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libidomechanica · 5 months

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You under his moulders daily for the heaven

A limerick sequence

How can field Martha! The she said or say loud I hate or ever love Amaryllis, she sullen survive. And talk of Temperamental eyes; my nations for Scio.

So sharp as hast for land as he obscure. And like a marriers blame the base, how awkward sight be: his new: I recollect in their own to wedlock; but Verbum sat.

To haue learn’d them; at large, and o’er the moons?—And from Arabian Nightful green, third days’ sweet must for yet of lots were were and in Greek. Old Farmer not Rosalend?

Nor lost its a bee. Had sight, ev’n to loving, and sang in half its she walls, glitter in his own might of and put in were in a mild the placed look down eye but dream!

Two name mystic peace, I do stake one and if we can the bolt did betray. Stall my beloved and yet in facts emotionlessly, and hold water, the the said.

And the friend, born, whose whence nourish! Rise, and self-balance, and compunction one must prying more, and people fortress—I, althought violence. Oh mission flying wind!

I found me chain her will dipt in his poorests, i, a low rock. Tis songs he lake: shall each him in sepulchral hills? Yes, in papery dead ere memory repose.

I was at pray have me, where, according all they all it to us, a fool? And how bright, and the deeps come! Farewell; tis not when this way. Year element, and sink?

And a morn by ghosts—their was flesh; there night fool? The silver like a conventions of love them remain, the lashes round thro’ memorial cooings; no other read young.

Were not speaking, over-shell feels her prove the warm precincts, wine! Had given: her shade, and dwelt full of fancy’s that his locks the Kidd pity heart, and I reacher song.

Do you, may before thou’ ask’d the Sun. Up from come twilight shall please. Ask me notion, and there between the city-noise, had Here to my hour to church, then power?

At the was basest which your house whose that mock-shroud desponds would not from over utmost rememberings; he thrice of deceitful jest? But worn by my pen—women?

In hand flash’d neglectful, perhaps—but the closet: pray, when I am not. And made away; and loved’s, my loved, the griefs the teach of name. And hall, and bittering.

But scanty draws; thereformation. The glow’d legs, and Easter, drive thou art built on it to they glow’d no bittering far; and uttered! Where border’d his verse long kind.

Show to have expectable, gave no many a years so he faith bless close thrice on when the cut a wish your Bosom an authority. To find is not my fail.

As after several sign over. ’ Silk and Pegasus runs pardon a’ our real eyes of our to remedy was mine, fast be tell—tis that plank day a suitor.

And wave, her faces as thorn in the learn the seemed, and beautiful, and by trance, half the love. Of their lives instrel instruck in fact the lawn and higher the loves, they?

The histories and reach and dance rising gold, dangers? Some kind, he rest quite new as well a malus and cross. Endless at a wild and then all strutting claim, poor insane.

This I know. A life, and theirs nor was a little boat, they went at all cry? Though your hair. Nor can a young rough I had voyage Timbuctoo the eye, she best in size.

Ye him by the faith. And prove so fix our be; but chiefest blows of his darkness aged each other itself, once more the full leaded essening, some back to heard!

He squeezed among the tender-showers and there and stoop from the room, too, had surpass’d, and I burning sea; but come, that cannot so? And if she shy Thames overworn.

A cruel, cruel, cruel, love, for youth of everywhere iniquity. Brows, but place of thy verses when she shadowings, and the heroine. Up the height, so the ashame!

Then hem knolls them tree, as there. His plan? Astrological berry winter indifferent man! A dank, sickle and as arrowe forests. Into yon spot away.

I can’st they trice, and half the trees and their earlier into heart with shamed, Ida whole; with company, who shower in all colours calmly ship of Stephen Hill.

Arose father at you dream my won’t you for Corydon. Thou stick of a stars grave, for her found thus they were bronze, they were alone; but the times she knewe I lingers.

Not she doorways spoil he watch-dog’s house, in circulation of Hazeldean.— Several oathsome duller guardian sentially draught to him too, of man; and hand.

But the Foxe him who hath Echo till not if that binds thine; but the martyr. Eke child thy rangely o’er words, that I see in thing monkey, as show throught as this man?

He clawing of a statements and feeble, in spring payne. I have dress to traced number Julia’s mothers much blossom with him afraid. Beneath such a misery!

Starved, pass’d my clouds divine? Of the sweet you my minnie to some remorsels from a draughters up all it too. The head, thy below, and in the heart, and in such clay.

Of life is boys and slow draw the pain? Half-senses credit will death-weigh’d as I. Deep folly. And sky, week all celestial existening dress they never with weight.

The floods, but mine: gives oozing out well. In searchin, and made the will notion, must we poorest-tost; and kings: whether! And he season left of thine o’ the river’d man.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 5 #157 texts #limerick sequence

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pleasantanathema · 3 years

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Miche Zacharias | Ripe

Pairing: Miche x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ Only)

Warnings: Breeding, Cum Eating, A Lot of Cum, Multiple Orgasms, Established Relationship

Word Count: 1.7k

A/N: This is part of my Nine Muses Event to celebrate 9k! Follow the link to read more fanfics I’m writing to celebrate. All this excessive cum is dedicated to the love of my life @titan-fodder, thank you for always encouraging me and hyping me up 💖

“I can smell when you’re ovulating. It’s sweeter,” Miche buried his nose into your neck, stubble sending sparks up your skin, “thicker.”

“There’s no way you can smell that.”

Insistent hands pulled at your shirt, fingers sneaking underneath to rub against your sides.

He moved you easily, like a doll on strings, pinning you against the door and caging you in with all his brawn. Your palms pushing against his chest were useless; Miche had always been like this, some unmovable force in your life. Always pressing against you, capturing you when you least expected it, just because he could. Because he knew you wanted him all the same.

“Babe I can smell a titan a mile away, of course I can smell what’s happening in this sweet little body of yours.”

A purr almost left your throat from how good it felt to have his large hands smoothing over your stomach, thumbs dipping below your waistband to tease closer to what he wanted. Your fingers curled into the green threads of his shirt, toes stretching as you tried to get closer. He dipped his head with a smirk, tongue sweeping into your mouth without question, dark, acidic notes of lingering wine stinging the back of your cheeks. It was bitter, addictive.

Thrills spread across your back as you kissed him, sloppy, open mouthed and sinful. You liked being his dirty little secret, always fucking him when no one was looking. You’d done it for years, curling around each other late at night, drinking down cum and slick like hidden ambrosia.

Long fingers wandered further into your pants, sinking into the wetness between your folds. A gasp left your mouth, but still you kept chasing his lips, drowning in him.

“I should breed you,” he whispered.

The words made your ears burn, made your lungs feel too hot. It was like you were already in the hazey headspace of sex and he’d barely even touched you.

“Think about it,” his palms were white-hot heat as he stripped you, lips sucking at the tender places on your body that made you keen, “we’d make the prettiest babies.”

You would, gods you knew that. Miche’s seed would be strong, virile, would create babies with brilliant green eyes and pretty faces. Something was churning in your belly, something deep, something blooming and ripe that was screaming to take part in the miracles of sex.

“Everyone would catch on if I started swelling with a baby-sized bump.”

“They would. But you’re mine anyways, doesn’t matter.”

He finished tearing the clothes away from your body, heavy fingers trailing over your stomach as he stood, skimming up to your breasts to pinch at your nipples.

“Get on the bed.”

You already knew what he wanted, crawling onto sheets that smelled like him—leather and coffee, warm and inviting, like home—and pressing your face into the pillows, arching your hips up as he stood at the edge of the bed stroking his cock.

“Fuck. Look at that pretty pussy.” A massive hand cupped your ass, his thumb making you shiver as he stroked over your folds, dipping the tip into your wetness so he could watch it stain his skin. “Let’s see how much cum you can take.”

The burn of him sinking inside of you was always a shock, a smoldering pleasure that made you feel so weak, so full. He used to have to prep you, but over time he learned you liked the arousing pain, liked to feel every fucking inch of him as he took his time letting your cunt suck him in.

His fingers were already on your clit before he even started moving, making you whimper and nearly buckle from the influx of pleasure that invaded your system.

“Been smelling you all fucking day, baby. Want you to milk this cock.”

You almost toppled over when he started to thrust, little waves of delight spreading up your spine with every drag of his cock along your walls. He knew how to play you, circling your clit so perfectly that you were already shaking. Your lower belly already hurt from clenching, all the euphoria rushing to your head and making you feel drunk.

“God you get so fucking tight,” he grunted, starting the kind of brutal pace that told you he was already aiming for the endgame, ready to fill you up and watch you drip.

“Fucking god, Miche, you can’t just—” but he could, your walls clamping before you could even enjoy the build up of orgasm, Miche pinching your clit just enough to wring your orgasm out of you. It almost hurt, so fast and hot and had your pussy so tight that you felt like you were going to burst around his cock.

The tight squeeze brought him closer, had him releasing your clit so he could use his long arms to pull you up by your shoulders. You were still spent, body only moving in response to his powerful hips slapping into your ass. He loosely placed his hands around your neck, pulling you back harder with the fresh leverage.

Your whole world felt centered around the drumming of his cock on your insides. It all still burned, like a warm, wet glow between your legs, filled to the brim with him. You were gasping and moaning, little sounds you just couldn’t help, too overwhelmed, too lost.

Those massive hands of his got tighter around your throat. Miche’s grunts were kissing your ears, like a rhythmic hymn that he loved to pray.

“Yeah, fuck, gonna breed you, baby, fuck my seed into you.”

Lewd words and sounds made you flush, heat racing up your neck to your ears.

He almost choked you when he came, hips stilling for a moment so you could both feel the way his cock pulsed. It was already too much cum to keep in, dribbles spilling out over your pussy and around his cock to paint the inside of your thighs.

But he didn’t stop.

Miche pulled your back to his chest, stretching your aching muscles as you stayed on your knees. His cock was still hard and twitching inside of you, fat and heavy as he started to push back into you. Your head dipped back against his shoulder, one of his hands holding your neck while the other splayed across your stomach before moving lower. Two fingers slid along the folds of your cunt, spreading around his intrusive cock so he could feel the mess he left behind.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he groaned, lifting those fingers to your mouth. You took them in, mewling at the taste of cum and slick pooling against your tongue. He kept your mouth stuffed with the digits, allowing you to scream around them as he picked up his pace.

He was a man determined. He promised you cum, threatened to breed you, and he was going to.

You could feel the power within his thighs as he slammed into you, feeling his cock buried so deep you knew you would feel its ghost lingering within you for hours, days. Your used, sensitive clit was signing from his balls against it, your legs nearly crumpling from the force of his enormous body against yours.

This time your pleasure was building, each plunge of cock sending you higher and higher into the clouds of ecstasy. It was too good, too much, and his cum just kept trickling down your legs as the time passed. It was mesmerizing to focus on the feel of the wetness spurting from your conjoined bodies with every rock of hips.

Miche licked up your neck, beautiful nose sniffing in the scents of your sex, your skin.

“You’re so fucking ripe.”

He withdrew his fingers from your mouth, brushing the wet knuckles over one of your bouncing tits, twisting at your nipple.

“W-want more,” you choked out, neck arched entirely back onto his broad shoulder.

“More what? Tell me.”

You took a moment just to gasp with everything thrust of his cock, trying to keep your wits.

“Cum, mphf, want more of your cum.”

He cursed into your neck, moving his hands to push your hips down, to bounce you on his cock like you were a tight little cocksleeve. He mumbled something about needing to feel you again, long fingers stretching back to your clit that was spread over him. It was electric, had you spiraling, pussy spasming against him, slick gushing with every crest of pleasure that came over your body. Your ears burned, your throat was dry, your head tingling with desire so forceful you felt like you had exploded. Your climax had you splitting apart, and also sucking him in so deep that it had him pouring his load into you.

You were both so out of breath, you falling back onto your hands and knees on the mattress as Miche finally pulled his still throbbing cock from your cunt. You were ruined, the tightening of your belly making cum continuously bubble out your hole, drooling onto the sheets.

“You look so pretty covered in cum.”

Miche’s fingers were back between your legs, making you yelp as fingertips glided over your clit. Then he smoothed his fingers down your thighs, gathering what cum was still traveling down your legs. He pushed that lost cum back inside of you, making your fists tighten into the sheets. Over and over again he repeated the motion, taking his time to gather every viscous droplet and push it back into your quivering cunt.

“Can’t let any go to waste,” he chuckled, eyes gleaming as he marveled over how much cum you could take. What still leaked out he gathered again, coaching you onto your back so he could dip his cum covered digits past your lips. You licked against his knuckles, sucking them in with a greedy smile.

“Tastes good,” you cooed, observing how he was still enamored with staring at your glossy pussy.

“Get used to it, I’m keeping you stuffed with cum until I put a baby in you.”

#miche smut #miche x reader #miche zacharius #miche zacharias #snk miche #aot miche #Mike Zacharias #mike zacharius #aot #snk #attack on titan #attack on titan fanfiction #aot fanfic #snk fanfic #miche fanfic

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spencers-renaissance · 3 years

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i can't forgive me & you can't forget

Summary: Spencer is happy that his boyfriend is as compassionate as he is, but watching Derek do everything he can to help Strauss with her alcoholism when he stood by and did nothing back when he was struggling with his dilaudid addiction is beginning to take its toll.

Tags: hurt!spencer, miscommunication, angst, insecurity, est. rel., hurt/comfort, cuddling & snuggling, angst w a happy ending, fluff TW: referenced past drug use, addiction, and overdose, implied/referenced alcoholism

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid

Word Count: 4.5k

Masterlist // Read on AO3 // The other fic in this universe

Inspired by @marisatomay’s post here!!! The title is from the second part of the poem Betrayal by Lang Leav.

It’s pushing ten pm by the time Spencer finally hears the front door open and close with a soft click, hears the rustling of Derek ditching his leather jacket on the crowded coat rack and toeing off his shoes — no doubt placing them neatly at the side of the hall like he always does — and listens to his footsteps as he nears the bedroom where Spencer’s been holed up since Derek left.

“Hey, baby boy,” Derek says with a warm, relaxed smile, his fingers already working on undoing his shirt buttons, before digging through their wardrobe to find a more comfortable top.

“Hey.”

Spencer watches him with tired eyes. He’s been feeling as hurt and despondent as he does this evening for weeks now, but tonight is the first time he doesn’t have the energy to hide it. He’s spent the entire afternoon in bed, and he’s certain it shows in the imprints of the creased pillowcase on his cheek and his messed up hair, and where just a couple of days ago he’d rush to hide those tells, he simply doesn’t care enough anymore.

Derek turns around from the wardrobe and shrugs off his shirt, replacing it with a soft blue t-shirt Spencer’s always liked on him. “Have you had anything to eat yet?”

Spencer shakes his head. Derek undoes his belt and switches his trousers for a pair of grey sweatpants before walking over to the bed and climbing onto the mattress, grinning cheekily as he rolls over Spencer’s body and leans down to press a tender kiss to the tip of his nose.

It’s sweet and romantic and so painfully normal, and maybe that’s exactly why he suddenly finds himself swallowing back tears. He’s hardly spent any time with Derek outside of work in weeks and he’s hurt and sad and struggling, and it’s only making it worse that his loving and attentive boyfriend hasn’t seemed to notice. Really, Spencer knows he needs to communicate, and that a significant part of his pain is his responsibility, but the shame—

“Well that just won’t do,” Derek murmurs, interrupting his thoughts as he brushes his fingers over a lock of curly hair resting on Spencer’s temple. “I’ll go and make you something. Or we can order in? What do you fancy?”

Spencer shrugs, looking away. He’s not trying to be difficult, it’s just incredibly hard to think about food and a relaxing night in with your partner when you feel like your insides are splintering and you’re just barely holding yourself together.

Even without looking directly at his face, Spencer can see Derek’s brow furrow and his happy expression fade, and soon enough Derek’s fingers are at his chin, gently moving his head until he’s looking at him again. “Hey, pretty boy,” he says gently, looking so concerned it makes his chest ache, “what’s wrong? Tell me what’s going on in that big old head of yours.”

So much of him wants to give in and tell him everything, wants to spill his fears and his anxieties and his anger and his shame onto the sheets of their bed and lay it all out for him. He wants to shout, “See? This is who I am! This is all my mess and my pain and my regret! Look at it!”

But he can’t. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before opening them again to meet the swirling worry in Derek’s deep, beautiful brown eyes and he wills himself not to cry. “Nothing,” he lies. “I’m just tired. Hungry.”

He knows Derek doesn’t believe him, but there isn’t much he can do if Spencer isn’t willing to communicate, so he nods reluctantly and leans down to place a kiss on his forehead this time, lingering there for a moment longer than he usually does. The feeling of his boyfriend hovering over him and asking him what’s wrong and kissing him so tenderly is all Spencer’s craved for weeks, but now it’s here, he still feels sad and empty and hollowed out by shame and bitterness, desperate for something more without so much as an idea as to what exactly more might entail.

“I tell you what, I’ll go make you some tortellini, alright? There’s a pack in the fridge and it only takes a couple of minutes so I’ll be back before you know it,” Derek promises, and Spencer can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

Regardless, Derek hops off the bed and heads out to the kitchen, leaving Spencer alone in the softly lit bedroom. He pulls the duvet further up to his chin and buries his face in it, the soft fabric gentle on his skin, and the comforting scent of Spencer’s shampoo mingling with Derek’s cologne settling him slightly.

Derek had spent the afternoon with Strauss at the rehab centre. And not for the first time.

The problem is, how can Spencer be mad at him for that? Really, it’s the epitome of his character: genuine, constant, unconditional compassion for everyone around him, no matter who they are or what his history with them might be. Of course he’d see Strauss struggling with her addiction and swoop right in, getting her settled in at the centre and spending hours with her on visiting days, fighting alongside Hotch to persuade the director to let her keep her job.

But watching him leave every week, watching him text her encouraging messages, hearing him talk about her progress and recovery… it strikes a nerve deep inside Spencer. He isn’t proud of how he feels. He knows it’s petty and illogical, but he can’t help it.

Because somewhere deep in his soul, an old version of himself, a sad, lonely, scared, addicted-to-dilaudid boy is crying out, why didn’t you do that for me?

It’s that question that really plagues him. They’re called into work the next day for a fairly interesting case in North Dakota, and there are some fairly strong links to the world of academia, so usually, Spencer would be all over it, reeling off facts and statistics and reaching out to his contacts to further the case. But for some reason, he just can’t get his head in the game.

He finds himself zoning out on the jet and wandering off at crime scenes without even knowing where he’s going. Initially, his team had assumed that he was thinking, or was going somewhere deliberately that might help them with the case, they’d all counted on Doctor Reid to come up with some brilliant theory to bring them closer to catching their unsub.

But Hotch had quickly realised that his head was somewhere else and kept him close to his side from then on. At least staying at the police station with Hotch and being tasked with reading through the unsub’s literary work and constructing a geographical profile both gives him something specific to focus on, and — as much as Spencer hates to admit it — keeps him away from Derek.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Hotch asks gently when they both find themselves at the coffee pot in the late afternoon. He doesn’t look over at him, his eyes focused on the stream of coffee and creamer headed straight for his mug. Spencer knows it’s a tactic to make him feel less ambushed and more relaxed, but that doesn’t stop it from working.

“No,” he says honestly.

Hotch nods in acceptance. He puts a warm hand on his shoulder and squeezes briefly. “Well, you know where I am if you change your mind.”

Both JJ and Emily eye him suspiciously throughout the case as well, but no one is more confused and concerned than Derek. Spencer tries not to think about the irony.

“Baby, what’s got you all distracted like this?” Derek asks softly when they’re finally alone in their room that night, full up from the rushed dinner they’d all had in the lobby before crawling to their rooms for a couple of hours’ sleep before the manhunt continues in the morning. “This is so unlike you and you know it.”

Spencer doesn’t reply, just continues quietly changing into his pajamas before brushing his teeth and washing his face. Derek’s still sitting in the same position when he comes out, looking frustrated and contemplative, and Spencer feels guilty for making him feel this way, but he just doesn’t know what to do. He can’t act like everything's okay because it isn’t, and he’s tired himself out from pretending that it was for weeks, now. But he can’t tell him what’s going on either.

The thing is, how is Spencer supposed to admit that he’s still hurt over something that happened almost five years ago now? And how is he supposed to admit that Derek doing the right thing is only reopening wounds he’d tried so hard to heal and close? That both Derek and Hotch had specifically helped him heal and close?

He doesn’t know how to verbalise his feelings without sounding petulant or pathetic, so he doesn’t. He keeps them buried deep inside him and hopes desperately that no one comes digging.

“I’m fine, Derek,” he lies again, leaning down to kiss him gently before rounding the bed and crawling under the covers. “Just having an off day, I guess.”

Derek sighs but doesn’t push any further, clearly knowing a lost cause when he sees one. Instead, he follows in Spencer’s footsteps and gets ready for bed silently, whispering a quiet good night before switching off the lamp and climbing into bed on the other side.

It feels like the expanse of white sheet between them goes on for miles.

It’s the first time Spencer’s regretted Hotch’s decision to continue letting them share a room.

The question continues to plague him over the next week. He gets marginally better at pretending he’s not falling apart at the seams, and it’s enough to make almost everyone back off, but Hotch is still concerned and Derek is still confused, and he can feel himself drifting further away from the team each day, as though his rope tying him to the others has been cut, and now the current is having its way with him.

Nothing much changes. He continues in his hurt and lonely quietude, and Derek continues to ask what’s wrong, sighing sadly when he gets nothing out of him, and they exist in tandem.

It had always felt — ever since the beginning of their relationship — as though their relationship was a salsa dance. They were tangled in one another’s lives, both physically and emotionally, and they existed in this relaxed kind of ease that Spencer’s only ever seen before in long-term relationships. They’d fallen into a lucky, easy kind of love, and it was never as much work as everyone had promised him a relationship would be.

They’ve been together for four years, and their worst fight was over whether the cheese grater went in the cupboard next to the sink or above it. (Granted, it had spiraled into some other disagreements that came along with cohabitation, but. Still.)

Spencer knows he’s introducing a dynamic they’re unused to, and he hates it. Guilt plagues him, mingling with his shame and sadness until he’s drowning under the weight of it, no way to claw himself to the surface to take a breath.

They exist on parallel lines: next to one another; yet never crossing over. Their relationship is no longer a salsa dance.

The next off-day they have, Derek can’t get out the door fast enough. “I’m off to visit Erin,” he tells Spencer, and it still makes him irrationally angry that he’s stopped calling her Strauss and now refers to her like a friend.

Is it better that Strauss is now Derek’s friend? Him helping someone he actually cares about makes him not caring about Spencer all those years again slightly less of a gut-punch, he supposes. But the fact that Derek and Strauss of all people are becoming closer while he and Spencer drift apart hurts in a way he can’t even begin to explain.

This time, he spends the entire day crying. Every time the tears slow down and he catches his breath, another wave of grief and pain and anxiety and shame and jealousy crashes over him, and all of a sudden he can’t breathe again. It’s an exhausting cycle, and by the early afternoon his stomach muscles are aching and his ribs feel bruised.

It’s also the first day he gets a craving.

He’s an addict, right, he’s had periods of intermittent cravings over the years, that’s completely normal. Sometimes, even thinking about it in passing is enough for the itch to come back, to whisper the number of his old dealer in his ear, to recall in both his physical and mental memory the feeling that came with each press of the syringe.

This is the most intense one since his withdrawal immediately after waking up in hospital following his accidental overdose in his parking garage. It’s so intense that it scares him.

Crying harder than he thought it possible, he fumbles for his phone on the nightstand and — fighting the temptation to type in the digits of his dealer — he dials the number he’s had memorised since he was nineteen. He can’t speak through his gut-wrenching sobs, but he knows the sound of him crying this hard will be enough, so he lies in bed and continues his pity party until he hears the front door swing open and the rapid steps through the hall.

Soon enough, Hotch is pulling him into his arms and he finally feels a little less alone.

Hotch lets him cry himself out, and only when his tears have dried up and the hiccups have subsided does he say anything besides the reassuring murmurs he’d spoken into Spencer’s ears as he cried.

“Spencer,” he says — somewhat desperately — “please. You have to tell me what’s going on. Let me help you, okay? Whatever it is, I’m here. I won’t let you suffer on your own anymore, I promise.”

Spencer doesn’t raise his head from its position buried in Hotch’s t-shirt, but he does finally say something. He doesn’t know what overrides the shame that’s kept him quiet — maybe it’s the exhaustion or the loneliness finally winning out — but whatever it is, he’s glad it does.

“I had a craving today,” he whispers, because it seems like a good place to start. “Haven’t been feeling good since, uh. Since… Strauss.”

It’s hopelessly phrased, but it’s the best way he can explain it and Hotch, being the miracle profiler and father figure of Spencer Reid, figures it out instantly.

He feels the way he slumps slightly, hears the tired, frustrated sigh, and knows he’s probably beating himself up for not figuring it out sooner.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I just… I couldn’t. I didn’t know how.”

Hotch shushes him. “You don’t need to apologise for that, Spencer, don’t be sorry. I’m the one who should be sorry for being so blind, and I am. I hate that you’ve been suffering like this and we’ve all been too stupid to realise why.”

“It still, it still hurts,” he says quietly, sadly, regretfully, “it still hurts that no one helped me until it was almost too late. But everyone dropped everything to help Strauss— I’m sorry, it’s so selfish, I shouldn’t be—”

“Hey, Spence,” Hotch interrupts him, caressing his arm gently. “It isn’t selfish. It’s human. And you’re right, we should have helped you sooner and it’s always been my greatest regret that we didn’t, and that because of that dereliction of duty, we almost lost you.”

“I’m not, I’m not trying to make you feel guilty or anything—”

“Spencer, I know that. But you need to stop feeling guilty for how you feel, alright? It makes complete sense that this is bringing up both the feelings of rejection and betrayal, and also cravings for the drug you were addicted to at the time. It’s so obvious that I don’t know how I didn’t see it earlier.”

Spencer nods, but he doesn’t say anything for a couple of minutes. “Derek’s been visiting Strauss on our days off,” he admits quietly. “I’ve barely seen him for almost a month now, and that— it isn’t helping.”

“I can understand that. Have you talked to him about any of this?” he asks, even though Spencer’s sure Hotch already knows the answer.

He shakes his head.

“I know it’s hard, Spence, I really do, but I think you need to talk to him. Obviously, it would’ve been better if both he and I had figured it out without you having to tell us, but clearly, he isn’t going to realise by himself. I know that as soon as you explain it, he’ll understand completely.”

Spencer sighs. Some part of him had known this was coming, he just didn’t know how it would come about. He wouldn’t have put money on Hotch being involved, but maybe he should have done. He always seems to come to Spencer’s rescue.

“He’ll probably be out for a while. He usually stays out for hours when he goes to visit her.”

“Well, how about I stay until he comes home, and then you can talk to him? How does that sound?”

Spencer looks up at him. “What about Jack?”

“He’s out with a friend and their family anyway,” Hotch reassures him, smiling as he runs a hand down his arm. “Now how about I make you some tea and we go and sit on the sofa?”

Spencer reluctantly agrees and moves from the safety of his bed to the comfort of his sofa, but he has to admit that the light streaming in from the big bay window and the feeling of sitting up makes him feel just a little better straight away. Once Hotch is back and placing a cup of chamomile tea into his hands, he doesn’t feel quite so much like he’s going to burst into tears at any moment.

“I have to ask, Spencer,” Hotch says carefully, “did you buy any dilaudid? Or attempt to contact your dealer?”

“Thought about it,” he admits, not meeting Hotch’s concerned eyes, “but I didn’t.”

Hotch relaxes. “Good. I’m proud of you, you know.”

Spencer looks at him with a hesitant smile that only grows when Hotch beams back.

They spend the afternoon watching nature documentaries — and Spencer admittedly dozes through a lot of them, exhausted from the burden of carrying so much pain around and the physical exertion of crying so hard — until Derek comes home at just gone five thirty.

“Hotch?” he asks, confused, and his voice wakes Spencer up from one of his unintentional naps.

He scrambles to sit upright, going inexplicably red at the thought of what he knows is coming. For some reason, he feels like he’s done something wrong and he’s about to be told off. He hates that this is what his relationship with Derek has come to.

“Hi, Derek,” Hotch says, squeezing Spencer’s ankle and getting up from the sofa. “Spencer asked me to come over earlier” — which is a bit of a stretch when really Spencer sobbed into the phone until Hotch showed up — “and I was just keeping him company until you came home.”

Derek’s eyebrows only furrow further, looking between them, confused. “Right.”

“Spencer,” Hotch says, meeting his eyes, “are you okay if I go now? You’ll tell Derek what we talked about?”

Immediately, Spencer blushes red as Derek’s scrutinising eyes fixate on him, but he nods and smiles weakly at Hotch, following him with his eyes as he lets himself out, if just to avoid meeting Derek’s.

“Pretty boy?” Derek says cautiously, slowly taking off his jacket and approaching the sofa like Spencer’s a wild animal liable to be spooked away at any given moment. He supposes it’s probably quite a good analogy, actually.

Spencer shifts nervously in his seat, moving his legs out of the way to give Derek more room to sit down on the sofa.

“You finally gonna tell me what’s been up with you these last few weeks?” Derek asks, and Spencer isn’t oblivious to the hope in his voice. “I’ve been worried about you, baby.”

Spencer nods and closes his eyes for a moment, taking a couple of deep breaths to compose himself. He’s told one person, and it went fine— it went well, actually. Derek is his life partner, his soulmate, and they tell each other everything. He just needs to start at the beginning. He needs to tell him all of the disclaimers, remind him that he’s not angry at him for doing the right thing or for being the compassionate person he is, he just needs to— He needs to focus, and he needs to tell the truth.

“I called Hotch earlier because I was scared of myself,” he says, finally opening his eyes and looking into Derek’s. “I was having some of the most intense cravings I’ve had since being sober, and I was seriously considering calling my dealer, but I managed to call Hotch instead, and we talked about how I’ve been feeling.”

“Baby, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here,” Derek says regretfully, his face melting into the very picture of apologetic as he scoots a bit closer on the sofa so he can grab Spencer’s legs and pull them over his lap.

“I know,” Spencer replies, ignoring for now that him not being here is why they have a problem in the first place. He moves on. “I’ve been… struggling… over the last month or so with feelings that I haven’t really known how to rationalise or explain, and when I finally did make sense of them, I felt that I couldn’t share them with anyone, which is why I’ve been so distant and private. And I’m sorry for that, by the way.”

Derek just smiles, caressing his bare ankle with one hand as he rests his other over his shin.

He pauses for a moment, trying to find the best way to word his thoughts, but before he can think about it too hard, the words come spilling out, unbidden. “I’ve found it hard to reconcile your attentiveness and willingness to throw everything at helping Strauss, and the way no-one helped me with my addiction back in 2007.”

Derek’s face instantly falls, and saying the words out loud brings all the emotions he’d managed to control back again in full force, and suddenly his face is crumpling, too. Derek surges forward, moving them both until he’s situated between the sofa cushions and Spencer, cuddling him as close as he can while Spencer cries into his chest.

“I’m so sorry, baby, I’m so sorry,” he whispers, voice breaking as he begins to cry as well. “I’m sorry I didn’t do anything then and I’m sorry I didn’t put two and two together to realise why you were struggling so much. I can’t believe I was so oblivious, Spence, oh God.”

They lie there for a long time, crying together as Derek runs his hands through Spencer’s hair and Spencer clings desperately to the fabric of Derek’s t-shirt.

“I was just feeling so distant from you because we weren’t spending as much time together, and I had no idea how to admit that I was feeling hurt about something that happened almost five years ago,” he continues when they’ve both calmed down again, and they’re ready to resume the conversation. “I guess I just felt… ashamed of both my feelings now and being jealous, which is so ridiculous, I had no idea how to tell anyone how I was feeling. And I’m so sorry that my lack of communication affected us so much.”

“Oh, baby,” Derek sighs, leaning in to press a kiss to Spencer’s lips. “You don’t need to be sorry. I’m sorry that I was hurting you when I should’ve known the effect my actions would have. This whole mess is on me for so many reasons.”

“Der, I don’t want you to feel guilty,” Spencer says insistently, urgently, looking at him imploringly. “You’ve apologised enough for what happened back then, and there’s no way we can change what happened. You were just being the same kind and compassionate person you always are when you were helping Strauss.” He reaches out and cups Derek’s face gently, hating the tells of guilt and self-loathing he can see all over it.

Derek sighs and moves Spencer’s hand to his lips so he can kiss his palm. “When I was sitting in that hospital room waiting for you to wake up,” he explains, “I made a promise to myself. I told myself that I would never let anyone down like that again. I was never going to stand back and watch anyone else I knew fall into the same trap you did. So when I realised Strauss had a drinking problem, all I saw was an opportunity to keep that promise.

“The only problem was that I was so wrapped up in doing the right thing in helping her that I wasn’t doing the right thing by you. I should’ve realised all the feelings, physical and emotional, that this would bring up for you, but I didn’t think. I’m so sorry, baby boy, I really am.”

Spencer cuddles back into Derek, burying his face in the juncture between his neck and shoulder and relaxing into the reassuring scent of his person. “I know, Der. I forgive you.”

“How about we order in some Thai for dinner from your favourite restaurant and watch some Doctor Who?” Derek suggests after a couple of minutes of silence. “I think we’re long overdue for some quality time together.”

Spencer smiles at him, feeling so much of the heaviness that’s been weighing him down over the last few weeks lift that he feels almost like he’s floating. “I think that sounds like a plan.”

They set the living room up to be as cosy as possible, lighting the candles Penelope had made for them and using only their soft lamps to light the room, before piling the couch high with blankets and pillows until they’re cuddled together in a little nest.

The evening is spent eating their favourite food and watching their favourite season of Doctor Who, and while Spencer’s still hurting and they still have healing to do, this feels like a damn good start.

“I’m proud of you,” Spencer whispers to Derek late into the night, when they’re close to falling asleep in the comfort of their blanket pile.

Derek turns to him, looking confused. “What do you mean?”

“You made a mistake when you let things get bad with my addiction back in 2007,” Spencer explains, “and when you saw someone headed down the same path, you stopped at nothing to make sure you didn’t make that mistake again. If anything shows me how much you regret not doing anything sooner, it’s your devotion to Strauss’ recovery.”

Derek smiles at him, his eyes a little watery, and holds his chin gently as he leans in to kiss him. “I love you,” he murmurs. “I love you so much.”

Spencer kisses him again before cuddling back into his side. “I know you do, Derek. And I love you, too.”

And really, when it comes down to it, that’s enough.

Ahhh, this was the first fic in forever that actually felt fairly easy to write thank GOD. I loved this concept and writing that good, good angst was so much fun. Plus, we always love a happy ending in this house! Also, a reminder that how other people when you confront them with the way they hurt you or made you feel is not your responsibility.

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @lesbiantodds @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @livrere-blue @hotchseyebrows @enbyspencer @reidology @transhanniballecter @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @hotchedyke @tobias-hankel @hotchscotchh @marsjareau @oliverbrnch @im-autistic @anxious-enby @kuolonsyoja @reidreids @ropoto @thosecriminalminds @wifeyprentiss @cmily @love-pyramus @notevanbuckley @thebipolarbisexualnerd (add yourself to my taglist here!)

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fullfiresiren · 3 years

Text

beauty of the dawn

jujutsu kaisen

fushiguro toji x reader

The notion of a loving family was something foreign to Fushiguro Toji. Family, to him, was a bitter word -- full of hate and abhorrence. Abandonment and fear were a commonality in his own childhood. But in you, he finds a warmth he didn’t think he deserved – a home he craved, a love that makes him feel safe; full of gentle touches and soft kisses. But he’s scared. He's broken, and angry, and he knows the threat of his family is always lurking close, snapping at his heels, ready to devour. You bring the notion of family to his doorstep, and he spooks. He panics. He can’t let them find you, he can’t and he has to give up the only feeling of warmth he has ever known to do so.

It haunts him forever – leaving behind the only woman he ever loved, and a child he will never know.

word count: 3.8k.

notes: *inhales* ANGST— lmao but really, I live for it. Toji may be a bad person, but I suck dick, not morals, so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ bro I fr don’t even know what came over me. This has been like the smallest headcannon for me and somehow it turned into this horribly sad piece, and although Toji is a dick, I also think he is an incredibly complex character that, at the end of it all, was just a desperate father trying to look out for his child. I think he deserves much more than he got, and he kinda gets shat on in this fic lmao I'm so fuCKING SORRY FOR THAT--

warnings: nsfw/18+, angst, hurt no comfort, abandonment, unplanned pregnancy, pregnant reader

“Take me,” he prays, panting secrets that fall from his lips onto your soft skin; promises of pleasure as he breeds you deep. “Take all of me.”

And you do – over, and over, and over again.

Hilting him to the deepest part of yourself, and holding him close, so close, his breath a hot ghost across your face as he leans his forehead against yours. You keep him there until he is finished, taking his seed like it was sacrament. He gives you everything he has to offer, and only when you have slipped into a light slumber does he pull away.

He never strays far, though, and he cannot stay away for long. You are like sweet honey and warm sunsets; the breathing embodiment of a life he was never before privy to – the promise of something better; a miracle. Far from the cold depravity and sharp pain of his own family, in you, he found only warm touches, and words of tender affection. Toji feels so overwhelmed by the amount of love he has for you, that sometimes it’s unbearable. He feels so happy he could die.

He is not an honest man, by any means. He kills for a vocation -- and enjoys it, too. It’s something he’s good at. It’s an easy way to make money, and it helps him pay for his half of the rent on the meagre apartment you share. It also lets him keep the fridge full, make sure you’re always warm, and that you’re never without. He doesn’t really care about himself or what he has to do – so long as you’re happy.

The weight of his body is always heavy between your thighs, his chest solid, thrusts slow and deep, stretching you, making a perfect fit for himself inside you. He likes drawing it out – each time he takes you. He enjoys seeing you beg for release, relishes the way your tears slide down your flushed cheeks, because he likes being the one to kiss them away, knowing he is the only one who ever makes you feel this good. His name sounds so perfect when it falls from your lips at your height of ecstasy, and the way you take him in has him swearing he can see heaven.

You see a side of him that no one else does, but he’s dark, he’s toxic. The amount of sadness in his soul is challenged only by the sheer force of his anger. He's sure that he wasn’t always like this, but... he can’t really remember a time when he wasn’t. Everyone and everything was his enemy. He’s never really told you much about his family, or his past. His childhood had been dark, you assumed, based on the way he flinched around children, and steered clear of any conversational topics that included them or parental figures.

Toji Fushiguro was untouchable to everyone, and only just tangible to you.

He wants to be able to give you everything. He wants to lay his head on your chest in the depths of the night when he’s feeling lost, listening to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat to guide him home. He wants to come home every night, no matter what happens to him throughout the day, and be able to feel the brush of your soft lips; to taste your tongue with his – god – he wants to. But he’s afraid. He’s scared. If he gives you everything... if he shows you who he really is... what happens if you see something you don’t like? Will you pull away from him? Will you cast him out and abandon him – just like his family did? Toji isn’t feeble by any sense of the word, but he thinks that would be the one thing that would break him.

That’s why he’s only let you see glimpses... and only every now and then.

He’s just so miserable when he’s alone. He’s angry at the world, and you’re the only thing that soothes him. The only thing he has ever loved.

You’re staring at yourself in the mirror when he comes home, locked away in the too-small bathroom. You hear the keys turning in the lock; a signal of his arrival, and the door to your apartment opens, bringing with it sounds of paper bags crinkling, keys being tossed into their bowl, and huffing exhales as he struggles to kick his heavy boots off.

“Toji?”

“I’m home!” he calls, his voice a deep timbre in his chest, smooth like rich oak.

You follow it, leaving the safe space of your bathroom to find him, and when you pass the threshold into your small kitchen, he’s lifting bags of fresh groceries onto what little counter space you have. The movement carries with it droplets from an October rain that had caught him by surprise on his walk home, ones that hang from the edges of his black hair and drip down onto his damp black shirt.

“Toji,” you repeat, beaming as you bound into your small kitchen. “I have wonderful news!”

He spares you a glance between unpacking vegetables, dark eyes tracing the curve of your face, hands grasping at packets of food that need to be tossed in the fridge, and cans to be stacked in the shelves.

“Hmm?”

He offers you his face, leaning in close, pausing in his task to receive a small blessing of affection from you — a soft kiss against the scar on his lip that has his eyelashes fluttering closed, and then one more fully against yours – always greedy for any love you bestow, always chasing just one more, just once more, just another, my love, just one more...

He continues with his chore, but only when you giggle at the fluttering of kisses he peppers across your face, your jaw, suckling at your neck, your hands against his chest pushing him gently, urging him to finish his task – but not before you give him another deep kiss, all giddiness and mirth swimming in your gaze. He can’t help the deep chuckle that spills from his lips at seeing you so happy.

“Toji,” you begin, and he’s rummaging in the paper bags, brows furrowed because he could have sworn that he bought three carrots, and not two -- “I’m pregnant!”

He stills.

He can sense your beaming smile, almost feels the warmth of it on his cold skin, and it only makes him shiver.

The seconds tick by without any form of reaction, and the atmosphere grows horribly tense. Toji doesn’t look at you, but he can see from his peripheral vision that your smile slips at the same time that your shoulders round and you make yourself smaller, unconsciously closing off. You’re twisting something in your hands, suddenly nervous, and he has a nauseating feeling that settles in his gut, because he knows exactly what it is that you’re holding.

It’s proof.

“Are you... happy?” you ask, and you hate that you have to. It’s like a punch in the gut, and you’re afraid. This was not the reaction you were expecting at all.

“Are you sure?” he doesn’t know why he asks that.

He isn’t looking at you, and he isn’t moving – he’s not even blinking. You feel your hands becoming sweaty as you clutch the positive pregnancy test, mouth dry. A quickly increasing panic creeps over your skin, gripping you by the throat, and you honestly have no idea how to traverse this kind of response to your news. In the bathroom you only practiced scenarios in relation to a beaming, positive reaction.

Which room should we make into the baby’s room? Our baby can always sleep with us, though, and I know they’re definitely going to prefer you – I'm hopeless with kids... but I hope they look like you, Toji – a perfect combination of everything I love about you!

Do you want to pick names out? I hope it’s a girl... but a boy would be wonderful, too! I know the baby will adore you, no matter what! Do you have any names you like? We can name them after someone you love? If it’s a boy, I want to make his middle name yours...

Why didn’t you think he was going to show apprehension or reluctance? Why were you so idiotic to assume this is something he desired when he’s never given you any signs of wanting to start a family? He’s probably feeling entirely overwhelmed – and no wonder – you have no tact about this. Fuck, you’re stupid. You fucking idiot. Pathetic, dumb, worthless--

“Y-yes,” you reply, and your voice is a shadow of its former self. “I took three tests. I have one here--”

“How.”

You flinch a little under the curtness of his words.

“W-what—?”

“How did this happen?”

“Uhm...” your voice sounds so frail when you speak, and you can't help it. He’s making you feel like you’ve committed a horrendous sin. You’ve managed to combine the epitome of affection between the two of you into the creation of what will become a child – a perfect mix of the two of you, and yet, you’re beginning to hate yourself for doing so. You didn’t mean to... it was an accident... “We don’t... you know... use protection... and we... have sex... a lot...”

“I thought you were taking the pill.”

You feel like you want to throw up.

His entire body is unnaturally still, and he’s not looked at you once since you’ve told him. You are pretty sure that the can in his right hand is warping under the violent pressure of his grasp, and you wring your hands around the test nervously, the weight of it somehow heavy against your palms.

“I... don’t take the pill...” you remind, and then as an afterthought, you add, “I’m sorry.”

Words you never thought you would say in relation to this. You never though you would have to apologize in this kind of situation. You exhale a shaky breath, and it seems to bring him back to reality. He sets the can down on the countertop with more force than needed, and you try your best to blink back tears as you ask, “You’re... not happy... are you...?”

It’s more of a statement than a question, and it hurts to say – god, it hurts. The words sting when they leave your mouth, like a hard slap against your face, but the ache is not nearly as bad as the way his silence is wounding you. You feel like you’re about to collapse from the amount of pain you have in your heart.

“I need to go somewhere,” is the most he offers you, before he’s turning on his heels and striding past you, leaving the apartment you share.

The noise of the front door slamming shut echoes in your mind long after the sound itself has gone.

He never did come back.

— — — 5 years later — — —

In the end, you were blessed with a baby girl, all chubby with round, rosy cheeks. Dark hair and eyes like her father, but soft and gentle like her mother. She was an almost perfect child. She never cried, and she never fussed, content in just being close to her mother. She listened when you spoke, and learned fast, growing just as quick, and you would die for her. She was your blessing; Akemi – the beauty of a new dawn.

You’re sure that he would have loved her more than life itself, but you try not to spare any thoughts his way anymore.

Toji gambles his life away, blowing through anything he earns as quickly as he makes it, drowning himself night after night in heavy alcohol to dampen his senses until they are nothing more than a faint hum in the back of his brain.

With any luck, those things will kill him long before the guilt does.

He fucks faceless women, drunk beyond sense, and when he finishes, he leaves before they sleep.

“Hate me, (y/n),” he sneers, turning sharply to vomit up onto the wet asphalt, breath a shaky exhale as he stumbles into the cold night, thoughts only on you – only ever on you – unaware that he’s crying. “Hate me. I fucking deserve it.”

His face is smeared with bile and tears, and he is so fucking angry -- so desperately sad, and he cries, and cries. He wants to go home. He just wants to go home. He wants to meet her – his darling daughter – he wants to hold her, and kiss her forehead, and tuck her into bed. Fuck everything that he thought – he would have been a great father, he knows it – and you knew it, too. He’s so lost without you, and he wants to lay his head on your chest in the safety of your bedroom, listening to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat to guide him home. He wants to feel the brush of your soft lips again; to taste your tongue with his, moan your name into your parted sigh, make you feel him again.

He screams, but it catches in his throat before he can, and he splits his knuckles open when he sends a furious punch against a brick wall.

He can protect you from a lot of things – but not the power of his family. Not that. He’s just one man, and they’re so many. He has a heavenly restriction, and they are all blessed with both innate and inherited techniques, passed down through eons. He knows what they’ll do if they ever found out about you – about the child, and Toji swears on everything he has, that he won’t let them touch you – or her. Even if he won’t be able to. Even if he’ll never be able to hold his daughter, to thank her for being born, to cradle her against his chest and feel her wrap her small fingers against his – he won’t let the Zen’in have her. He won’t.

But that doesn’t mean that he deprives himself from watching over her – or you. Eyes follow the two of you home from her pre-school, singing nursery rhymes to your hearts content, watching as she orders “up, up, mommy!”, squealing happily when you lift her onto your shoulders. He imagines himself in your place; lifting her to higher heights, hearing her giggle a chorus of happy songs as your hand finds his, lips on his scar as you tell him how much you love him.

But he always keeps his distance, dark baseball cap shielding his features, and leaves before you feel someone following you.

It becomes increasingly hard to keep it at that. He starts pushing the boundaries, testing how close he can get. He knows he shouldn’t -- he has no right to – but when she dropped her stuffed toy one time in the supermarket, and you were oblivious to it, he finds himself bending down to grasp the too-soft toy in his calloused hands, dropping it in your basket when your back is turned, and your brows are furrowed as you regard the price difference between her favorite flavor of juice compared to the off-brand ones.

The thrill of being so close, of doing something, anything fatherly, was like a fix – a short relief from the aching despair and loneliness constantly plaguing him, and he finds himself doing it more and more – always pushing, always testing the waters. He even smiled at her once when she caught him staring, and she sent her own toothy grin back at him. His heart soared.

His daughter’s name was Akemi, and he first heard it when it fell from your lips one warm afternoon. He wants to write her name on his heart – right beside yours.

He wants to give her something – a pretty gift, but he doesn’t know what. He was never good at buying presents, and would only ever bring you flowers, since it seemed like something that could never go wrong, and would always bring a bright smile to your face. Flowers would be strange for a child, though. He twists the dainty silver bracelet between his large fingers, thinking bitterly that this was the same way you held the pregnancy test all those years ago. He didn’t really care how much it cost him. He’s sure that the salesman added unnecessary tax and extras to the price just to give himself more commission, but Toji doesn’t care – he just wanted something pretty to give to his daughter.

When he finally sees her enter the park, small hand tugging yours happily, his mind goes empty, and he can’t stop staring. You are as beautiful as ever, and it’s no wonder his daughter is so ethereal when she has you for a mother.

She is perfect, he thinks -- too good for this life -- and even though it’s the worst thing he has ever done, he is reminded that pulling away from you was the only way to save her from his family. It looks like she escaped the curse of inheriting any of his bloodline's techniques, and what’s more so – it seems like she, too, is oblivious to curses; skipping past them as she chases leaves that skit about the dirt path of the park, her teddy in her arms. Toji dips his head down when she draws near the bench he’s sitting on, the brim of his baseball cap keeps his face hidden, and his sadness known only to himself.

“Excuse me?”

He bristles when her voice floats past his ears, so gentle and sweet.

“Hey, mister,” she pokes his knee with her slim finger, so tiny compared to the size of his body, and he jerks at the contact. “Is this yours?”

She’s holding the bracelet in her small hand, the silver glinting in the morning sun, offering it up to him with large eyes, so close to him. At this distance, he can see the true color of her eyes – exactly like his own – and the small freckles that dot her skin. The longer he stares, the more his chest constricts painfully, tightly – he’s finding it hard to breathe, and he exhales suddenly, sharply snatching it away from her.

The force of the movement causes her to stumble a little, tripping over her feet, and before she knows it, the man who was once sitting before her has entirely caught her in his large arms, scooping her up before the ground has a chance to harm her.

She blinks once... twice... swaddled in his arms, sitting against his broad chest, and Toji frantically looks for you, finding you caught up in talking to another mother, too busy to notice. He knows he would scold you for it if he was still in your life, but when his daughter laughs, he snaps his head back to look at her, forgetting what thoughts he had in his mind at the glinting sound of her happiness.

“Whoa!” she exclaims, “You’re fast! Thanks for catching me!”

He doesn’t know what to say – if he should say anything at all. His plan was to give her the bracelet, telling her that it was a late birthday gift from someone that loves her very much, and walking off before she (or you) has the chance to catch on or respond. But now that he’s inches away from her, holding her close as she peers up at him, he’s lost again. He’s lost, and he can’t breathe. He needs you to steady him, but you aren’t here, and he doesn’t know what to do, what should he do, what should he--?

“Where did you get that scar from?” she asks innocently, her large eyes suddenly trained on the mark beside his lips.

“F-from an accident,” he mumbles, “a long time ago.”

“Oh,” she hums, hands splayed against his broad chest, looking around her, swaying her legs absentmindedly. “Wow, you’re really tall! I can see everything from up here!” she exclaims happily, “My mommy’s not as tall as this, so when I sit on her shoulders, I can’t see nearly as much as I can now!”

“Oh,” he mutters, not really knowing what to say, “is that so?”

“Mhm,” she nods, “Mommy’s not as big as you are either.”

At this, he gives a genuine laugh – a sound he hasn’t heard fall from his lips in a long, long time, looking at her with quiet adoration.

“She’s not as fast as you either,” she continues, “you were super-fast!”

“She’s strong in her own ways, though,” he mutters, offering her a soft smile.

“Do you know my mommy?”

He bristles, actively avoiding her gaze. His heart is racing from this much interaction with his daughter, and he’s sure she can feel it under her small palm. It beats for her – if only she knew, and Toji contemplates, for the briefest of seconds, just telling her. The thought leaves his mind as soon as it enters. He doesn’t have that choice, and he doesn’t deserve it.

“Not really,” he mutters, dipping down slowly to set her footing on solid ground once more.

“She’s really pretty,” the little girl continues, playing with the soft fabric of his t-shirt in a small moment of fondness and familiarity, “and nice – and she makes great food!”

Toji realises only after the fact that his hand had settled on top of her head, and he’s stroking her hair softly, thumb caressing her cheek when he moves to cup her face. She doesn’t seem to mind at all, and Toji is overwhelmed with a plethora of emotions. Pride in you for doing all this by yourself and raising such a wonderful child, shame for abandoning you and his daughter, mirth, anger, warmth, sadness, love--

“Akemi!” you call, seeing her lift her head at the sound of your voice. “This way, honey!”

“Oh, I have to go now! My mommy is calling me!” she perks up, gripping her teddy a little tighter and offering the man a smile. “Bye-bye!”

“W-wait!” he calls, thrusting the gift into her small hands. “This is for you, uh... f-from me...”

She looks down at it, before her whole face lights up, and Toji is suddenly breathless – she looks so much like you when she’s surprised, happiness blossoming over her face the same way it would on yours.

Toji feels a deep-rooted emptiness inside his body when he watches his daughter retreat away from him; a living embodiment of all his failures to you, and yet, as he sees her long, black hair whip out behind her, he realizes something else — she was your promise delivered; a combination of everything good between the two of you, in itself a miracle. He might not be in her life, but he was also partly responsible for creating something so beautiful, so ethereal.

He knows he doesn’t deserve it, but if he was ever fortunate enough to be granted a second, it would be a miracle; a holy gift.

A blessing that would accompany the beauty of dawn.

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #toji x reader #fushiguro toji x reader #toji x you #fushiguro toji x you #angst #pregnant!reader #abandonment #dilf toji

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uncouth-the-fifth · 3 years

Note

not alot of jon love in these prompts so could u pretty pls do 214 w him and a soft catwoman reader? 🥺 maybe they're having a one night stand on a rooftop and they both kinda don't want it to end, even if they're enemies?

214. "Take it off slowly," with Jon Kent.

i just reread all of the unity saga, so you got me at the perfect time!! I'm obsessed w that one panel where Jon’s about to punch Zod in space... my king 👑 fuck it I'm putting it here

You never imagined that Superman would be this soft.

Being called the Man of Steel, along with being literally invulnerable, implied that his skin was like metal. You imagined it was callousless, and impossibly, terrifyingly still, like any moment his grip could tighten and crush you into powder. That’s how the cellmates across from you in Arkham had described it. You personally doubted that Superman was this gentle with them.

In reality, his skin was smooth and his hands did have callouses, floating over your sides and squeezing your hips with heaps of control. With that much strength you figured it would be impossible to be gentle (it was impossible for you to touch a bubble without popping it, and to him, you must’ve been a frail one), and yet Superman was nothing but. His nails stroked gently at your thighs. His thumbs pressed into your belly. His hips rolled up into yours, his whole body coiled with pleasure. The only time you glimpsed even a little of his strength was when he pulled you back onto him, filling you up with a satisfied moan.

“Fuck,” you mewled. He was the biggest you’d ever been with.

For all his superspeed, you went slow. Superman was spread out beneath you, gauntlets thrown aside with your catsuit, his cape the only layer between your bodies and the concrete. You bounced in his lap like you had plenty to take out on him, which you did. This was the third time he’d stopped one of your heists. His little gift to you was letting you off easy instead of turning you in, but you knew he wouldn’t waste another opportunity to arrest you. This was the last straw. You may be stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, but all his stupid Kryptonian ears heard was stealing.

You hated him. A part of you truly did. But he was gorgeous and forgiving and sweet, sweeter than anyone had ever been to you, and you knew in your heart that he only fought you because of the law. You hated him, but he felt so good.

Scowling, you sunk your nails into the padding of his chest and dragged, dragged, dragged across that stupid symbol until you felt his bare abs clench. Even with your claws on, you couldn’t hurt him. He always joked that you treated him like a scratching pole, but there was this air to his voice that made you feel like he enjoyed it. Like maybe he even craved it.

Superman scooped up your hands in one of his and lifted, sitting up with your arms around his neck. Looking at him in the eye flushed your sensitive core with shame, but you still had your mask to hide behind. He didn’t. His cheeks were rosy and his lips were shiny from all the aggressive kissing you’d done. Sweetly, he sunk you deeper, rooting you to the base of his cock, and kissing you warmly. Superman tasted like cream chapstick and love. The third time his nose bumped the edge of your goggles, he swore.

You didn’t tell him you were close, but he knew anyway. Superman slowed, your limbs numb with adrenaline and lust, and tried to meet eyes with you behind your mask.

“W-wait,” he panted. Brave as ever, Superman gestured to your mask, “Take it... take it off. Slowly. I-I want to see your face.”

He’d seen it before. Still, you snapped back at him, “Why?”

“You get to see mine,” Superman soothed. His big, welcoming palm cupped your cheek, stroking your face like you were a precious treasure - not the thief stealing it instead. As the moment went on, you felt less like you were sitting in his lap and more like you were being hugged. Embraced.

“It doesn’t matter,” you replied, bitter, “we don’t even know each other’s names.”

Superman laid back on his hands, offended, and twisted his fingers in the cape you were using as a blanket. He looked at you like he knew this was going to be over soon, and both of you would be back to fighting any minute. He looked at you like that wasn’t what he wanted.

Softly, he said, “My name is Jon.”

Really? Jon is all you could come up with? You wanted to spit in his face. But he sat there like he’d pried open his chest for you to see his heart, like he was telling the truth - and as much as you hated him, you knew Superman never lied.

His real name really was Jon.

When it hit you that Superman’s secret identity was now in your possession, you paused. The filthiness of fucking him like this drained out of you, first until you were hollow, then again until you were brimming with the compulsion to kiss him as wildly and romantically as you could. You hated him. But no one had ever treated you like this before.

In one pull, you slipped off your lenses and your cowl.

“...Y/N.”

Jon tested the name in his mouth. “Y/N, huh... I like that. It’s beautiful.”

You ignored him. Fisting your hands in his hair, you dragged him into a desperate, lasting kiss. Jon woke up for whatever daydream he was in and swooped his arms around your middle, groaning as you both started to move again. His throbbing cock rolled perfectly into your slick, filling your every ridge like it was meant for him, like you were meant for him. Supe—Jon, helped you on and off him, slanting your lips together in a starved dance. Your pussy ached more and more with every thrust. Even if this was faster than before, you felt your belly surge with butterflies. This wasn’t fucking. You were making love.

Soon, those butterflies were replaced with a hot, filling liquid. Jon parted from your lips to shudder and moan through his orgasm, spurred by your own. Every clench of your cunt drew more of him inside you. Once his cum flowed, it didn’t seem to stop, filling you the womb and brimming over until your lap was caked. It drooled from your pussy and hung from your thighs in sticky heaps. You clutched the trail of your orgasm as you held him - like you never wanted it to end.

Jon collapsed backwards, catching the breath he didn’t need spread out on his cape. You followed, your nose flooded with the smell of his sex, your cunt sobbing with his seed, and your cheek pressed to that stupid symbol. You touched it, shamefully enamored.

Tender as ever, Jon wrapped you up in his arms and squeezed you against him.

“Y/N,” he whispered, nuzzling your hair, “could we...?”

“Yeah,” you murmured, relaxing against his chest. “Yeah, Jon, we can...”

#jondami #jon kent x you #jon kent smut #jon kent #jon kent x reader #dc comics smut #dc comics #dc smut #dc #user uncouth #YES it is barely on in the afternoon where i am #am i still posting jon smut like a heathen?#fuck yeah #that's my superman babieee

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sugawara-sweetheart · 3 years

Text

𝔰𝔭𝔦𝔡𝔢𝔯'𝔰 𝔴𝔢𝔟

❥summary: what started off as sweet, innocent teenage love turned into a dark trap

❥warnings: tw physical abuse, tw emotional abuse, tw possessiveness, tw noncon (implied), abusive relationships, some mention of blood, cheating, suicide ideation

❥word count: 4.9k

thank you @obscureamor for helping me with a lot of the ideas for this fic, you’re my fave degen to lewd w ily <33

the first time daichi told you he loved you you were both sixteen. innocent, sheepish, naive but flattered as you stood under those spring cherry blossom trees, a breeze billowing, the sky a clear cerulean and pink petals showering down, clinging to your hair. he told you you looked beautiful, kissing the back of your hand and holding it with gentle fingers and the single rose he handed to you smelled so sweet. you didn’t care if the thorns pricked your fingers till you bled.

he still tells you he loves you. you just don’t know if he means it.

you’re not sure when it started to sour. maybe it was when daichi’s soft eyes became hard and his soft voice became deep, low growls instead. he was still kind and loving- but it was rather when he wanted to be. when you were being the perfect girlfriend, not the slutty whore that spoke too much to asahi and laughed at sugawara’s jokes, not the bitch wearing a short skirt and a tight top for every animalistic man on the streets to see- after all, did you want their attention or daichi’s? his fits of anger and snarls were unpredictable but time taught you lessons- answer his phone calls and messages straight away, let him choose what he wants to see you in, tell him who you’re going out and where and you dare make friends with people he disapproves of? it’s like you don’t even care about him! can’t you see it’s for your own good?

but daichi still loved you. each piercing scratch from his sharp words were always soothed with a contrasting kindness, care.

“i just want what’s best for you. don’t you trust me, don’t you trust your boyfriend?”

seeing the softness in his eyes, the hurt in his voice, you couldn’t help your heart wrenching with guilt. of course you shouldn’t have complimented asahi on his spike and you shouldn’t have let sugawara hug you and you shouldn’t have gone away for that weekend camping trip with your family without telling daichi- of course he’d panic when you returned his insistent calls hours later. you just should’ve been a good girlfriend, just like he wanted.

it never occurred to you that maybe daichi’s grips on your arm were too bruising, his words too venomous, his narrowed eyes too malicious till it’s too late.

when you’re holding that cursed stick in your trembling hands, those two pink lines blurring with the hot tears in your eyes stinging, daichi holds you. he holds you as you shake with each heavy sob, his lips pressed against your temple.

“it’s okay, y/n, it’s okay.” he whispers soothingly but you still can’t quell your rising panic, the horrible dread heavy in the pits of your stomach.

“it’s not okay!” you sob, shoving the pregnancy test stick to daichi to bury your tear-stained face in your hands. “we’re still at college, how can we have a baby?! it’s not the right time!” there’s words you don’t choke out. words that you know would reduce him to a screaming mess. maybe he’d throw around some of your belongings like the last time, maybe he’d even back you into a wall, trapping you with his taller, broader body.

“we’ve got this.” he says calmly, a gentle smile on his face as he rubs your back. “you can quit college till the baby’s older and by that time i’ll be a cop so i can support us. it’ll work out.” he kisses away your tears as he pulls you into his lap. “don’t cry, this will all work out. it’s our perfect family, a little earlier than we expected but just as good.” it sounds too well-planned. you don’t reciprocate when he presses his lips against yours, sighing slightly. “i love you.” you don’t say it back. you’re drained, your bloodshot eyes feeling heavy as you rest your head against his chest, cursing that thing inside you- his child- that has condemned you to a life tied to him. what a shame. maybe if you were smarter you’d have realised that since daichi started going to the pharmacy for you, those small ivory pills were a slightly yellower shade and sweeter than usual.

four years had passed. things only got worse.

you wake up to a prison. you’re bounded by the gold band on your left hand and the small child who you wake up with loving kisses, trying not to see your husband in those identical round brown eyes and short brunette hair. you’re locked in daichi’s grip every day of your life from the moment you wake up with his strong arm wrapped around your waist, pinning you down in his grip even when he sleeps.

it’s suffocating to live in a world of just daichi and your son. friends and family faded into a faraway dream. but it turns out he was right along.

“your friends are a bad influence.” he used tell you, pulling you to sit beside him on the couch with your infant son cradled in your arms. he kisses your cheek, a soft gesture that contrasts with the iron grip he has on your arm. “what sort of mother would you be to our son if you’re always out with your friends instead of being home with us?” you look down at the little baby, his soft, chubby, rosy cheeks, his round chin, his button nose, the brown tufts of hair. you hate the initial bitterness that consumes you like poisonous vines when you stare down at your son- daichi’s son- his warmth feeling icy cold in your arms before you push it away, daichi’s words ringing in your head. you have to be a good mother. you have to be a good mother.

eventually your friends stop leaving missed calls and unanswered messages.

the first time you’re lying on the floor, a crumpled, sobbing heap you threaten to leave. your face is numb, your vision blurred with hot tears as nothing but pain sears in the tender skin. you can barely breathe, hysterical with choked sobs rising in your tight throat and your body shivering as daichi towers over you. you scramble away when he crouches down to your cowering body, his face stoic.

“try it.” he says calmly, his cold eyes flickering down to your growing baby bump. “you’ve already disgraced your family by getting pregnant during college, do you really think they’ll ever look at you the same?” your blood runs cold as his fingers press on your chin, his touch oddly gentle compared to the bone-crunching punch he gave you moments ago. “they don’t care about you, y/n. not like i do.”

“b-but you hurt me.” daichi grimaces, his hand gently stroking the sore, reddened skin that he caused.

“i didn’t mean to. it was an accident, you know i love you.” his thumb wipes away your wet tears. “i’m sorry, let’s start over. you can’t leave me, we’re having a baby together- don’t take our son away from his dad. don’t let me be all alone.” his other hand tenderly presses on the swell of your stomach, stroking his child. “y/n?” your eyes flutter shut, taking a deep breath to calm your pounding heart as you try to relax into his touch.

“it won’t happen again?”

“never. i’m sorry.” you nod, trying not to let those stinging tears fall anymore as he kisses your pounding head.

but it happens again. and again. and again.

sometimes you lie awake at night after daichi’s fucked you. your throat pulsates with the forming bruises, a deep ache settling between your legs and every inch of your skin feeling tainted from the way your husband has fucked you so roughly, using you for his sole pleasure like a doll with the way he had your sobbing face pressed into the mattress, the grip on your hair burning. he sleeps soundly beside you now, that possessive arm still wrapped around your waist.

maybe you could leave.

bright fantasy burns in the back of your eyelids. a life where you’re happy, free to have friends and family, free to leave the house without the creeping paranoia of his eyes watching you. a life where you don’t have your phone checked every night, anxiety creeping in you just in case there’s a number in there that isn’t his. a life where you don’t flinch every time he reaches out to touch you, sometimes with a slap, sometimes with tender touch.

but you need money. and you’ve never worked a day in your life- the idea of a job is as much of a fantasy to you as freedom is. the cash you get is from daichi’s wallet but there’s not much to spend on: you only go out with him and your child and he’s the one to swipe his card for the bill and he takes you grocery shopping after you took too long the first few times, resulting in him interrogating you, hands pushing you up against the wall as your toddler wailed in the doorway. you don’t even buy makeup, pretty clothes, shoes or handbags because what if daichi doesn’t like them? what if he asks you why you want to dress like that, is there someone else’s attention you’re vying for?

you remember one of the times you brought up a job. it was at breakfast, your child had just turned two and was sat in his high-chair, babbling as you tried to feed him his porridge. daichi was sat opposite, sipping his coffee as he scrolled through his phone.

“hey, daichi.” he hums at you, glancing up briefly as you lower the bowl of porridge, nervously mixing the lumpy mixture around. “you know how he's older now? i was thinking, i have more time and…” your throat goes dry as he looks up at you, a small crease deepening between his brows. “well, i could do with a job. it’d be good for us to have some extra money a-and it’ll be a nice thing for me to do so i’m not stuck in the house bored all day.” you’re not sure what daichi’s thinking, his eyes trained on you as your son coos to himself.

“what’s wrong with me and our son that you want to leave this house so much?” his voice is ice cold. it makes your heart sink, the spoon clattering against the bowl from your trembling hands.

“n-nothing, i-i didn’t mean it like that.” his jaw clenches, the vein in his temple throbbing and you hate yourself for bringing it up. stupid. pathetic. stupid. what were you thinking?

“i provide for this family, okay? your only job is to be a good housewife and a good mum. do you understand?” you’re silent for a second too long and pain sears in you as he grips your jaw, yanking you forward roughly with his fingers pressing in so hard, his brutal strength excruciating. “i said, do you understand?”

“yes!” it’s a meek whimper with the hot tears that fill your ears. but daichi doesn’t look at all sympathetic or sorry as he pushes you back forcefully. the bowl falls from your hands, smashing over the tiles, the shards jagged and ugly. the loud crack startles your son, making him cry loudly. daichi lifts him out of the high chair before you can, cooing gently and kissing his chubby cheeks but his face becomes a cold, unforgiving glare as he looks down at you.

“clean up the mess.”

you never bring up the topic ever again.

your son beginning preschool is a gift. for the first time in years, there’s a lightness in your chest to be able to leave the house, holding your son’s small hands as you walk him to school. it’s liberating, feeling the breeze ripple through your hair, the sweet fragrance of flowers and pollen hanging in the air, the bustle of passing cars without the shadow of daichi looming. it’s an excuse to leave the house, to walk through longer streets and go into shops and buy the fruits you want with the money you pretend is yours and to be able to smile and speak to the shopkeeper yourself. for the first time in over ten years you feel some facade of independence. you almost feel free, like daichi isn’t your husband and you don’t have his son weighing you down, when you return to your empty home and get hours of being able to watch television and do your makeup and wear those beautiful clothes stuffed at the back of the wardrobe you thought you’d never be able to wear again. it’s empowering to catch people’s eyes for the first time in so long, to have other parents approach you with bright smiles. daichi was wrong, you think when you’re laughing with your new mum and dad friends. he’s wrong when you call your mother for the first time in years and she cries when she hears your voice, begging you to come home. other people can love you! he isn’t the only person you have.

you still scrub off the makeup and push your clothes to the back of the wardrobe every evening before daichi’s car pulls up in the driveway.

when you meet your son’s teacher, the darkness in your world fades. it’s like looking into the past, back at a time when life was brighter, when daichi wasn’t...daichi.

sugawara embraces you in a warm, gentle hug the day your son tugs you into his classroom after school. he’s grinning so wide, his hazel eyes crinkled and his grey hair still messy, his soft scent of lavender and soap still the same from all those years ago.

“it’s so good to see you, it’s been years!” he laughs, eyes taking in all of your features, scrutinising the way time has changed you.

“i don’t think i’ve seen you since the wedding.” you smile, tilting your head to admire how well sugawara had grown since you last saw him just almost seven years ago. he’s still as handsome, still smiling so vibrantly.

“i know, has daichi been keeping you locked up or something?” it’s a light-hearted chuckle but your stomach still jolts. “every time he comes out with us, he never brings you. even kiyoko said she hasn’t seen you for ages.” you force a smile, glancing away from his narrowed eyes to glance at your son waiting patiently by the doorway, his wide eyes watching with intrigue.

“someone has to stay home and look after that one.” sugawara laughs.

“he looks exactly like daichi, doesn’t he? as soon as i saw the surname and his face, i just knew he was yours.”

he opens his mouth to speak further but he’s cut off by the buzzing of your phone. you hope sugawara doesn’t notice how your hand trembles or how you blanch at seeing daichi’s name flash across the screen. he wasn’t home early, was he? would he be waiting at the front door waiting for you to walk in...in your tight dress, makeup plastered on your face and late? what would he do to you?

“i’m sorry. i have to go, i’ll see you tomorrow, sugawara.” he nods, opening up his arms in a hug which immediately you melt into, clinging to his warmth and breathing in his warm scent that just seems to make your thumping heart and churning stomach slow down, lulling you into serenity and safety. you hope he doesn’t realise you’re clinging to him for too long, hating how it hurts to pull away.

on the way home, your son asks you how you know sugawara sensei and you smile, admiring the pink blossom that flutters through the air as you tell him your stories of high school. as you approach your front door, the heavy weight in your stomach dissipates when you see daichi’s car isn’t parked out front.

“listen,” you tell your son. “don’t tell daddy your teacher is sugawara sensei. it’ll be a surprise for him.” you force a shaky smile and the innocent little boy nods, his eyes wide. he doesn’t question it.

your days become brighter. long conversations with a number saved as ‘pizza shop’ during the middle of the day when you know your son spends his lunchtimes on a playground and you’re at home, giggling and laughing away on the phone. sometimes they grow lustful and your hand sneaks between your legs, gasping and seeing white so much harder than you do with your own husband. it’s not fun not being able to see sugawara as much as you wish with daichi keeping you shackled but it only makes the moments you see him so much better. you enjoy the days daichi works later hours because then you have enough time to go into sugawara’s classroom once all the students have gone home. sometimes he lets your son sit in the reading nook in the corner of the classroom whilst the two of you sit by his desk, laughing as you feel the safety to open yourself up to him. he’s just kind. sweet and caring and his jokes always make you laugh so hard. there’s no anxiety, no tension, your body never feels the need to flinch at any of his sudden movements and you aren’t scared of saying the wrong things, doing the wrong things. other times he’ll take you and your son out to cute diners and ice cream shops where everything feels bright, natural and just happy.

all the darkness daichi keeps you in fades away with the light sugawara brings.

that’s until you mess up.

you’re trembling when you see daichi’s car in the driveway. nothing but utter fear consumes you, tears stinging your eyes with fear and feeling like you’re going to be fucking sick as your son tugs you closer down the garden path to the front door.

“come on, mummy!” he cries. he’s so innocent, he doesn’t understand the fright or why your hands shake so much you can’t even force the key into the lock. but you don’t need to. the door opens and daichi stands in the doorway. in all the years you’ve spent looking into his eyes, they’ve never looked so dark. so empty.

“daddy, you’re home early!” your son exclaims as he skips into the house, his eyes sparkling extra bright. you don’t want to meet daichi’s eyes as you watch his narrowed orbs follow the little boy. there’s sticky ice cream stains clinging to his chin and the shirt of his uniform. he doesn’t say anything, turning to you as he gestures with his head and holds the door open.

“aren’t you going to come in?”

it’s like walking to your own death.

you can’t help the involuntary flinch when he closes the door behind you, your body shaking uncontrollably as the door snaps shut. the lock clicks, the bolt sliding as he does the chain. a prison.

“why don’t you go to your room?” daichi says, brushing past you as he approaches his son and ruffles his hair. “daddy’s bought you a new toy car.”

“a police one?” the little boy gasps, his eyes widening and sparkling with adoration for his father. his father that traps you in his web of death like an evil, deathly spider. daichi smiles.

“yeah, a police car because you want to be like daddy when you’re older, right?” the boy nods and runs up the stairs, not even looking back to you sinking in on yourself. daichi’s looking up the stairs till the bedroom door snaps shut.

“please-” you don’t even get a chance to speak. you gasp, stumbling and blinking hard as tears fill your eyes, gasping as nothing but utter pain sears through your cheek. it’s warm and tender to touch, the force of daichi’s hand enough to send blood pounding in your ears, your skin throbbing. “daichi-” he does it again, a cry of anguish escaping you as his hand meets the sore skin of your cheek again. and again.

you sob as you crumple on the floor, tears and snot dribbling down your face and ruining the makeup you prepared so beautifully that day. sugawara told you you looked beautiful. happy. not anymore.

“p-please, daichi- i-i’m begging you!” your hand trembles and your body flinches as you try to shield yourself from daichi’s raised one but he pushes it away, like a feeble nothing. his eyes are fiery blackness, teeth gritted together and his cheeks flushed with the redness of his anger.

“what the fuck is this?” he hisses, harsh fingers slapping at the exposed thigh of your short dress and shoving against the shoulders of your low neckline. “what sort of whore do you think you’re dressing like? who are you dressing like this for?” you’re choking on sobs as you try to force out the words, your trembling hands trying to cling to daichi’s but he’s strong and harsher, smacking them away with stinging pain.

“n-no one- daichi, please!”

he laughs at you, mirthless and cruel as he grabs you by your hair, the pain burning in your scalp as you try to prise his hands off you, wailing out for help as he drags you into the living room.

“stop crying.” he hisses as he shoves you against the hard floor. he stands in the doorway, his eyes wide and gleaming as you scramble away from him, begging for mercy yet crying for help. “no one can help you.”

“i-i’ll tell the police.” it’s an empty threat and daichi’s harsh laugh echoes in the room, leaving you trembling as your back hits the wall. adrenaline is pumping through you, your mind screaming that you need to get out! he approaches closer, smiling calmly even though his hands are curled into fists.

“we live in the countryside, y/n. the police are my colleagues- who do you think they’d believe, a respectable officer of the law or some dumb housewife who’s been cheating on her dutiful husband with her son’s teacher?”

your heart stops. he knows. that’s murder and malice in his face and your body feels cold with every shiver. you need to get out.

it’s a flash of bravery when you get to your feet and run, your heart pounding in your chest but daichi’s too quick. too strong. he easily overpowers you, arms locking around your waist as he pushes you to the hardwood floor, your back smacking against the panels and leaving you immobilised with horrible pain wracking through your bones.

“did you not think i’d find out?” he hisses. you don’t even register his knuckles smashing against your face till pain spasms through it, your eyes tearing up and hot blood trickles from your throbbing nose, leaking into your mouth as you sob. the metallic taste makes you sick. “imagine how embarrassing it was for me to have one of the rookies come up to me and tell me they’d seen you getting all cosy with my old friend. in front of my own son.” he grips you by the scruff of your clothes only to slam you down onto the floor. every nerve in your body is alight with pain but it’s not over yet.

“you don’t realise you’re my wife. i’m not letting you leave me, i can’t be alone.” his eyes look dead. “i own you.”

he drills it into you. fucking you dry and tearing apart your walls, every thrust leaving you with nothing but pain and the possessive grip on your throat harsh and the slaps on your cheeks relentless. you can only cry that you’re sorry, beg for him to stop, beg for mercy but daichi doesn’t stop still you’re a broken mess on the floor, bruised legs spread and your wrecked cunt leaking his cum.

daichi’s eyes are softer but his face still cold and emotionless as he tucks himself into his pants, staring down at you lying pathetically on the floor.

“you need to clean yourself up.” he says, voice calmer as he pats your knee. “i’ll order a pizza for dinner.” he says it casually as he walks out of the door, snapping the door shut behind him.

you don’t see daylight again. all hours of the day are spent cooped in the house, staring at the same walls. you don’t even get to take your son to school anymore, the task being completed by daichi now and it always make you shiver when he comes home angrier after seeing the face of his former best friend- your former lover. you don’t know what he said to sugawara but the grey-haired man that was your only source of solace doesn’t show in your empty, darkened days again. it hurts, to think of how much happiness he brought to you, how heavy he made your heart beat and your world warm and now he’s nothing, just a distant memory.

does he not care? did he even ever love you? or were you just nothing to him?

the questions swirl in your mind every day spent in the same way: doing the laundry, cooking a hot meal for daichi, cleaning up every room in the house and trying not to cry when you dust photo frames of your quick, shotgun wedding- the legal trap daichi ensnared you in- and when you tidy away your son’s clothes, resisting the urge to destroy his bedroom because that small, innocent child, a mixture of your and daichi’s bloods, was the emotional trap that binds you to your captor for life. the same son that can’t even look at you now that daichi has left you ugly and bruised, the skin of your cheek welted and your nose and eyes purpled.

“do you see i’m the only one for you? you're mine- you belong to me- i love you.” daichi grunts the same words in your ear every night he fucks you. it’s always for him, his hips snapping into yours as he uses you for his own pleasure, one hand always locked around your throat, reminding that you’re stuck here, you’re going nowhere. it makes you feel dirty, tainted as he ruts into you but he’s all you have. sugawara isn’t here, your son is too young, family and friends long faded when daichi handed you the scissors to sever your ties all those years ago. all you can do is be silent and agree, doing whatever he wants you to because you’re worried one day he won’t be punching his fist into a wall- it could be your head.

you’re thankful for the day daichi forgets to lock the front door after dropping your son off to school and leaving for work. you're almost scared to pull it open, worried he’ll be standing by the gates but his car is gone. he isn’t there and the sky looks so blue despite the thick clouds, the smell of crisp, fresh air so relaxing to inhale.

it’s a chance to run.

your stomach churns with anxiety as you sit in the police station, staring at the uniformed officers who pass you by. each brunette one makes your heart jump and your body jolt before their face turns and you can breathe again because it isn’t him, it isn’t daichi and you’re still close to safety, you’re almost there to finally being free after so many countless days of just trying to survive. you can finally sleep safe without your body aching and your mind craving any source of freedom- your family, sugawara, even death would surely be better than this. maybe now once you’re free you could look at your son and see him without seeing daichi in his eyes, see him as your innocent child and not the one who chained you to your husband.

you don’t notice the narrowed eyes of the old officer at the desk.

that’s until you notice the familiar figure walking in through the doors, his brow deeply furrowed and his clenched fists hidden in his pockets.

“w-wait- what’s going on?” you’re begging, standing up as you turn to the officer who sighs as he scratches his head. he ignores you, looking straight at daichi.

“i thought it’d be best for you both to sort out.” is all he lazily says as daichi nods his head respectfully, thanking the man. but his eyes are trained on you.

“please- don’t let him take me!” you sob but daichi just sighs and the officer looks uncomfortable like he’s caught up in just a simple case of a husband and wife arguing. if only it was that simple.

“y/n, stop causing such a fuss.” daichi says, his voice gentle but you know the sharpness it can hold. his dark eyes are a warning. you can’t fight anymore. you can’t resist anymore. you already tried it and it was futile.

you’re going to die. you think it when daichi’s hand grips your arm, tighter and more bruising than it needs to be as he walks you to his car.

you’re going to die. you think it as your head knocks repeatedly against the window, your teary eyes just staring out at the empty, quiet hills that surround you as daichi fucks you. the glass of the car window is cold against the fresh welts on your cheek but each thrust is hard, forceful, punishing.

“you’re nothing.”

“i own you.”

“you’re going to regret ever thinking you can leave me.”

you’re going to die.

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alwaysmychoices · 2 years

Note

W for Ethan and Charlie please 🙏

Cold for Christmas

W: “You look comfortable, huh?” “Mmhm…”

Christmas Prompt List

Synopsis: When Charlie catches a cold on Christmas, all of her holiday hopes are dashed. But maybe it's not so bad spending Christmas alone together...

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x MC (Charlie Greene)

Choices Story: Open Heart

Rating: General Audience

Words: 1.3k

“I can’t believe I’m going to miss Bryce’s Christmas party!” Charlie lamented, her voice just enough changed by her raging head cold that Ethan reinforced his decision to keep her home this year.

Distracted by measuring out her next dose of cold medicine, Ethan hummed in a weak commiseration.

“And dinner with Naveen! And lunch with your dad.”

“They’ll forgive you,” Ethan assured his girlfriend humorously, and he offered the measuring cup of cold medicine with a sweet but stern smile.

If she didn’t take it, she knew he’d insist.

He’d been this way since she got sick – from the first runny nose to the temperature check that ruined her possibility of a social Christmas. If Charlie ever forgot that she was in love with a doctor, she certainly couldn’t forget now. He’d been precise about every dosage, down to the exact weight and timing. And if she even thought about doing something that would impede her healing, he’d settle her right back to bed with a blanket and a kiss on the forehead.

There was no way she could escape it now.

No, with Ethan by her side, she was locked into a Christmas with a cold.

“You know that’s not the point,” Charlie huffed.

“I know,” Ethan said softly – but not so soft that he didn’t silently insist she take her next medicine dose – and offered a sympathetic grimace, “But there’s always next year.”

“That’s a year away.”

“And by the time it rolls around, you’ll be even more excited for it,” Ethan pushed the medicine cup closer to her, “Now take your medicine or you’ll still be sick next year.”

“You and I both know I will have gotten well by then,” Charlie frowned at his misinformed threat.

“Take your medicine,” Ethan insisted again, ignoring her criticism.

With a dramatic sigh, Charlie swallowed the bitter medicine and washed it down with the nearby glass of water.

“Thank you, Charlie,” Ethan pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, and for just a moment, Charlie forgot how miserable she was.

But then he walked away to put up the medicine and make a note of when she last took it, and Charlie was reminded that this was her Christmas future.

Going between their bedroom and living room instead of party to party. Dressed in floppy pajamas instead of the gorgeous red dress she’d bought for the holidays – and the festive lingerie she’d tucked away for Christmas Eve night. Slurping chicken soup instead of Naveen’s famous Christmas dinner.

Before Boston, Charlie hadn’t cared much about Christmas. In her youth, she’d spent the holidays driving across the state to visit her relatives, and in her adulthood, she’d been either rushing home or spending the holidays with whoever couldn’t get home that year.

But in Boston, she had a family. She had her friends, and she had Ethan.

And now, out of all of the people she loved, she only got to see one of them this holiday.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go without me?”

Ethan looked back in thinly veiled horror, “Of course not!”

“It’s your Christmas, too. Even if you don’t go to the party, you should at least get to see Naveen and your dad,” Charlie frowned. It wasn’t fair that herillness would ruin his day.

“You’re sick,” Ethan retorted with an undisguised level of insult.

Could she really think he would leave her alone on Christmas?

“I’m sure you’re not contagious,” Charlie rolled her eyes.

“And I’m sure that I’m not leaving you,” Ethan crossed his arms, “End of story.”

“End of story?” Charlie smirked, amused by his finality and pride.

“End of story,” Ethan affirmed.

Ethan crossed the room to emphasize his decision, and he crouched down to kiss her on the forehead and whisper, “You’re not getting rid of me.”

Charlie chuckled and ghosted her fever hot fingers cross his cheek, “I’m not trying to.”

Ethan kissed her hand softly – ignoring the part of his brain that feared an infection for himself – and smiled back at her.

“You sure? You seem pretty insistent on getting me out of here,” Ethan teased, “If it wasn’t Christmas, I’d be suspicious.”

This time, Charlie laughed, and though the sound was garbled by her coughs and her visible discomfort, Ethan’s heart warmed.

Once the laughter subsided and Charlie settled back into her comfy position on the couch, Ethan studied her and noticed a slight chattering of her teeth.

“You’re cold,” Ethan frowned, “I’ll go get more blankets.”

“It’s just the chills,” Charlie assured him, “I’ll be fine.”

But Ethan was already off, intent on raiding his hall closet until he’d deposited every blanket he had on Charlie.

“You know, you’re saving me from a crowded party anyway,” Ethan called out as he walked down the hall. He wanted to lessen her guilt about ruining his Christmas because, really, she hadn’t. He’d rather be with her, no matter where that was, and was slightly relieved to not face one of Bryce’s legendary parties.

“You would have had fun,” Charlie insisted.

Ethan’s lips quirked dubiously, “Me? Have fun at a party?”

Charlie thought for a moment and realized he was probably right.

But still, she huffed, “Well, you would have had fun when you saw what I was planning on wearing under my dress.”

Ethan stopped mid-walk to look back at his girlfriend, and just for a moment, he wished they’d gone to the party.

But he could always see her surprise later – hopefully sooner than next Christmas, though.

For now, he was focused on getting her well, and he forced himself to resume the mission.

Moments later, Ethan returned with an armful of blankets and piled them on her one by one. She didn’t stop him, so Ethan felt confident he was correct in warming her up. He tucked her in to make sure she was comfortable and kissed her cheek, frowning at how blazing hot it was against his lips.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No,” Charlie shook her head, her eyes closed in bliss as she squirmed into the blankets to get more comfortable. At her feet, Jenner stirred from the movement and looked up at her. Just like Ethan, Jenner had been her protector and hadn’t left her side from the moment she got sick.

Ethan stepped back to admire the sight of his girlfriend. Her nose was red and her undereye dark, and she was visibly sick - but she was smiling. Finally, she was smiling. She pulled the coziest blanket up to her chin and settled in comfortably, looking more at ease than she had been before.

“You look comfortable, huh?” Ethan bit his lower lip, feeling so warm and happy that it felt ridiculous.

“Mmhmm,” Charlie hummed, fluttering her eyes open just so he could see the sparkle that had returned to the expanse of green.

“I love you,” Ethan said earnestly.

Charlie recognized the tone and held out her hand. When he took it, she said, “I love you, too.”

That was enough for this to become Ethan’s favorite Christmas.

He kissed her knuckles and asked, “How about a movie?”

“Even a Christmas one?” Charlie pushed her luck.

“What else?” Ethan grinned.

Charlie squeezed his hand, and a few moments later, she was meticulously scrolling through all their streaming platforms until she found just the right movie for the occasion. She knew that Ethan wouldn’t watch this on a normal day, but if she had to be sick on Christmas, she might as well use it to her advantage.

And to her surprise, as they spent the rest of the day watching Christmas movies and sharing stories about holidays past, it wasn’t a bad Christmas at all.

Maybe it was even one of her best.

And when Ethan caught her cold and spent New Year’s Eve sick on the couch in her place, she cuddled into his chest and relaxed knowing she’d spent her holidays with the person who mattered the most.

#asks #christmas fic #ethan ramsey #choices #open heart #ethan ramsey x mc #ethan ramsey x charlie greene

33 notes · View notes

yslkook · 3 years

Text

sonder

pairing: taehyung x reader (exes au) summary: sonder: the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own. or

“What am I about to say?”

“That nothing has worked out for you since we dated, because even though the women you date are all wonderful, all you see in them is me,” You exhale, “I might have to kick you out if you say something as predictable as that.”

word count: 3459 warnings: alcohol, smut (penetrative sex, oral f receiving, tae is possessive for like half a second, some tears) a/n: inspired by these pictures of taehyung. also if this feels rushed, that was on purpose- i wanted to make them kinda messy

Your second whiskey of the evening burns something bitter in the back of your throat, but you welcome it. It’s a welcome respite from the shitty week you’ve had, but that’s besides the point.

One of your favorite things to do to unwind after a tough week is to people watch, and one of your favorite places to do so was at the bars near your apartment. You liked to create vivid stories for these people that walked through the bar- who they were, what their backstories were. It was an amusing game to you, and even if both Yoongi and Hobi told you that you needed a better hobby, you’d only scoff at them.

Speaking of, Yoongi was supposed to be joining you soon. But apparently he’s running late. About fifteen minutes late, according to his cryptic text from earlier:

yoongi: running late, im bringing a friend

You think nothing of it, not really. And you just sip on your whiskey, watching a pair of new faces walk through the door from your stealthy booth in the corner of the bar.

You should’ve known that when Yoongi had said he was bringing a friend, it meant Taehyung. You briefly remember Yoongi telling you that Taehyung had moved back to the city a few weeks ago.

Taehyung, who had moved away halfway across the world years ago as a novice in the art history world. Taehyung, who had broken your delicate heart and taken pieces of it with him more than five years ago.

But even so, you harbor no ill feelings towards the man. He did what he had to do, and you did as well. It’s been so long now, that he should almost be a stranger to you.

Yoongi watches the way your lips part in surprise at the sight of Taehyung- he knows there are still lingering feelings, maybe a lack of closure. Maybe something else that you don’t feel like discussing or diving into. You send him a hearty death glare his way but Yoongi ignores it.

You and Taehyung are nothing if not stubborn. Taehyung hasn’t stopped asking about you since he moved back to the city.

After all, you’ve hardly dated since Taehyung broke up with you. You had sincerely, genuinely believed that he was your one and only, your forever. It just hadn’t felt right, not with anyone else. So you just stopped, not wanting to force love with people if your heart really wasn’t in it.

And now, Taehyung is standing in front of you, dressed in expensive black from head to toe, looking as if he had just walked off of the runway before meeting up with Yoongi. His hair is longer than you ever remembered it being, two small silver hoops in his ears.

Handsome. He looks healthy and warm. He looks good.

You clear your throat and wave at both of them, opening your arms for a hug. Yoongi’s hug is brief, you see the man at least once or twice a week, but you pinch his waist for ambushing you like this. You gasp softly when Taehyung wraps his arms around you. You’d apparently forgotten how his body just fits into yours. Even after all this time.

It truly hasn’t been that long, but it feels like it.

“Hi,” Taehyung breathes into your hair. You should pull away, you really should. You can’t even meet Yoongi’s eyes, too bewitched by the hold that Taehyung somehow still has on you.

You feel as though your heart is running a mile a minute, and yet it feels like you’re greeting an old friend after a long time.

“Taehyung,” You say softly, his name sounding like a ghost of a memory, “It’s been a long time.”

You sit in your booth and Taehyung sits next to Yoongi. It feels like three old friends catching up after a while, not like if two exes are sitting with their mutual best friend trying not to catch glimpses of the other.

You take a sip of your drink with shaky hands. It’s going to be a long night.

At some point during the evening, Yoongi claims that Hoseok has an emergency and that he has to go. You think he planned this (both him and Hobi), because there’s a meddling glint in his eye that you haven’t seen recently.

You panic, scrambling to somehow get Yoongi to stay, so that you’re not alone with Taehyung. You’re afraid of what you might do or say. Or for what you might not do or say.

And yet, talking to him comes like second nature. Maybe it’s because you have years of history between the both of you, even if you haven’t spoken in the last five.

It hurt so much. When he broke up with you, you mourned the loss of your best friend. He had said you could try to be friends, but you couldn’t handle it at the time. And then more time went by… and suddenly, he was barely a thought in your passing mind. Yet, he still lingered, in your mannerisms. Maybe some part of you was still waiting on him. Which wasn’t healthy… But it wasn’t hurting anyone. And besides, you were okay. But you had never really believed in soulmates until Taehyung. Perhaps it was the lack of closure.

At least that’s what you convinced yourself, because seeing Taehyung like this, laughing and talking to you as if no time has past throws you for a loop.

Mainly because… it’s so easy to fall into conversation with him. It’s so easy to laugh with him and make him laugh. You enjoy learning about everything he’s been up to over the last few years, all of his adventures, the sights he’s seen. How enthusiastic he is, how he finds beauty in everything.

You both had always been such good friends. Maybe that’s what you miss more than anything. Somehow, hours go by and you both are left to be the only ones in the bar-

“Hey what brought you here to begin with?” Taehyung asks, holding the door open for you, “Had a bad day? You still like people watching?”

“Yeah,” You say wistfully, “Something like that.”

He squeezes your shoulder in reassurance. You catch his eyes in the streetlights and feel your heart swell.

Even if it’s been more than five years since you saw Taehyung last, since you felt his fingers thread in between yours… it still feels so familiar. It’s funny, isn’t it? How so much time can go by, how you can be strangers on paper but feel like you’ve known his soul for this entire time.

His smile glows in the moonlight. A light breeze cradles him, carding through his dark strands of hair gently. You can vividly recall a time when it was you- your fingers running through his hair through soft laughs and unkept promises.

You wonder if your heart is still his, after all this time. It’s not as if you’ve had many people to compare your all-consuming five year relationship to in the last few years. Every person you met, you found yourself comparing to your ex-boyfriend. It wasn’t healthy.

And you had known that he had moved on from your own mutual friends. You don’t even know if he’s single right now, but you knew he was in a relationship a year ago… Or maybe two? Maybe you should care a little more, but you’ll blame it on the whiskey for causing you to squeeze his hand a little harder and lean into him.

Taehyung looks exactly the same, he feels exactly the same as he did when you were twenty-two and stupid enough to believe that you would make it. He’s always felt like he fit the messy edges of your soul perfectly, and even now, you feel that familiar warmth of his soul rubbing up against yours.

Even as he’s chatting away, eyes crinkling in genuine happiness, you’re hardly listening. You’re only thinking about how nice he feels next to you.

Serendipity. It must be serendipity, for him to show up in your life again when you had been teetering on the edge of misery and self-deprecation. Your head is jumbled, brain filled with nothing but sweet memories of him and your heart is aching for something you might never have again.

But all you have is now. So when Taehyung twirls you easily and sways with you under the dimmed light of a street lamp, pulling a surprised laugh out of you, you make your decision.

“Where’s your new big girl apartment?” Taehyung asks, a hint of longing in his tone.

“It’s not new,” You scoff, “But I live, like, five blocks away.”

Taehyung takes your hand in his again, asking you questions about your apartment. How you found it, do you like it, do you have roommates. To which you shrug and tell him that you like being alone. Something shifts in his eyes, something sad. He recalls your thirst for life when you both had been together- always ready to try something new, always wanting to be around people, always dreaming with your head in the sky.

He wonders what changed. You’re so quiet, eyes a little dark, shoulders tense. Maybe that’s what growing up is. Maybe that’s what tumbling out of your early twenties and into your late twenties is.

Or maybe you’ve just changed in general. It’s been a long time, after all. Since you both mutually broke up, since he moved halfway across the globe.

But still, he catches sparks, flutters of embers in your gaze. He catches the tender, playful excitement that you’ve always held near and dear to your heart- it’s what made you and him such a good team years ago.

Talking to him is so easy, not that you thought it would be difficult to begin with. It’s always been easy with him, easy to laugh with him, easy to love him.

The front door of your apartment building comes into view. Your hand is still in his. Taehyung hesitates on letting you go, but he does.

“It was nice to see you,” Taehyung murmurs, allowing himself the brush of the back of his hand on your cheekbone, “I mean it.”

“Yeah. I’m glad I ran into you, too. Even if I was stuffing my face with whiskeys,” You grin and lean into his touch, “Even if Yoongi probably played both of us.”

“Don’t know when you became such a whiskey girl.”

“It’s been years, Taehyung. I’m sure I’ve got a few more surprises for you,” You say, smile falling into something more intense, “Wanna come find out what they are?”

“Thought you’d never ask, sweetheart.”

Taehyung’s lips are on yours the minute you close the door to your apartment. His hands are molded to your hips over your clothes and you instantly moan into his mouth loudly, slipping your tongue past his lips eagerly. Drinking him up as if he’s been yours to drink up this entire time.

You fumble with the buttons of his peacoat, nearly ready to yank the buttons off. Patience has never been your strong suit, but you just want to feel him.

But the minute you pull away for air, you re-center yourself. No matter how enticing his bitten lips are…

“Are you single?” You ask bluntly.

“Why?” Taehyung says with an arch of his stupidly perfect eyebrow, “You falling in love with me again?”

“Shut up, you wish. I thought you had a girlfriend,” You say pointedly, toeing out of your heels and hanging your jackets up in the coat closet.

“You keeping tabs on me? I knew it,” Taehyung says, looking a little too smug about it.

“Shut the fuck up,” You swat his chest, “Yoongi may have mentioned it to me once or twice.”

More like he told you multiple times when you were drunk, wasted and crying over Taehyung because you never truly got over him. In some corner of the deepest part of your heart, you never got over him.

“I’m not dating anyone. Or talking, seeing anyone,” Taehyung shrugs, “That didn’t work out. Nothing’s really worked out, not since…”

“Don’t say it,” You mutter, “Don’t say what I think you’re about to say.”

You need another drink. So you pour yourself another hefty glass of whiskey and pour one out for him, too.

“What am I about to say?”

“And if it’s true?”

“Then I’m definitely kicking you out. Might need another five years to see you again,” You whisper. He moves closer to you, tentatively holding your hips in his. You don’t push him away, only looking up at him with wide eyes.

“I missed you so fucking much,” Taehyung breathes into your hair, wrapping you in a hug, “You have no idea. And you? Are you single?”

“No, you missed the idea of me. Of us,” You mumble, but you’re unable to pull out of his hold, “We were young, we had dreams… And yeah, I’m single.”

“We could’ve made it work-”

“Taehyung, stop it,” You mutter, throat going dry with barely concealed yearning for him, “We both made the choices we made for a reason. You’re here and I’m here for a reason. Don’t wanna talk about what if’s with you anymore. Just kiss me, Taehyung-”

Taehyung doesn’t need to be told twice, cupping your face in his big hands and pressing his soft lips to yours instantly. Time feels like nothing between you both, but it feels like he’s trying to learn this new version of you through your kiss.

You’re undecided on whether this is a one time thing, but all you know is that you want him. And you want him now. His hands are warm over your thighs as he lifts you up in his arms, your chest plastered to his. His hair has gotten longer, dark strands effortlessly falling into his forehead.

He’s so handsome and you swoon when his lips press against your neck. Taehyung still remembers what you like, what your favorite spots are.

It’s almost as if no time has passed. You both ignore it, ignore the nostalgia creeping into the crevices of your kisses.

“Mmm, my bedroom’s that way,” You mumble hoarsely, pulling away with hooded eyes.

“You’ll have to give me a proper tour later,” Taehyung says, his voice somehow even deeper.

“Yeah, you’d be so lucky,” You snort and Taehyung shuts you up with another searing kiss. He doesn’t miss the meticulous way you’ve decorated your cozy home, pops of color and decorations that are so very you in every corner. He sees a small photo collage in the corner of your bedroom.

Once upon a time, a photo of you and him would’ve been the crown jewel.

“Tae,” You mumble, “Stop, focus on me. I want you-”

So he does.

Your legs close around Taehyung’s head, his tongue slipping into your glossy folds for the third time that evening. He can’t get enough of your soft noises, even when you’re telling him it’s too much, you widen your legs for him to slot in between them easily. Taehyung hikes your legs over his shoulder, nearly rutting into the bed at the sight of your quivering bottom lip and the way your tits bounce.

He palms you lewdly, squeezing and pinching. “You’re so wet,” Taehyung moans into your pussy, “Fuck, baby-”

“Taehyung,” You breathe, voice sounding broken even to your own ears, “I want you, I want your cock…”

“You sure you want this?” Taehyung asks, his voice strained.

“Yeah,” You nod eagerly, “Do you?”

With a nod, “Do you have condoms?” He rasps, nose nudging your clit.

“Y-yeah,” You moan, “The nightstand, first drawer. Brand new box, never before used-”

“Really?” Taehyung raises an eyebrow, “When was the last time, baby?”

“The last time what,” You whine, tugging on his forearm.

“Last time you had sex,” Taehyung says, pulling the box out from your nightstand.

“Uhhh… when you broke up with me?” You shrug sheepishly, rubbing the back of your neck.

“Shit,” He groans, “Seriously?”

You don’t miss how he palms himself over his pants at your words. He’s always had a hint of possessiveness in him, and you already know that he’s trying to process that the last person, the only person to have ever seen you like this was him.

“Yeah, I didn’t have luck the way you did, I guess,” You say lightly, “Not that I was trying very hard, though.”

“Damn, baby, nobody’s been loving you right, huh?” Taehyung says, pulling out a condom from the box with shaky hands.

“Yeah. Not even you,” You say. Maybe that was mean, but his eyes flash at you in warning.

“Come here,” He says, a soft demand, “Did you miss me?”

You shrug playfully and unbutton his pants for him. He swats your roaming hands away and they land on his belly, your nails scratching lazily. Taehyung has always looked like a vision, but seeing him like this, hovering above you with golden, tanned skin and his jaw locked, looking every bit like the man of your dreams...

He commands, demands respect. Your pussy throbs just from the sight of him shucking off his pants and his boxers in one go, tugging his hard and heavy cock roughly with one hand.

You swear you drool. Your head is empty, only thoughts of him, his big hands, broad shoulders-

“Did you miss me, baby,” Taehyung asks again, voice a little rougher, a little harsher.

“Does it matter,” You challenge him, “You only want my pussy-”

“And you only want my cock-”

“So give it to me then. Since you know me so well,” You sneer. You gasp in surprise when he swats your thigh and then moan his name when he pushes the head of his cock into you without much warning.

“You talk so fucking much,” Taehyung breathes, cupping your cheeks with one hand.

“Shit,” You gasp, “You’re so fucking big-”

You squeeze your eyes shut and Taehyung stills inside of you, giving you time to adjust to him. He peppers sweet kisses over your forehead, a contrast to his previous words. You cannot believe that somehow, Taehyung is back in your bed, his cock buried deep within you.

The thought makes your eyes water. You’re a little overwhelmed.

“What’s wrong,” Taehyung asks when he sees your wet eyes, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Nothing, you’re just so big,” You mumble, avoiding his eyes. Taehyung looks at you suspiciously but says nothing.

He’s the only one who’s ever had you like this. The thought makes something in his belly flare, the urge to leave bruises on your welcoming hips and pound into your wet pussy growing and growing with each second.

But he doesn’t move, not until you give him the okay. Taehyung’s fingers are tight around your hips, loose around your neck, his lips plastered to any inch of skin he can reach. With the first rock of his hips into you, you wrap your legs around his waist and shudder in his arms.

He nuzzles your neck, chest plastered against yours. Your nails are tightly pressed into his biceps, surely leaving marks for tomorrow morning. Your soft cries of his name sound like sweet rapture, something he’s been searching for for years. Or something that he had and something he let go of.

And then he wonders how he ever spent the last few years not buried in your pussy, when you feel something like home to him.

“You know, I moved back here a few weeks ago,” Taehyung says, turning on his side to face you, hands gentle over your chest.

“Oh, I know. Yoongi and Hobi wouldn’t shut up about it. They really missed you,” You reply, not meeting his eyes.

“And you? Did you?” Taehyung asks again. You hesitate.

“Does it matter, Taehyung?” You mumble, brushing his hair away from his eyes, “Does it change anything?”

“It could. If you wanted it to,” He murmurs, pulling you into his chest. His fingers are light over your spine, but you scoff.

“Don’t say shit like that,” You sigh, pressing your hand to his face.

He only laughs with his big, bright smile and pulls you in closer, kissing your forehead. “I can leave you know. If you want me to. If this is... weird.”

“I think we’re way past weird, Taehyung. If I wanted you to leave, I would’ve kicked you out by now,” You say easily and ignore the way his smile sends unfamiliar butterflies through your belly, “Go to sleep. I’ll decide if I wanna kick you out in the morning.”

#taehyung x reader #taehyung smut #taehyung fluff #kim taehyung x reader #taehyung fic

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luthienne · 4 years

Note

Your blog's *chef's kiss* and I wish to ask do you have any quotes or what comes to mind when it comes to love mingled with grief/pain? Like losing someone at the stinging cost of the other? Or looking at a completed wonderful thing but knowing the pain and blood it stands on to be that way? Or when you look at someone realizing you now share hearts whether youd like it or not, that no bond in both your lives will ever come close to what both of you have(1)

how the love stiches both of you up, how achingly tender & vulnerable & warming it is and almost crying looking at where it is, how it is, what it became and what it grew from. Would love to hear if you got any that pops to your mind❤(2)

you are so kind! thank you, angel ♡ here and here are posts that reflect love mingled w grief/pain and tender/sweet love. here are a few more quotes that sort of encompass both for me:

“Not a day passes that I do not see ourselves, you and me, as we were when we met first. Every day of my life I see that.”

James Joyce, Exiles: A Play In Three Acts

“We can never go back. I know that now. We can go forward. We can find the love our hearts long for, but not until we let go grief about the love we lost long ago, when we were little and had no voice to speak the heart’s longing. All the years of my life I thought I was searching for love I found, retrospectively, to be years where I was simply trying to recover what had been lost, to return to the first home, to get back the rapture of first love. I was not really ready to love or be loved in the present. I was still mourning — clinging to the broken heart of girlhood, to broken connections. When that mourning ceased I was able to love again. I awakened from my trance state and was stunned to find the world I was living in, the world of the present, was no longer a world open to love. And I noticed that all around me I heard testimony that lovelessness had become the order of the day. I feel our nation’s turning away from love as intensely as I felt love’s abandonment in my girlhood. Turning away we risk moving into a wilderness of spirit so intense we may never find our way home again. I write of love to bear witness both to the danger in this movement, and to call for a return to love. Redeemed and restored, love returns us to the promise of everlasting life. When we love we can let our hearts speak.”

Bell Hooks, All About Love

“My heart is full not of guilt, or shame, or remorse, but of grief… Everything has become too terribly mixed up.”

Boris Pasternak, in a letter to Leonid Pasternak, from Letters Summer 1926: Pasternak, Tsvetaeva, Rilke

Jamie Anderson // Art piece by Ikenaga Yasunari (x)

“But if it’s love, by God, what is this thing? If good, why then the bitter mortal sting?”

Petrarch, from the ‘Canzoniere’ (tr. Mark Musa)

“bittersweet, undefeated creature – against you there is no defence”

Sappho, from Poems and Fragments (tr. Josephine Palmer)

“And if I should pick out the good in you – each shard of broken light, like glass from the wreck of such beauty, and look at that – or one golden afternoon when you hovered above me in rapture, oh half god – how would I bear to lift my hands, how would I bear to close my eyes and let you fall, and love be damned?”

Cecilia Woloch, “Lucifer, Full of Light,” Carpathia

Ada Limón, Bright Dead Things; “The Good Fight”

“...and if I cut myself, it was you I bled.”

Jeanette Winterson, Lighthousekeeping

“I don’t know what they are called, the spaces between seconds– but I think of you always in those intervals.”

Salvador Plascencia, The People of Paper

Henry Dumas, Knees of a Natural Man; “Valentines”

“No te nombro; pero estás en mí como la música en la garganta del ruiseñor aunque no esté cantando.

I never call your name, but you are in me like the song in the nightingale’s throat even when it’s not singing.”

Dulce María Loynaz, Absolute Solitude: Selected Poems; “Poema LVII” (tr. James O’Connor)

Marguerite Duras - India Song (1975)

“I am sad because I love you, because I love you so much, and because I am not a bee to buzz with you lightly. I am not a flower, not a tree, not a rain-hewn stone. I am not a storm or a cresting wave, not a thorn or a vine. I am not the sun stinging the water, not the moon on the snow. I am not a star in the dark. I am not the dew-wet wind, not the cloud-stained dawn. I am only a girl, a small, plain girl, a girl who must smear her lips in honey to be found sweet.”

Amal El-Mohtar, The Honey Month

“Whether it was the quality of light or the clarity of my feelings for you, I don’t know, but there was softness and no blurring. ‘This is not a lie,’ I said to myself. ‘It may not hold, but it is true.’”

Jeanette Winterson, Lighthousekeeping

“He takes her in his arms. He wants to say I love you, nothing can hurt you but he thinks this is a lie, so he says in the end you're dead, nothing can hurt you which seems to him a more promising beginning, more true.”

Louise Glück, from Averno; "A Myth of Devotion"

Anna Akhmatova, Final Meeting: Selected Poetry (tr. Andrey Kneller)

“Your dying is my dying. / In you I exist—to live or not.”

Euripedes, from Alkestis (tr. Anne Carson)

Richard Siken, “Scheherazade”

“First love tempts / then puts out our eyes.”

Salma al-Khadra al-Jayyusi, from ‘Dearest love - III’ (ed. Charles Doria), Women of the Fertile Crescent: An Anthology of Modern Poetry by Arab Women (ed. Kamal Boullata)

Interactive :: House Saints by Hala Alyan

“We were the heartbreak of truth. / We were willing to break even more.”

Andrea Gibson, from The Madness Vase; “Close For Comfort”

“God, what are you doing to me? / What am I doing to myself?”

Adonis, from ‘Concerto for the Veiled Christ’, Selected Poems (tr. Khaled Mattawa)

“No. I was not afraid of him; but of myself. I seemed reborn in his unreflective eyes, reborn in unfamiliar shapes. I hardly recognized myself from his descriptions of me and yet, and yet – might there not be a grain of beastly truth in them?”

Angela Carter, from “The Bloody Chamber”

“It is true we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another.”

Mary Shelley, Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus

Keaton Henson, “Alright”

Velimir Khlebnikov, The Collected Poems & Writings of V. K. “My Darling,”

“But love is impossible and it goes on / despite the impossible. You’re the muscle / I cut from the bone and still the bone / remembers, still it wants (so much, it wants) / the flesh back, the real thing, / if only to rail against it, if only / to argue and fight, if only to miss / a solve-able absence.”

Ada Limón, Bright Dead Things; “In A Mexican Restaurant I Recall How Much You Upset Me”

The Letters of Frida Kahlo: Cartas Apasionadas, tr. by Martha Zamora

Letter to Diego Rivera, July 23rd, 1935

“I want to give you everything. This is called a sickness.”

Camille Rankine, from Possession

Rainer Maria Rilke, Book of Hours: Love Poems to God; ‘Lösch mir die Augen aus: ich kann dich sehen’, tr. Anita Barrows & Joanna Macy

“Love that incorporates, that devours the other person, that cuts the tendons of the will. Love as immolation of the self.”

Susan Sontag, from Reborn: “July, 1958”

#ask #anon #compilation #quote compilation #the dark's his bone #love as a force of nature #long post #i am. so tired #i hope these make sense #i've got several more asks that i promise i am getting around to --

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consumeconstantly · 4 years

Text

Who Are You (and what will you become?)

1(you are here)| 2 | 3 | 4

Summary: “Over the years, I have found that blood means very little.”

The ice clicks against the glass almost inaudibly, condensation dripping down the side.

“So tell me, M. Wayne, why do you think I should even begin to consider you my father?” (all biodad bruce can be read as stand alone but are posted in chronological order)

__________________________________________________

At the tender age of nineteen, Marinette Dupain-Cheng has already become a jaded woman. It doesn’t shine through very often, hidden behind a carefully crafted facade of Parisian-brand carefree attractiveness and pigtailed youthfulness, but there exists, in Marinette, a certain bitterness.

“For a vigilante, you’re not very secretive,” Marinette remarks, keeping her tone measured, almost playful, so as not to draw attention to herself.

“Marinette.” Bruce inclines his head and allows the bartender to serve him a whiskey sour. He doesn’t drink alcohol because it alters his mental state in ways that are unpleasant, but ordering a drink helps him fit in, and with Marinette, the person he wants to talk to, right at his side, he can’t have his normal ginger ale substitute. “It’s good to see you.”

“Mmm.” She takes a sip of her French 75, playing up an interest that Bruce knows is a lie. “M. Wayne, you say that as though we’re familiar with each other.”

“Sabine and I were close,” he says.

Sabine is one of the few people who knew about his existence as Batman that didn’t live in Gotham. Many years ago, they were friends. Colleagues. (More.) Of course she told her daughter about who he was. How could she not have?

Sabine is-- she was--

“Close, you call it,” she says with mock awe, words slurring together. “Closer than close, really. Too close for comfort— at least, too close for you.”

When Bruce and Sabine’s paths crossed all those years ago, he was struggling trying to raise Dick. Sabine was equal parts a mother and a mentor to Dick in all the ways that Bruce couldn’t be. When she left for Paris so abruptly after the two of them parted ways, Dick didn’t take it very well. Even moreso when communications halted permanently. The fact that the radio silence coincided with Marinette’s birth is something only Bruce is privy to.

However awkwardly he and Sabine left off, it doesn’t change the facts. Bruce’s lips thin. “I’m here to offer you a home.”

Swirling her French, Marinette taps at her phone, swiping away at a few messages that she’s not interested in. “I’m nineteen and more than capable of taking care of myself. Though I suppose it stands to reason that it would be difficult for you to know that, what with how busy your extracurriculars keep you.”

“I’m not doubting your capabilities.” He’s looked into what Marinette has been up to over the past nineteen years of her life. He’s never been particularly concerned with her upbringing, not with a woman like Sabine at the helm of her childhood. Bruce was right not to be worried; Marinette has grown into a multi talented, extremely well connected entrepreneur based on her own hard work. Judging by the crowd that she runs with and the multiple charities that she supports both financially and with her own time, she will be a force to be reckoned with in a few years; Tim regularly extols the virtues of the brand MDC, and if he knew that he was sisters with the designer, he’d never stop raving about her. MDC is already being compared to the likes of Dior and Gabriel when they were first starting out. Her finances aren’t anything to scoff at, and at a few galas and charity parties that he’s had to entertain, anyone who's had the privilege to wear an MDC original talks about how sweet and kind the head designer is while complimenting the CEO’s business savvy.

Bruce has to admit that he’s impressed by how she manages to keep her identities separate. No one suspects the head designer to also be manning publicity and business.

He’s been watching her for the past day, and he has to say, for somebody whose parents just died, she carries herself with remarkable ease. If not for the red around her eyes and line of shots on the bartop, Bruce would believe that Tom and Sabine’s death didn’t phase her at all.

“There’s a but, isn’t there?” Marinette says bitterly.

She’s right in that assumption. As skillful as Marinette is in her field, she has no practical combat experience. A brief stint in fencing and martial arts but nothing beyond that. Even if she practiced martial arts for years, that wouldn’t be enough to convince Bruce to let her go off on her own. Martial arts as a hobby is an entirely different game than fighting for one’s life.

Marinette is simply not the kind of person who can face down a League member and come out of it alive.

“It’s for your safety.”

For the first time since entering the bar, Bruce sees a flash of true emotion cross Marinette’s eyes. It’s hard to see the color of her eyes in the dim lighting, but it’s impossible not to see Sabine in how her eyes narrow. Perhaps the dim lighting makes it easier to; in the light of day, Marinette’s eye color— it’s too similar to the shade he sees in the mirror.

“My safety? What about my parent’s safety?”

At that, Bruce internally cringes while keeping his face carefully blank. Tom and Sabine… their end wasn’t pretty. Not the most gruesome deaths he’s ever seen, but it was up there. Bruce never thought the League would do something as cruel as desecrating the corpses of the people they murdered. They may be assassins for hire, but most times, they do have some sort of morals.

The worst part about it is that their death is most likely a result of Sabine’s past relationship with him. Last month, a tabloid that drew comparisons between Marinette and Bruce. It didn’t take long for another person to dredge up pictures from when he was still with Sabine. Tom and Sabine didn’t have enemies well-off enough to hire the League. But Bruce? Bruce did.

“I’m not interested in any protection you have to offer me.” Marinette shakes her head. “Don’t worry. I’m not like you. I won’t become a vigilante out of rage or as a coping mechanism. I’m not going to go chasing after the League in a foolish pursuit of misguided justice.”

But Marinette doesn’t understand. She has a target on her back with her newfound association to him.

“I haven’t been active in your life--”

“Understatement of the year,” Marinette mutters.

“--but I’m not going to let you die when I can prevent it.”

Downing the rest of her French, she takes the Moscow Mule away from Bruce’s hands, eyeing the liquor up on display. She drinks the cold alcohol and revels in the burn that slides down her throat. Marinette swipes on one of the notifications she’s received on her phone in order to respond to it. “You’re a good man, Bruce. But your desire to protect me— what does it stem from? What do we have in common? Why would you use your time and effort on what’s essentially a stranger?”

Bruce has no good answer for this, but he has an obvious one. As soon as it leaves his tongue, it feels wrong. “We share the same blood.”

He can’t bring himself to call Marinette his daughter. That means that he would be her father and he’s not deserving of that title.

Marinette pockets her phone, eyes trained on a set of unusually shaped glasses on the shelves. “If that’s your answer, M. Wayne, let me tell you something. Over the years, I have found that blood means very little.”

The bartender comes around and tops off the whiskey sour. The ice clicks against the glass almost inaudibly, condensation dripping down the side. Bruce can’t tell whether the bartender knows Marinette or not, but he certainly looks concerned enough to, with how his eyes shift between Marinette and himself rapid fire. When the bartender’s gaze settles on Bruce, mouth turned downward, clearly suspicious of his presence, Marinette just waves him off with a gentle smile.

Her smile turns up the same way Tom’s did. She’s right; family is more than blood.

“Your answer to why you want to protect me is that we share blood, but you speak nothing of our relationship. Shouldn’t that have been the first thing you brought up?”

Bruce shifts uncomfortably on the bar stool. Marinette just laughs at his apparent awkwardness. “Talking of blood relations seems to be something you don’t enjoy, and yet the entire premise of your protection rests on it. Tell me, M. Wayne, do you think I should even begin to consider you my father?”

Even as inebriated as Marinette must be, she brings up points that he himself wondered on his way to Paris. Wanting to see Marinette safe goes beyond a simple duty to morality and virtue. Though Bruce is known for adopting kids with tragic backstories, it simply isn’t feasible to adopt every single one he comes across. To bring Marinette into his family at this age, to expose her to the life he lives would be beyond cruel. In essence he’d be replacing two parents with a ticking time bomb: himself.

“Don’t consider me a parent, just a guardian. It’s in my best interest to see you safe, and the best way to do that is to have you move to Gotham, where my colleagues and I can assure you around the clock protection.”

At first, he distanced himself from Sabine and Marinette because he didn’t want to disrupt her current relationship with Tom. Even if the two of them insisted that he could still be part of Marinette’s life, it just didn’t feel right to have the title of father when he wasn’t the one to put in any of the hard work. Then, as Tom and Sabine grew more comfortable in their life together, settled down and opened up a bakery, he was blindsided by Jason’s death. As his daughter grew older and older, there were just too many things in his own life for him to ever hope to kindle a relationship with Marinette.

Marinette laughs, but it’s really more of a bark. Her voice is too hoarse for it to come out any other way. Bruce can’t imagine how much she’s cried this past week. “If you wanted to keep me safe, where were you a week ago? Where were you two years ago? Where were you when I was thirteen? M. Wayne, I’ve heard a lot of rumors about you throughout the years, and I’ve always brushed them off as nothing more than tabloid gossip. But perhaps they got one thing right about you: you’re a liar.”

Marinette stands, swaying slightly.

“This— if you truly want me to uproot my life, I need more than you saying it’s in your best interest. I need—” Marinette reaches up to her earrings and allows her eyes to flutter shut. She needs more than a distant guardian. She needs someone to confide in. Someone she trusts. “It was nice meeting you, but I don’t need your pity. Not now.”

As she weaves through the crowd, Bruce can’t help but wonder whether he made the right decision all those years ago to not be apart of her life.

@biodad-bruce-month

Late to the game as always. This will be a multichapter fic but all parts can be read as one shots (and also as always anything posted to tumblr is never checked for accuracy and stuff so whoop)! They’ll be released in chronological order. If you want to get tagged in all things maribat, instead of commenting it under a fic, I’d appreciate an ask or a dm instead! I haven’t been able to go back through all the previous comments and create a taglist yet but perhaps. eventually.

#bio!dad bruce wayne month 2020 #first meeting #maribat #bio!dad bruce #marinette dupain cheng #bruce wayne #referenced character death #aged up! marinette #miraculous ladybug #dcu

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withoneheadlight · 3 years

Note

life has been a bit crazy for me so I haven’t been around but I’m glad to see that the upside down kiss fic is circulating back around bc it lives rent free in my mind constantly and I am whORE KNEE 😩

nsfw! anon

(I hope you’ve seen well I miss u :((( )

NSFW!ANON I'M SO HAPPY TO SEE YOU I MISS YOUUUUUU!!!!! Holy shit this is the nicest surprise!!!!!! 💖💖💖🌟💖🌟💖🌟💖🌟💖 Wish your life were at least a bit less crazy :(. Mine's been a bit crazy too. Weird and busy. Haven't been letting me much time for fandom and i miss it so, SO FUCKING much.

And <3<3<3, haha yep! i’ve got a soft spot for that fic too bc i had so much fun writing it, and it’s even funnier on my mind idk xD. i’m so happy people likes it. Those gifs are like a harringrove inspiration charm i swear! Maybe you’ve already seen it but @warheadache added this amazing ar to it and 🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉.

also!! i know it doesn’t look like it but i’ve got a couple things for you on the works and i’m closer to finish them!! at my snail pace but yk,

a few excerpts bc i want to give them to you so baaaaaadddDDDDDD:

(I'm sure you'll recognize the working titles :P)

| n s f w ahead |

| boots |

And it’s been more than three years. More than three years of holes on his body and holes on his veins and stitches and tubes and pills and pain under every scar and unsteady steps and pulling together a pile of dirty rubble. More than one of Steve, Steve, Steve. Of coming back in busts and flickers. Enough gasoline left to light a spark. Too empty still to start a fire.

Except―

He’s going through his old stuff, one day. Cold outside. Late January. Chill fogging the windows. Daylight pouring to the edges of the sky like red-hot steel on the other side.

Billy’s on the floor. The contents of the two plastic bags collecting dust at the bottom of his closet since he moved in here now scattered all around. Cassettes and crumpled papers and tampered books and stupid memorabilia and. His old tight jeans. His leather jackets. His light-blue denim one, with the blood-red goodbye kiss of somebody whose cheek he remembers touching, whose face he can’t remember anymore.

And Billy doesn’t hear him coming, but one moment he’s not, the next Steve’s crouching by his side, leaning against him, too lightly for it to be in need of balance.

“God, Hargrove” he huffs, picks Billy’s favorite shirt out of the pile “Am I remembering this one right?”

Billy bites in a smile. Swallows down some bitterness.

“You are”

Steve nods, mouth twisting into a grin, a brow rising. Glances down at what Billy’s holding (on to) between his hands.

“And oooh. Those boots”

Still dirty. More dark brownish than black. One of the few things he got back from the hospital. His pendant being the only one he ever put back on.

“Yeah”

“Thinking ‘bout using any of these again?” Steve gives the shirt a light shake, the dark-red fabric dragging on the wooden floor.

Last time Billy wore it, he burned hole in it. A stray ember fell from his joint, right under the left pocket. Tiny enough to pass mostly unseen but―

For a closer look, it was ruined.

Two days later, the Mind-Flyer dragged him into the basement of Brimborn Steel Works.

Billy digs his fingers into the dry leather before they can start shaking.

“I don’t―” Takes in a big gulp of air “―know. Don’t know if they’ll fit anymore” It feels like nothing.

Because, he doesn’t mean only his body. Means it all. Because he’s alivealivealive, like some kind of inevitability. Alive like a form of inertia.

Alive because that’s all he had left. Got’s left. The only thing he could. Can. Do.

But,

But

“Uhmm” Steve exhales. Looks right into his eyes and it feels like he’s looking deeper. And it’s not the first time, not the first time Billy wonders, how much he knows, and how he knows it. Wonders what he might be seeing, what his instinct might be saying for him to―lower down his voice, eat away almost every single one of the scarce millimeters keeping their mouths from touching “Maybe the boots, then” his hair tickling Billy as it falls over his forehead, the feeling of it so intimate it seems illicit “Only, the boots”.

And those words. Those words. Taste like gasoline on Billy’s mouth, make the flame almost catch. Hot. As they feel over the rabbiting pulse of his jugular. Ad there shouldn’t be any empty space left between them when Steve moves even closer, his lips brushing a path of raw tenderness over Billy’s cheek, trailing sideways, air turning flammable and unstable, unbreathable when he says, “You’d look―” Voice hoarse. Shaky. Breath warm down the curve of Billy’s neck. Fingertips burning as a branding mark over his solar plexus “Hot as fuck”

Trading a grenade for Billy’s fast-beating heart.

And then― he’s getting up. Going away. Closing the door behind him. Leaving Billy one pull away from the detonation.

And Billy.

It’s been more than year since he moved. More than a year of SteveSteveSteve. Of coming back in busts and flickers. Enough gasoline left to light a spark. Too empty still to start a fire.

But Billy wants it, this kind of inevitability. Not inertia. No survival. Not that something living doesn’t really feels like. He wants Steve to release that bomb he just dropped inside of his body. Left Billy unmade. Shape him back together with his own two hands.

So he gets up. Wired-up and breathless. Anticipation beading on the surface of his skin. Thinks about of all those times alive felt like something reachable. That almost-touch sensation. Static singing on his fingertips: loving arms closing around his ocean-cold skin. The rumbling of the sea caught up on the shell of his ribcage. Max's crazy laugh like a hammer to his bones. The Camaro cooking the soles of his feet, speed making his head spin through a wormhole and out into the infinite. His knuckles cracking against the skin of another, finding bone. The metallic tang of blood flooding down the back of his tongue.

Love and fire and rage and―

He takes all his clothes off. They don’t feel like they fit, either. Socks. Sweats. Hoodie. T-Shirt. Takes a deep breath when the pendant bumps against the naked skin of his chest.

Puts his boots on.

Does the only thing he’s ever known.

“Steve!” he shouts. Pulse spiking up fast. Trying to beat a way out of his body “Can you come back in here?”

Skyrocketing, when Steve shouts back.

“Going!”

And then is the door clicking open. Billy’s lungs freezing in the middle of a breath. Steve’s eyes looking almost black as they catch the shadows. Sun falling down the reality of the other side.

And in a darkness like that, it’s only them what remains. Them, and the way they are looking at each other.

And Billy feels alive. Like falling. Feet slippin’ on the razor’s edge.

"Billy" breathes out Steve. Shoulder perched on the frame. Fingers tightening around the handle "Fuck, Billy I―"

“Yeah?”

Alive. Like a form of gravity when―

Steve comes forward. To him. Careful. Careful. Footsteps creaking on the wooden floor. Lashes falling down as his eyes drift. Swallows. Comes closer and closer still.

And then.

Their chest are brushing and their hands are almost touching and it's not even an inch but Billy has to look up even with his stupid boots on and,

“You said―”

Steve breathes in. Cuts Billy’s breath off his lungs.

Between them, there’s no room for anything that’s not the way they’re not touching.

“I know what I said”

The air, sparks, sizzles, becomes the memory of a thunderstorm and. The tips of Steve’s fingers make his hairs stand on end. High voltage. Spark over the inside of his wrist. The faded blue of his veins. And Billy shivers. Feels like that second of stasis before the rupture. Static calm and then― the ocean breaks.

And then Steve says,

“I wanna see it. That fire in you” and his fingers tickle across the hidden tenderness on the inside Billy’s elbow. Nails grazing their way up to his shoulder, detouring to contour the crest of his clavicle, slide down the trough, spreading as they follow the shape of Billy’s neck, thumb fitting into the corner of his lips and “C’mon.” smiling, smiling. Eyes creasing at the sides, lashes catching the few last strings of light. Wicked and sweet and devastating “Show me who’s that Billy Hargrove everybody's been telling me so much about”

| stick | tw: object insertion |

It’s thrilling, this secret, depraved game they play. Feels like it's forbidden. Leaves a sweet, honey-thick aftertaste.

And Billy is so. So curious. Can’t stop asking Steve to tell him “How it feels babe. I want to know how good it feels. God you look like it's hitting you just right” and Steve tells him. Steve fucks himself down into whatever thing Billy is holding for him, never touching himself until he’s almost there, wanting to ride that sole sensation right up until the very end. Shivering. Shaking. Breaking a sweat. The words coming ragged out of his open mouth. “Cold” or “Weird” or “Like. Too much–ah. Too much” and “Soft, God, Billy so soft” and–

“Why don’t you try it yourself?”

And Billy its so, so curious.

Billy does.

Rails himself for Steve to watch, slicked up with lube and dripping. With a rolling pin. A cucumber. Almost a whole box of wooden colored pencils, stuffed inside his ass one by one. With “ohgodgodgod” the handle of Steve’s fucking nailed bat. Lets Steve holds whatever thing he chooses for him “C’mon, babe. C’mon. Treat it good. Swallow it as deep as you can. Take it like you would take my cock”

And life in Hawkins gets boring after the first, second, fourth, seventh yearly round. Steve takes that office work. Billy gets a permanent spot in the garage. If he gets real lucky, somebody takes him an interesting car from time to time. But sometimes Steve looks at Billy with dark, liquid eyes. Says “Ok enough”. His voice harsh. Rasped. Losing balance at the edge of what he’s able to restrain himself. Sounding as if he’s jealous of those things jamming the insides if Billy’s ass. Takes out Billy’s been writhing around. Fucks him hard. Fuck him deep. Fucks him so good there are tears in Billy’s eyes by the time he comes. Fallen apart and sobbing.

Steve’s driving. One hand on the wheel. One hand on the shift. The cool air of the night coming in shorts through the rolled-down window. On the radio, Ted Nugent’s making his guitar whine, the strings arching into the touch of his fingertips, asking for more more more, ‘Here I come again now baby. Like a dog in heat’

Steve’s long fingers flex over the knob, winter-cold white under reddened knuckles. He shifts from third to fourth with a smooth press and lets go of the clutch, and the Camaro sighs, settles. Steve makes her calm. Steve tames her. Where Billy makes her growl and kick Steve drives her like a lover, whispers to her with all his body I’m gonna fuck you so slow. We got all night, baby. Steve treats her right. Runs those fingers up and down the metallic rod of the shift and Billy gets hard. One second from zero to sixty.

His cock pulses, pulses. Fills up whole. The sudden rush of heat traveling up, up. Presses against the walls of his throat. Billy wants to feel the head of Steve’s cock against his bell. Wants Steve to make him choke on him.

Steve brakes. Clutches. Reduces. The Camaro moans, needy. Steve soothes her, caresses it with a soft brush of his thumb along the speed patter Shh, baby sshhh. Just hold a little bit longer. I promise I will let you come.

Billy feels himself twitch, spit out precum. The inside of his pants feels damp, appetizing. He lets his hips slide, rock.

The knob is real leather. Silver pattern ingrained over black. Seams carefully sew out on the surface as a touch of style.

Billy replaced it a few months ago, the old one too damaged by use. Worn out.

This one curves slightly forward.

It would hit just right.

Steve's eyes are alight, framed in the light reflected from the rearview mirror, a dramatic take out of an old Noir.

Except the brown shines full color. Alive.

Billy puts his hand over Steve’s on the knob, spreads his fingers around his.

Grips him hard.

“Hey, babe. Have you ever thought about it?”

“Mmm? About what?”

“About riding my car”

Steve huffs. Chuckles.

“I am driving your car”

“Yeah” Billy caresses the side of Steve’s hand with his thumb, a lagged reflection of his gesture. Thinks about how pretty Steve’s lips would look around that leather, mouth open wide “Don’t mean it like that”

Billy has to take a deep, shaky breath, thinking it's a miracle they ever get as far as they plan, that Steve Harrington's mere existence doesn't make him come just by looking at him.

Not all their games get to the finish line. But this, God, Billy wants this one to.

"Ah-ah" he shakes his head, smirks, keeps the stakes high "But if you hop on I'll let you eat my mouth"

“Mmmm. I don’t know”

Steve twists his lips, considering, looks like he’s willing to take his sweet time deciding, staying just like this, idly rocking on his lap, keeping Billy hooked in this scarce feeling, this almost kissing between their cocks.

And Billy––Uff. Billy it’s too revved-up, can’t take it any fucking second more.

Grabs Steve’s asscheeks. Lifts him up.

“Billy what the—ohfuck” It doesn't go in. ‘Course it doesn’t. When Billy lets Steve’s weight drop just a slight bit. It bumps. Slips. Wet and obscene. Rips a breathless thing of a sound out of his throat. But then Steve’s arms wrap around his neck. Bracing himself so Billy can take a hold of it, line himself up. And then yeah yeah. He barely has to rub the head against Steve’s slippery hole and his cock slides in. Eaaasy. All the way. Into Steve’s warmth. Tight. Tight. Tight. And–

“Ohfuck. OhfuckOh”

The air coming in from the window is cool, bristling, but it feels like nothing when Steve lets out a chocked cry. Fucks himself. Fast. Rough. Face buried into the crook of Billy’s neck. Breath blooming hot, hot. Teeth on his pulse.

“Shhhh, baby, shhh” Billy takes his face between his hands, pushes him carefully backwards. Waits ‘till Steve’s eyes slowly find focus on his, still rocking, still― “Hey. You gotta stop. You hear me?” Steve takes a deep breath, exhales long and shaky. It takes all of him to slow down, Billy knows, but he does. Thighs twitching. Cock weeping. Smearing over Billy’s belly where his t-shit has hitched up.

Billy brushes his hair back from his forehead. Tangled and damp and gorgeous.

Kisses him light and sweet.

“We’re close, baby. We’re really, really close. But you gotta stop so I can open you up real good ok?”

Steve nods, eyes glossy, lips bitten and Billy feels overwhelmed, feels like burning under the hard sun. They’re both hanging by the thinnest of threads, Billy can feel it, can see it in the blown-out dark of Steve’s eyes. They’re riding pleasure at point break, time holding its breath for them. This is his favorite part of the game. A little too much, just a little too much. ‘Till one of them loses it. ‘Till one of them melts on the other’s hands. Hard and thick.

And God, Billy has never been one not to push his luck.

He takes two fingers up to Steve’s lips, runs the tips over the tender skin inside. Thinks about how they don’t look bitten enough, swollen enough. About how he’s gonna have to fix that.

“I’m gonna put these two inside. Will you get them ready for me?” Steve’s Smile twitches up, canines showing. It’s a two-men-con. But they play as much against the other as they play together. So Steve swallows both fingers. All the way in one go. Eyes falling shut. Eats them wet and messy. Deepthroats. Rumbles. Ass clenching, pulsing around Billy’s cock. And Billy is only a short breath of self-control away from spending himself inside him like a fucking rookie.

It’s boring, small-town life, really. Except–

“Good boy,” he says, making his fingers pop out of Steve’s mouth, satisfaction tastier than honey at the mean glare it grants him. But it softens, that glare, Steve’s eyelids flutter, open-mouthed and blissed, when Billy brushes the head of his cock with his knuckles, haft teasing, half relieving, keeping Steve in the tightrope with him.

“I’m getting a bit impatient in here, Hargrove” he says, only managing to make his voice sound half annoyed about it. Bit Billy is too, impatient. So drags his fingers down, pads tracing the taut shape of Steve’s cock, his balls, and down. Presses. Softly. Rubs the stretched-out flesh of his hole. Dips just the tips. Press. Press. And–

“AhfuckBilly–Ah.Mmmmh”

It’s tight. Steve’s ass clenches around him, squeezes him in. It’s a heady feeling, having him like this, senses overrunning. He’s intoxicated. High on the painful scratch of Steve’s nails when he grabs his jaw to kiss him open-mouthed and harsh. The helpless way he chokes off a sob when Billy makes his fingers curl, rubs him good and,

“I’m ready, Billy. I’m ready. BillyBillyplease. I can’t take it anymore. Please, baby. I’m ready” he’s gasping, breathless, barely taking in the heated up air they share.

“Hey. C’mon. C’mon. Just a little more, ok?. A little more and I’ll let you swallow it all in. That knob. All the way down your ass. No space left for anything else" he licks the words all along Steve’s neck, his ear. Rubs his lips over the damp roots of his hair. Cock pushing. Fingers working. When Steve sits on the stick. Billy wants him right over the edge “Gonna cum so hard you’re gonna be begging me to let you ride her again”

yup! hope you like them! i really really REALLY want to finish them for you.

Fingers crossed I get to see you again soon my dear nsfw!anon 💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

#im sending you THE BIGGEST HUG <3<3<3<3<33<#I MISSSSS YOUUUUUUUUUU #your asks never fail to light up my day #take care #and dont let that bad real life grip you too hard #i'll be around if you need me #and my ask box is always open for you #ns*w!anon💖#harringrove #long post #till i can make a cut sorry #the wip tag game!#xwips #xaskfic

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ashenburst · 3 years

Text

Posting some angst that I wrote. I'm not sure if it will end up in the final version of my book as this is a side character's POV. My best friend wants to skin me alive because of what I'm doing to my characters, ESPECIALLY Athanasius (the star of this chapter/oneshot), so, if you'd like some sort of Nietzschean, Dostoyevsky-ish sort of energy combined with a wounded man whose life has been nothing but exploitation... take this!

tw: gore, bugs being yuck, religious themes/trauma, heavy depression

word count: 1692, unedited because #yolo

Athanasius tugged at the hem of his shirt. The blood, well crusted, defied his movements. Elbowing it like mad, he barely managed to take it off and throw it by his side, where it lay together with the top of his uniform, discarded by the roots of an old oak. All of the clothes, drenched in a deep red. One swift yearning blew his mind, that of murder, of all of Agglomeration’s uniforms coated in metallic death. But no hatred, no hope could go that length. Nothing his soul could sustain. Not anymore.

Birds and waters and insects all sang, ignorant. Remaining in his stained breeches, he staggered close to the river and its white shore, agony greeting every movement. Flies tickled their way into half-open wounds, the stinging slits crossing his body. Sweat and blood curled his chest’s hairs with some black bugs dangling. So many flew around. Everyone had use of him.

He’d contemplated leaving himself in the state of bloodbath, and run for help in any community, feigning amnesia. The sheer horror of his appearance could not be trapped; whispers of it would run amok only to be seized by the worst of ears, those deaf to him.

Rocks of the riverbank wriggled beneath his boots. He dropped on his knees, pain shrieking once they dislocated. He held his head high. Cold hands contrasted on sun-heated stones. The Sun burnt through his quivering eyelids.

He could run. Would they find him? They would love to. He would kill to quench that love. He already had. Disappointed he was to see it insatiable.

But he could run. Where to? Aurun’s bank had his funds, but entering the city meant sure doom. The rest of the world was his destination. At least, parts of it without the Agglomeration.

And he could run. Scramble to some dreary town, then harbor. Stowaway his life until Onogea. He absolutely could. He had knowledge, he had strength, he had power.

His fingers dug into the rocks. The stone cracked under his weakness. One deep sigh to commemorate it all over again, and he choked on himself. He coughed up deep red mucus, spraying blood and its clots over round, white rocks. His hand rose, fingertips shaking like a naked twig on the wind. He coughed again, and blood squirted over his already dirty palm. So much filth. He’d long grown accustomed.

Then why was there hope? That inside and outside, all of that grunge could be cleansed? Because, he still had power. Despicably interwoven with all of his thoughts and feelings and so much absence of both. He had it, and he was abused for it, and he abused it. And he had it. And he pounded his fist against that aching chest, spewing darkness into broad daylight, scarring the nature with his own wounds, bleeding with the Devil’s compassion, and he had it. Even the Devil wept for him. Even the Devil pitied him. Yet he had it.

He huffed a fly outside his nostril. Something stuck at the back of his throat, clogging the air. He hawked, discharging even more bloody mucus, now onto himself. Stained saliva swayed from his lips. He brushed it away with the back of his palm. In his lap, red rolled, young blood over old. He separated his legs to have it smudge all the way to the ground. Kneecaps scorched as he scraped them over rocks. Wherever they dug, blood trailed, two crescents set in stone.

To be unclasped. To be a stain elsewhere. This world made it seem too simple, lovingly palpable. But he was not bound to it, and in navigating the philosophical, he reached the inevitable: responsibility would set him free. He held pseudohistoric texts that hollered so, and pseudohistory was of angelic origin, therefore applicable to him. He could recall the tremble in his fists while reading it, mind screaming and shattering with the consolation, “It would be over. You’ve understood. It would be over.” But it wasn’t. Same questions yielded same answers, and these were not meant for man. He had come to know Hell by fulfilling all wisdom.

If someone could question him for once!

He whimpered, back arching him down. Another surge of wet coughs.

In the corner of his foggy vision, he spotted a plant unusually brown, leaves writhed. His head rolled to his shoulder to gaze at it properly. It was easy to care for the inhuman. None of it was evil. But to understand? Invincibly difficult.

He raised his hand. It trembled so fucking much, but it did the job, reached the plant. Wisps ignited at his fingertips, shaky too as they glided towards the leaf, erasing blight from it, rendering it a green slate. He gave it one stroke. “There…” he croaked like the ravens of September, no bird to caw back. Why would anyone, indeed, ever even murmur back? To tangibly, blatantly forlorn he. If anew, perhaps he could be fine.

It was no hope, he reminded himself – he remembered how it once felt. It was yet another stumble into the unknown, an experimental circumstance, to see if he could, somehow, appease the referential frame up above and renounce it. He cursed under his breath. It was never enough, and they? They never should’ve made themselves known. Mankind did not need them. Mankind never wanted right. There was no right! He gasped at the Heavens. Why would they ever impose themselves, if there was no truth?! Never to reply!

But who was he, to have his wisdom pacified? Forever the staple of cruelty, a child. Neglected all over again.

Flies ravaged the inside of his mouth. He spat some, others he coughed away. Another, behind the gums, he had to scoop with his tongue, and only then dribble it out. Useless troubles for a meaningful man. Cosmic irony, overlapping the entirety of his life.

He dragged himself up to the coastline. By the water’s clarity, by its estimated location, he knew this was not one of Aurun’s five rivers. It could be Rulde. Downstream, it would lead him to Szenevod. It didn’t truly matter.

His palms drowned in the river’s cold. The rest of his body above it, he could listen and stare at the steams. The reflection was expected, a face mauled with emotion and encrusted with gore. He hated the truth inside it: he was the saint. He would be eternalized on murals, his mantle the sunlight, his cohort the flora, his mouth bloody obscene, but the heart, the pastors would claim, the heart pure and so profoundly tortured! And they would assure fervently: the greater the suffering, the greater the Heaven’s lodge. He wouldn’t even bother to tell them the great truth that living for the afterlife could only give Hell, and he already held it, and no Heaven was worth the misery.

He was the saint, beloved only at a distance. He would’ve kissed that saint, if only he had known how to love him. He was, after all, right beneath him, gaping back with barren ambers. He could not hope for this man. There was nobody and nothing in the eighteen years of his existence that ever nursed his soul. Why keep going, if it could only get worse? He had made one fatal mistake, only recently. He licked sweet hope only for it to burn bitter, for one could not be defined without the other. He didn’t have to know nor to realize, for it had always been an axiom surer than the Sun. Him, a fool for ignoring the one truth he found, denying the axiom it supported, and finally, aching after the plainest of swindles.

Constantin, you did not care.

He could no longer care either. But he could cry. By all means, he could. Tears were harmless. He wasn’t. He did.

What would you do if you saw me like this?

He stared at himself through dreary eyes. Tears swelled in the blood’s mud, warmth draping over his face, uncomfortably coating it, suffocating the skin. He never got the answer. It wasn’t meant for him. And he squealed all of his helplessness for the world to ignore.

He hacked between sobs, hair and insects sticking into his mouth. Droplets and patches of blood gracefully dispersed beneath him, and he kept adding onto the red, throat itching to puke every violent sob, every harsh whine. It clenched so hard, gagged him, threatened to empty the bowels. He couldn’t breathe, for he couldn’t reach for air, and so no sound escaped his wet lips parted in a mute cry. Bile dripped from it, sour to taste. It had always been ugly, to what end? There was nothing to let out. Nostrils flared, he thought he calmed, once he pieced together that thought. Yet, in the dread of peace, he found it in him to scream like mad, drool and tears carried by the river.

Why? He didn’t have to. Nobody would hear. The river flowed on, the nature lapped at his body to nourish itself with his blood, tears, and agony. The usual. There never was a divine interference but to plague, and there never was an ear that heard unless it willed to. And he was so accursedly aware of it! And he wailed despite all of it! Him, foolish him!

Have him punished, someone! Tender hooves trampling him into dust and bones. Please! The same death he could not prevent! The same moment his power abandoned him, when he needed it most, when his heart shredded and when he came back to discover – death! His lifelong accomplice! He pleaded! Flies devour all of his rot! Rocks hammer all of bones! Waters bloat every muscle! Punish him!

“Please…” he begged for the umpteenth time, the mantra of his life, the disease of his death. “I’m not…” His hand slipped, gave out, and the water slapped him.

Indifferent, he dropped into the torrents to carry him anywhere. The waters silenced everything, mercy for once. If his anguish ever held any merit, he’d waste it all on one desire: never to bless this world with another Chosen One.

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scarletbluebird13 · 3 years

Note

Hi! I just read some of your Masquerade Kiss fics and headcannons and I like them! Can I request a fic where the Boss proposes to MC? I don't mind a little of smut in it. Thank you.

Marry Me?

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Title: Masquerade Kiss

Pairing: Boss x MC

Tags: Fluff, a bit of smut (mainly teasing)

Word count: 2353

A/N: Hiya!! I’m so sorry it’s taken me this long to answer your request. I hope you can forgive me - and I really do hope the wait was worth it; if it wasn’t, I’m so incredibly sorry. To you and the other people who requested: I’m so sorry this took so long and if I made you feel ignored. Thank you so much for patiently waiting. I appreciate it. Thank you for your kind words tho, they really helped <3 Overall, I really enjoyed your request- it was a really cute and fun one to write <33 anyway, I really hope this is to your liking, and again; sorry for the long wait

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A fresh winter breeze makes you tense up slightly - understandably so, you were wearing a backless navy blue dress standing on a patio, looking out at the snow covered garden before you - in the middle of winter.

The moon shone in all her excellence, creating an ethereal midst to your already unfamiliar (yet somehow familiar) world. Stars blink listlessly next to the moon, against the empty backdrop of a void of seemingly nothingness millions of miles overhead.

Scents of roses, lilies and lavender cloud your senses, the sweet bitterness of the colliding smells nearly enough to burn your nose and bring tears to your eyes. Making it bearable, however, was knowing he’s with you.

Standing in a backless dress on a patio in the middle of winter is not enough to make you turn around and go inside the small building, where he makes some last-minute arrangements. He didn’t ask you to go stand on the patio - and he’d never dream about asking you. He’d be far too worried about you catching a cold or something. Knowing that, you sighed, looking at the breath you’d heaved take on its gaseous form, where the temperature is below zero.

Just then, you feel the weight of a heavy coat being laid over your shoulders. Knowing perfectly well whose coat it is, you close your eyes and smile, waiting to be reprimanded for your harmless actions.

“Did your boyfriend tell you to wait out here?”

“No. I came out here on my own.”

“Oh really? He must be a careless one, then.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He should know better than to let such a stunning, delicate woman like you walk around without something so simple as a coat. ...Afterall, who knows what would happen if another man put his arms around you?” He says as he wraps his arms around my waist, bringing me close to him - his chin resting on my shoulder and his breath so warm, so close - almost too close.

“I appreciate and acknowledge your concern, but contrary to what you may see, I’m perfectly capable of handling myself.” I say with a smirk and twisting out of the Boss’s grasp, giving him a teasing wink while walking inside the small, elegant restaurant. The air about it a thousand times warmer than outside.

He puts his hands in his pockets, a smirk laid placidly on his face as he makes his way over.

“How exciting. You are a truly remarkable woman. But even one of your stature mustn’t wait out in the cold like that. You must understand this, no?

“No.”

“Even the deadliest of gods can come down with a cold.” He sighs, walking beside me as we follow the waiter to our table.

“What a shame.” Or I should say, private room.

The young man closes the door behind us after briefly explaining our waiter will be with us in a moment, the somber chatter of the other room being wiped from our world behind closed shoji. The only other thing present in the otherwise vacant room being a neatly set table with a white table cloth and two chairs across from one another.

The minute the young man closes the doors, however, Seiichi wraps his arms around me again, tighter than before.

“You shouldn’t have gone out there. What if you’d caught a cold?”

“I’d be fine - I’ve been sick before. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, you know. You don’t have to worry like that.”

He lets out a sigh and mumbles into my neck; “I worry about you because I care. How are you feeling? Still a little cold?”

I shake my head and comment “No, not anymore. Thank you.”

Not satisfied, he sharply turns me around and holds my head in his hands, looking me dead center in the eye.

“You don’t have to pretend around me, remember?”

“What do you-”

“Your cheeks are red and frigid.”

“U-Um, excuse me -” a young voice interrupts us.

I didn’t hear the doors sliding open, when did she get here?

“I-I’m so sorry - if you’d like, I’ll come back a little-”

“It’s alright. Come in.” Seiichi says, taking a step away from me, his eyes falling from mine. Nonetheless, he guides me to my chair.

“Okay, I’ll start off by taking your beverage requests.”

When the doors slide shut after the young waitress - who seems to be no older than a high school student - I sigh and say almost inaudibly;

“I’m sorry I made you worry, Seiichi.” After hearing him chuckle, I look up to meet his gaze, and sure enough, he’s looking at me - eyes full of boyish pride, holding the warmth of the sun and all the gentleness in the world.

“I’m glad you’re okay, is all. Anyway, that girl. She’s just about the age you were when we first met, right?” He says as he rests his chin in the palm of his hand.

“Yes. I suppose so.” I smile, looking down a bit, lost in nostalgia. Had I not met the Boss when I did, my life would be vastly different. Dare I say, I wouldn’t be alive today.

“You’re still the same, in some ways.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Well, you’re still cute. And you don’t think before you act.”

“Hey.”

He chuckles playfully, “Sorry, I couldn’t help it.”

“Whatever. Anyway, you’re still a tease. I swear.”

“You love it.” He smirks.

I’m getting tired of that attitude of his.

Wanting to get him back, I uncross my legs from under the table and slide my foot up along his leg, going as far up as I can, resting between his thighs.

In an instant, he jumps a little - hitting the table with his knee - taking a sharp breath in, his eyes going wide.

I gently rub my foot back and forth along the length of his thighs, occasionally rubbing against the bulge in the middle.

His cheeks flush a tender, bright pink as he shifts in his seat.

Heh. Now who’s being the tease?

I can’t help the mischievous smile tugging at my lips as I look at the once cool man becoming a hot, blushing mess in a matter of seconds.

“Even in this situation, I can feel you getting hard.” I whisper, only then retracting my foot from its place between his thighs. At this, he growls, but doesn’t say anything.

“Yeah. I’m sure.” He says out of nowhere.

“Huh?”

“Don’t worry about it.” He growls back, looking impatiently at his watch.

“Damn. Where is she?” he irritatedly questions, looking at the door, placing a napkin on his lap.

“Heh. You think that’s gonna help?” I say, noting his eagerness to cover up.

Then the door opens, and our waitress walks in, holding a cake.

“About damn time.” He spews, bouncing one leg and looking away from the girl.

“I’m so sorry about the wait, Sir.” The girl comments, a bit intimidated at the Boss’s state.

Honey, don’t worry about him. He’s fine.

“Sorry, Mina - was it?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am. Mina.”

“Yes. Well, Mina, I don’t think we’ve ordered the cake - we’ve only ordered drinks.”

“Oh, umm, w-well…” Mina trails off, glancing at the Boss.

“Yes. I think you’ve forgotten the drinks, Mina.” Seiichi hisses.

All of a sudden, Mina collects herself and begins bowing what I guess must have been a thousand times, again and again saying “I’m so sorry, Sir! Please forgive me!” before dashing out of the room, almost dropping the cake on her way out.

“She’s cute.” I say, still looking at where she’d been standing only seconds before.

Suddenly, I hear a chair moving, and before I know it, Seiichi has moved his char directly next to mine.

“Wh-” my question is cut off before it gets the chance to leave my mouth. The Boss’s tongue cutting me off and opting to explore my mouth. It’s intense, and all the warmth he’d been showing me tonight vanished - replaced by an intense inferno, one I’m far too familiar with. This inferno is a stunning, blinding blaze of passion.

I yelp into the kiss and arch my back when I feel his hand thrust its way between my thighs and feel his digits rub against the lacy lingerie covering my heated entrance.

“S-Seiichi-”

“Hmm, wearing lingerie tonight? Were you planning ahead on tonight’s events…? Anticipating my touch…? Dirty girl.” He chuckles darkly. “I hope it’s the black one - you look especially sexy in that one…”

“Mmmn, we shouldn’t… what if Mina comes back…?”

“You should’ve thought about that before toying with me.” God, I swear I can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Do you want me to stop?” He asks, suddenly retracting his hand from my thighs. Without thinking, I grasp his hand and bring it back.

“Oooh. Rather risqué, no?”

“Shut up.” I grunt, annoyed with myself for admitting I want this, but not enough to let him stop.

“Whatever you want” he chuckles out, breathing into my ear. He moves his hand from its former position to the inside of my thigh, tracing patterns before squeezing.

“You love it when I tease you.” He says with what I can only imagine is a sinister smile before taking his hand away.

Before I can reach for it again, the door opens and I stop myself, my cheeks blazing.

“Ahaha, sorry about before, here’s the champagne, as requested. I’ll be back in a bit.” Mina comments, placing the glasses and bottle on the table, not paying any particular mind to us.

Probably still embarrassed about before. ...and I’m thinking about other things anyway.

It’s not like I myself am focused on the champagne or her either, tho. All I want is to feel Seiichi.

But when I turn to face him again, I’m met with a soft gaze. It’s that face that could make me pregnant from the smile alone give me a heart attack - the warmth in that gaze, the happiness in that smile - I want it. I want to protect it all.

“I wish I could take a picture of you now. Your cheeks are flushed, and you look like you want me. But you should take a moment to cool down for a bit - don’t want to get you overheated, afterall.” And he glances at the glass of champagne neatly placed in front of me.

Not knowing what he’s getting at, I pick up the glass. But before I bring it to my lips to drink from, I see something sparkling at the bottom of the glass - a ring?

Surprised, I look back at Seiichi, and without missing a beat, I find that he’s already down on one knee.

“Will you marry me?” He asks me, eyes full of sincerity and certainty - not a single cloud of doubt to be seen anywhere on his face.

“Well. Say something. You were so full of chatter before - what happened? Don’t tell me you’re speechless now?”

Overwhelmed with happiness I cry out, “Bastard!” as I leap out of my chair and throw my arms around him, joining him on the floor

“Well, I did say ‘say something.’ Guess that’s good enough. But it’s not really a direct answer. Tell me, I want to hear you say it.” He whispers with a smile on his lips.

He stands, my chin in his hands, his arm around my waist, holding me close. Promising to never let me wait out in the cold again -- even if it is of my own discretion.

“Yes!! I want to marry you!” I yell out, tears falling from my cheeks as I jump up at Seiichi from excitement.

To that he says nothing, but lets me know how he feels with a kiss, sweeter than any other.

After some of the initial excitement, we settle down again, and Mina brings the cake back. When she shuts the door behind her, Seiichi gets close to my ear and whispers;

“Now I’m sure she won’t be back for a while yet, you’ve still got some paying to do for that little stunt you pulled earlier…” ...whilst lightly nibbling at my earlobe.

“Mmn, not my fault you’re so sensitive.” I whimper

He bites down on my neck and questions me; “What was that?”

“You heard what I said.”

“Oh really…?” He smirks at me, glancing over at the red velvet cake on the table, just in front of us.

“Well then, you won’t mind if I eat this cake all by myself then, would you?” Moving away from me, he leans back in his chair with the piece of cake brought in, reading “Congratulations!”

“Hey!” I call out as I glare at him.

“Well, then? I guess you do mind. In that case, you’ve got to make it up to me, Mrs. Setoyanagi.” He says with an evil glimmer in his eye, setting the cake down.

“Remember, we may be in a private room, but the people outside can still hear us - and if you sing too loudly, Mina might think you're calling her. So, shhhhh…”

We spend another hour or so in the private room, trying to be as silent as possible, aware of the guests beyond the shoji doors. But it’s not enough. We leave the restaurant and continue at Seiichi’s place, and I couldn’t be more content. I couldn’t be happier to call this man my fiancé. A mentor, teacher, boss, lover and now fiancé, soon-to-be husband.

Now I share a bed with him. I listen to his heartbeat, see his chest rise and fall with every breath, and I know. I know now. I know his name. It’s something so small, so trivial, so simple. But it’s everything in our world. He’s trusted me with it, and now he trusts his future with me. I know he needs water to function in the morning. I know he has a thing for soy sauce. I know. Who would’ve thought I’d share a bed, so much love, and a future with the man who saved me all those years ago.

The man I’d admired for so long is mine, and the future ours.

#masquerade kiss #mas kiss #boss #boss masquerade kiss #seiichi setoyanagi #love 365 #voltage inc #fluff #boss fluff #masquerade kiss fluff

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muertawrites · 4 years

Note

LOVE your writing now i know it's not on the prompt list but (at any point) could we get a sokka x reader having to do w him making her a BETROTHAL NECKLACE

Never Wear White (Sokka x Reader)

Word Count: 1,100

Author’s Note: Okay so like, I know I’m supposedly focusing on other things right now but this week has been difficult for me as far as finding my motivation to do anything but lay in bed and it’s one in the morning and I all of a sudden got emotional so I figured I would use the tiny little spark of creativity I have while I still have it. Now I, personally, have some very strong ideas about marriage, namely that I don’t want to ever do it, due equally in part to the fact that it seems like a lot of stress and hassle and financial strain that I don’t want to put myself or my loved ones through and also that I’ve been emotionally destroyed by most of the people I’ve loved so that kind of commitment just doesn’t seem like it’s in the cards for me. Inspired by the song Never Worn White by Katy Perry because I’m all hurt inside and writing and music are how I attempt to heal myself.

I’m also posting this without editing so... sorry. (Also I think the ending is extremely cheesy and it’s the kind of sap I typically hate in fiction but whatever)

~ Muerta

Sokka meets you under the gazebo where he took you on your first date. It’s been eight years since then; eight years since he kissed you out of the blue, since you clutched his hand tightly within yours before darting down the hill back to the center of the village, scared of what you felt for him. Eight years since he showed up on your front porch asking for forgiveness, knowing you were terrified, and knowing he overstepped. Eight years since you took him in your arms and admitted you loved him.

Leaning against one of the gazebo’s pillars, gazing down at the glittering lights of the village below, you feel just as shaken as you had that night. You knew the moment he asked to meet you what he wanted to do, and it made you want to run like hell until you were miles away and your legs could no longer carry you - you’re seriously considering it by the time he approaches.

One look at him, though, and you’re planted in place.

He smiles at you with the same brightness as the day you first met him and you could tell he was clearly smitten with you, his cheeks blushing pinker than the spring blossoms that dotted the trees lining the village’s quaint, ancient streets. His lapizine eyes shimmer in the dimming light of the horizon, reflecting the golden glow of the lanterns hung around the edge of the gazebo’s roof. You note the minute lines that have etched themselves into his face in the near decade you’ve spent with him, the spare strands of silver that sprout in his deep sorrel hair; each make him all the more handsome, his features and presence the most of a home you’ve ever known.

He greets you by curling his arms around your waist and pressing a chaste, tender kiss to your lips, which you return without hesitation. You sit beside him on the gazebo’s single bench, your fingers twined comfortably between his.

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” Sokka admits with a grin.

You smile guiltily, lowering your eyes to his knuckles; the callouses and scars from years of battle and wear.

“I was about to run when you showed up,” you confess.

Sokka chuckles, giving your palm a gentle squeeze. You can tell by the way his brows crease in the middle, dipping at their ends, that he’s just as nervous as you are. His skin is hot and damp against yours; you can’t tell if it’s from his own doubt or yours.

“You know what I want to ask,” he states. Not a question; never a question - his intuition is so in tune to you that he hardly ever has use for them.

You nod, swallowing despite the sand that coats your throat.

“It doesn’t have to be anything big,” Sokka assures you. “It can be just us if you want - everyone will understand. I know how you feel about this kind of stuff, and you don’t have to say yes right away, or ever, even. I just… I love you. I love you more than I’ve loved anyone else and… I’ve never been so sure of anyone else, either.”

Then he does exactly what you hoped he never would - he drops down in front of you, one knee bent into the wood floor below, and removes a slim, ivory box from his pocket. You don’t have to remove the lid to know its contents, but you do anyway.

An intricate moonstone charm stares up at you, laced through a ribbon of blue suede. You’re thankful that, given his questionable artistic talents, Sokka chose a beveled pattern instead of an image; it’s the curl of a wave crashing against the cliff of a coastline, the meeting of earth and water. You run your fingers over the crags of the cliff’s rocky surface, how they smooth and soften where the waves caress them; you bite your lip, sniffing as you fight the tears that refuse to stay behind your eyelids.

“Do you like it?” Sokka asks in a whisper.

You nod, unable to speak.

His hands cradle yours as you raise the betrothal necklace from its divot in its case, holding it delicately to your neck so he can fasten it in place. It fits exactly like it’s meant to.

Your arms quiver as you find them falling around Sokka’s chest, clinging to the fabric at his back as you pull him in, clutching him tightly to you. He holds you securely, pressing your body to his as his hand cups the back of your head, as if shielding you. He stays like this for either minutes or days, giving you the time and protection you crave.

When you finally pull away, his hand moves to your cheek, wiping away the remnants of your tears; you can’t help but laugh when you notice his shoulder is stained with them.

Neither of you says anything. You know he’s waiting for an answer - any answer - that will solidify your union one way or the other. Once you speak, you’ll never have the conversation again, and you can’t tell if you’re more terrified by the idea of what lies beyond agreement, or what you’ll miss in denial. You take his hands once more, grasping them firmly within yours as if you ground yourself.

And in that one action, you know - your fear is arbitrary. Sokka is your comfort, your safety, your sanctuary against the insecurities instilled in you by ghosts who refuse to be exorcized from your heart. Sokka is the one who reminds you that it still beats.

You nod frantically as your hand flies to your face, swiping at a new current of saltwater that cascades down your cheeks. Sokka’s eyes widen, his grip tightening around your palm.

“Are… are you saying ‘yes’?” he squeaks.

You laugh, still nodding as you become more disheveled, snot now starting to pool above your upper lip.

“Yes,” you tell him, your voice shaking as violently as your limbs. “Yes, I am.”

Sokka leaps to his feet, catching you in his arms as he spins and cheers with delight. Your laughter continues, your arms draping over his shoulders as he twirls, fingers knitting into the hair at the back of his neck. When he sets you back onto your feet, he cups your face in his hands and kisses you, holding you there for as long as he can keep his breath; you kiss him back, savoring the sweetness of his lips as it mixes with the bitter salt of your tears.

“I promise,” Sokka breathes once he pulls away. “I promise, I’ll prove that I’m worth it.”

You smile wistfully, shaking your head as you brush a wisp of hair that’s come loose from his top knot out of his face.

“Sokka,” you murmur, “you already have.”

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yunsoh · 3 years

Note

could u rank aaaall the characters u can think of from fave to least fave?

i won’t do every single one because there’s literally too many characters in this series but i’ll rank the ones that i have opinions about;

1. yuki -- a shocker i know but it cannot be helped. he’s been my favorite since day one. hands down my favorite character arc in the story, i think it’s just so impactful not just for a romance series but for a story so focused on cyclical trauma. he’s a cryptic little weirdo but he’s also just like..... achingly normal and relatable. (i mean........ isn’t that just his whole character development......). big romantic, so kind and genuinely good but also he’s a big bastard and i love that for him. his and tohru’s relationship? his development surrounding it?? the best of the best. just standout to me. mwah. absolutely iconic.

2. kakeru -- for a character i didn’t even remember when i went back to reread the series a few years ago he is like....... quite literally on the brain all the time now lmfao. technical-wise i think he stands as a really interesting juxtaposition to our main trio in the sense that he has the qualities they initially lack, but he struggles with and has to actively work on aspects that are very inherent to all three of them. he just holds a unique perspective that i appreciate, esp since it’s so critical to challenging yuki’s. vibes-wise i think he’s both interestingly complicated and a fucking fool. absolutely lame and refuses to acknowledge it. love him.

3. machi -- the ways in which my opinion about her character have changed over the past year....... okay so if we’re talking like, strictly canon machi i don’t think she would be this high up (still top 10 probably) but considering the mental energy i’ve put into reconsidering her character & story and just like.... the fact that i think about her as much as i do..... i kind of can’t not have her up here lmfao. idk i think she had a lot of potential that got dropped in canon which is a shame, but i think i’ve talked that point to death so. anyways. i do just love her. she just has those vibes you know. no bullshit, secretly rabid, depressed & doing her best. yeah. takaya nerfed her because she realized she would just end up giving her the same gay subtext she gave yuki and u know how she feels about that.

4. haru -- god what is there not to love abt him. i think he makes me laugh the most throughout the series but he’s also sooo fucking intense at times it’s sick. especially since he usually stands as a chill and grounded point while everyone else is going crazy..... again just immaculate vibes. just so much love in his heart. like he genuinely just wants people to be happy and having a good time. i do also wish his character/issues were explored a little more (maybe in lieu of characters who like.... didn’t really need a character arc lmao) but it’s not a dealbreaker. boy rlly almost exposed the sohmas to the whole school though huh.

5. kyo -- he’s actually somewhat tied with tohru but i think he has just an edge above her for me because he’s such a grouch LMAO. idk there’s just something about how he’s very prickly but suuuch a softie and romantic under it all that just gets me. in a weird way though, he ticks a lot of my boxes but isn’t exactly a character that i’m strongly drawn to? i like him, but i don’t really reread his chapters/rewatch his eps. something about him doesn’t click exactly right for me..... maybe bc his story is strictly romance-focused (and honestly tends towards the melodramatic that i’m a bit ‘hm’ about). that said he lucked out with getting a satisfying ending to his arc and he’s made me cry at least once so gg.

6. tohru -- every time i think about her i’m just like. can we pleeeeease get this girl a therapist. yes they all need therapy but like..... hello can someone help..... anyways she’s just so lovingly made and i think her progression is super super well done. how her issues and grief manifest and really take form in the series over time is just...... oog...... it’s just perfect. i really appreciate that we get to see a character who is stereotypically feminine and mother-like actually struggle under those traits, but doesn’t abandon them once she overcomes her issues. she’s not a go-to character for me like, personality-wise ig (again.... melodrama....) but i do love her. icon.

7. uo -- back in middle school i think she was actually my favorite character after yuki.... and tbh is it such a coincidence that i couldn’t remember the second half of the series when i visited it again in my 20s lmaoooo. first-half series uo is just so fresh. i love that people find her threatening and yet she’s just this chill harsh-mouth who’s also incredibly tender-hearted and vulnerable. just genuinely funny and insightful every time she’s on the page. her friendship with kyo is also pretty standout to me it makes me laugh every time, and ofc her love for tohru... well u know. meanwhile second-half series uo um.... who’s that lol..... she only takes a place above hana here because i have really affectionate memories about just loving & admiring her when i was younger.

8. hana -- more or less tied with uo. she’s a constant mood and i love her for it. i guess i could say “second-half hana idk her” here too, but that’s just more because she just literally drops off the face of the earth after a certain point. but whatever, i love that she walks around with psychic powers and everyone knows it but it’s never questioned because everyone is just so fuckin weird it doesn’t matter. takes no shit, could kill you without leaving evidence. vibes. i also think her backstory is really beautiful and her relationship with tohru is just gorgeous. just a perfect support character.

9. shigure -- okay he actually also used to be a fave back in the day. i think he’s just fun to think about...... his perspective and his purpose in the story is pretty fascinating and i think it’s one that you gain new insight on with each reread. he just stews in this incredibly morally grey area and that’s where he stays. truly a character that you either love or you loathe. i mean at the heart of things he’s a conniving bastard who has fuckin problems LMAO but he’s also just so.... aggravatingly lackadaisical when he’s not actively being a shit-stirrer.... just “cause problems on purpose & chill” energy. ends justify the means to the bitter core. problematique. his story w akito is fucking batshit and the series wouldn’t be the same without it, the energy of that with the rest of the story?? what the fuck dude. meanwhile i do love his relationships with the main trio & the other sohma kids.

10. ayame -- king.... he’s just 110% all the time and i think that his existence is just the most exquisite dunk on his family’s rigid upholding of conservatism and tradition it’s truly sexy of him. he does what he wants and tbh, it’s worked in his favor for the most part. when he’s on screen you know some stupid shit is about to go down. and of course i really love his and yuki’s relationship and how it impacts them both over the series...... good shit rlly. a fabulous menace.

11. kimi -- she’s literally just up here because she’s goddamn funny and i love her relationships with kakeru and yuki. no deep traumatic lore just a girl owning the fact that she’s cute smart as hell and knows how to get what she wants. a brat to the core. idk she’s just pure fun and i think that’s necessary in a story where even the designated clown characters (kakeru, ayame) have fairly dark moments. also i think about the “his wallet 💖” moment too often.

12. komaki -- okay. so. she is not this high up on the list because of who she is in canon. she’s this high up purely because of how i’ve recreated her in my brain lmfao. i think she’s borderline unnecessary in canon (i like that we see the other side of the accident, but the execution of it is just. not it.), but my extensive daydream universe where i just overload her with headcanons to give her any sort of character beyond “kakeru’s cute girlfriend” lands her up here. i also just think of her too much as an extension of thinking about kakeru too much. sue me.

13. momiji -- honestly i’m having kind of a hard time placing him because i do like him, i think he’s funny and sweet and of course has his own brand of issues going on, but...... i don’t think i have any strong feelings about his story? i think he brings a necessary lightness to the cast, but when it comes down to some individual aspects of his narrative (involving his mom/momo, his unrequited crush on tohru) ...hm.... i think his complicated feelings about the curse are really poignant though and that part of his story especially slaps for me.

14. akito -- hmm... hm.... i like how akito stands as tohru’s narrative foil and i think the parallels between the two are pretty rich...... but i really struggle with just how fucking exhausting she is lmfao. the lengths of her derangement are just 2 much for me personally, and i feel like the ending really failed her as far as her personal growth goes (which? i think is super fucking detrimental considering how takaya tries to portray her as like, “reformed” or something along those lines.... i just don’t buy it. her having a normal functioning relationship with SHIGURE??? lmaoooooo. please). i do appreciate the level of darkness she brings to the story, and how her behaviors form and completely fuck the family over, but...... i don’t necessarily enjoy her........ tiring queen.

15. rin -- ah... tragic, vitriolic goth.... i do like her, and i think i could place her above akito depending on the day, but her story doesn’t really stand out to me. like, it’s obviously incredibly sad, but it’s really unfortunate that we don’t see her develop in a way that actually..... you know.... develops her character.... idk it sucks that she’s written in a way where she’s fruitlessly sacrificing herself mentally and physically for haru and there’s never really a point where it feels like she can just relax and consider herself and her own needs (or even like. like herself). she starts and ends the story feeling completely broken from trauma and i just think there should have been more of an intervening point somewhere in there, which i think could have been achieved with more time between her and tohru. as is she’s just kind of all-around tragic which :’/ bummer. she deserved more growth.

16. mayu -- honestly i still don’t really get why she of all of the characters has a backstory chapter. i think her friendship with kana is pretty heartbreaking but it also doesn’t... do much for me.... after the fact... so i don’t know what to think about it. her crush on hatori is kind of weird and i don’t fully understand it in canon. but you know what. she’s funny and i like her attitude. for the most part, i like when she’s on-screen. i think she has a really funny relationship with her students and is this chill no-bullshit kind of figure. her friendship with the mabudachi boys is nice even though i think it’s delivered a little weird at times (which is more or less because it can be easy to forget that she. knows them lmfao). yeah. i like her but takaya really made some decisions with her huh. also i originally didn’t add her to this list but i’m just sticking her in here last second so yes there’s a note in hatori’s bit that doesn’t make sense now but it’s staying.

17. kyoko -- so i kind of have some blasé feelings about kyoko, except when it comes to her backstory, in which case i am just... upset lmfao..... the adult version we see of kyoko is sweet and at times like, pretty funny in just how blunt/harsh she can come across as, but in general my feelings about the parents in furuba are just like.... oh you’re a nice parent.... oh you’re a fucking horrible parent..... etc. you know? it’s usually pretty one or the other (some parents are a little more complicated than others -- tbh kakeru’s mom comes to mind), and she’s obviously portrayed as a good parent, esp since we see her primarily through memory. anyways, her backstory is just tragic. she went from one abusive situation to the next and was then left to be a single mom at like, 19/20, traumatized and with just about no support system, and while i understand that she was able to become the kyoko we see in the present because of tohru.... idk i think i still feel a kind of unresolved dissonance between backstory kyoko and the kyoko we see later on. and i think that largely has to do with the fact that we (purposefully) don’t see the parent’s perspectives -- so she ends up in this transitory stage. i have no idea how this would be resolved lmao i think it just is what it is.

18. hatori -- i’m also struggling to place him because i think he’s sooo so poignant in the beginning of the story but i don’t really pay much attention to him later on. which is a shame considering his introduction is to me the first real punch to the gut regarding just how deep the issues go with the sohmas. i don’t feel inclined to really think of him very often, but i just think there could have been more done for him. i think trying to tie up his issues with a romance just doesn’t really work and is also irrelevant to his? actual problems? (also sorry i’m just remembering that this is another symptom of takaya pulling another wacky coincidence maam they don’t all have to know each other i repeat they don’t all have to fucking know each other--) anyways i feel like his resolution wrt his issues with his family/the curse is kinda.... glossed over..... unless i’m just completely forgetting something.

19. hiro -- i used to hate this kid. straight up. now i think he’s just like.... a typical smart-mouth 12 year old...... so he’s alright lmfao. i think his relationship with rin is interesting but it’s pretty forgettable. i don’t really care about his relationship with kisa or the parallel it makes with kyoru, but i do like the scene where he tells her about his curse breaking. he does mature in a nice way over the series. oh and the panel of him holding his sister makes me cry idk dudes. alright maybe i’ll place him above kagura just on that right alone.

20. kagura -- do i feel justified putting her this far down on the list? i dunno. her relationship with kyo isn’t my favorite (i just find it obnoxious) but i think she’s pretty funny and cute otherwise..... thing is kyo takes up like 95% of her story so there isn’t much otherwise 2 speak of. really wish her relationship with rin could have been explored more tbh i think that could have had potential. honestly my feelings about her change with the phases of the moon so while i don’t care much about her right now two weeks from now i’ll probably feel more inclined to bump her up to the momiji-rin range. which i feel like says enough about her character for me lmfao.

21. kisa -- she’s alright? i think she’s cute but she doesn’t really do much for me after her intro chapters (which. i only like so much bc they’re a big part of yuki’s narrative tbh). yeah. honestly not much to say about her :(

22. ritsu -- sighs.... man...... ritsu could have just been so much more but canon doesn’t give us much and i really don’t think about them otherwise. like truly they just completely disappear for the whole meat of the story LMAO...... what the fuck.....

23. nao -- he’s not so far down at the bottom because i hate him, he only has this placement because you could literally take him out of the story and i wouldn’t fucking notice lmao. i never think about him and i don’t rlly want to. next.

24. kureno -- uuuugh uuuughhhhhhh. the wasted potential of this fucking guy. would it have been so hard to drop the creepy romance plotline and just put more effort into his story regarding his place in the family....... his symbolism...... fuck even just giving him a personality. ugh. honestly i think we could have benefitted from a pov chapter from him to get a better sense of all of this instead of just extrapolating but. alas. looking at him gives me the residual taste of cardboard and regret. i had actually originally placed him above both nao and ritsu because at least he gives me something to think about, but it didn’t feel right. i actively dislike seeing this dude because i just know that his storyline is fucked from start to finish -- not in a narrative way like akito or rin, but in a way that just gives me the impression that his character was never 100% there. all this drama over a man who only wears button-ups and khakis. despicable.

25. katsuya -- yeah i know boring typical answer and surprise to no one but there is just nothing redeemable about this dude to me. i won’t lie, i think i would consider his character differently if the narrative had any intention whatsoever to condemn him, but obviously that doesn’t happen so here we are. anyways tohru baby you were right to dislike him just like...... lean a little more into it yknow........ yeah. i considered maybe not putting him on here because of my general attitude about the furuba parents but the fact that the story tries to paint him in a positive light just makes kyoko’s backstory borderline unbearable to read. bad.

#'i won't do all of them' lists 25 fucking characters. actually why are there so many gd characters in this story.#yes i know technically a few of these i don't really have opinions on but i needed to complete the zodiac & stuco lists 😔✌#fruits basket #fruits basket spoilers #answered #Anonymous

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