma until he just had to ask.

"And Kenma?" He questioned, finding it weird that you had only mentioned Kuroo and not the other roommate you were also living with.

“Uh, it’s been fine, I guess.” You were going to leave it there but you just couldn’t help yourself.

“Honestly, he’s been really fucking mean. Ever since the day I moved in, it feels like he’s hated my presence and I don’t even know what I did to him.”

“He’s just so infuriating sometimes and can't even bear a simple ‘thank you’ when I try to include him in things or get him his favorite coffee.” You grumbled, letting out more and more of a rant to Akaashi who was just sitting there, looking at you so intently while you spoke. It was as if he was silently urging you to continue.

“Don’t even get me started on the sassy ass remarks he loves to give me on the off chance he’s not trying so hard to avoid me. I’ve tried everything to be his friend and he’s just not budging and I don’t know what to do.” You sighed, finally out with all of the mess that’s been troubling you for the past weeks.

You knew it had to be quite some time that you’ve held all that in since it was the end of September.

“Hm, would you like advice?” He peered down at his now half empty cup, the tea delicious.

You peered up to him, surprised.

“You’d give me advice on how to deal with him?” You asked, curiously.

“Well, yeah. I’ve known Kenma since high school so I ought to at least give you some advice on his antics.” Akaashi explained as if it was desperately obvious.

To you, though, it wasn’t. However, you still nodded him along to tell you what you should do.

“It’s simple, just keep being nice when you can. Kenma can get under peoples skin sometimes but I guess we all have known him so long that it doesn’t really affect us anymore.” He spoke with intent, getting up to put his cup in the sink.

Keep being nice? It sounded like a load of garbage to be completely honest, but Akaashi had known Kenma for a while, along with Bokuto and Kuroo. So, you guess you had no other choice but to follow it. 

Soon, the hang out was over and you exchanged numbers with Bokuto and Akaashi. You enjoyed that you had a nice advocate for you if you needed it – meaning Akaashi, or Keiji as he asked for you to call him.

You felt better about your hardy relationship with Kenma and planned to fix it too. Plus, it was nice to rant about your troubles to someone who listens very well.

They make a great couple; you thought as you and Kuroo walked on the way back to the apartment. The evening chill, flickering lights of streetlamps, and tugging your sweater close to your skin was so dulcetly ephemeral to you.

Your eyes started to lid, yearning for your bed as you couldn't keep up with the conversation of Kuroo telling you about how he and Bokuto met.

"You know, I'm really grateful for you," You suddenly felt sentimental when that left your mouth. Memories of Kuroo and you since you were young fleeted through the front of your mind.

Kuroo turned towards you with a curious look, "I'm exceptionally grateful for you, Y/n."

There wasn't any more talking till you both arrived at the apartment. You wondered in another universe if you and Kuroo had ever been actual siblings instead of found family siblings.

synopsis: it's the summer before you go to university, and you decide to become roommates with your pen pal that you've known since you were in primary. big problem arises, he's got a roommate, and it just so happens that his roommate either has a sexual want for you or hates your guts – or probably both?

tag list: [let me know if you’d like to be in the tag list!]

@geektastic84 @lavanderdreamve @hhoneyhan @kirikeijii @marsoverthestars @nymphsdomain @justagirlnamedkai @kodzukein @74zix47 @kakuzone @jaeminaur

a/n: i hope you enjoyed, and the idea for this entire smau came from @deftrow !! i made the banner

[jermer10]

For a fic request, Soldier slowly falls in love with the reader and constantly denies it because he feels like a strong American man shouldn't have butterflies in his stomach every time he sees a pretty person.

TF2 softie soldier 2

gn reader | soldier is so awesome love that guy, sorry for the comically long wait time and enjoy mr artoatsblog and eris090 <3

drabbles under the cut :P

You had just joined the administration team as a fresh recruit, assigned to the role of Civilian - a object of protection. You weren't a fan of the title, nor the nature of your role. Having to be escorted across the map by whichever team had you that week, putting up with the fretting and the comments, as if you were a hassle more than an important part of your workplace. If the pay wasn't so good, you would have left on your first day. Most mercs not-so-secretly reveled in the idea of getting to play the hero, the RED Soldier, however, was more than happy to ignore you. An intimidating presence on the battlefield, barking orders and rarely engaging with anyone outside of his explosive rants. His helmet shadowed his face, making it even harder to connect with him on any personal level.

But still, something about him drew you in. Maybe it was his unwavering determination, or perhaps the way he threw himself into danger without hesitation. Whatever it was, you wanted to get to know the man behind the helmet. Your first few attempts to speak with Soldier didn’t go well. He wasn’t rude, but his responses were curt, clipped, and filled with military jargon you didn’t quite understand. “Sir! I just wanted to thank you for covering me on the battlefield earlier,” you said one day after a particularly rough mission. He stopped polishing his rocket launcher just long enough to give you a sideways glance. “IT WAS NOTHING, MAGGOT. JUST DOING MY PART TO FIGHT THIS WAR AGAINST THOSE COMMIE SISSIES!” He left all too quickly, rambling about something in the kitchen.

You nodded, feeling a little defeated. Every day, you tried a little harder to get through to him. You’d help him clean his gear, bring him his favorite rations, and even offer to spar with him during training. Yet, each interaction ended the same way - short, jargon filled responses and some quick reason to leave. The first time you managed to break down one of his walls was after a particularly shitty week. The team had lost, and everyone was exhausted. You found Soldier sitting alone outside, staring at the rain falling on the muddy battlefield. His usual brash energy was nowhere to be found. “You alright, Soldier?” you asked cautiously, approaching him. “You don’t usually sit still this long.”

He grunted but didn’t tell you to go away. Encouraged, you sat beside him. “I know today was tough,” you said gently. “But we’ll bounce back. We always do.” For the first time, he didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion. “Lost too many good men in my time,” he said quietly, surprising you. “Can’t afford to lose any more. Not again.” The vulnerability in his voice caught you off guard. This was the first time he’d spoken to you like a person, not a recruit or a subordinate. You carefully placed a hand on his shoulder, half-expecting him to pull away.

He didn’t.

“We’re not going anywhere,” you reassured him softly. “You’ve got our backs, and we’ve got yours.” You understood his feelings of inadequacy. Soldier finally turned to face you, his eyes, usually so stern, softening just a little. You had no idea what Soldier's life was like before taking this job, the things he had seen, the things he had done. The mercs couldn't die, but you both knew he pushed them a little too hard sometimes. Finding someone to take their place in the family the team had built, well Soldier wouldn't admit it, but it would hurt. “You’re a strange one, recruit,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly. “But... you’ve got guts. More than I gave you credit for.” You smiled.

The next few days were different. Soldier still barked orders and rambled about war as per usual, but there was a subtle shift in how he interacted with you. He didn’t brush you off as quickly when you approached him, and every so often, he’d even seek you out himself, whether to talk strategy or simply share a meal in silence. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for you to notice - and enough for him to realize he was letting his guard down. That realization, of course, did not sit well with Soldier.

He found himself more aware of you whenever you were around. At first, it was just an occasional glance, a brief acknowledgment. But soon enough, it was much more than that. He noticed things about you he hadn’t before: the way you smiled when you talked, the way you styled you hair differently for every mission, and how, despite the constant chaos around you, you managed to stay calm and collected.

And that was the problem.

Soldier wasn’t supposed to notice those things. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything other than the drive to win the war and keep you safe as part of his duty. But now, every time you crossed his mind, there was that familiar, frustrating feeling - his stomach tightening, chest warming in a way that made him want to scream at himself. He refused to let it happen.

The next time he had approached you, it was after a flawless mission. You were sitting off some ledge somewhere, bottle of whisky in hand and a pleasant look on your face. He felt hot and awkward - he knew the next day you had to go over to the BLU's, and he hated knowing that he would have to try and kill you in order to prevent the enemies from winning. He also knew he had feelings for you - some not so 'professional workplace relationship' feelings, and trying to explain them to you of all people was so easy yet so hard.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked, already leaning down to sit. You smiled up at him. "Yeah, could do with some company." You passed the bottle between one another, taking swigs and cracking jokes, discussing the recent victory you had shared. After a few moments of silence, you noticed that Soldier kept sneaking glances at you from under his helmet, his jaw tight. You tilted your head, curious. “Is something bothering you?” He slammed the almost empty bottle onto the wooden planks of the flooring next to you, clearly frustrated with something - though it seemed like the frustration was directed more at himself than at you. “This- this isn’t right!” he finally snapped.

You blinked, startled by the outburst. “What isn’t right?”

“You!” Soldier pointed at you with a gloved finger, his voice rising. “You keep... getting in my head. I can’t focus! Every time I turn around, there you are, smiling and asking questions, making me think about - about things I shouldn’t be thinking about!” Your eyes widened as realization hit. “Soldier, wh- are you saying-?”

“No!” he interrupted, his voice gruff. “I’m not saying anything! I’m a soldier! I don’t have time for... whatever this is.” There it was. The vulnerability he had been fighting against for so long. He hated feeling weak, and these feelings, whatever they were, were making him feel weak. But now that it was out in the open, there was no taking it back. You were startled, confused, and feeling the same churning feeling in your chest and warmth spreading over your face that he was. “It’s okay to care about people, Soldier,” you said softly, your voice calm. “It doesn’t make you weak. If anything, it makes you stronger.”

For a long moment, Soldier didn’t say anything. He just stared at you, his expression unreadable beneath the brim of his helmet. Then, finally, he let out a long, defeated sigh. “I don’t like this,” he muttered, but there was no real bite in his words. “I don’t like... feeling like this.” You smiled, a small, understanding smile. “You don’t have to like it. But you don’t have to fight it either.” Soldier processed your words, chewing at his bottom lip. Then, with another resigned grunt, he nodded. “Fine,” he said gruffly. “But don’t think this means I’m going soft, maggot.”

You laughed softly. “I wouldn’t dare.”

And for the first time, Soldier didn’t try to deny what was happening between the two of you. He might not have fully understood it yet, but he was no longer running from it either.

[soireegurl]

wld u b able to do a ayndere riki, force marriage?

Thanks for requesting! Here it is!

In the small town of Eldridge, the days were tranquil, but the nights whispered of secrets. Riki had always been a quiet presence in your life, the kind of boy who blended into the background, watching and waiting. But lately, his gaze had shifted from casual interest to something far more intense.

It was late afternoon when you found yourself walking home from the library, lost in thought. The air was thick with the scent of rain, and dark clouds loomed overhead. As you turned a corner, you felt a chill run down your spine. Riki was leaning against a lamppost, his expression unreadable.

“Hey,” he called, his voice smooth yet slightly unnerving.

You hesitated, unsure of what to say. “Hi, Riki. What are you doing here?”

He pushed himself off the post and approached you, an unsettling smile on his face. “I wanted to talk to you. There’s something important we need to discuss.”

You swallowed hard, instinctively stepping back. “What is it?”

Riki’s eyes sparkled with an intensity that made you uneasy. “It’s about us. About our future together.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Future? Riki, we’re just friends.”

“Friends?” he echoed, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. “You don’t understand. We’re meant to be more than that. I’ve watched you, seen how you light up a room. You’re perfect for me.”

“Riki, I—” you started, but he cut you off.

“Just listen,” he insisted, stepping closer. “I know you feel it too. The connection we have. You’ve been in my thoughts every single day. I can’t imagine my life without you.”

His words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. “It’s just a crush,” you said, attempting to defuse the tension. “You don’t have to—”

“No,” he interrupted, his tone sharp. “It’s not just a crush. I’m in love with you. And I need you to understand how serious I am.”

Your heart raced as he continued. “Marry me.”

You froze, the shock of his proposal echoing in your mind. “What? Riki, this is insane. You can’t just—”

“I can and I will,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “You belong to me. I won’t let anyone take you away.”

A rush of panic coursed through you. “Riki, this isn’t how relationships work. You can’t force someone to—”

He stepped closer, his eyes fierce and unyielding. “You think I’m asking? I’m telling you. We’ll be together, whether you like it or not. I’ll make sure of it.”

The sincerity in his eyes was chilling. “What are you saying?” you whispered, feeling trapped.

“I’m saying that I’ll do whatever it takes to make you mine,” he replied, his tone softening, almost coaxing. “Imagine it: just you and me, a perfect life. You wouldn’t have to worry about anything.”

“I don’t want that!” you protested, but the desperation in your voice only seemed to fuel his determination.

Riki’s expression shifted, a shadow crossing his features. “Don’t say that. You don’t understand what I’ve sacrificed for you. I’ve waited patiently, but I can’t wait any longer. I need you to see it my way.”

“I can’t,” you said, your voice trembling. “This isn’t love; it’s obsession.”

He shook his head, a hint of anger flaring. “You think I’m obsessed? I’m devoted! You just need to give us a chance. Once you do, you’ll see how perfect we are together.”

“Riki, please,” you pleaded, stepping back again. “This isn’t right.”

His expression hardened, the warmth fading. “You think you can walk away from this? I won’t let you. I care too much. If I have to, I’ll make you understand.”

The reality of the situation settled heavily on your chest. “What do you mean by that?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to protect you,” he said, an edge creeping into his voice. “If anyone tries to come between us, I’ll handle it. You don’t need to worry about a thing.”

Fear coursed through you as you realized the depths of his resolve. “Riki, this isn’t how love works. You’re scaring me.”

He stepped closer, his gaze piercing. “You’ll see. Just give me a chance. Say yes to marrying me, and I’ll show you a world you never knew existed.”

Your heart raced, the gravity of his words pressing down on you. You felt cornered, both intrigued and terrified. “I can’t say yes to something like this.”

Riki’s smile returned, but it was colder, more calculating. “Then we’ll just have to find a way to change your mind. I won’t give up on you.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, breathless and trapped in a whirlwind of emotions. You realized this was far from over. In Riki’s world, love and possession intertwined, and he was determined to make you his, no matter the cost.