#i draw with my finger so every year my finger gets battered even more than the last doing art lol

[gaydexvocaloid]

my art summary of this year ^_^ i hope to improve even more next year!!!

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

Denim on Denim

A Seams x Grays crossover

Summary: Joel tries to get a haircut - but it turns out he can’t do anything in the QZ without getting into a fistfight, and you’re lucky enough to be in the audience.

Warnings: Mildly spicy thoughts, two sexy men fighting, language, reader was a hairdresser prior to the outbreak and has a nickname related to her job, no use of Y/N, no physical descriptions of reader, very lightly edited.

This oneshot can be read independently of the two series, but for the full experience, I recommend reading at least Grays. This is a post-outbreak AU of Grays, and is set before Seams Joel leaves the QZ. Part of the Shiv's salon drabbles.

Word count: 2.7k

Notes: A whole year after my random thoughts about how Joel's hair looks that good in an apocalypse and a random notif on this post that reminded of it, we finally get Joel to Shiv's salon... or do we? 🤷🏻‍♀️ I had a blast writing this oneshot - it's a bit silly, a bit spicy, I hope you enjoy it ❤️

‘Goddamnit.’

Joel swipes viciously at the curl hanging over eyes, like a boxer at a punchbag. Try as he might to slick it back, every time his shovel hits the dirt, the hair uncoils, bouncing obnoxiously in his field of vision.

He needs a fucking haircut. Tess usually does it for him every month or so, but she’s been in a mood - snapping at him, keeping him at arm’s length, she hasn’t even been to his apartment for two whole weeks.

This time of the year is hard for her. He knows all too well that he’s the same every September. They’re in each of their own time loops, a cage within the trappings of the QZ.

‘You look like you need a trim, bro.’

Joel barely glances up. He knows the guy, they share a surname after all. People call him Ben, or Benny, and even an old man like him knows he’s a good-looking son of a bitch.

They work the same shifts sometimes, and he knows Tess has crossed paths with him at the illegal fight nights. Joel has also seen him a few times at the bar, where he’s usually surrounded by even more good-looking motherfuckers.

Joel knows he’s a damn flirt too. He always has pretty words for Tess when he sees her. He’s harmless though, and he supposes that she deserves sweet nothings from at least one Miller since he’s no good at them.

Realising he hasn’t responded, Joel grunts noncommittally, self-consciousness prickling the back of his neck.

‘I know someone, she was a professional hairdresser before all this.’

Joel ignores him and keeps shovelling.

‘If you tell her you know me, she’ll give you a good rate.’

More shovelling.

‘Alright man, my shift’s up. See you ‘round.’

Five steps, and Joel sighs, digging the shovel into the dirt.

‘Wait.’

Joel stands on the doorway, and stares.

There’s an actual backwash in the corner of the dingy living room - well, living space. There are no doors in the tenement apartments.

‘You waiting for it to say hello back, or what?’

His eyes snap to yours, a scowl drawing his brows together.

Not that you look at all intimidated, one eyebrow arched high and an amused smile sitting lopsided on your lips, which he will admit throws him just a bit. He’s not used to having to work for it.

Giving you a tight nod, he takes two steps into the apartment. He recognises the layout, a mirror of his own, which is a few blocks away.

Closing the door with a flourish behind him, you ask brightly, ‘You’re here for a haircut?’

He’s about to answer when something winks at him, and he looks up, momentarily blinded by the reflection of afternoon light in the cracked mirror that hangs over a battered styling station.

Your apartment has windows that don’t look directly onto the next building, and sun floods the space. Even light is a real rarity in the shithole of a QZ, where everything indoors is dingy. He idly wonders if you had to bribe someone -

Distracted, he catches the sliver of a shadow moving from the corner of his eye a split second later than he would if he was on high alert. On reflex, his fingers find the hilt of his knife and he whips it out in a wide arc, swinging to his left where gunmetal catches the afternoon light.

‘Drop it!’ he barks, the same moment as the other man growls, ‘The fuck are you doing in my home with a knife?’

To Joel’s bewilderment, you chuckle somewhere to his right, amused. ‘C’mon guys. Dramatic, much?’

‘He snuck up on me,’ Joel growls defensively.

‘Frankie, put your gun away, dude’s just here for a haircut - I’m assuming anyway, he never did answer my question.’

‘Yes, I’m here for a haircut,’ he snaps, resheathing his knife. ‘Fuck would I be doin’ here if not?’

‘Fuck should I know, dipshit?’ retorts Frankie, tucking his gun in the back of his jeans. ‘You always bring a knife to your haircuts?’

‘D’ya always threaten to shoot paying customers?’

‘No, we definitely do not.’ You step into the space between the two men in case they get snippy with each other again. ‘Who sent you?’

Your customer crosses his arms, and you can’t help noticing the fabric of his shirt stretching across those broad shoulders. ‘Blondie.’

‘Blondie?’ you frown, confused. ‘Oh wait, you mean Ben? I thought I recognised you. I’ve seen you at one of his fights, with your wife? What’s her name now -’

‘Tess,’ he replies, then promptly looks like he wishes he’d stopped himself before he answered. ‘She’s not my -’ he trails off, and it’s clear he doesn’t like how you’re reading him at the moment, grumbling, ‘None of your damn business.’

‘Hey, you watch your mouth around my lady, old man,’ warns Frankie, ratcheting up the tension again.

Squaring his shoulders, the man seems to grow two inches. ‘Or what?’

Suddenly aware of being caught in the crossfire between your protective husband on one side, and this gruff, silvered stranger on the other, heat bubbles unbidden under your skin, the unexpected reaction from your body catching you off guard.

Biting your lower lip, you clear your throat, and somehow you sound steadier than you feel when you dispense the orders. 

‘Ok, this is enough. Frankie, sit down over there,’ you say, pointing him in the direction of the couch on the other side of the room. ‘And you - since you’re Benny’s friend, two ration cards.’

‘’M not his friend,’ he almost spits out that last word, as if it tastes weird.

You give him a pointed look. ‘Three ration cards, then.’

He huffs, and hands you two from his back pocket. ‘Fine, I’m Benny’s friend.’

You grin. ‘If you’re besties, it’s one.’

‘Don’t push it.’

You back off with a chuckle. ‘Fine, not besties. Maybe next time. Now sit.’

Joel does as he’s told, awkwardly, in the styling chair, a relic from the pre-outbreak days. It creaks dangerously under his weight, and it wobbles, slightly off-kilter. The cracked leather is warm from the sun, which seeps into his skin, and he finds himself wondering when was the last time he went to a hair salon.

Sarah used to love cutting his hair. She always made an afternoon out of it on one of his rare days not working overtime, putting the music on, setting up her Barbie mirror on the dining room table, and having him pick out a hairstyle from a magazine (it never looked anywhere near like the photos). She’d even put a disposable raincoat over him like a hairdresser’s cape. She really wasn’t any good, there’s a reason why Tommy didn’t let her anywhere near his curls, but he always wore her handiwork with pride -

So lost in his thoughts, he reacts purely on instinct when, for the first time in decades, fingers other than his own find his hair.

Swivelling around, he’s out of the chair in a split second, fingers wrapped tight around your wrists. You yelp as he pushes you back against the wall, which he sees from the shape of your lips but doesn’t hear over the blood pounding in his ears.

Joel barely holds you there for a second before he’s yanked backwards by a hand on the back of his collar, and he stumbles, crashing into the adjacent wall. He barely misses the fist heading towards his face, ducking just in time to save himself what would undoubtedly have been a broken nose.

He barrels into the younger man with his shoulder, expecting him to tumble back, and is surprised when he doesn’t budge. Joel’s aware he’s got a few years on him, but he more than holds his own against punks that age on the daily. This guy clearly has a background in combat, and it’s taking Joel everything to stay on his feet.

In the meantime, you’re still plastered against the wall, dazed by your customer’s reaction. Heck, you haven’t even gotten his name yet before he literally jumped you. He’s a skittish one, that’s for sure. 

You smile at the memory of Frankie’s first time with you at the salon - he’d give this guy a good run for his money. Lucky for him, you’ve always been good at wrangling the nervous ones.

Speaking of, the two men are now literally wrestling in front of you. If you had to venture a guess by the grays in the hair, you reckon your customer is pushing fifty. He’s built like a fucking tank though, and he’s giving everything he’s got.

So you decide to watch for a little while. Boys will be boys, best leave them to let off some steam. Leaning against the wall, you get comfortable, and you think wistfully to yourself that Ashton would have loved this view.

You’re not sure how you missed that they’re both wearing denim on denim, and you would struggle to pick out which is your husband if not for the hat on his head. Yes, the damn cap survived the apocalypse with him.

They are remarkably similar in build, though your customer seems to stand just a couple of inches taller. His biceps flex and bulge through the shirt sleeves as he scuffles with Frankie, teeth bared; meanwhile, your husband plants his feet, jeans stretched tight over his adorable little ass, trying to hold the man back long enough to throw a punch.

If the room was warm when they were trading barbs, it’s positively sweltering right now.

All you can see are broad shoulders and fabric bursting at the seams, grappling fingers and clenched fists. Back muscles rippling through denim, teasing slivers of skin and soft bellies when shirttails ride up and jeans fall low. The cheerful afternoon sun kisses their skin golden, casting long shadows across the creaking wooden floor.

And they’re not quiet. Throaty grunts as they jostle, panted breath peppered with cusses, fuck’s and sons of bitches as they wrestle for control.

Suddenly, you’re the one who’s out of breath despite not moving a muscle.

As much as you would’ve loved to stand and watch, you can tell both men are starting to get winded. You don’t exactly want the show to end, entertainment is hard to come by in the QZ, let alone of such a visually stimulating variety, in your own living room. But you think you hear the older man wheeze, their shirts are now stained with sweat, and the frantic energy they started with turns heavy with lethargy.

With a rueful sigh, you speak up, ‘Frankie, come on, that’s enough now.’

He growls, ‘No fucking way. He tried to hurt you!’

‘He barely touched me. It was just his PTSD acting out.’

‘I don’t have PTSD,’ the man protests, shooting you a glare before dodging an elbow.

‘There’s no shame in having PTSD,’ you admonish him. ‘Or in getting help.’

‘Why don’t you give me a hand then?’ he scoffs, tipping his head at Frankie.

‘Yeah, looks like you can use it,’ your husband taunts him.

‘Sure you can’t, asshole? Can’t even take down an old man on your own?’

‘I hope you're hungry, 'cause you're gonna eat your words, asshole -’

Hands on hips, you roll your eyes at the exceedingly average trash talk. ‘You know what? I tried asking nicely - I’m going in.’

It’s a tight squeeze, but somehow, you find a space between the elbows and shoulders and knees, and you wedge yourself in. It’s hot and humid between the two men, who are still trying to get at each other, despite the fact that you now have one hand on each of their chests, trying to pry them apart. Trapped between the two solid walls of chest, their raw strength vibrates through you, through harsh panting breath, the musk of sweat and man, and denim rubs rough on your bare skin where you’re pressed up against them.

It’s not hard to imagine being in this position in an entirely different situation, with the axis tilted, on a softer surface. Heat prickles all over you like needles, and unbeknownst to you, your thighs press together, and your panties start to feel sticky -

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ asks Frankie, incredulous as he looms over you, still grabbing onto the other guy’s shirt.

You bat your eyelashes at him, then crane your neck over your shoulder to wink at the other man. A little spiral of a curl dangles over his eyes as he glares at you, puffs of warm air hitting the shell of your ear. 

Knowing that your best chance of breaking off this nonsense is to wildly offend both men, you purr, ‘Making a delicious sandwich ‘cause I’m famished -’

Frankie flushes bright red instantly, and he roars, ‘Get your filthy hands off my wife, son of a bitch!’

Not that his hands are anywhere near you (a tragedy), nonetheless, the man jumps five feet back, as if you burned him. He may deny Tess being his wife, but the look of absolute horror of being accused of touching you speaks volumes.

You can tell he would have doubled over catching his breath, hands on his knees, if not for his pride. Stubbornly, he stands tall, hands on hips, chest heaving.

‘Bit jumpy, are we?’ you quip.

‘You always that handsy?’ he retorts.

‘Can’t help myself with beautiful curls like yours,’ you wink, and your smile widens when he flushes.

Frankie throws up his hands in disbelief. ‘Shiv, I’m standing right here.’

‘You always are,’ you tease, pressing a kiss to his pinched lips. ‘Now, go take a walk, you've made enough of a scene.’

‘I’m not leaving you here with him -’

The older man scoffs. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not interested in your woman.’

You feign indignation. ‘Hey! That’s hurtful.’

‘You should be, jackass!’ Frankie gripes, and promptly looks as confused as the other man at his own pronouncement.

Taking his hand, you pull him towards the door. ‘Go on babe, you were going to have a drink with Pope anyway. I got everything under control.’

‘Alright,’ Frankie relents, but not before he points a menacing finger at your customer. ‘If he tries anything -’

‘I know where the gun is,’ you finish his sentence.

Pressing one final kiss to your lips and throwing a glare over your shoulder, Frankie turns and leaves - and you preen at the knowledge that he trusts you can take care of yourself.

Once the door closes, you smile. ‘So… should we start over?’

 The man snorts. ‘I’d say.’

‘I’m Shiv,’ you say, but you don’t offer him your hand. He doesn’t seem to be the handshaking type.

He picks up on your perception, studying you with curious eyes. ‘Joel.’

Pushing the swivel chair back to the styling station, you gesture at him to retake his seat, and this time, you make sure his eyes are on yours in the mirror while you stand over his shoulder.

‘Hair’s a bit long, huh?’ you remark, eyeing the ringlet over his eyes.

‘It’s drivin’ me nuts,’ he admits.

You hold up your hands this time, giving him plenty of notice. ‘May I?’

He nods, and you start small, wrapping the spiral around your index finger with a grin. ‘I wasn’t just saying it, y’know. You do have beautiful hair.’

He shifts awkwardly, the chair squeaking, obviously uncomfortable with compliments. ‘Dunno. I’m all gray and shit.’

‘As someone wise once said, grays are sexy as fuck,’ you assure him. Running your fingers through his curls, you study the texture critically, noting the blunt ends and uneven thickness. Nothing a professional haircut can’t fix. ‘Trust me, I’m very wise.’

He hums, unconvinced, but you can see the lines around his eyes crease in amusement. ‘If you say so.’

You wink at him in the mirror. ‘When I’m done with you, Tess will have the hardest time keeping her hands to herself.’

‘What makes you think she doesn’t already?’

It takes you a moment to unfreeze, stunned by his retort. At his arched eyebrow, you burst into laughter. ‘You’re a sassy one, aren’t you, Joel?’

He huffs, half-amused, and shakes his head. ‘It’s a haircut, not a miracle.’

You squeeze his shoulder, grinning when he doesn’t jump at the contact. ‘Trust me, I’m just that good at my job.’

More notes: If you enjoyed this oneshot, I wrote a series of drabbles of Shiv giving other Pedro boys haircuts - you can find them in the Grays masterlist 🩶 I may write more for this universe and some point if inspiration strikes again, thank you for reading!

And if you wanted an inspo shot of Joel's hair, here you go ❤️

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

[chiwhorei]

the folly of man

pairing: e. todoroki x fem!reader

genre: smut, 18+ minors dni

word count: ~2.6k

tags: the softest!enji there ever was, crybabie!reader, age gap (20ish vs. 50), d/s dynamics, belly bulge, squirting, overstim, daddy kink, size kink, dacryphilia, a spank, breeding kink, creampie, i am dramatic and clinically melancholy so it’s a little angsty but it’s really just unabashed, self-indulgent fluff

a/n: i screamed about soft!enji to @messwriting a few weeks ago, then the other night enji took me to paris and wrecked my shit in my dreams. the result? complete self-indulgence. i will not be taking criticism on my desire to fuck this man, he is a drawing. (the banner image is from the lonely doll by dare wright, if you know this book we probably have very similar issues sksksksksk)

hymn: angel by finneas

“Abashed the devil stood and felt how awful goodness is and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely: and pined his loss,” ~ John Milton, Paradise Lost

He swears it’s your quirk that got him. Grabbed him by the collar, stole his soul from his chest— you swiped it right from his rib cage.

You sit across from him, legs folded under each other and pen pressing against your lips. Is it your lips? Or the way words curl past them?

A siren’s call in the form of a 20-something journalist. He hates the likes— prodding for sound bites and snippets to plaster across front pages. But your figure buckles in on itself, nerves weighing down the fabric of a light pink blouse and tight-yet-tasteful pencil skirt. Your presence is gentle and honeyed, it feels warm where Enji is usually burning hot.

Your fever spreads across his cheeks and nose.

“I’m sorry, sir, did you need me to repeat the question?”

Your bottom lip trembles nervously, pulled in between your teeth to gnaw on. Freshly graduated and on your very first assignment, it seemed hilarious to send the newly minted recruit into a white-hot tongue lashing.

“Mr. Number One has chewed the head off of every reporter in Japan, it’s a right of passage.”

The echo of your colleague’s stifled laugh rings in your ear as you stare back, you scan over the small wrinkles by his eyes and the jagged scar across his face. The silvered skin curves around his features like atonement. There’s something about the prolific hero that seems to pull you towards him. You grab the side of your chair so as to not fall forward right into his orbit.

Any attempt at distance was doomed from the beginning.

He shakes his head, eyes darting from either of yours to find the question you asked him. He coughs awkwardly, nodding his head for you to continue. Any desire to snap at you dissolves into the carpet with the very first laugh. You let out a small, tinkling giggle against better judgement that cracks the glassed tension.

“What is your biggest inspiration?”

The question hangs in the air a moment before a rehearsed answer falls from his mouth, something about the citizens of his community and the desire to keep his country safe. Whatever tumbles out is less interesting than how you smile in response.

Every person in the room-- agents, publicists, the poor intern holding a black coffee in his trembling hands-- watch on, collectively agape, at the scene before them.

Flame Hero: Endeavor breaks composure for a moment to send you a docile, lopsided smile.

You decide it’s something you won’t soon get tired of seeing.

“Did you get everything you wanted,” his voice trails off with a hint of uncertainty, one hand coming up to scratch at the back of his head, “I could answer a few more questions over dinner.”

Enji stands in shock at his own behavior, the inferno flickers little more than a candle in your eyeline. Every minute holds sixty seconds of opportunity, and Enji’s hair is graying at the ends. Even if you brush the dusty old hero from your shoulders with guffaw, even if you roll your eyes or kiss his insole with a pointed heel. He can’t afford to waste a moment more.

It has to be your quirk, he decides, reciting like a prayer the only logical answer to his sweating palms and clambering heart. Nothing makes sense but keeping you within arms reach. It must be some kind of hypnosis, maybe a pheromone.

Enji’s penance lies in the soft, supplied skin of a quirkless civilian.

***

There are few places that have felt like home, no matter what four walls build a house around him. He alone is responsible for each one decaying. He deserves a spot in every plane of hell.

Enji leans against the headboard, scanning over pages of John Milton and enjoying the quiet just after dusk. Looking over the top of his glasses, the book in hand falls out of frame, like most everything does.

Pink lace hangs like bated breath from your shoulders and hips. You look on to him for approval, the set your eyes had lingered on in a boutique window now brandishes the swell of your breasts.

“My perfect girl.” His words are filled with wonder, pulling at the ends of his mouth when you twirl, the ends of flowing lace pick up around you like wings.

Winter air creeps from the open balcony to hit your skin, spreading chills down every inch. Enji watches as you shiver, the cool breeze prickles past pick lace with little effort.

“Come here.” Enji tosses his glasses and book to the bedside table and pats his lap.

Nothing feels more like home than when you settle to lie atop his naked chest, cheek pressed firmly against his pulse.

You rest your chin against his sternum, hands crawling up to find warmth from his skin. He feels the thin, golden ring as your touch trails around his neck.

His own hands, calloused and battered, eclipse over your lower back to find purchase against your ass.

Away from the prying eyes of domestic paparazzi and forty minutes outside of Paris— Enji cuts out what feels like a stolen heaven.

Idle chat about the museum he took you to today fills the room comfortably. Your fingertip comes down to trace the lines of marred skin across the bridge of his nose, he hums and smiles as you talk about paintings.

None stood out to him.

He takes your hand in his much bigger one, kissing the band that mimics his own. You tangle your fingers together.

“This feels like a dream,” your voice is barely above a whisper, lest the night air hears the talk of lovers.

“I’m not totally convinced you aren’t a dream.” Enji pulls you to sit back against his legs, in this position you can meet his eyes without straining upward. Strong hands come down to rest at your hips, thumbs rubbing lightly against the lingerie’s fabric.

You scoff, batting at his chest, you laugh his comments off in moments like this. But Enji is convinced one day you will lift straight from the world with nothing left but your shoes keeping the earth weighted down.

Soft lips ghost over his, an invitation he’ll never refuse. Your mouth is against him, small hands coming to either side of Enji’s face. His graying stubble is coarse under your fingers. You inhale deeply, he smells like campfire and expensive cologne. Your tongue slips between his lips. His mouth tastes like the remnants of the bottle of red wine you shared after dinner

The hands around your middle pull your impossibly closer, pressing into your lower back to grind your hips down against the bulge in his sweatpants. Your body moves against him, panties rubbing against your already throbbing clit.

“Daddy.” The title wraps in chords around his vertebrae, the sounds of whimpering hits his ear, and he notices the wet patch rubbing right against his knee.

“What do you want, princess? Tell daddy what you want.” The maneuvering of your hips starts slow, but Enji has you almost bouncing on his leg before you can answer him. Both of your hands wrap around his left wrist, tugging it in between your legs.

“I want you to touch me, please. I- I need it.” You bite the inside of your cheek when the pads of his fingers graze the damp, thin material of your panties, his burning touch sets every blood cell aflame.

“You’re so wet, princess, what’s got you all worked up?” There’s a gleam of humor in his voice, seeing you desperate for him has Enji stiffening beneath you.

“My precious little thing, I’ll take good care of you.” His words write you a promise, it extends far past a night of love in Paris.

You can feel his assurance carved into your heart.

Enji’s hand dips into the front of your underwear, ghosting over your clit and running against your swollen lips. He marvels at your response, the smallest ministrations have your head rolling to the side.

His pointer and middle finger prod against you, inching inside carefully. Even with the utmost care, you wince at the stretch. No matter how many times he’s fucked you open in this whirlwind year,

“You’re tighter than a fucking vise, Christ.”

A long moan escapes you, knees moving to dig into the mattress below you for leverage to buck against his hand. Enji curls his fingers upwards, calloused tips finding the spongy patch of skin that has you squirming. His fingers cross over each other, pumping into you and easing you to relax against the intrusion.

“Daddy, I want your cock. I’m ready, please.” The heat in your core is rising, licking against your nerves like wildfire. Enji tutts in response to your begging, his thumb coming down to rub taught circles into your clit.

“I know, princess, but you remember the rules. Cum on my fingers, and I’ll give you what you want.” Enji picks up the pace of his fingers, his own patience thinning at the edges with each call for your daddy.

“Close, ‘m close,” your voice wobbles, aching legs pushing you against him, chasing desperately for that first release.

Enji feels you clenching tight in finality, a squeal breaching the steamy space around you. You crack in his tight hold, the taste of bliss coats your tongue-- it tastes like tears.

You slump forward against his chest, coming to float back down to earth before he sends you hurdling back towards the sun.

“You’re so beautiful, princess, absolutely perfect.” Enji’s voice is heavy, lined with a certain bitterness you are familiar with. His compliments always sound like apologies.

You lift your head, forehead pressing against his, the stray hair around your face tickling his skin.

There aren’t words that could heal decades. No amount of atonement, no prayers to any gods will fix a life of despair. He shoulders the blame of it all, heavy against bones and muscle.

Moving to kiss him tenderly, lips pulling him back into the world's sweetest direction. You shouldn’t let him use you as his redemption. If Enji were another man, a better man, he would have walked away from you that fateful afternoon under fluorescent light with just the fleeting feeling you dipped his heart in.

He’s not any kind of good in this world, Enji is a foolish bastard.

He’ll keep kissing you, he’ll touch and lick and fuck you until your wings pick up in the wind and fly you away.

“I want to ride your cock, Daddy. Let me make you feel good too.” You beg for him once again, you beg to be a distraction, the sweetest kind of diversion-- hidden snugly in the quiet of a French villa.

Enji is meticulous with stripping you of the dainty lace, brushing off the straps of your bra so the cups fall right under your pert nipples. He moves his hands slowly, snaking up your sides to swipe his thumbs against the pebbled buds. You don’t try to stop the wines falling like prayer, your body still on edge from your first orgasm.

He pulls off your soaked panties, eyes tracing the strings of slick collecting and breaking off from your glistening cunt.

“Such a precious little pussy, and it’s all mine.” Enji frees his cock from his sweats and boxers, the length springing to slap against his abdomen. He pumps his hand a few times before pressing it against your stomach. It’s no surprise that his size is impressive, long and thick in an ever-intimidating way.

Enji admires how his cock presses against you, tip nudging against your belly button. In comparison to your smaller form, it’s a wonder he hasn’t ripped you in half.

You’d let him.

“No more teasing, Daddy. I need it, please.” Desperation sparks against your nerves, igniting with the sharp sound of Enji’s hand against your ass.

“Don’t get mouthy now, princess.” His warning is light, he’s never been good at denying you.

He pulls your hips up, lining himself up so you can sink down onto him. If his fingers make you whimper, the first breach of his shaft makes you wail.

Your hands find his shoulders, digging in to steady yourself with every deliciously unforgiving inch. You’ll never get used to his size, you never want to.

Enji has held composure with white knuckles, but his resolve is rusting with every movement of your descent. His desire to tear into you becomes untamable, his mind swims in with the velveteen grip you suck him in with.

“You’re mine, fuck, you’re mine forever.” He will promise you until he believes it himself.

He’ll believe in forever if forever means you.

The folly of man is nestled at the apex of your thighs, is pleading gasps, is begging for more, is too much and too little.

And Enji is a fool in love.

The gates of heaven open between your quivering legs to let the devil in. He’ll take every moment he can steal.

As your hips settle down finally, the feeling of being so completely full has tears collecting in your lashes to run down your cheeks. It’s depraved, truly, how beautiful your destruction is.

Enji gives you a moment, adjusting to his size and relaxing, his hand comes down to rub against your stomach, tracing against the skin lightly.

“I can feel it,” his breath hitches, the pulsing around him is dizzying, he feels his tip as it moves inside of you, “fuck, I can feel my cock in your tummy.”

Shaky thighs start moving above him, the bounce of fat and flesh atop his hardened body. He can’t help the declarations flying from his mouth, he can’t stop the itching feeling to make you his completely.

“I want to fuck a baby into you, want to fill you so full.” He can feel the way your body reacts to his most perverse desire, “I want you round and swollen with my child.”

Enji grabs your hips, taking control and quickening the pace of his assault on your weeping pussy. You cry out, a string of babbled, “Please, daddy, please fuck me full, s-so full.”

You can feel your second orgasm bubbling up with each stroke of Enji’s cock against your abused pussy. All words are lost, all thoughts fuzzy aside from the man pounding himself into you from below.

“Cum around me, little girl, cum around my cock.” Enji’s words are little more than a growl, head thrown back into the pillows as you constrict around him. His fingers come down against your clit again, rubbing with fervor. He’s adamant on throwing you head-first, body limp and overstimulated in every way.

You feel it in the gnashing of your teeth, the wound chord snapping like floss around Enji. You feel yourself gushing, your cum leaking around him and dripping onto the bed sheets.

Enji cums with one final buck, hips lifting off of the bed as he spills into you. You can feel the thick spurts against your still pulsating walls, filling you to the brim and trickling out even before you separate.

He stays inside of you for a moment, large hands wrapped around your middle, pulling you to crumble into his chest. You collapse against his warm, jagged skin. He lulls you with soft strokes to your hair, behind the flush and sweat on your face, he sees the dizzy, love-drunk expression tugging on your lips.

No matter how many times you disagree, Enji knows it’s true.

The swelling, disorienting feeling of your smile. The visions of a future, of the life he doesn't deserve but wouldn’t give up for any deal the devil could make him. The sight of you, simply and without motive, every day.

It has to be your quirk.

all writing is dymphnasprose’s original content, please do not repost or modify. do no read my content as asmr.©️

[veryholland]

prompt #20 from the list! “bandaging/stitching up an injury” maybe with frat!tom getting into a fight or punching a guy from getting too close to the reader at a party? 🤍

sorry i’m spamming ur inbox lol ;p

PEACHY

pairing: frat!tom x reader | word count: 992 | warnings: mild injuries | touch prompts

a/n: liv! thank you so much for requesting this. i planned on writing requests in the order they were submitted but i really couldn't put off yours any longer. more or less by coincidence, this includes @spidey-sophie's request (17: holding the other's chin up) as well, so i hope you don't mind that i combined those! enjoy reading! x

“What the hell, Tom? Do you want everyone to know?”

With a heavy thud, the door of the upstairs bathroom slams shut behind you. The bass of the music can still be heard through the wooden surface but it might as well be the sound of your heart thumping against your ribcage. Inside, the air smells clean. Gone is the unpleasant smell of sweaty bodies grinding against each other and spilt beer. Drawing in a calming breath through your parted lips, you turn around, finally facing him.

You never intended to get involved with a frat boy. In fact, just a year ago you would’ve laughed straight into anyone’s face who even suggested diving into a relationship with a member of the frat – that was until Tom happened.

Whatever it was that the both of you shared, it was hidden away from plain sight. Concealed behind closed doors and treasured beneath sheets.

In the beginning, it was all fun and games. The exhilarating buzz of hiding your infatuation with each other – sneaking into the frat house after curfew to spend just a few treasured hours together, exchanging texts during class when none of your friends were looking and holding back when all you wanted to do was smile at him across the hallway.

All fun and games – until it wasn’t anymore. Looking at his battered and bruised face, you now realise it only led to trouble.

A frown is holding tight over his features, his muscular chest rising and falling with rapid breaths and his grey shirt is rumpled. A few curls are sticking out from beneath his cap, the frat logo woven into its dark blue fabric now almost taunting you. But what draws in your gaze the most, is the nasty cut on his cheek and another one tearing right through his rosy and plump bottom lip.

“Sit down, I can’t look at this,” you say, not even trying to downplay the sharp timbre of your voice. After gathering your hair up into a messy but nowhere near decent bun, you turn to the cabinet, rummaging through drawers in search of a first aid kit.

“No need to fuss, I told you, I’m fucking fine.”

Frustration is clearly layering his words but they are closely followed by a defeated sigh as he slumps down onto the bathtub’s edge.

Pushing around a few toiletries, you finally spot a small bottle of disinfectant and take it out with a short but triumphant hum, before putting it next to the gauze pads you found just a couple of drawers below. After gathering it all in your hold, you close the drawer with a kick of your foot and turn back around just to be met with a sight that pulls heavy at your chest.

His head hung low, Tom is cradling the already peachy and bruised knuckles of his right hand in his left palm, shoulders slumped, gaze fixed onto the ground.

“You would be fine if you hadn’t punched him.” Your voice was now remarkably softer compared to how all of this started out, but you still couldn’t drop the bitter connotation.

Charged silence wraps itself around you as you step closer. For a moment you put the bottle of disinfectant onto the bathtub’s edge, using your free hand to remove his baseball cap, allowing you to get a proper look at his cuts. Your gentle touch is a prominent contrast to your clear irritation as your fingers find his chin, tilting it up slightly.

Once your eyes meet his honeycomb ones – the dark brown colour laced with something unrecognisable – his legs subconsciously part, allowing you to step closer in order to fittingly tend to his wounds.

“This is gonna hurt,” you warn softly, waiting for his nod of confirmation before continuing. Your hand is still cradling his chin as you use the other to dab the gauze pad over the peachy skin around the bruise that now finally stopped bleeding. His eyes flutter shut and a hiss flies past his lips, but he doesn’t flinch away from your touch.

You feel his eyes on you as you work around his face in silence and although you’re still mad, you can’t help but calmly smooth the pad of your thumb over his skin whenever the stinging sensation makes him draw in a sharp breath.

The tip of your tongue pushes past your parted lips in concentration as you dab along the curve of his lip with the last bit of sterile gauze. You turn around to pick up a new pad but his fingers curl around your wrist, effectively stilling your movements.

“I do,” he says, filling the silence, his voice soft and unsure, barely audible. Eyebrows drawn together in confusion, you look down at him.

“I do,” he repeats, voice now layered with more tenacity. “I want everyone to know.”

He stands up, completely ignoring your protests, but you fall silent when his uninjured hand comes up to twist a strand of your hair around his finger and his eyes connect with yours once more, fueling the churning attraction in your belly.

“I want everyone to know that this is about more than just a stupid brawl between frat bros.” He takes a step forward.

“I want everyone to know that when you return to the dorms past curfew, it’s because we couldn’t stop watching love island episodes on my laptop.” Another step.

“I want everyone to know that the hickeys you get asked about by your friends are the marks I put onto your skin.”

„I want everyone to know about you and me.“

He’s been slowly backing you up against the door, hands now braced on either side of your head as your heart picks up speed with every single one of his passing words. Tom pauses, drawing in a deep breath before speaking up again, the timbre of his voice now remarkably soft and airy.

“I want everyone to know that I am in love with you, y/n.”

okay so, here’s that :D getting back into writing really is an unmatchable feeling and i had so much fun writing this. i’m slowly finding my way back into the flow but yeah, let me know if you liked it! tips are always welcome! sending lots of hugs x

[obiwanobi]

Catch me thinking about sith Anakin who got in a fight w/ Palps (did Palps cross a line? Did Anakin decide he had nothing to lose? Idk), barely managed to win and is now seriously hurting and a little freaked out winding up outside Obi-wan's quarters and Obi-wan doesn't have time to draw his saber let alone figure out how a sith lord managed to get so far into the jedi temple unnoticed and Force is that blood? before Anakin's passing out with only a murmered request for help.

LISTEN you can’t keep sending me perfect prompts, how do you know I can’t resist bloody men on their knees begging for salvation, how do you know me so well??? anyway here’s 2.3k of always-a-sith!Anakin who could have been the new ruler of the empire but said ‘no thanks, this is too much responsibility, I would like to be pampered by my favourite jedi now’ (with a bit of Ahsoka as Obi-Wan’s padawan!)

 He didn’t mean to kill him.

Well, not at first.

He didn’t mean to kill Sidious, but pulling his lightsaber from his lifeless corpse only felt like complete satisfaction. A weight on his shoulders he didn't know he carried disappeared, letting him stand up above the body of his master— former master, and gaze upon what was left of him. A shapeless form on the ground. A dark cape around an old man playing at being a god. A begging mess of futile promises when he realised it was the end for him.  

As mindless fury leaves him, his ragged breathing slows down and his fist unclenches around his saber. Sidious is dead. Now that the adrenaline rush is gone, his knees start shaking. His Master is dead. His face is wet with sweat and blood and tears. Dead and now Anakin has no one.

And then...  And then fear.

"You know," Ahsoka groans as the water starts boiling, "I don't understand how you got your reputation of Cool Jedi Master. Other padawans think I'm lying when I tell them you wear the ugliest slippers at home and gets excited by new tisanes."

"You gifted me those slippers."

"As a joke. And you still wear them."

"I'm not going to throw away perfectly good slippers." Obi-Wan wiggles his toes under the red and yellow fuzzy monstrosities, just to see his padawan rolls her eyes. "And they're really comfortable."

"So you're just going to stay there, then? Your whole battalion is out celebrating our first day of leave since forever, but you prefer to drink your tea alone and go to bed at 22:00?"

"No one wants an authority figure around when they're letting loose and celebrating, Ahsoka," Obi-Wan says, pouring hot water in his cup. He raises the kettle towards his padawan as a question, to which she shakes her head. "I thought you would be happy to see me putting sleep before work for once."

"I am, Master, but I thought it could be..." She trails off, fidgeting with the hilt of her sabers. For once, she looks like a typical padawan, just like he was at her age, dying to enjoy one night away from the temple and any kind of responsibilities.

"It's alright my dear," he sighs, "you can join them if you want."

Ahsoka suddenly perks up. "I can?"

"If you're old enough to be sent to the front, I think you can handle yourself for one night on Coruscant."

"Thank you Master! I promise I'll be careful and not come back too late!"

"You do that, and-- wait, Ahsoka," he adds as she's already halfway through the door, "make sure to stay around Cody! And no alcohol of any kind! And don't lose your lightsaber at sabacc again!"

"That was you!" she yells from the end of the corridor, "don't worry, I'll be fine! Don't wait for me to go to bed! Goodnight Master!"

Obi-Wan smiles, blowing on his cup. He already sent a message to Cody earlier to keep an eye on her, so he knows she's in good hands.

He has his herbal tea, his ugly slippers, no reports to read or write, and no immediate Separatist menace to plan for. For once, a perfectly good night to catch up on sleep and meditation.

So, of course, something has to be wrong.

The Force is bright. The Force is lighter than it has ever been for the past few years.

And Obi-Wan can't understand why.  

It's not just him that can feel it: Ahsoka has acted chipper since, more like the teenager she is, laughing with the clones and playfully teasing him the whole fly back to Coruscant. The temple has felt livelier than ever when they arrived, Jedi from all ages going about their day with a new spring in their step, greeting each other warmly in the corridors. Even Master Yoda has taken a few minutes during their Council meeting to note the shift in the Force. No Master could pinpoint the origin of this change, but all agreed that something good happened somewhere in the galaxy, and they were just feeling ripples of the effect in the Force.

Still now, the whole temple feels a bit more like it used to, before the war, and all Jedi are a bit happier without knowing why.

Only Obi-Wan feels like a noose tightening around him. Whatever it is, it's slowing making its way around his presence in the Force. Focusing on him and him alone. Doesn't matter how much Obi-Wan tries to hide himself, it's getting closer and never slowing down or losing interest.

Needless to say, Obi-Wan has a bad feeling about this.

But after almost three years of war, sullen faces and grim expressions, he doesn't feel like dampening the sudden good mood around the Temple just with a few words. He can probably deal with whatever it is by himself.

His tisane is cold when he finally emerges from his meditation. Nothing is clearer than when he started: the Force is deaf to his questions and inquiries, still light as a breeze. An airy unconcern for his restlessness. And yet, a thick pressure still looms around him, getting heavier each passing second now.

His fingers start pulling on his collar.

The clock on the wall indicates that he lied to Ahsoka when he said he was going to bed at a respectable time today. No diurnal Jedi would still be up right now, but he still considers going out to knock at Mace's door. Narrowed eyes and a very long sigh will be his first answer, but Obi-Wan knows that Mace would never refuse to hear him out. Yes, he finally decides when the pressure seems to creep even closer to him, it's worth waking up Mace.

He opens his door, wondering if he should take his robe with him, and instantly stops walking.

There, in the empty corridor of the Jedi Temple, at his door and on his knees, is a Sith. He knows it's a Sith only because he recognises this specific mass of hair, the large shoulders, the dishevelled dark robe. He knows it's a Sith because he has crossed path with this one enough times on the battlefield to recognise him anywhere. Outside of it a few times too. He isn't sure it's a Sith when the Sith raises his head up, bloody and bruised face torn in an agonizing expression, and his eyes are blue.

"I— I didn't know where to go," Darth Vader says quietly, with the kind of voice expected from a lost child. It gives Obi-Wan a second shock to hear his voice, making his presence suddenly real. "You said... You said if I ever wanted to, if I needed help one day, you would— I could—"

Obi-Wan remembers it. He remembers all the times he offered his help. His pleas for him to stop the violence, the appeals to reason, the multiple suggestions of a gentler path. His hand continuously outreached but never taken. He remembers the burning gold of the Sith's eyes too, and his black cape floating above the dead clones at his feet.

His laughter the first time Obi-Wan brought up the idea of lowering their blades and talking around a cup of tea. His sneer the third time Obi-Wan tried to change his misconceptions about the Jedi Order and play-flirt with him in the same breath. The silence the fifth time Obi-Wan asked him his name, his real name, the one a parent gave him.

The tears the last time he gave it to him.

"And you're always trying to save me," Vader adds more forcefully now, like the words anger him, "you're always here, showing up almost every time I'm sent somewhere with your stupid smile and stupid words, and you're always nice, and... and teasing, and disappointed when I kill someone, like you expect me to be better, and I don't understand you, but..."

Vader raises his hand towards him, and it's only this sudden move that shakes Obi-Wan out of his stupor. Before the Sith can touch his leg, Obi-Wan calls his lightsaber to him, ignites it in one fluid motion, half-expecting Vader to be up and swaying his saber in his face by now. But the Sith is still on his knees, and it's only now that the blue light of his blade is above him that Obi-Wan realises the state he's in. His face isn't the only thing bruised and battered: his dark tunic is stained with blood and ripped in more than one place, one of his arms is bent in an unnatural way, and it looks like a cut above his hairline is still bleeding, making his curls stick to his face in a mess of wet hair and burned skin.

"Vader," Obi-Wan says slowly, when his thoughts finally regain a semblance of coherence. A rapid investigation through the Force assures him that no other enemy is around and the calm and quiet of the night in the Temple isn't a prequel for a storm. "How did you get in here? What are you doing here? How—"

Vader's hand, stuck in the space between them, reaches once again for Obi-Wan. Foolishly, Obi-Wan lets him. His fingers twist themselves in the fabric of his pants.

"He made me killed them all.” Vader wobbles on his knees for a second, the hand on Obi-Wan's leg gripping it tighter. “No platoons, no battle droids. Just me. He sent me to the power station and I cut through them so easily, so quickly, they didn't even fight back, and I didn't think that..." he trails off, panting. "Until.... until I saw the electro-whips." 

"Are you talking about Naphtla?" he asks when Vader doesn't seem to be able to continue.

Naphtla. Outer Rim. Barely on the Republic radar until this afternoon, when nearby troops answered a distress signal and found a hidden Separatist power station operated by slaves. A third of them were dead, killed only a few hours before, and the survivors turned to the Republic for immediate support. Slaughtered like animals, the rescue team reported to the Council only a few hours ago, by one single man wielding a red lightsaber. According to witnesses, the darksider cut through the slaves like bantha butter, killing everyone in his path without discrimination, until he stopped for no apparent reason and abruptly left.

"You were the one who killed the people at the station there," Obi-Wan realises out loud, horrified, "the slaves from Zygerria."

Vader snaps his head up and his fingers tighten painfully around Obi-Wan's knee. "I DIDN'T KNOW!"

All Obi-Wan's senses and logical thoughts urge him to back out, put an end to this nonsensical charade, raise his lightsaber between them, get away from the dark, hungry void Vader generates in the Force.

But his eyes are looking up to him. Gripping his gaze with the same intensity as his hand on his leg. Bloodied face and pleading, on his knees. Full of tears.

Obi-Wan doesn't push Vader's hand away.

"I didn't know they were slaves, I didn't!"

"Vader."

"He never said! He sent me without telling him, he knows I don't—" A small noise sounding suspiciously like a sob swallows the rest of his words.

"Vader, who sent—"

"When I came back," he tries again, quieter. Obi-Wan opens his mouth to ask about this he, but Vader's head lolls for a second, too heavy to support, before butting gently against Obi-Wan's leg. Vader makes no effort to move, content to stay there, and after a second, a small, almost timid nuzzle against his thigh sends a series of shivers through Obi-Wan's spine. It shuts him up instantly. "When I came back, he looked at me for so, so long, before saying that he knew, he knew I was going to fail, that I was... just like them after all, and that I could never... And I was so mad, so angry at him, so I... I..."

The last words are muffled by the fabric Vader clings to. Hides into. There's blood on Obi-Wan's pants now.

"What have you done, Vader?" Obi-Wan asks, softer than he intended. "Vader," he asks again when no reply comes, without success. The hand not holding his lightsaber moves, hesitates for a moment, then settles lightly on Vader's hair, mindful not to touch any open wounds. His fingers nudge him to tip his head back, gently, carefully, and settle on his cheek to hold his face up, looking at him. "Anakin." His name, his true name, makes him blink a few times. "Anakin, what have you done?"

"I killed him," he finally admits, barely audible. He looks exhausted, more like a child in need of rest than ever.

"Who did you kill?"

"My master."

"Dooku? You killed Dooku?"

"No," Vader— Anakin frowns, like Obi-Wan should know better. "Sidious."

It's a bit much to process in one day. Another Sith Lord, Vader's master, concealed and kept a secret, now dead, killed by his apprentice —and does that make Vader the ruling Sith Lord now? Do Sith have rulers?— the lightness in the Force the same day, a half-dead Vader begging for help in the middle of the night in the Jedi Temple, and all of that while Obi-Wan is still wearing his ugly slippers.

He's so glad he sent Ahsoka away for the night.

Anakin doesn't let him time to feel the migraine coming.

"I can't do it, I can't be my master, I can't— and Dooku hates me, he will never help me, even if I let him have it all, he will never..." Vader seems to run out of steam, and lets his eyes close as his head falls once again against Obi-Wan's thigh. Closer. "You said you could help me. You said I could come to you at any time. You said you would always be there if I didn't want to... do this, anymore."

"I did," Obi-Wan assures him, his hand lightly petting his hair again.

Anakin lets out a long breath. His fingers tighten on the fabric of Obi-Wan's pants, loosen, and tighten again.

"You're the only one I trust," the Sith quietly tells the Jedi, and it's the saddest thing Obi-Wan has ever heard.

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Day 126: Arranged Marriage

April 16th was an appropriately stormy day.

Harry sat in the window seat, watching the rain batter the glass and cursing arranged marriages, cursing Astoria Greengrass, cursing Draco Malfoy, and cursing himself for falling for his auror partner. Everything about today was awful and he was vindictively glad that it was pouring on their wedding day. He hoped that their umbrella charm failed and Astoria's lovely hair got soaked.

He was trying to find the energy to get up and make some tea when there was frantic pounding on the door. His head snapped up in surprise, heart jumping to his throat but he forced it back down. The knocking continued so he pulled himself up and headed to the front door.

"I'm not in the mood today," he said as he opened it.

"Hi."

Harry stared at the man who was standing before him in white and gold dress robes, his long hair bound in an elaborate braid with gold ribbon woven through. He was gorgeous and it made Harry's brittle heart shatter further.

"I'm getting married today," Draco said.

He swallowed, pain slicing through him like a well placed diffindo. "I know," he rasped.

"You," Draco started, flicking his braid over his shoulder and licking his lower lip, "You're supposed to be there."

"Don't ask that of me," Harry whispered, choking on the words.

"Harry, you're my best friend-"

He shook his head, "I can't, Draco," he begged, hoping he would understand. "I can't."

"Please, I need you-"

"No you don't," he replied, clenching his fist and digging his nails into his palm hard enough to draw blood.

Draco's lower lip protruded and he looked on the verge of tears.

"I'm sorry, Draco," he whispered. "I just can't watch you get married to someone," who isn't me went left unsaid but Harry wondered if the other man could hear it anyway.

"But-" he began again.

He shook his head and stepped back, "Happy wedding day," he murmured, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "I hope you'll both be happy," he added before closing the door, putting it between him and Draco. Harry turned his back to the door and slid to the floor, staring unseeingly into the dark house and wondering if it would ever seem bright again.

(Read more below the cut)

Draco stood and stared at the door for a long moment, aching with the desire to reach out and open it, to pull Harry into his arms and promise to never leave him. He didn't know why he'd come, Harry not showing up this morning for brunch with the other groomsmen ought to have been enough.

He leaned his forehead against the door and gave himself one minute. One minute to allow the memories, the yearning to rush in. To remember the way Harry had looked last night at his bachelor party, drunk and smiling at him, smiling so wide that his dimples stood out. He remembered how they stayed up after all of the other groomsmen had pulled someone and turned in for the night.

Remembered the way they'd gone back to Draco's hotel room for a game of cards and ended up sprawled out on the floor, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, just talking. Let himself remember how free he'd felt, like he could be anything and Harry would still accept him.

"You're my best friend," Draco had told him.

"I'm in love with you," Harry had replied.

He tried to stop the memory there, tried to keep his brain from replaying the way Harry's face had crumpled, the way his tears had made his vivid green eyes brighter than all the stars in the sky. He tried to forget the way he'd said, "but I'm getting married tomorrow" and the way that had made Harry cry even harder. Draco tried to forget the way that Harry had stood up with a mumbled apology and stumbled from the room.

But mostly, he tried to forget the way that he had chosen not to follow.

One minute. That's all he allowed himself before he stood up and straightened his shoulders. Getting married was what was expected of him, the scene he would cause if he didn't, well, it didn't even bear thinking about. With one last glance at the door, he apparated away to tell Greg that he'd been promoted to best man.

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

Astoria looked beautiful. Her white and gold dress robes were radiant and she had pearls woven into her hair. She smiled at him and squeezed his hand when he reached out to receive her. "You look stunning," he murmured.

Her smile widened and she looked so happy that Draco's heart ached.

They approached the altar together and the ceremony started. When it came time for them to be bound by magic, Draco took her left had with his and they pointed their wands at their wrists.

"Ready?" Astoria asked. They'd practiced this, without their wands of course; they'd practiced timing the words right, syncing the words that would bind them together.

He stared at her, at her warm, comfortable brown eyes. He knew if they got married that he'd come home every night to those eyes. She was good and kind, and Draco loved her.

But not the way he loved Harry.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered.

"What?" she asked, her smile slipping a touch.

"I can't," he said, parroting the words Harry had said to him this morning and shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Tor," he breathed, "But I can't do this."

Everyone around them started whispering and Draco's heart beat a little faster. "What?" she repeated.

"You're a dear friend," he said, ignoring the people around them, "but don't you want more for us? Don't you want passion and-"

"Draco," his father hissed, "Get yourself under control."

He released Astoria's hand, "Don't you want a love you've chosen?"

"It's Harry, isn't it?" she asked as a tear slid down her porcelain skin.

The room was positively buzzing now. "I'm sorry," he said again.

She took a breath and stepped toward him, and for a moment, Draco was sure that he was going to be slapped. But then her arms wrapped around him, drawing him into a hug. "You're being brave," she whispered, "and no one is going to thank you for it." She drew back slightly, "but I'm proud of you."

He pressed a kiss to her cheek.

"Go," she said, pulling back and drying her eyes.

Draco nodded, "You should go on the honeymoon," he said because he knew that she'd always wanted to go to Greece. Then he stepped back before anyone could get to him and apparated out of the wedding chamber and straight to Harry's door not even bothering to put up an impervius to stop the rain. "Harry!" he shouted, banging on the door again. "Harry!"

The door flew open, "What are you doing here?" Harry asked, nearly frantic, "You're supposed to be getting married."

He stared at the other man, allowed himself to fully feel everything for the first time. His heart expanded and clunked painfully against his ribs and tears stung the back of his eyes and rain ran down his face, "I couldn't," he managed.

Harry looked stricken, "Merlin, Draco, I am so sorry. I never should have-"

Draco closed the distance between them and kissed Harry.

The other man's body went rigid for a moment before he melted into Draco, clinging to him and letting out a choked sob.

He pulled back, "I'm an idiot."

Harry blinked at him and then nodded miserably, "I'm so sorry-"

"No," he interrupted. "Circe, no. Not for kissing you but because I have spent the past three years in love with you and too stubborn and foolish to do anything about it."

"Draco," Harry breathed, eyes shining again.

"Can you invited me in?" he asked with a laugh. "We're getting soaked."

Harry nodded and pulled the other man inside, Draco was about to say something more but Harry caught him around the waist and pressed him back against the wall, kissing him again, his mouth hot and insistent against Draco's. "I love you," he murmured into the kiss, branding the words against Draco's mouth. Before pressing kisses all over Draco's face, along his cheeks, his nose, his chin, his forehead, and even his eyelids. "I love you," he said again, burying his face in Draco's neck and holding him tight.

"I love you, too," he whispered, carding his fingers through Harry's messy curls and pressing a kiss to Harry's temple.

"This is crazy," Harry muttered into the sensitive skin of Draco's neck. He pulled back and Draco saw that he was grinning at him, "You're absolutely barking. I can't believe you did that. Your parents must be pissed."

"I imagine they are," he replied.

"You imagine they are? As in you don't know that they are?" he asked incredulously.

He huffed, "Like I was going to just stuck around to find out. No thank you. Mummy will need time to talk Father out of disowning me, and Astoria will need time to convince her that this is the right thing."

"Astoria?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.

He nodded, "she's surprisingly good with my parents, definitely one of the perks of marrying her." Draco grinned at him, "The sex had better be good."

"The sex will be fantastic," Harry promised. "So, how long do you think it's going to take your parents to forgive you?"

"A few weeks at least."

Harry brushed the hair off Draco's face, "Let's go somewhere," he said.

"What?"

The other man nodded, "Like on a vacation or something. You're off the next two weeks because you were supposed to go honeymooning and I'm off the next two weeks because I didn't want to deal with an idiot temporary partner and because I was anticipating being a bit heartbroken," he shrugged. "Let's go on vacation."

He laughed, "I'll go anywhere as long as it's with you."

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

Day 125: Accidental Bonding | Day 126: Fake Dating

[hobidreams]

october 1869.

have you been mistaken all along?

pairing: joseon king!yoongi x reader genre: drama words: 1.2k contains: a shattering.

moonlit throne index. this is drabble 25. start from the beginning?

“Have you been busy today?”

The king asks this as soon as he steps into your chambers, casually kicking off the furled leaf clinging to the bottom of his shoe on the wood outside. The late October wind has lately been littering the palace grounds with the last remnants of summer as most of the plants prepare for their hibernation.

You bow as you watch him cross the space with as much ease as he would his own room, having spent so much time here in the past year. And the question he posed to you as greeting? It would be strange if he had not fallen into the habit of asking it some weeks ago, taking an unexpected interest that is making you steadily feel more and more comfortable with him even though you should be keeping him as far as you possibly can.

(Wasn’t it better when he treated this like an empty affair? Wasn’t that what he wanted?)

The king settles on the edge of the bed as he begins to undo his belt. A singular pat of the blankets beside him indicates that you should join him. And you do, saying, “unfortunately. Two of the cooks accidentally burned themselves today when there was an overflow, and we had just run out of the burn salve, so it was quite frantic. But we managed, and even had dinner prepared without much delay! Though… I was little help in that last part.”

“I remember. You attempted to poison me with yakgwa once.”

“Jeonha! That was an earnest try at making them as a gift!” Nothing more than a besotted young girl’s silly attempt.

He laughs lightly, casually at your protests, the smile that makes you far too fond once again. “I could certainly feel that in every rock-hard bite. Nearly broke my teeth with how earnest they were.” His belt clatters to the floor. “And how are the cooks now?”

“Recovering! And hopefully without much permanent scarring on their hands.”

“Mm. Good.”

Then his own hands are on you, as they always are before long. One slides broadly up over the thin fabric covering your back, fingers spread wide. Another firmly grips your thigh while his head dips low, ready to stake claim to your neck with his lips, the smile still stretched faintly across them. He now knows exactly how to make your breath hitch with just a few strokes. How to have you moaning, whimpering into his ear like his needy woman with the slightest skim of his fingertips over your skin.

Even though the warmth he sparked only blazes higher at his touch, you cannot be carried away. Not just yet.

“Ah, j-jeonha. Please wait.”

You gently ease back, and that is enough to make him pause. He gives you a questioning look, as you’ve never interrupted him like this before.

“It is nearly November,” you murmur.

“I am in possession of a calendar, yes.”

“No, um.” You stare down at your hands. “What I mean is… Daebi-mama. Her birthday… It will be soon.”

You’ve never once broached the subject of the late queen with him in all this time and it instantly feels like a mistake when he stiffens. Yanks his hands back to his own lap, away from you.

You force yourself to go on. “I—I wish to visit her. That is, her tomb… And burn incense. Since it is not too far away that we could feasibly return within the day, I thought it could be nice i-if you wish, jeonha? If you might, perhaps, possibly, like to come with me on that day, together?” The nervous words end up tumbling out all at once, a mess of syllables but at least they’re out. The thoughts have hung heavy on your mind for so many weeks.

He is mute.

Stares at you for long seconds until his brow furrows. His expression draws in so violently that the glare could rival the chill battering against the windows.

“You… Who do you think I am?”

Your mouth falls open at the anger simmering in his voice, groping for words in response but you can’t find them. With a single sentence, you are thrown back into the queen’s chamber, into that awful June day, where you stood at an absolute loss. Vulnerable, and scared. An entire year’s worth of feelings and experiences ago, but the cruel look he gives you now feels the exact same as it did then.

He scoffs. “You think… Honestly, you imagine I have time for such dalliances? To halt an entire day’s worth of business to do such a matter?”

“But the queen—”

“It is frivolous.” His teeth snap together. “Completely unnecessary.”

“J-Jeonha—”

“No. No. It’s ridiculous of you to even suggest it. I have absolutely no need for such a public display that only shows the people how weak and susceptible their king is. I will not lose all that I have earned.”

“I just thought—”

“No.” He stands up altogether in a flurry of fabric, glaring at you down his nose. “No matter what you have thought, that is final.” His hands are tight fists and he’s already sauntering towards the exit.

Your mouth feels numb even as you mumble, stuttering over the words, “a king can have emotions. Can have grief.” But he doesn’t hear. He’s already closed off his ears and, you think, you dread, his heart.

Without a single look further in your direction, he pauses just the once to sweep his belt off the floor and then he’s gone.

This is the first time since last November that he has come to you and left without indulging himself in your body. While you once so fervently wished he would come for the pleasure of your company alone, you didn’t want it like this. Never like this.

You took a risk, and this is where it has left you: reminded of where your place is in this world, in his world. Alone, you let your body fall onto the bed, one palm pressed to the sheets where his heat remains faintly still.

The door flies open, slamming into its frame as the king explodes into his room.

“Jeonha, you’ve returned early?”

Eunuch Kim is in the midst of tidying up some papers as he was instructed before the king left for Hamhwadang Hall. His confused question is answered with a vicious scowl, one that bodes only awful things, and would have made a weaker man shrink back if the he were not already long used to such vitriol. Even if it hasn’t been aimed in his direction for some time now, and Eunuch Kim had let himself believe that he would perhaps never see it with such intense fury again.

“Leave.”

“I have not yet laid out your schedule for Novem—”

Yoongi’s snarl grows even more prominent as he cuts the man off. “Leave. Get out. I don’t want the schedule right now. Just get out!”

Left with no choice, Eunuch Kim bows and quits the room. His heart feels stifling as he walks down the corridor, wondering just what the hell happened with uinyeo-nim to eradicate the rare, pleasant mood the king had left in. Just what, that has undone so many months of quiet, welcome change in an instant.

[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

Shadow Monster x Female Reader (Commissioned Piece)

So... I’m back. Been a while, but I have finished my third year at uni. Feels weird, but these three years have been a lot and I have many good memories. I look forward to the future and hope that I get to continue something I love.

Support me on Ko-fi!~  |  Patreon

Relationship: Male monster x human reader

Mornings Like These

On crisp days like these, mornings felt so much more appreciated.

Languid music filled the air as you poured your cup of coffee into the mug you got from the boys on Mother’s day, the same hum drawing from your lips, languorously continuing with your chores to yourself, when a pair of warm arms pulled you back into the reverberating chest of your lover.

“Mornin’,” you replied sweetly, earning a groan and kiss from Hank, his wispy black tendrils dipped in and out of the air when he was sleepy, trying his best to concentrate and not clip out. “Mornin’.” his voice was deep and rich like honey, always able to bring a smile to your lips and a shiver to reach down your spine. Maybe he was aware of how much you enjoyed his raspy voice every morning, teasingly luring you each time with it. 

“How’d you sleep?”

“Good, but I didn’t have you in my arms when I woke up.” Hank groaned against the back of your neck, idly sniffing your hair, but his arms would not budge when you tried moving to turn towards him. “I had to be up before the boys were,” you giggled when a wisp ticked the side of your cheek. “They’ve already gone out with Cerberus.”

“Good, that means I can have you all to myself,” he murmured incoherently, tugging you back. “Come back to bed, darlin’.”

“You know I can’t, I have to watch over breakfast.” You sang, turning a gaze to the pancakes already needing to be flipped. “They’ll burn.”

The sound he made was similar to a kicked puppy, whining in the back of his throat as he whined your name. “No buts, mister!” You giggled, enjoying how he grew lax around you, very much aware that he could phase-out of the air around you and head back to bed with a pout on his lips. “You can help by flipping the pancakes.”

“Or, I could help with something else…” he drawled, his entire demeanour changing so swiftly that you hadn’t been prepared. The mug in your grip almost fell to the counter had Hank, not been quick enough to pull it out of your grasp and put it down seamlessly. “You seem… tense.”

“I’m not tense, baby, I just want to make sure everyone eats and they don’t eat concrete spheres.” You twisted around to focus on the stove, but Hank was quick to pass through you, quickly to hug you now from the front. You halted, bumping head to chest almost clumsily, earning a deep rumble of mirth through your ears. “Oops.” He chortled, snuggling into you, pecking at your jaw.

“Hank, you know I don’t like it when you do that.” You sighed, earning the shadowy being to kiss everywhere but your lips in apology. “And now, you’re trying to make up for it.”

“No…” you snorted before you could even notice. “Come now, darlin’. I know something that could bring that pretty smile back on your face.”

“What would that be?”

“Well,” Hank slid his fingers into your hair, smoothing your scalp. “You, me and a warm bed that begs for you to come back.”

You finally looked up at him, the pout on your lips now was evident that his words were working on you. “Hank-”

“No, it’s fine, I’ll just go.” His grasp around you weakened but you had been quick to grasp his wrist before he had the chance to disappear. The look on his face told you that he was relieved you had pulled him back, his bright white eyes expecting and bold. “Is there something you need, darlin’?”

“Stay, here. With me.” You pulled him back to holding you, allowing him to peck and kiss at your face and neck. “Are you just going to continue doing this until the boys come back?”

“Maybe,” he hummed. “But I could also say things like how beautiful you look right now. How you’re practically glowing.” You scoffed, “Hardly, I haven’t had a shower.” Hank chuckled in your ear, nibbling your lobe, “We could always go for one, a quickie.” 

Your cheeks flushed as you startled yourself to almost knocking the batter of pancake mix to the floor, moving it just out of your view to turn and face your lover. “Hank.” “What? Am I making you flustered?” You felt his solid form ground yourself against your behind, grinding something against the small of your back. “Am I getting you a bit excited?

”“No,” you chewed your lip, turning so he couldn’t see how red your face was becoming, shifting eyes when you heard him laugh with amusement. “You’re just distracting me.”

“Oh? Am I?” Hank purred, grinding more of him against you, groaning at the small amounts of friction. “Maybe you need the distraction, my love.” The heavy weight from Hank was making you grow light in the head, your legs almost buckling from the feelings that were building in the pit of your stomach, fluttering with the familiar pleasures that roused when he brought the smallest of pleasures across your body.

You felt him turn you back around to face him, your hands wounding up being rested against his chest, pulling you to him to kiss your lips sweetly, his tongue swiping against your bottom lip silently, begging for an answer. You finally complied, delving into that sweetness as he held you so lovingly to you, forgetting about all but focusing on one another, tugging and pulling on one another for more.

What you failed to hear was the wide slam of the door, many footsteps coming through closer and closer into the kitchen, some laughter, some jovial conversations bouncing across the walls. “Hey, ma, you don’t know if you’ve seen- Oh my God!” The two of you swiftly pulled away from one another, flushed to the cheeks, when you looked back into the doorway, the wide eyes of Hank’s boys, Jason, Jacob, Jack and the youngest, Jeremiah staring back at you. Realising that Jack had been the one to ask the question, you looked to the boys: all similar in colourings of dark purple and blacks, their eyes a differing shade from the other of green, blue, yellow and fuchsia. At the front of them came padding in the large black hound that Hank had rescued, a fitting name of Cerberus, its shadowy form had billowing smoke trail off its large long legs, its large head fitting of a wolf than a family pet. Cerberus casually ignored the confrontation, wandering to his basket in the corner of the room.

The sight alone of the four boys made you want to burst out into laughter when you realised that you had been interrupted, but the wan look to their surprised, albeit revolted faces did bring the smile to curve the corner of your lips. “Eww, that’s so gross, guys!” Jason was the first to announce horrified, pretending to retch, Jack covering Jeremiah’s eyes before it was too late.

“Hey, it’s natural between adults who love each other very much,” Hank interjected, wrapping an arm around your waist, tugging you to him. “You would understand when you’re all older.”

“Yeah, but not like that!” Jacob exclaimed.

The youngest, Jeremiah was still attached “Yeah, get a room! Gross!” One look to one another and before long, yours and Hank’s laughter filled the room when he doubled over, you following, holding the side of the table for support as the two of you struggled to keep your composure. All boys seemed almost disappointed at the sight of you, especially the eldest two, both of their expressions matched how ‘parents’ would look to chastising their disobedient kids.

One look to one another and before long, yours and Hank’s laughter filled the room when he doubled over, you following, holding the side of the table for support as the two of you struggled to keep your composure. All boys seemed almost disappointed at the sight of you, expressions twisted to make them look like the ‘parents’ chastising their disobedient kids. “Alright, alright,” you cleared your throat, earning a roll of the eyes from Jason and Jack. “You two be off, be safe.”

“Yeah, yeah, take your time,” Jack remarked, grabbing the phone on the table before hurrying out the door, Cerberus striding by the hip of Jeremiah with little care of the situation.

“Well… that could’ve gone better.” Hank’s mirth was still warm like whiskey in his throat, pouring heavily over you as if to coat you in the deepness of his voice. A hand curled around the small of your back, pulling you close, distracted once more from the closed door and emptiness of the house. You scoffed, jabbing a finger into his shoulder playfully, “You’re a bad influence.”

“Me?” He laughed amusedly. “You see dear, I’m not the only one of a bad influence.” “Hmm, yeah, I beg to differ.” You kissed the corner of his mouth teasingly, earning the man wrapped around you to pout boyishly. “If you’re going to pout like that, you could at least help me, not wrap around me like a snake waiting for its meal.”

“Well… we do have the house to ourselves again,” Hank hummed, nuzzling your cheek affectionately. “The boys won’t be coming back for some time.”

“Hank… if you want to sleep on the sofa, so be it.” 

“No ma’am, I’ll help.”

[frostedfaves]

All Too Well

Masterlist

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x fem!reader

Summary: A new year leads to a new argument.

Warnings: angst

A/N: this was supposed to be a super angsty breakup fic inspired by Taylor Swift’s All Too Well, but apparently idk how to write sad shit anymore so enjoy whatever this is 😔 (on the bright side, I found a nickname for Wanda to use in my upcoming series 👀)

-

“Those aren’t even the lyrics!” Wanda shouted over the radio, her laughter nearly covering her speech like a blanket.

“Of course it is!” You reached over to turn down the volume on the radio. “Take it from someone who sang this song every day for a year during every single shower.”

“Well, it’s a shame your shampoo bottles never told you that you were serenading them with the wrong words.”

A loud laugh escaped you as both of your heads turned in the same moment, yours to gaze out the passenger window and hers to watch you. The orange and brown leaves that dropped from the trees were only part of the lovely scene in front of you, and Wanda thought the colors provided a wonderful background for her own movie. She got lost in admiring your features, wishing to run her thumb along your lips as a smile formed there, or place a palm against your cheeks, warmed by the sun. Her attention turned back to the road just in time to stop herself from passing a red light, throwing an arm across your torso to keep you from lurching forward against the seatbelt.

“Sorry,” she apologized with flushed cheeks, and you couldn’t help but poke one as you assured her everything was fine. Turns out the sun can bring warmth to fingers, too.

As the two of you made your way to your shared apartment, Wanda wished for your heated touch now, instead of the cold glare you directed to the windshield. She was grateful it was pointed toward the street for now, and she was tempted to drive on forever with the heat blasting until you defrosted. Anything to avoid the confrontation she knew was coming.

“What the hell was that?”

“Baby, please,” she sighed. “The new year just started. Can’t we wait until the sun comes up again and we’ve had some sleep?”

“I’ve waited long enough, Wanda.”

Her shoulders tensed and a shiver ran down her spine because your stare was focused on her now, and the ice made its way to your vocal chords, leaving an especially thick layer around her name. You hadn’t called her anything aside from ‘honeydew’ since your first date, and she endured the teasing from her team because seeing the sparkle in your eyes was worth it. Hearing you say her name now felt like being cursed.

“Can we at least wait until we get home?” she pleaded as she faced you after stopping at the red light. “I want to be able to look you in the eye without putting you in danger.”

“Fine.”

You broke away first to turn the radio volume up, turning your head to avoid her watery eyes. Her vulnerable gaze nearly melted away your resolve entirely, and you refused to let this go on any longer. Wanda forced herself to keep her own eyes on the road and the drive went on silently aside from the song pouring in through the speakers, neither of you bothering to fight over the correct lyrics. You were back at your building within a few minutes, and while you rode the elevator up from the parking garage, Wanda took the stairs. She had no idea what she was walking into, and she just needed to pretend everything was okay for a little bit longer.

When she opened the apartment door, your coat was already hung by the door and she could hear your bare feet padding along the wooden floor to the bedroom. She took her time hanging her own coat and slipping off her shoes, following you down the hall and nearly dropping them out of her hand when she saw you staring at her from the edge of the bed.

“What the hell was that?” you repeated, watching Wanda walk past to place her shoes in the closet.

“I’m going to need more than that, detka.” Her accent became more prominent as her nerves grew, a deep crease forming between her brows as she faced you and leaned against the opposite wall. “What are you asking about?”

“That woman asked about your girlfriend and you told her it was ‘nothing serious’.”

“I was just...saving face.” She kept her arms folded as she shrugged. “She’s friends with Tony and they talk all the time. If I would’ve been all obnoxious about our relationship, he would’ve made a big deal about it later.”

“You’ve been getting teased for ten months by Earth’s mightiest heroes over a nickname and expressing your love for your girlfriend is where you draw the line?!”

“Okay, I’m sorry! It was a mistake and it won’t happen again.” She pushed off the wall and walked forward to grab your hand, but you jumped off the bed and headed toward the kitchen before she could get close. “What--”

“You’ve stopped talking to me, too.”

“We’re literally talking now! We talked on Christmas Day--”

“Oh yeah, I really enjoyed that 30 second talk we had over pancake batter before the whole team stormed in and took over,” you huffed into the refrigerator while searching for something to drink.

“If you have a problem with the Avengers, just say it.”

“I love your team!” you cried out as you closed the refrigerator door. “I probably see more of them than I do you. Three weeks ago, I went to the tower because I hadn’t heard from you all day and I had to find out from the fucking spider kid that you volunteered to join some last minute mission. And you know what? We had dinner together and I talked to him for two hours, which is probably longer than I’ve talked to you since then.”

“I can’t help it if missions come up,” Wanda challenged as she took the glass of water you offered. “This is my job, just like you have yours.”

“I know, but you had your phone with you. At least send a text, let me know you’re okay.”

“I will. Is that it?” She watched your eyes avert from hers, sighing when you headed toward the couch in the living room instead of the bedroom. “It’s not, is it?”

“I just want to know why you haven’t been happy.” You finally met her gaze again when she stopped a few feet away.

“What? I’m happy.”

“Nothing’s been the same since that day you were driving and nearly ran the red light. That was in October, and it’s the beginning of January now.”

“You’re wrong,” Wanda insisted as she inched closer. “I’m happy.”

“I drove myself crazy here while you were gone on all these lengthy trips, trying to think of why you wanted to be so far away all the time. Maybe you weren’t feeling this anymore, or you’d found someone that made you feel more alive--”

“I told you I’m happy!”

In a split second, red filled her eyes and surrounded her hand as she sent her glass flying against the wall. You stared at the droplets of water running down the eggshell colored surface to the wooden floor, flinching when Wanda placed her hand on your thigh as she knelt in front of you and relaxing when you were met with her usual eye color.

“I’m sorry.” She squeezed gently as she sighed, never breaking eye contact. “I’ve just been worried. When we’re together, I tend to lose myself in your existence, and it isn’t safe. A few seconds more, and that day could’ve ended a lot differently.”

“I had my seatbelt on,” you reminded her as you placed your palm over her knuckles, and she shook her head. 

“There are a lot worse threats than a car accident, detka. I just fear that one day, I’ll be wrapped around you so tightly that I won’t have time to free myself and protect you from danger.”

“So your solution to protecting me more was to leave me totally alone with no warning?”

“Now that I’m hearing it with a clear head, it doesn’t sound like such a good plan,” she chuckled with a shake of her head.

“No, it doesn’t, honeydew.” You squeezed her hand with a smile that widened at the sight of Wanda’s. “What?”

“I just never thought I could miss a silly nickname so much.”

-

Tags: @littlegasps @peggycarter-steverogers @imnotasuperhero @natasha-danvers @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @creepingwolfberry @honeyvenable

[kashimos-hajime]

the pawn (3/8) | r.b.

summary: He smiles. “How could I? You promised to marry me, didn’t you? Wouldn’t miss that for the world.” Or, Reiner makes a promise; you ask if it’s a challenge.

WARNINGS: general mentions of blood and injuries, minor angst, lot of subtext,  and if you know where we are in the show/manga, you know whats up next pairing: reiner braun x fem!reader word count: 5.4k

a/n: slow descent into madness type beat ig hehehheh 

masterlist

crossposted on ao3 x

“Shit. Bertholdt, my head—“

“Hold on.” A hand grabs yours, warm and rough, and you look up blearily to see your best friend beside you, smiling uneasily.  “Give me the reins.” Bertholdt tugs it out of your grasp and you watch as he rides up ahead a few paces, leading you and your horse at the right wing of their party back to Calaneth. “How are you feeling?”

“I feel like I might throw up,” you explain briefly through clenched teeth. Being thrown off your horse and trampled had left you ragged, bloody, and broken, but you know you’re one of the lucky ones. “I shouldn’t be priority. I’ll be okay.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey! Are you alright?” Reiner rides up next to you and you glance at him wearily. You cradle your sprained arm and hold your swollen shoulder in place as you nod. Your face cracked with dried tears and blood, you sway with every step back as you nod. Blood drips down your ripped pant leg and you swear the bruise is growing ever more visible but despite it all, Reiner visibly sags at seeing you breathing. 

“She’ll live,” Hange calls back at them. “We managed to stop the bleeding and any internal injuries aren’t serious.”

“How do you know that?”

“Managed to scoop her up before any ribs could be stepped on,” the Section Commander explains and you nod again, straining to keep your head up. “She was a real trooper. Managed to knock a few soldiers out of that Female Titan’s way before they got crushed.” 

“My horse didn’t make it, though,” you murmur, rubbing at your cheek. The sunset burns your skin and you screw up your face as a swirling sensation fills your stomach. Legs going lax, a numbness begins to crawl up your body. “I—I tried—“

“Hey, you did good,” Hange cuts sharply. “Just stay awake until we get back.”

You don’t remember what happens next. You were sitting up right, and then you pitch sideways and there’s a shout of your name. Hands grab at your shoulders but you slip, the sensation of wind brushing against your cheeks before you crash to the hard ground and black explodes into your vision.

When you awake, a soft groan rips out of your mouth and something inside your throat cracks as a figure jolts up. 

“Creampie? Hey, you awake?”

Turning your face away, you let out a noise and your eyes screw shut tighter. 

“You don’t have to shout,” you mumble to yourself. Your head is like a thunderstorm, lightning striking in your skull with every pulse of your heart and you wince to yourself when you move too quickly. “Shit.” Trying to move your arm, pain lances up and balls up in your shoulder, and you flinch as a hand stills your efforts. “Where—“

“We’re at headquarters. You should be okay, now that you’re awake.” Head tilting, you catch sight of a broad silhouette as the hand on your arm moves to your uninjured one, resting atop your knuckles.

“How?”

“You passed out. The doc thinks you’ve got a concussion, but we have to wait a few days until you can stay awake longer than few minutes,” Reiner continues quietly, his hand not quite leaving your bruised hand. “Shit. You scared me.”

“What? Why?” Confused, your eyebrows scrunch together as he reaches and his shadow blocks the flames for just a moment. The ache in your head dulls as his palm presses against your brow. You close your eyes. “Reiner, everything’s still fuzzy, you know.“

“You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were going to die.”

“I’m okay,” you whisper, eyes prying open gently. “I’m okay. Give me… the, uh, rundown.” You look down at your still body covered in a blanket, and Reiner follows your gaze, a dark remorse filling his gaze. Tilting your head at him, you try to smile and he accepts the effort with a tug of his own lips.

“Sprained wrist, dislocated shoulder, bruising. Your leg’s in pretty bad shape. Bruised to hell, but the doc said you’ll have a full recovery. The swelling on your shoulder should go down, but take it easy for the next month while you heal.”

“What?” You try to sit up, but he pushes you back down and your teeth clench when agony ripples through your fatigued body. Your muscles barely move, and the pain is sharp in contrast to the gauzy heat spreading under the covers.

“Don’t move. You passed out once already.” Staring into furious golden eyes, you comply and he sits back down beside you. Planting his elbows into the mattress, he buries his face in his hands with a soft groan. “Shit.” You crane your heard curiously. Lifting your uninjured hand, you set it atop his fingers but he only seems to begin to shake. “Shit.”

“Reiner?”

 Fingers digging into his scalp, Reiner turns his head into his palms and you’re scalded by his flinch as you stroke a thumb over his scarred knuckles. Raising his head raggedly, golden eyes fix on your face.

Softly, as if breaking a promise: “Fuck it. Let it kill me. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t pretend that you—you—“

Confusion wrinkles your brow before a realization settles in and your hand falls as you look away. Your heart begins to wilt in your chest. “Reiner, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“Sorry? You’re sorry? God, I want to marry you.”

You open your mouth in pure shock and your eyes fly to his face just as hands cups your cheeks and he lunges forward, lips pressing to your own hungrily. A soft noise keening from your throat, your arm drapes around his neck, pulling him close instinctively.

His hands span across your cheek, your jaw, pinkies brushing the soft skin of your neck, and your head is spinning from the serenity that flows from his palms into your body as he breathes in deeply, holds you tighter. 

When he pulls back, you sink into your pillows with a dazed sigh and he brushes his thumb over your mouth, gaze never leaving your face for a moment.

“I really like you,” you breathe. His face slackens at your voice, and his lips part as if he wants to say something, but as his ochre gaze only flits all over your face, a soft scoff-like sound escapes his chest.

“Still?”

Like he’s shocked. Like it could ever fade.

“Yes, and you want to marry me. We’re all full of surprises,” you whisper and for a moment, a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth as he sits back down. “C’mon. Smile for the cripple.”

“You’re not crippled.”

“Not yet, but with my skill? It’ll only be next week until you have to carry me around in your big hunky arms.” You wrinkle your nose as your hand runs down his arm, rubbing his forearm soothingly. “But you’re stuck with me now. Watch out, Braun. You don’t know what you’re in for.” He twists his wrist to grab your fingers and lifts them to his cheek. The strength drained from your arm, you can’t feel any pain anymore, only the rough skin of his hands, the warmth of his lips as he kisses your limp fingers. Maybe it’s the exhaustion or maybe it’s him, but as Reiner meets your eyes, a loopy smile passes over your face. “I’m going to break your heart.”

Lifting his head, he clasps your hand with his other, and rests his chin atop their hands. Squeezing tightly, he swallows and his lips press into a thin line that twitches into a smile that shatters you.

“I think I’ll break yours first.”

In the future, those words would haunt you for years. You’d hear them in your sleep, lingering in the haze between your dreams and reality, and every time you looked over your shoulder, expecting him to be there.

You could never know what he meant until it was too late.

Presently, however, you don’t know any better. 

Frowning, you shake your hand out of his grasp and stretch to touch his face, run a knuckle under his eye. He looks like he’s staring at a corpse, and you want to sit up, hold him to you, run your hands through his hair—a million things you’ll do once you get out of this stupid bed.

For now, you settle on, “Is that… a challenge, Reiner?”

Smile. Please, smile. I’m not going anywhere, idiot. I’m alive, I’m laying right here and you want to marry me—

His eyes flicker over your battered body, to your wrist and shoulder wrapped tight as the muscles try to stitch themselves back together. He presses your hand to his cheek and, with a haunting sadness, he whispers, “No. It’s just the truth.” 

Your heart drops and you open your mouth to argue but he lets go of your hand at that moment, gently lowering it back to the bed before he stands. Cold wind sweeps in, chasing away the heat of his skin, and a hollowing feeling begins to settle inside your gut as he leans over. A pair of lips press between your eyebrows before a nose rubs against yours and you stare dazedly into warm golden eyes that are infinitely empty. They stare right through you.

“Reiner…”

“Get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning,” he whispers and your entire body yearns to hug him as his mouth slots against yours. Warmth pulsing from his mouth against yours, you arch off the bed. His hand at your neck tilts your chin to deepen the kiss and it is everything you never dreamed of. Gentle, and warm, and sad, and so full of an emotion you can’t name it seeps into you until your whole body is stuffed full of it.

When he draws back, a tear slides down the corner of your mouth yet when you raise an exhausted hand to your face, you’re scalded with the realization that the skin around your eyes is dry.

.

Returning to the barracks after another damn meeting, only an hour or so before Tybur’s damn show, Reiner can’t help but glance at the walls, wondering, wondering, wondering.

Are you listening even here, Magath? 

Porco carries Pieck to the couch, setting her down gently while Reiner heads for the abandoned pot of tea from earlier. Pouring himself a cup, he sucks it down like he needs to breathe, ignoring how cold it is in his gut. Repeating, he hears Pieck’s gentle laugh as Porco crashes down beside her, leaning back against the couch.

“I’ll see you guys later,” Colt says, grabbing his jacket. “I have to go talk to Zeke about something. We’ll meet you guys there?”

“Sounds good.”

“See you later, Grice,” Galliard calls and Reiner barely manages his own farewell before the blond is slipping out of the room. There’s a beat of silence before: “Is it just me or are parents really insistent on their kids reproducing?” he continues to himself. “I was talking to Mom before the meeting and she said something about continuing on the family line. Ugh, as if I could stand a few ticks running around me.”

“You’d trip on them.”

“Exactly. What about me screams that I want to be a dad to some snotty brats?”

“They’d only be snotty because you’d be their father,” Pieck teases. “I heard someone’s mom was being really insistent on their son having grandkids,” she continues, pushing herself up and Reiner glances over to see her black-haired head poking out behind the cushions to send him a curious look. “It’s endearing. She wants little blond grandbabies.”

“Right, that’s not going to happen,” he says as the last drop of tea leaves the teapot and he is left with half a mug left. “I only have just a bit over a year left before I get eaten. Too cruel of a fate to leave a widow and any kids we might have.” He snorts. “Besides, I’m not interested in anyone.”

“I could help with that. You have a lot of admirers, Reiner.”

Yeah, right. “I’m not looking for anyone either, Pieck. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Yeah,” Porco snorts. “I’m sure that’s the reason.”

“Don’t be mean, Pock.” A sigh and a flop and Pieck disappears from sight. “He’s right. I forgot we’re going to get eaten before we know it, and you’re going to be the only one left standing. You’ve gotta train new blood, you know. It’s so weird to think about.” Porco sits up abruptly to look down where he assumes Pieck is laying. Eyes wide, he seems to struggle for words and it’s clear that the reminder has socked him in the gut. To be honest, Reiner finds himself counting down the days at this point. “Dad’s already having a hard time with it.”

He sips on his cold tea, and it weighs like a gun in his mouth. He still remembers the feeling of it on his tongue, the slightly ashy taste of gunpowder that lingered. He still isn’t sure whether or not that part had been his imagination, but it wouldn’t have mattered.

“Pieck, c’mon. Don’t talk like that.”

“Why? It’s just how it is for us Eldians. It makes sense—we get tossed out when our bodies give up on us.”

Porco falls silent. Reiner empties his mug and walks over to set it down in the sink, bracing himself against the countertop and staring down the drain as a heavy silence fills their room.

His time is running out. He’s always been aware of that—painfully scrambling to gather the motivation to even wake up without going through with taking the Armoured Titan from Marley permanently. But... he can’t. He won’t.

He doesn’t know why he never expected you wouldn’t be there when he left. Did he think you would come quietly to Marley? A nation that set up your life the way it is now—a line of dominos one catastrophe after another? That you would come with him easily? The very man who toppled life as you knew it, forced you to join a military you didn’t want to join just to protect people?

Did he think you would still care for the man who left you, left someone who would cling to the pieces of her family left until she was bloody?

He knows that answer.

Wood creaking, he pushes himself off the countertop and heads towards the door. Two pairs of eyes burn into his side but he doesn’t care. Not even when Galliard crows at him.

“Where are you going? We have to go to the show, remember.”

“I’m taking a walk,” he replies shortly, yanking open the door and stepping through. “I’ll be back  in time.”

He needs to get out of here.

.

Reiner helps you ease your arm back into the sling. Although you’re going insane staying in the infirmary while the others are off fighting in Stohess, his patience staves off the edge of fear at the idea of trying to stand up on your horse again. The last time—

Blonde hair. Pale eyes. She saw right through me and stopped.

Annie. It’d been Annie this entire time. Why? Why couldn’t you see it? Could you have prevented two Titans boxing it out in Stohess right now? Shit. 

I should’ve known. I’m such an idiot. Why did it take for Armin to tell me?

“Hey,” Reiner murmurs, kissing your fingers. You blink, staring down at him again and he smiles faintly, straightening up. A soft pair of lips press against your forehead and you lift your head to slot your mouth against his briefly before he pulls back, stroking your cheek and sitting down beside you. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.” Your arm presses against his and you flash him a smile. “We’re on another day of absolutely nothing, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” he affirms. You sigh. The entire morning had been spent with him by your side—breakfast in bed, him bringing you some books to pass the time—but as noon nears, you can’t help but want to get out of here. You can’t even do that. 

“I’m sorry.”

He frowns. “About what?”

“I feel so useless right now. The Commander’s in Stohess, and we’re just here. We should be with him.” Trying to figure out how to capture Annie. Or doing something. “I hate that I got myself hurt. It’s just so frustrating. I should’ve been better. Moved out of the way sooner, or—”

“No. Don’t do that. Don’t shoulder blame that isn’t yours.” Reiner wraps an arm around you, hand pressing the side of your head into his chest and you turn to loop your uninjured arm around his waist. “Hey.” A soft kiss against the crown of your head. “We’re going to be okay. I promise. You’ll heal up, and it’ll be okay.”

“Promise?” you echo weakly, eyes closing. Your heart pounding, you listen to his own and wonder if the same bliss fills his entire body as it does for you whenever you’re around him. Simply holding him close, you close your eyes. I think I love you, you tell him silently. Do you love me, too?

“No matter what. I’ll even put a ring on your finger when this is all over.”

“You remember,” you whisper, and he chuckles quietly, nosing at your hairline. It does nothing for the ache in your heart at the thought of your friend somewhere in Stohess locked like an animal. Is she an animal? A monster? She can’t be, you tell yourself. She’s just Annie. 

Reiner’s finger brushes against your cheek, wiping something away and your eyes open when you realize it’s wet. You’re crying? How hadn’t you noticed? Squeezing him closer, you can’t help your voice from cracking: “Distract me, please. Just… tell me where we’d live. Anything.”

“Where we’d live?” he repeats, strangled, and you nod. “You’d want to come live with me? What about finding your life by the water? Raising kids—“

“Fuck all of that. I just… I just want some peace.” Throat tightening, you close your eyes again. “I want to sleep in on the weekends and I want to kiss you when I wake up, and I—“ Every thought that’s haunted you for the past few months comes back in full force as your voice clots. “I want to stop waking up feeling so heavy. I don’t want any more secrets. I don’t want to fight. I never want to see blood again.”

“Then, how about we go back to my hometown?” he suggests tightly, thumb brushing your cheek before tilting your head up. You look up at him and he smiles faintly. “There’s the biggest lake you’ve ever seen nearby. We can go to the water in the afternoons, eat all this food you’ve never had before.”

“Never had? What is it?” 

He sighs, kissing your lips as his index fingers curls underneath your chin. “That’ll ruin the surprise.” Raising his hand to brush over your brow, he studies your face before cupping your jaw and cocking his head, pressing a brief kiss against the corner of your mouth. Your heart lurches. “But the weather is nice, and there are good people, and we’ll never have to worry about the war again. Sound like a plan?”

You can only nod, trying to imagine the lake he’s talking about—the shape, the shade of water, how the sunlight looks when it hits the surface. Is it cold? Does a river lead into it? All you know is that you want to see it.

“It sounds like a good plan,” you finally whisper, and something in his face softens. 

“I don’t want to lose you,” he continues in low tones, swiping his thumb over your lips and cheek. “I’m sorry if I ever hurt you.”

“You were scared.” You give a one-shouldered shrug, pain spreading through your chest. “Maybe it would’ve been the right choice. You would’ve been rational to just let it go and I would’ve understood if you didn’t feel the same way.”

“No, I would be insane,” he corrects. Your eyebrows knit together. “How could I not feel the same way about someone like you?” 

His words sink into your skin so deeply that the smile that pulls at your face makes you forget, for a moment, about all that’s wrong in the world. Exhaling a soft laugh, you fling your arm around his neck and pull him closer, their noses clashing as your lips find his in a soft kiss and he chuckles, reciprocating tenderly.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

It echoes in your chest like a song that ends too soon.

The infirmary doors open.

Springing away from one another, you look up as Bertholdt, Connie and Sasha come in, none the wiser, although Bertholdt’s eyes narrow at the lingering way your eyes stay on Reiner’s red cheeks. Wiping at your mouth inconspicuously, you adjust your sling with your uninjured hand.

“How are you feeling?” Sasha asks, approaching first and you wiggle your bruised leg gingerly. Dull pain, but manageable. 

“Okay. Sleep really took the edge off.” Taking Reiner’s hand, you ease off the bed and get up as the brunette wraps an arm around your shoulder gingerly. Shuffling closer, you rest your head against hers and lean against her, trying to shake the feeling tingling at your cheeks. Sasha’s infectious heat soothes your nerves either way.

“C’mon. Let’s get you something to eat,” she continues. You glance over your shoulder at the boys who all house similar grins, and you dip your head. “You must be starving. I know I am.”

“Sasha—“ You’re cut off by your own laugh as she grabs your hand, pulling you towards the doors.

“What the—“

“Sasha!”

“Slow down, Sasha!” Bertholdt calls as Sasha tries to hide her snickers. Wincing, you still can’t help your smile as you meet her nefarious gaze and you give her a subtle nod. The boys call after them as their fingers interlaced, and Sasha lets out a sharp laugh as she speeds up, tugging you along. “Hey, wait! She’s still hurt!”

“Sasha!”

“Sasha! Lunch isn’t for another hour!”

Breaking into a full sprint, the two girls barrel through headquarters, letting out peals and shrieks of laughter as the boys chase after them, screaming for them to slow down. Despite the thrumming pain in your leg, you can’t help but breathe in the way the wind whizzes past your face as they reach the stairs, jogging down and slipping out of the boys’ view.

Giggling, Sasha whispers about a shortcut and you let her lead you down a hall as the boys’ footsteps patter behind them.

Indeed, when three boys burst into the mess hall, panting and two of them even sweating, they find you two already sitting at a bench across from one another, playing a game of flicking paper at one another, and Sasha, who faces the door, can only maintain a serious face for so long before she bursts into a loud laugh and you hide your smile behind your hand as you glance over your shoulder.

You only last a couple more seconds before you’re breaking down, too.

“Your face! You should see the look on their faces!” Sasha wheezes, slapping a hand over her mouth and trying to silence herself as they come closer, but Bertholdt only looks at them with barely enough anger to scare a baby that it only makes them fall apart even more. 

Connie shoots Sasha a look, wedging himself in beside her with purposeful elbow action while Bertholdt and Reiner sandwich you between them and you send them both look but Bertholdt only rolls his eyes as you clutch your stomach, gasping for breath.

“The cripple can run… faster… than you,” you manage to say achingly, poking him in the arm and you swallow, your stomach cramping up as you cover your face with your hand. “What’s the Survey Corps come to?” Your leg seems to pulse at your words, and you hide a wince as your lungs hitch. A hand settles on your thigh gently, and you look at Reiner. He raises his eyebrows and you clear your throat, voice needly. “I’m okay. Really. It’s just my leg, and even that’s not that bad, I promise.”

A firm squeeze before he lets go. Sasha wipes the last tears from her eyes, sniffing a bit.

“If you say so.”

“At least you have something to do, all injured and stuff. If lunch isn’t going to come any sooner, I think I might die of boredom,” Connie points out. “We’ve been here for like, two days, and we haven’t even gotten any updates.” Bertholdt and Reiner share a look behind you as you grab the last paper ball Sasha had flicked at you and throw it back at Connie. He winces, batting it down to the floor.

Grumbling to himself, the guy ducks under the table to grab it as Reiner gets up. Looking up, you watch as he heads for the corner of the room and you excuse yourself, following after him, still recovering from your laughing high.

Sidling beside the blond, you watch as he crouches beside some cabinets.

“I think there’s a chess set somewhere here,” he explains, opening them up and searching. “Do you know how to play?”

“No.”

“Bertholdt and I do. I can teach you.” You nod, surprised. You know chess has always been a game more suited to the higher ups. You wonder how he knows how to play—who must’ve taught him.

Reiner lets out a noise of triumph and pulls something out. Extracting some books, he ducks his head and manages to pull out a wooden box, something rattling inside. The checkered pattern is a bit faded, but he kicks the cabinet doors shut gently and turns to you, surprised to see you standing so close. 

“Hey.”

“Hi.” You smile softly, leaning towards him, and he cocks an eyebrow. “You’re full of surprises. Who taught you how to play chess?” The only thing blocking them from touching is the chess box between their bodies as he huffs a laugh.

“I had a friend who was older than I was. He was like our leader—knew all this kind of stuff.”

“Really?”

“His father was a doctor, I think,” he explains vaguely and you smile in amusement. “It’s really easy once you get the hang of it. Don’t worry.”

“Alright. You’re on.” You lean up just as Reiner turns his face away, and you reel back, eyes widening. The soft expression melts away and you exhale sharply, following his gaze to see Ymir glancing over her shoulder at them. Krista speaks to one of the other Scouts sitting across from them, leaving the freckled brunette to study them freely, and Reiner clears his throat, stepping back. 

You duck your head, stepping back so Reiner can go ahead first and head towards the table, you following moments later. 

It is easy once you learn the basic moves of each piece. Bishops diagonally, rooks horizontally and vertically, pawns one step at a time. When you don’t understand, Bertholdt explains as Reiner tries to get out of a tight spot he’s been shoved into. You really can’t tell who’s going to win as you study the board, trying to guess what they’ll do next.

Sasha and Connie look out the window, bored out of their minds, waiting for lunch as you point at a piece before Reiner can move it.

“That’ll put you in checkmate for Bertl’s next turn, I think,” you tell him, and Reiner pauses, staring at the board. Bertholdt shoots you a glare and you smile sheepishly as Reiner moves his hand.

“You’re right.” He moves his knight instead and Bertholdt scowls, moving his rook quickly as Reiner crosses his arms again. “You’re good at this.”

“I’ve got a good teacher,” you reply, smiling at him. Leaning forward on your uninjured elbow, you keep watching as Reiner turns the tides of the battle, your eyes dragging from the squares to his face. An unsettling feeling growing in your stomach, you glance at the chess pieces that’ve been taken out of action from the game just as he points out how strange everything is.

Why are we unarmed?

It wasn’t standard for them to be—that, and the lack of new orders is troubling. If anything, they should be out there with their gear on, scanning the walls just to make sure there isn’t another breach. Or even in Stohess. Why weren’t the healthy Scouts there? Wouldn’t it be more ideal for there to be more forces just in case?

Your heart drops. Unless…

Reiner stands and you look at Bertholdt who looks paler than usual.

You didn’t think much of it at first with everyone in their plainclothes, but as Reiner returns to his seat next to you from the window, you look into your lap.

What’s happening? Your eyes flit to the carved chess pieces, the one still standing as Bertholdt takes a pawn from Reiner’s side. What aren’t they telling us?

It’s not until Tomas bursts into the mess hall, demanding you directly to get ready to ride to Stohess do you understand.

“Wall Rose has been breached. You and I are riding back to Stohess to alert Commander Erwin and get you to safety.” You shoot up to your feet as Bertholdt’s and Reiner’s mouths drop open.

“I can fight.”

“There are Titans heading this way now. Without ODM gear, you might as well be dead weight.” It’s harsh, and you flinch as Reiner grabs your hand but you jerk it out of his grasp. “Saddle up, now. That’s an order from Section Commander Miche himself.” You step over the bench as Tomas turns to head out and worried murmurs break out amongst them. Your desperate gaze swings from the door to your friends who all stare at you.

“Guys—“

“Go. We’ll be okay,” Connie says, standing just as a Nanaba lands at the window and you rush out of the mess hall, ignoring the pain in your shin as you run out of the building and towards the stables. Entering, you spot Tomas already guiding out two horses and you take the reins with your hand, shrugging your injured shoulder testily out of its sling. It smarts, sharp pain shooting through you, but you shake your head. 

You’d have to put it back in later. For now, tacking up a horse is your priority. 

What the hell is going on? Bertholdt, Reiner, do you know what’s happening? You guys have to know what to do.

Gritting your teeth and head pulsing with pain, you manage to only be a minute behind Tomas and he helps you with the final fastenings before boosting your step up into the saddle. You take the reins gingerly, determined not to let the pain slowly growing in intensity slow you down as he leads the way out to the road.

The doors burst open as soon as they hit sunlight, and you watch as the other Scouts run for the stables. Moving out of the way, your eyes scan for one blond head in particular as Tomas calls for you to get going.

“Wait, give me a second!” Wretchedly, your ears begin to pound. “I’ll catch up to you!”

Tomas does not wait. He shakes his head, snaps his reins, and gallops out of base without another second to lose.

“Creampie!” The name makes your head swivel and you see him at last near the rear, probably to make sure no one detoured, and you wait for him to run up to you as your mare tosses her mane impatiently, pawing at the ground.

Reining her back in, you feel Reiner’s hand on your thigh before he stops beside you and you wish you could say a million things, but the most you can muster is, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

He smiles. “How could I? You promised to marry me, didn’t you? Wouldn’t miss that for the world.” Winking, he runs into the stable without another word, and your heart lurches as Bertholdt passes, squeezing your knee comfortingly and sending you a determined nod.

You give him a nod in return before grabbing the reins and taking off towards Wall Rose, following the path of dust Tomas had kicked up in his wake.

[writing-in-april]

The Melody Lives On

Spencer Reid x Gender Neutral Reader

Summary: Seeing Spencer after so long apart makes past feelings come to the surface again.

A/N: Hey heyy 🥰 this is my third fic for my 1250 follower celebration!! It was based on a request that @imagining-in-the-margins passed along to me- if you want to see a photo of the original request it’ll be on the follower celebration Masterlist! It’s got vague references to the prison arc and is also inspired by Grey’s Anatomy 🥰 Thank you to @lexieshuntingsstuff for getting me back to realizing how much I love Grey’s 😊 Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy, and requests are open!

Warnings: Nothing I guess- unless vague references to the prison arc bother you

Main Masterlist Word Count: 2.2k

“Dr. Y/L/N to conference room A please. Dr. Y/L/N to conference room A please. ” Came through the intercom. I was sitting in the hospital cafeteria munching on crackers while reading a book that I honestly wasn’t paying that much attention to because of how dead tired I was. I couldn’t stifle the groan that escaped me, I didn’t want my first break in what seemed like forever to be cut short.

Besides the fact that my bones and muscles ached I willed my body to move out of my chair despite it’s very prominent protests. There was a line of attending that led outside the conference room, I guess I had been the only one they had forgotten to get the memo out too.

Karev then came up behind me with just as much of a quizzical look on his face as mine and the rest of the attendings- I guess no one knew why we were here.

The only hint that the rest of us got to what was going on inside was when Arizona left the room and said it was some sort of FBI interrogation before she scurried off back towards peds.

As the line dwindled down to just me and Karev with Meredith in the room my mind started to wander to the person that I knew that happened to be in the FBI. Well- I guess I didn’t know him anymore, it had been a decade plus since I had seen him.

Of course said person that I happened to be thinking about happened to be in the room.

As soon as I saw his fluffy hair memories came flooding back. He looked so different now, more mature. But, I could clearly tell who it was; it was Spencer.

We had met just as I had been starting my first year of college. At first I had assumed he was the same, a freshman. Then I had learned that he was actually already on his second PHD- which had been in mathematics if my memory serves me well.

I had admittedly gawked at him at first like so many had done to him as well when they found out about his vast valleys of intellect that seemed to go on forever. When I had asked him to tutor me in my own mathematics course it was for the sole reason of bumping up the grade I had let slip. That was until I had gotten to know the sweet boy who was almost a man, though his baby face definitely did try to fight that fact. Guilt had immediately cropped up within me once I realized how much of a fool I was to not want to get to know him deeper than just the ‘child prodigy’ that everyone knew him as. He was one of the nicest people I had ever had the pleasure to come across, plus his bountiful knowledge made conversations with him extremely riveting to say the least. I remember apologizing to him profusely that first night, that was the first time I had gotten the chance to see the true extent of how sweet his kind eyes could be.

What had first been a simple somewhat feigned friendship to get a good tutor turned into the closest friendship that I had ever had. That close friendship had eventually turned into a romantic relationship one that in my opinion rivaled any of the great classic love stories.

Unfortunately, fate is rarely kind to lovers and what had once been sweet turned sour. It wasn’t any one of our faults, I knew that. But, my blossoming career as a surgeon led me to get an internship in Seattle while Spencer was led to the front steps of the FBI.

Every time I thought back on it I bitterly laughed at the irony of us both being led to Washington, though they were different ones that were on the other sides of the country. I had no animosity towards Spencer and the last time I saw him neither did he. But, the memories stung painfully when looking back on them. They stung even worse when I was faced with the sight of the man who had stolen my heart more than a decade ago and had yet to give it back.

His hair had grown out since I had last seen him, it now curled more around his ears and was much fluffier. The color of his soft curls would make anyone obsessed, mousy brown that shined a little bit of a burnt caramel when the tops of his curls hit the light. He had taken to letting his curls run wild which I had always liked to see when he would wash his hair of the gel he used to religiously put in.

A new addition along with his curls was the scruff he had begun to let grow out a little. When I knew him growing out his scruff a little would’ve been a completely foreign concept to young Spencer. I remember him always complaining about how scratchy it felt when he even let it grow out a little. The scruff also used to seem jarring on his younger face, looking out of place on his boyish face. Now his face definitely suited the scruff.

He had changed a lot indeed, but underneath it all I could still see the Spencer I knew. His eyes held a darkness now that matched well with the fluffy curls and scruff. The darkness that deepened his eyes was attractive for sure, but I wondered what had made the sweet boy become so dark. There was a part of me that wanted to know this Spencer as well, even with the darkness, despite the fact that I hadn’t really known him in so long.

His eyes had been piercing right into my own as I took the sight of him in. Those dark eyes felt like they were reaching right into my soul and hooking their claws in deep to draw me right back into him. Though I can’t say I minded much, being drawn back into Spencer’s warmth sounded like something we may both need.

“Dr.?” One of the men that was in the room with Spencer spoke up to get my attention. They must have been talking while the both of us had zoned out looking at each other.

The older man that spoke to me looked like he may have been a bit too old to work for the FBI. If I didn’t know that Spencer worked for them I would’ve thought Arizona had been pulling our legs when she told us what this was for because Instead of acknowledging the other man I turned back to face Spencer and spoke softly,”It’s good to see you, Spencer.”

“You too.” His voice croaked and was hoarse when he replied. His coworkers looked extremely confused with what was happening, especially the woman with blonde hair that was eyeing me up and down. Though in her position I didn’t blame her, I’m assuming nothing had ever been shared with his coworkers ever since he had joined the FBI about someone that had been in his life all those years ago.

The group of us stood at an awkward standstill for a minute, I was unsure if I was supposed to say anything. I fidgeted a bit uncomfortable with a bunch of eyes fixated directly on me before Spencer decided to speak up to break the tension, “Um- well Y/N- there was a suspect that came here a few weeks ago to possibly find some people that would um- be suitable victims for him.”

I pushed my reminiscing thoughts of Spencer out of my mind just so I could properly answer their questions before hopefully snagging a minute away with him to talk. I wouldn’t lie, seeing him after all these years made my feelings flicker in a way I hadn’t felt in so long. And, it was really nice to hear him say my first name again. He was really the only one to ever make those butterflies in my stomach swell and sparks fly. I had even resigned myself to never feel those wonderful feelings of blossoming love again.

But, perhaps fate had decided to give us a second chance, realizing it had been too cruel to us by pulling us apart.

When the questions ended, which unfortunately I had really been no help to them- the only people that would’ve been able to help with the victims were probably Meredith or maybe Bailey who had been in contact with the poor people who had ended up as victims.

I moved to shuffle out of the room, though I purposefully lingered in hopes of Spencer pulling me aside to speak privately. I didn’t want to do it myself, he was on an important job after all.

My heart skipped a beat when I felt his fingers tentatively wrap his fingers around my wrist. Even from just a soft touch it was evident that his hands were not the same hands that I remembered. They were the same shape, his fingers were just as long and nimble and his palms were just as all encompassing, but there was something different in the way they felt. They felt rougher, covered in more calluses then I would think possible on him. The hands I remembered were baby soft as if they had been untouched by the world. Maybe the calluses were just from him handling the gun I saw strapped to his side, or maybe it was the same thing that had made the rest of him harder.

Even though he was an obviously harder- more damaged man compared to the one I knew I still wanted those callused hands to stroke my cheek again.

The yearning to be with him again had already flickered into a roaring fire just from seeing him with my eyes again and with one soft touch. I didn’t care in the slightest how much the world had changed him. The world had battered and bruised him, probably quite literally from my guess. I wanted to get to know this Spencer, even with the bruises he still filled my stomach full of butterflies and sparked my feelings into a roaring fire exactly like he had done so before.

I turned to face him, a little nervous that he’d tell me that he never wanted to see me again despite the fact that I knew he’d never say that to me no matter how much of a changed man he was.

“Do you want to get a coffee while I’m in town, maybe so we can- um catch up after your shift?” His voice was so soft, almost meek, giving me a little taste of what Spencer had been like and who he still was at his core.

“Yeah I’d like that, Spencer, just have one more surgery and then I’m yours.” His two coworkers that he had come with were giving us both looks like they’d be interrogating Spencer on the ride back. Yeah he definitely had never said anything about me judging by their looks I now cared to look at. I couldn’t blame him, the memories had been painful to look back on myself. But, seeing him now made them tinge with a little bit of sweetness instead of growing more bitter with time.

I pulled out my phone that was in my white jacket pocket and asked, “what’s your number?”

I had his old number memorized by heart easily even after all these years. It was as if I had taken a small portion of Spencer’s eidetic memory just so I could hold onto a number that after over ten years is surely not usable. He gave me his new number with a distinctly D.C area code with a sweet smile on his face. As I left the room to scoot over to the surgery I was due to perform I was sparkling with anticipation- I could almost taste the coffee already.

As I started my last surgery of my long shift, someone turned on the music playlist that I always had on a loop during my surgeries. A song that reminded me of Spencer was the first one that came on the shuffle. It wasn’t one that reminded me of the Spencer I once knew, but the new version of Spencer I had just met.

I focused in on the task at hand just as I always did. Cutting with pristine precision, I worked quickly but diligently. I wanted to get out of here as soon as possible, but I wouldn’t skimp on my work. In the back of my mind I was still giddy like the schoolgirl I had been when I had first met Spencer. I couldn’t wait to get that coffee with him- I wondered if he still liked a gallon of sugar with it. Our first song had ended, but the melody lived on- maybe the melody was strong enough to start another.

—-

Tag list (message me if you want to be added):

All Works:

@shotarosleftpinky @oreogutz @90spumkin @kyra-morningstar @s1utformgg

Spencer Reid/CM:

@calm-and-doctor @destiny-tsukino @safertokiss @slutforthegubes

[chiwhorei]

𝐀𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐚

✞𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐁𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬: 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐈𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧✞

Pairing: Shouta Aizawa x Fem!Reader

Genre: Smut, Dark Content, 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 3,175 [Link to Ao3]

Tags: Darkfic, sacrelige, coercion, corruption, dubcon and noncon elements, intonations and parallels to incest, but not actual incest (ie. ‘Father’ Shouta), choking, age-gap, oral, Priest!Aizawa, Virgin!Reader

From Chiwhorei: Aizawa is where this all started, so it’s fitting he is the subject of my anniversary fic. To everyone who’s followed me along this journey despite the long bouts of radio silence, to everyone that’s participated and supported this collab, to all of my lovely, devious friends— truly, completely, thank you for this past year. Xoxo.

The pain was so sharp that it made me utter several moans; and so excessive was the sweetness caused me by this intense pain that one can never wish to lose it, nor will one’s soul be content with anything less than God.

** ** **

There’s not a soul awake this late.

The rosary wrapped between twitching fingers feels like a hot lashing against the skin. The glass and metal itch in your hold, the devotional was a gift for your confirmation-- it holds a decade of sins.

Your family has been asleep for hours now. Slipping through the back door as soon as you’re sure. Nineteen. A legal adult. Yet the only way to leave in the middle of the night is in secret. The cool, summer air hits your cheeks, it’s still for a moment. It’s so quiet, you feel like you’ve mistaken the real world for a snow globe. Static— in the moments after all of the glitter settles, all of the quiet, iridescent tears laying at your feet. It waits, patiently, until someone comes by to shake it again.

Moving into a cramped dorm room a few hours away, your childhood home feels bigger every visit. It’s bigger because nothing fills the space inside. There’s nothing but tense words and the clatter of silverware against dinner plates. Your father reminds you of an old briefcase— stern, rigid leather, unmistakably empty; your mother’s rose garden smells like poisoned wine.

Roses and leather, the combination suffocating enough to repel you in the hours you should be unconscious.

The walk from your parent’s house to the church is the most familiar thing in the world. Down to the cracks on the sidewalk and mossy steps leading up to a set of large, cherry doors. So routine it almost feels good for you.

There’s not a soul awake this late, you decide, that must be why you’re here.

That must be why he’s up too.

Pushing open one ornate door just enough to peek inside, you’re met with that distinct waft of incense and dusty missals. It smells like every Sunday morning and Easter Vigil, it smells like home.

Only votive candles light the space around you, flickering with intentions from fellow parishioners. You wonder if there’s one burning for you.

You know where to find Father Shouta, and suspect he’s waiting. He can trace every step from your parents home to the front gate. You open the confessional booth and crawl inside, the wooden space around you is cramped. It smells like incense masking cigarettes. Kneeling into the leather cushion, you face the screen partition.

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was,” the memory has you falter, “three months ago.”

You remember the last hollow confession like it was yesterday. You were back in town for spring break. After mass that Sunday, your dad told Father Shouta how deplorable it was that your friends had tried, in vain, to drag you to the beach a few hours away from campus. “A week of drinking and sex, not for my daughter.”

Shouta met with you that evening and you cried your sins to him. How you had been dared to kiss boys at a party during midterms week, how you drank who-knows-what mixed with cheap beer at a frat house. He consoled you then, he told you that God will forgive all transgressions. “Even the sins of a whore.”

The memory makes you want to cry all over again. Yet, here you are— knees pressed to the very same leather, face against the same dusty screen.

He’s so still, so quiet, you jump out of your skin at the sound of his voice, “What is it that you’d like to confess, my child?”

Your body aches, stiff and tense to the bone. You breathe in, shallow and suffocated, before you speak again.

“Father, forgive me I—” you can tell his posture is just as rigid, he’s only a shadowed outline and the slightest glimmer of color from his eyes. They warn you, but you ignore the familiar feeling on the back of your neck.

“I have been having impure thoughts. I’ve been thinking about a man,” one more deep breath in an attempt to keep your voice neutral, “a much older man.”

If you could hear a smile, Father’s creaks like floorboards.

His silence prompts you to continue, you knot your fingers together and hold them against your stomach, the Rosary tangled in between threatening to cut off circulation.

“The boys in my youth group, the ones in my classes— they’re all nice but,” you leave the second half of the sentence to rattle around in your mind, “but they aren’t you.”

“Impure thoughts are one thing, sinful, but,” his voice is indifferent, cold, “the true sins are ones of the flesh.”

“I- I haven’t,” you start to stutter, trying to defend yourself, “I haven’t done anything, Father.”

Despite himself, he laughs.

“It’s true Father,” you wonder why you hadn’t just stayed at home, “I’ve only ever kissed a boy— it wasn’t even a real kiss. I’m still a virgin.”

From the screen, you can only see him in fragments. Little cutouts of a dark figure and sickeningly bright red eyes. The color peaks through like pieces of a puzzle, chasing through the patterned wood before you can catch that he’s stepping out of his side of the confessional booth.

“It wasn’t a ‘real’ kiss,” each word is mimicked, emphasized by the tap of his shoes against the tiles below, “no, of course it wasn’t. Not with some boy.” Your legs are unsteady as you stand from the kneeler. There’s nowhere to hide, Father has you trapped in a toy box. Just for him to play with.

“Of course that wouldn’t have satisfied you.”

The door to your side of the booth creeks open just as your back hits the wall. You can see his face for the first time in months, you trace the features illuminated with candlelight. Father Shouta’s face is strong, even more sharp with his long, black hair tied back. His presence looms over where you’re sunken into the booth. Even standing and puffing out your chest, he’ll still be able to look down at you.

He bares his teeth. You know this by now, stupid little girl, you know he likes to play with his food.

Long fingers grip the small door frame and curl around the wood like an omen, his body slithers into your personal space until he’s only an inch away.

“Lust, greed, what is it that you want?” Each vowel cradles a hearty dose of poison, the consonants bite away and spit you out. Your skin feels raw under his attention, “You can’t atone for sins you’re not really sorry for.”

Those same fingers slide up either curve of your neck, he crawls from shoulder to jaw, slowly. So slowly it seems like he’s trying not to get caught. He holds steady against your skin, thumb rubbing lightly at your bottom lip. You must have just fallen asleep after your parents went to bed, that stale, poisoned house even lulling the restless. You must be dreaming right now.

“Don’t make me ask again.” His timber hits the three walls and brings you back to the present. There’s no rest for you, only a weak answer to his question. What is it that you want?

“I want to be a humble servant of our Lord.” Your voice shakes, battered against your throat on its way to meet the stiff air.

Father’s lips are on you, he traces the words of Luke over your trembling mouth, there’s only a breath of space between you,

“No one can serve two masters. For you will hate one and love the other; you will be devoted to one and despise the other,”

The hands holding your cheeks move down to circle your neck, each long finger lays a trap. He tightens around the skin, just enough to make you forget how it feels to breathe freely. He could do anything to you right now, and your cries for help would be swallowed by stained glass.

No one can serve two masters.

The scream caught in your throat meets his wicked smile, it fizzles into little more than a whimper. The small booth you’ve been trapped in is burning hot, you feel sweat beading on your forehead. The last ounce of courage, of restraint, tumbles out before you can catch it.

“Who do you serve, Father Shouta? God or the Devil?”

He answers you with a thick tongue finally pushing into your mouth. He smells like perfumed oils and votive candles, he tastes like sugar free gum and Seven Stars.

His grip around your neck is the only thing keeping you on your feet, you’re sure if he were to let go you’d melt into the floor below. Father’s lips against yours are a siren, dulling all other senses, rendering you malleable to his will. Whatever his will may be, whatever it is that he wants from you— you’d let him have it anyway.

He breaks away, the kiss that’s felt like hours disappears far too soon. Your body jolts forward of its own volition, trying to connect yourself to him again. You’re sure you look desperate, but you’re too intoxicated to care.

“I serve only myself.”

Father lets go of your neck and you’re allowed the first deep intake of breath you’ve had since walking into the church. You swallow hard, looking back up to him. He scares you, he always has, but that fear draws you towards him.

Does a moth know what the flame will do to it? Does the moth know their fate?

You feel like crying, really crying, but all that comes out are a few frustrated tears. Father leans over you once more, eyes trailing the tear waxing over your cheek, “You’re a wretched little girl.”

Is that why they fly towards fire, because they like the burn?

** ** **

You step forward in line, it’s almost your turn. Mother first, she’s always thought of Father Aizawa as such a “charming young man''. The notion always made you scoff, in reality he’s only a few years younger than your parents.

Your dad is behind you, he’ll give him a friendly handshake after the service and remark how beautiful the homily was. Today, he spoke of the devil tempting Jesus. You hung on every word.

Mother steps aside and makes the sign of the cross, you’re next. A sheep guided by the dutiful shepherd, a lamb onto his slaughter.

Your chin tilts upwards, eyes locked onto your part-time captor. He only has you for a few seconds this time, but his attention is a hallway— every door is a pitfall. Aizawa’s gaze turns red when he looks upon you again— a bright, bloody, captivating red. You’ve convinced yourself it’s a trick of the light. But you see them in the dark too.

“The Body of Christ,” his voice is a welcome mat in front of an asylum, holding out the wafer and obscuring one painfully beautiful eye.

“Amen.” You know you’re part, but you can’t hear your own voice.

Father watches as your eyes close and your mouth opens, a quiet obedience, nothing at all out of the ordinary. Your fingers tingle with how tight you’re holding them together.

He places the Body to your awaiting tongue. It tastes like a harsh nothing that will stick to the back of your throat for the rest of mass. You take Christ in pieces, letting it start to melt into the roof of your mouth.

Shouta brushes your bottom lip before retracting. It’s subtle, an accident— the smallest touch of chilling skin. No one notices, the earth doesn’t stop on its axis for anyone else. You step aside and follow your Mother back to the wooden pews like nothing out of the ordinary stirs in your heart.

You feel Father’s eyes on the back of your skirt. They feel red.

“Your sweet girl here has offered a helping hand getting prepared for a youth retreat the church is hosting next week.” After mass, the stop to shake Father’s hand is inevitable, a pleasantry every parishioner makes time for before shuffling out for Sunday brunch.

He speaks over your quiet, “Good morning, Father Shouta,” right as your family turns to leave, almost as if he had been mulling over whether or not it was worth a mention. He regards them with a veiled casualty, never once looking at you.

Father’s face is kind when he wants it to be, laying a hand in the middle of your shoulder blades, it's a feeling of comfort you can’t help but lean into, “We’re discussing how to remain chaste in a sinful world.”

The word ‘chaste’ is pinched into your spine and despite yourself, you smile. A heavy heart has found home at the bottom of your stomach, but you can’t let on to the sick churning in your gut. Your parents gleam with pride for their daughter. A perfect example of a good Catholic girl.

“I’ll have her meet at my office this evening, is six okay?” His question sounds like your dowry, talking past you and asking for your parents permission.

Your dad shakes Father Shout’s hand once more, delighted at how his diligent parenting must be the reason you’ve found yourself in holy favor. Said ‘parenting’ is definitely to blame, but not in the way your dad assumes.

*** *** ***

The walk through church and into the sacristy is like a meditation in fear, every step begging you to turn back, to run home like a scared child. You tread steady, feet searing on hot coals until you’re met with the sound of Father Shouta just beyond the threshold.

“You’re late.” Something sinister fills Father’s quarters as soon as you open the door. It’s scary how offhandedly he can lie. You’re at least ten minutes early, the evening toll of church bells will signal the hour. He wants to see if you’ll stutter, if you’ll argue. You stay quiet, busying your hands with the hem of your skirt, fingers lifting it slightly before you remember who owns the eyes sitting across the room. They look golden from here, a honey you could drown in. You cough at the feeling of sugar in your lungs before collecting yourself and awaiting instruction.

Seemingly pleased with your docility, he smiles wide and crooked. It’s bound into a book he will whisper into you page by page. It’s written in a language only he knows.

Shouta motions you farther inside, leaning back in his seat. He corrects you when you move to sit in the chair on the other side of his desk, waiting with little patience as you settle against his side instead. Your posture is stiff being this close, being this alone.

His facial hair is trimmed neatly, small scars litter his face, the most pronounced a jagged trail under his right eye. From the dim evening light, you see a shadow of loose hairs make a pointed crown around his head.

“St. Teresa of Avila,” Father starts, tapping his fingers against a small stack of papers, “what do you know of her?”

You’re disarmed, the question seems so innocent-- not a note of ulterior motive detectible. Even so, your guard remains high. His intentions need no subtext.

“St. Teresa of Avila, the patron saint of headache sufferers,” you’re struggling to see the point, but Father prompts you to continue, “she was a Spanish nun, she wrote about a prayerful life,”

After another moment of measured silence, you grow even more tense, “Father Shouta, forgive me, I don’t understand,”

You’re hushed with a laugh, the small collection of papers placed in your hands. The first leaf is titled with large letters, “The Life of Teresa of Jesus.”

“I’d like you to read the section I’ve highlighted.”

You shake, thumbing through until you find a block of text traced in bright yellow. You scan its contents, but are quickly interrupted by Shouta’s next request.

“Out loud.”

There’s no escaping the toy box.

His stare is unwavering, giving you no room for objection. They’re not soft like honey anymore, Father Shouta’s eye’s are harsh, bloody gemstones.

You know better than to keep him waiting, adjusting in your half sat position on the side of his desk, you begin reading with hoarse inflection, “In his hands I saw a long golden spear, and at the end of the iron tip I seemed to see a point of fire. With this he seemed to pierce my heart several times so that it penetrated to my entrails.”

Wincing, the words sound like a stranger in your ears. After every sentence, Shouta’s fingertips inch closer to the end of your skirt, right above the knee. You’d be stoned for this kind of hemline at home, but with Father it seems to be exactly the sacred skin he wanted to see.

His hands move, unwavering, as you continue with the annotated paragraph, “When he drew it out, I thought he was drawing them out with it and he left me completely afire with a great love of God.” Fingers stop their gentle assault before adding pressure to your inner thigh, he peels apart your legs with a wordless prompting to keep going.

“The pain was so sharp that it made me utter several moans; and so excessive was the sweetness caused me by this intense pain that one can never wish to lose it, nor will one’s soul be content with anything less than God.”

By the last several words, Father Shouta’s lips are centered in between your open thighs, you feel tears frozen in the duct. You want to pull away, to escape, but his lips hold something you’ve never been this close to.

“Piety is a virtue,” you can feel the hot breath against your most intimate planes of flesh, “but our God is one of pleasure too.”

His kiss feels like branding. An aimless, confused lamb seared with the mark of its owner.

You cry out, loud and broken, when his mouth meets the cotton covering your pussy. Shouta uses his pointer and middle finger to move the fabric away.

No one has ever seen these parts of you, kept locked away for your future husband until now, sitting in the heart of your family's church, writhing from even the slightest touch.Hips buck of their own accord, and you’re granted one last open-mouthed lave against your twitching cunt. His tongue peaks out slightly to catch your clit before pulling away.

You move as if possessed, falling to your knees in front of your Father. Your mouth opens, that same quiet obedience, and his finger brushes your lower lip again. “No one” you think, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of fingers wrapped into the back of your hair, “no one can serve two masters.”

“Body and soul, you’re mine.”

But there’s not a soul left in sight.

✞ 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞: All writing is chiwhorei’s original content, please do not repost or modify. Do no read my content as asmr. Do not recommend me on TikTok.©️

[iphoenixrising]

DickTimWeek2021 Day 2

** Day 2: Time Loop | Jealousy | Stray AU

Welp. Time to break some hearts.

They’re laughing like assholes as they climb through Timmy’s penthouse windows. 

“Did you see that thug punch himself in the face?”

“That’s the right way to get out of an ass beating by the Batman.”

Tim, still in Red Robin, doesn’t even bother, just lets his knees buckle so he can slide down to the floor and laugh until tears are rolling down the dominio still plastered on his face.

He’s riding the concussion train with 

(J)

Josephine and she’s not as bad as some of them are. 

Dick at least tosses the gloves and gauntlets before hauling Timmy’s bruised ass up off the floor, throwing the arm around his shoulders.

“C’mon, you butt. Really Timmy, just laying here in your suit? Alfred would be appalled.”

“S’why I don’t go to the Manor much anymore.”

“Ooh, I’m telling. You’re going to be in so much trouble,” as he gets Tim down the hallway to the bathroom.

“Y-You can’t! You’re the oldest! Dami’s supposed to be the tattle-tale!”

“Nu-uh. As the oldest, I can do whatever the hell I want.”

And does he tell on Timmy? You bet your ass he does.

It’s nice when Alfred can look at someone else in the family with extreme disappointment.

Tim comes by the Manor the day Alfred video chats him, shuffles down to the Cave behind the butler and absolutely sticks his tongue out at Dick’s smarmy grin.

**

His apartment is a literal mess and Dick can’t be bothered to do much more than flop on the overstuffed couch with a groan. 

Still in his uni from the day shift, he’s too bruised and battered and tired to even think of suiting up for the night. He’s been running himself ragged for two months, the day and night shifts blending together along with the usual bullshit of daily human life, and he desperately needs a night of terrible television, junk food, and snuggles.

Like he’d been reading the room, Timmy walks out of his bathroom, towel around his shoulder and hair just this side of damp.

“Hey, you made it home in one piece.” Tim’s long fingers in his hair literally pulls a noise out of Dick he can’t ever remember making.

“Yeah, I drove down because you looked like death warmed over when we talked last weekend. Luckily for you I went grocery shopping, did a few loads of your laundry, and cleaned up a little so you don’t have to worry about housework.”

“I love you. Have I told you that recently? Like, so, so much–” is muffled by the couch cushions, but he thinks Tim can probably still make it all out.

“Mmhm, I know,” and the gentle scratching against his scalp doesn’t stop, and Dick goes a little boneless with it. “I even brought my Roku so we can binge watch terrible television while you eat something more substantial than cereal. Alfred is going to be so proud of you.”

A pat to his head and Timmy is off, slinging his towel on the rack, turning on the shower again to make sure it’s nice and hot for all those bruises and contusions.

He’s no-nonsense about picking up his previous mentor and best friend, literally stripping him down and manhandling him in the shower after a low whistle at the span of blue/black across Dick’s chest and ribs, the scrapes across his back and shoulders. 

The first aid kit tackle box makes an appearance because Tim plans for literally everything ever, and Dick finds himself sitting on his sink wearily while his injuries are meticulously treated.

He knows he eats something super tasty with meat and vegetables, his belly full, before Tim pulls him down on the couch and lets Dick lay against his chest, between his legs to sleepily float while watching God-awful B-movies.

It’s the most relaxing weekend he’s had in a while.

**

Dami sneers at Tim, arms crossed over his chest, the expression on his face begging Tim to try to deny it.

The third Robin however, is looking over at Dick with horror that the big secret is finally out in the open.

“Th-that isn’t– it’s not–” Tim fumbles desperately, “he’s been my big brother forever, that’s it!”

“Tt. Grayson may be painfully oblivious, Drake, but the rest of us are detectives. Even Todd knows of your feelings and he rarely even comes to the Manor!”

Tim’s soul literally leaves his body.

Dick blinks, completely taken back, mouth open without anything coming out.

Damian raises his eyes skyward and prays for patients dealing with these two. “What I am saying,” he tries, he really is trying here, “is that you two must cease and desist this pointless–” vague hand wave– “pining for one another. It is getting to the point of absurdity. I demand you two either discuss your need for one another or take this ridiculous mooning elsewhere. The rooftops of Gotham is no place for this,” another hand wave, “utter nonsense.”

Tim’s mouth goes dry, subtly backing away to be closer to the Ducati’s waiting for tonight’s ride. He’s pretty sure he has enough energy left in his shaky knees to hop on one and be the fuck out of the Cave before his face literally bursts into flames.

But, well. Dick was Batman.

His strategic retreat is stomped into the ground by acrobatic leaps and a very well done joint lock to keep him from immediately taking off.

Dami scoffs at them on his way up the winding staircase. He stops Pennyworth on the way and turns the butler to return back into the Manor proper, citing those two needed time to figure themselves out.

**

After several weeks under deep cover, Nightwing wearily hacks into Titan’s Tower and makes his way through the maze of hallways until he hits a hidden panel. 

Tim is sleeping on his desk, only one empty coffee mug at his workstation. Even dead in his boots, Nightwing can take a second just to look, just to sigh, just to enjoy how much every inch of this boy is his.

He journeys down the hall, flips the bed covers up, carries his sleeping partner in and tucks the blankets around him, a quickly there kiss to the top of messy, too-long hair. A shower in Tim’s perch literally makes everything in life a little less awful and exhausting, not enough for him to do much more than crawl in bed against Tim’s warm body and snuggle up close.

He gets breakfast in bed and blue-violet eyes looking at him with fondness rather than awe, gets coffee flavored kisses and a slow-paced back rub that continues down to his thighs and calves and feet. Later, he gets a date night in a nice restaurant and a sweet San Fran club scene for dessert. He gets to let loose and hold Tim’s body against him, to play them both until the gazes are intense and the low key UST between them makes other people on the dance floor give them space.

**

Witty banter is a primary weapon against megalomaniacal bad guys of any flavor. For some former Robins, it’s an art form.

Over the years, they’ve cultivated their dip and distraction to bounce off one another like a well-oiled vigilante machine. 

It should have been a standard take-down because it’s not one of their more dangerous, deadly villains. It’s not one of the Rogue Gallery baddies. It’s not one of the mobster families, not one of the super powered groups come to call. It’s not someone with hordes of thugs and deadly science waiting to take them down.

It’s a simple B&E, just Nightwing talking it up to draw gunfire while Red Robin is creeping up from behind to get the last laugh.

It’s one of a thousand times they’ve done this. 

It’s a guaranteed win.

It’s the last hour of patrol before they get to go back to Red’s penthouse and snuggle together, eat and show, probably have some fantastic sex before passing out.

The .45 shell, however, cuts through the suit, between armored plates. 

Going after the running baddies is automatic, taking them down, zip ties, and viola. They’re ready for GCPD to pick-up, all kinds of gift-wrapped.

When N finally realizes Red isn’t with him, isn’t answering comms, isn’t waiting for him on the roof, he goes back inside. He hits up B for a ride in the big car in case he missed –

– anything.

The pool of blood around Red Robin is more than he can afford to lose, and Nightwing has been in the vigilante life for over twenty years, has been official with Red Robin for a little over two, has personal experience on how his Baby Bird can take a mostly-fatal beating and still keep moving. He’s seen Tim come close with the Clench, with horrifying injuries, with any of the many bad guys they fight holding him hostage.

Nightwing has seen him perform literal miracles.

And tells him so the entire time he’s got Red Robin up in his arms, carrying him through Gotham’s skyline to the waiting car, falling in with Red on his lap when the familiar hatch slides back, the tourniquet already applied before he even shot a grapple. The struggling pulse is enough of a concern to get it together.

And even if they all gather to strip off the suit, and now it’s on to get vitals back to an acceptable range. Even if the Bats cry overhead, even if the equipment is top notch in the Cave, even if Dick is still talking the whole time, and Alfred is keeping a cool head and Bruce is gripping a hand and Damian is standing at the ready to hand implements and Cass is biting her thumbnail while she hovers and Steph is moving from empty space to empty space around the gurney –

The consistent beep of the flatline cuts through it all.

**

The Titans make it for the service. 

Each of them make a point to hug Dick for as long as possible, holding on tightly.

Bruce is silent and stoic, a little boy again when he has to watch someone else he loves being lowered into the cold, unforgiving ground. Another Robin taking a piece of his heart to the afterlife. 

Steph is red-eyed, a ghost moving around to individual circles, listening to stories she might not have known. 

Cass grips the coffin with bruised knuckles, her whole body wound tight as a string ready to snap. She doesn’t move the entire service, is already convinced leaving him to his own devices caused this whole thing. She doesn’t blame the thugs or Dick or Bruce. She blames the boy that never understood how much it all means.

Duke Thomas is back in Gotham, taking leave from the Outsiders to be here for the family that took him in after the Joker drove his parents insane. He hovers in the doorway to welcome mourners, direct them toward the book to sign-in, talks about Tim Drake with regular humans and other metas in disguise, accepts condolences with his throat tight and his eyes watery. He makes sure Dick has a bottle of water after the first hour, pats Damian’s shoulder, grips Bruce’s arm, weaves an arm around Cassandra’s back to give her a squeeze, obediently looks at the old pictures of Tim on Steph’s photo roll when she’s overcome and has to see that smile again.

In the back, Jason Todd wears dark shades and a clean black suit. Roy Harper is beside him, a hand on the broad back to keep him grounded, to keep the Pit rage at bay. If anyone knows how far Tim and Jason had come over the years, it’s the former Red Arrow. If anyone knows how much agony Jason is in at this moment, at another fallen brother, another Robin gone, if anyone had held the Red Hood while he screamed and cried and broke the utter fuck down, it’s Roy Harper.

Damian Wayne hovers right by Grayson’s side, silently supporting his first Batman, his first brother. Whenever Dick’s eyes start going hazy, glazing over, Damian gently grips a wrist to bring him back, allows fingers to lace through his own and tolerates the tight squeeze that obviously assists in grounding the oldest Robin. 

(Later when the night is crowding grief-stricken Wayne Manor, Damian will be the one to open Grayson’s bedroom door, lift the covers to crawl in behind him, to wind both arms tightly. He will be the one to take the onslaught of grief, to be soaked in tears and snot, to listen to the broken, hoarse voice, to make soothing hums that ultimately mean nothing.)

Alfred Pennyworth quietly talks with the funeral director about the arrangements. Of course Master Timothy would want to be laid to rest with his parents, and the family appreciates all the support and ease of process as the deceased was an important part of the Wayne family. 

When he gets a phone call, he firmly verifies the name on the tombstone is Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne Grayson.

**

Exactly four days after the service, the Flash is staring at him helplessly, gripping Nightwing’s arm tight, “please, please, Dick, don’t do this. You can’t think this is the answer!”

He can barely hear Wally with the absolute destruction going on around them, the machine they’d inadvertently stumbled upon (which is a lie, Nightwing had been looking for it and the Flash basically caught him red handed). 

“You know you aren’t going to be able to stop me.” Standing between the glowing portal and Wally, debris from overhead crashing down on them at intervals, Nightwing is at his peak stubborn, “no matter how fast you are.”

“You don’t understand what’s going to happen,” Wally yells desperately as the vacuum starts pulling at Nightwing’s other arm, pulling him into–

–the Speed Force.

“You don’t have the lightning, Dick, you won’t be able to get yourself out, and I won’t have any way of tracking you!”

The small smirk as the machine’s panel starts going haywire, lights blinking and readings off the charts, makes Wally’s heart clench hard in his chest, makes him try to dig in his heels, makes his stomach tremble.

“You have no idea how many times I’ve already done this, Wally. And I’ll do it as many times as it takes until I change everything.”

The pellet Nightwing palmed before the Flash grabbed his hand goes off the same time the machine hits the highest ratings and a low boom is followed up with an intense swirling suction, pulling the heroes closer to the portal’s surface.

The light grenade goes off without a hitch and the Flash has no choice but to let Nightwing go.

**

They’re laughing like assholes as they climb through Timmy’s penthouse windows. 

[hopeamarsu]

Hello m'lady! I'm so excited to see you're accepting prompts! If this strikes your fancy, may I request : “What happened to us?” and “I can be your reason why.” for our Frankie??? ANGST HOTEL HERE WE COME...MAYBE?!? Thank you for your time 💚🌿💚

My darling lady, I'm so happy to get your request! 💚

One huge dose of angsty Frankie coming right up. Oh, this one has a happy ending too. I hope you enjoy this, I'm sending a lot of hugs your way.

I can be your reason why

Frankie Morales x gn!reader

Word count 1,4k

Warnings: Hospitals, accident, mention of drunk driver, mention of death (Frankie was in the army), angst, sad sad sad, pining, hopeful ending

The room is so white, right down to the bedsheet that covers your lower half.

The white machines hooked on your body, keeping a check on vitals and making sure you are fine, look like something out of a sci-fi film for Frankie. He hates that he has to see them in multitudes as well as the monitors above your bed drawing lines as you breathe and your heart pumps blood and medicine all over your body, healing you.

To say he’d been surprised to get the call from the hospital at 4 in the morning was an understatement when he’d been shocked to the core. Ever since you had had a big fight with him all those months ago, something that was still unsettled and gnawed at his guts, Frankie had been certain he’d been crossed off the list for good and he had only himself to blame.

He had tried to scrub the yelling, the insults, and the low blows out of his mind, but every time he’d glance at his phone and see his wallpaper of you and his daughter smiling together and it would all come back.

“Fuck you, Frankie! I can’t believe you out of all the people would say this! You were supposed to be my friend!”

“Cariño, please…”

“NO! No Frankie, just no. You’ve gone too far this time.”

“Please, please let me explain. Please.”

“Absolutely not. I heard you loud and clear the first time Francisco and, God, what happened to us? Where did we go wrong? I thought you’d… I thought you understood… I thought...”

He can still hear the sniffles, feel the pain in his stomach as he watches you slam the door on his face on the film reel in his mind, and the desperation that creeps up his spine as his texts and calls go unanswered for weeks. He remembers asking the guys to call you and the mountain of ice spreading through his veins when Will told him that you had blocked his number and didn’t want him to contact you.

Frankie contemplated going to your house after that, but what good would it do? He was broken, beaten and lying breathless on the ground. Nothing would help him rise from there. Definitely not you. He is still all those things and more because he doesn’t have you beside him to weather out the stormy seas.

Getting cut off from you hurt him on levels he had trouble comprehending. Frankie had gotten used to you being around, comfortable in the knowledge that you had always been there as his friend and would always be there and that was his grave mistake.

All those moments in the playground swing back in teenage years when he escaped the yelling and shouting in his house, turbulent times in college where he began experimenting with his sexuality and life all the way to his high-risk career in the Army, the coke rap and losing his lady to another man. You had always been there for him.

You had been his rock and his most ardent supporter, Santi hot on your heels but never reaching the level of trust and intimacy you shared with Frankie. All the times he fucked up, needed a shoulder to cry on or a couch to sleep off his desire to go out and find one of his bad habits for a visit, you opened your door to help him. And what had he done for you? Fuck all but trouble and heartbreak and pain in measures he can never pay back.

He hangs his head, his ballcap twisted between his fists as he wrings the fabric to give himself something to do. He would do anything, everything to take back the last 3 and half months and just hold you tight and tell you that he believes in you and will stand by you in all the ways you want him.

But you are sleeping, eyes closed, hooked up to all the machines that monitor your body and Frankie cannot do that. He’s not sure if he’s even allowed to touch you, because just being in the same room as you without your permission feels like an invasion of sorts.

“Cariño, if you can hear me, I am so sorry. I’m so sorry for all the words, all the insults thrown in your face and all the pain I’ve caused you. I wish… I wish I could take it all back.”

He whispers, placing his hand next to you where it lays on top of the bedsheet. The difference between them shocks him still, your elegant fingers next to his calloused and battered ones. The way your skin is unmarred by scars where he has all these silver lines criss-crossing his knuckles.

Taking care to avoid the IV line, he gently moves your hand into his and sighs at the first connection in months. The softness of your hand against his roughness is still something out of a dream; how something so beautiful and lovely and gorgeous could ever want something so dark, drenched in the blood of people he’s killed and lost count of is a mystery Frankie never hopes to have to solve.

Like a thief in the night, he steals yet one more moment with you as he squeezes your hand gently. And like a greedy one too, he rises from the creaky plastic hospital chair and kisses your forehead, pushing his luck a little further. Frankie begins talking, his deep timbre bouncing off the walls as he tells you stories you’ve heard a thousand times already but which bring him comfort.

His thumb strokes your knuckles softly, a soothing gesture more for him than you, while he continues telling you things. Time ticks by and Frankie’s voice grows tired and gravely, but he refuses to stop. He talks about Will, Benny and Santi, the ways all of them get together weekly and he talks about Olivia, his pride and joy, and how she grows and how she misses you. How he misses his friend.

The tone tinges with sadness as Frankie starts to talk about your accident and what has happened in the past couple of days. “They caught him, the drunk bastard that ran the red light. He’s in custody and the traffic cameras have him on tape. You are not going to have to see him, he’ll be locked up for a good time. You just need to get better, cariño, so you can kick my ass in softball again and tell me Oreos taste superior when dunked in cold milk.”

He takes a deep breath, blinking away to keep his raw emotions hidden. Had you not changed your medical info and your contact in case of emergency details, he wouldn’t even be here with you, known about your accident, and the mere idea breaks him, wounds him deep. He hides his tears in his sleeve as he tries to gather himself up again. Frankie needs to be strong now, you have a long recovery ahead of you and he will do his best to help you.

“Te amo, mi corazón y mi alma. Por favor, vuelve a mi. I want to kiss you and tell you I belong to you, that I love you more than as a friend. You hold my heart already and I will gladly give it to you if you come back to me. Smile for me again. I can be your reason why, I’ll do anything to see your soft lips grinning at me, with me...” It becomes too much and Frankie folds in half, draping his upper body on the bed as he cries uncontrollably.

He doesn’t know how long he weeps, the seconds and minutes all blurring together as the sleeves of his shirt go from damp to soaked but he doesn’t care. Frankie loves you and he almost lost you for good and he cannot hold it in anymore. He loves you and he needs to tell you.

He’s so deep inside his mind that he doesn’t recognize the weight on top of his head first. But when fingers card through his locks repeatedly and the motion registers, he’s shocked into reality. Frankie lifts his head carefully, eyes blurry and almost afraid of what he will see.

Your eyes are droopy but the small upturn of the corners of your lips as you regard him softly forces another sob from his chest and it takes all of his willpower not to kiss you right then and there. Your hand doesn’t stop moving as you look at each other in silence, fingers in his curls and Frankie is finally back home, breathing freely.

His lips move, though no sound comes out, telling you te amo over and over again.

Everything taglist @clydesducktape @wayward-rose @themuseic @miraclesabound @clydesfavoritegirl @a-true-janian-reply @10blurredsmoke10 @caillea @mind-p0llution @mariesackler

[sugarmaplewings-fics]

Warm

Pairing: Kirishima x reader

Warnings: This one’s a little spicy, there’s some implied smut and nudity + kissy kissy (it’s really nothing major tho). Fem!reader (only bc he refers to you as his wife). Hmm, bit of hurt/comfort? Just a bunch of fluffy flirting with dashes of angst and spice (okay maybe a lot of angst)

Author’s Note:

Hello! Here’s the long-ass Kiri fic I’ve been working on! This is actually just loosely based on the request—I really took it and ran I guess 😅. I kept changing my mind with what I wanted to happen until I eventually wound up with this!

Ignore how it’s basically Bath Bomb but with Kirishima

Anyway I hope y’all like it!

-Sugar

*✲ﾟ*｡⋆♡⋆｡*ﾟ✲*

*✲ﾟ*｡⋆♡⋆｡*ﾟ✲*

Your consciousness bloomed back into being at the sensation of lips trailing kisses down your shoulders. Daylight pierced into your cracked lids, faintly illuminating your bedroom with the caress of a new sun.

A body pressed up against yours, his broad chest and shoulders wide enough to support the width of your own back. His mouth languidly worked its way over your bare skin; from your back, to your neck, over your shoulder. He moved as if he had all the time in the world, and he was more than willing to spend it all on you.

You hummed and shifted, signaling your newly awakened state. A thick forearm you weren’t previously aware of tightened its grip around your waist, his palm gliding over your stomach and up to your chest. It moved up and down, before finally stopping to give you a gentle squeeze.

“Morning, Eijirou,” you said, a laugh already in your sleep-worn voice.

“Hey, Princess.” His chin slotted in the juncture of your shoulder and neck, his cheek pressing against yours. “Sleep well?” His own voice was so low and quiet and deep in the mornings, making your nerves fire in an odd excitement within you.

“Of course I did,” you smirked, ignoring the stirring in your chest. “I’ve got you.”

He chuckled, and finally a small shiver shot through your body at the sound. “Glad the feeling’s mutual.”

You ducked out from under his chin, turning to your other side in order to face him. His chest pressed against yours as you hugged him back, and you couldn’t help but notice how warm it was under the covers like this. Finally you met his eyes, (E/C) meeting glittering vermillion in the morning sun for a long moment.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, brushing a stray strand of hair out of your face. “I swear, I married an angel.”

Your heart sped from its steady beat, heat climbing the back of your neck. “Eiji!” you mumbled, flustered, hiding your face between his pecs.

He chuckled again, and at this point, you swore he was doing it on purpose. “It’s true. Gorgeous, perfect—what more could I have asked for?”

You smiled against his skin, and you felt his warm hand gently begin to stroke up and down your back. You cuddled in silence for a minute, growing lost in the touch of the other.

“This is nice,” he sighed, drawing you impossibly closer. “I finally get to spend my whole day with you.”

You lifted your head again to look into his face, smirking. “Is your plan to spend it all in bed?”

He shrugged. “That wouldn’t be a bad thing. Think about it—here, finally alone with me, all warm and snuggly? No stress, no responsibilities, just . . . me. And you. It’s been too long since we’ve had something like that.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, perhaps too readily. Eijirou’s face fell. “Hey,” you crooned, taking his cheek in your palm. “I understand you’re busy. You’re out there being the best hero ever. Do you know how proud I am of you? My Red Riot, saving the day out there. It’s worth the wait.”

His ruby eyes glimmered as they affectionately bored into yours, leaning into your touch. “I still feel bad I can’t be here for you like this every day.”

“But then it wouldn’t be as special.” Your thumb stroked his cheekbone, finally pulling him into a kiss. It started out soft, but Eijirou was quick to escalate the gesture. He devoured your lips enthusiastically, just like he always did, licking and nibbling at the skin.

Warm, you couldn’t help but think, as your heart pounded and blood rushed towards your face. Warm as his fingers laced with yours on his cheek, warm as your skin touched without a centimeter separating you.

Kisses with Eijirou were addictive, and once you started, you could scarcely bring yourself to stop. With every push and pull of your lips, it was as if pure joy had flooded your veins. Even after all these years of being together, you basked in the truth that he could still make you feel this way.

His lips pecked the corner of your mouth, then moved down, down to your jaw, then your neck.

“Eiji,” you breathed, a smile tugging your lips up.

He met your eyes again, removing his tongue and teeth just enough to innocently question, “What?”

“I—weren’t we—it really is—” you began, but your brain was already distracted, focusing on the way he sucked and nipped at your skin, moving ever lower.

“Are you actually going to stop me?” he asked, kissing your collarbone.

You gulped. “No.”

It was a few more hours until you got out of bed.

…

“Eiji.”

You spoke his name and tapped him on one shoulder blade, muscled and kissed by the sun. He grumbled, asleep once more, nuzzling closer into your bosom.

“Eijirou, it’s noon,” you said, glancing at your bedside alarm clock and shaking him again.

“So?” he mumbled against your skin.

“So I’m hungry,” you pretended to whine. “Let’s make breakfast. Or lunch. Brunch, yeah.”

He sighed, dramatic, hugging you tight. “But I don’t want to get up.”

“I’ll make us pancakes,” you offered, threading your hands through his soft red hair.

He didn’t move.

“—with extra bacon and sausage,” you added.

He looked up, eyes meeting yours as his chin settled on your chest. “Okay, I’m listening.”

You chuckled, ruffling his bangs and poking at his nose. “Come on, you have to get off of me. We can cuddle again later.”

Eijirou finally straightened, letting you slide out from under him. You both stretched and moved towards your dresser; Kirishima choosing a pair of gray sweatpants while you opted for one of his old t-shirts and a pair of shorts.

Eijirou trailed after you to the kitchen, leaning against the counter while you rummaged through the fridge for a few ingredients. Within minutes, you had the batter mixed, and you poured it into the hot pan with a satisfying sizzle. Your husband watched with interest from behind, chin perched on your shoulder and arms resting around your waist.

“That one looks nice,” he’d comment every now and then. “Good job, babe.”

His hands stayed ever-present on your body, mostly resting on your shoulders or hips as you finished making breakfast. You ate with him, making light conversation as you plowed through the stack of pancakes and meat.

When you were done, you spent some time catching up around the house. Eijirou helped you wash the dishes and fold and put away the laundry. He insisted on doing it all by your side, happy to chat while you shared effort on the chores.

“How do you keep up with all this?” he asked, setting one of his t-shirts on the bed, freshly folded. “With your job and everything, it’s amazing that you still do so much.”

You shrugged. “I manage. It’s not so bad. And don’t completely discredit yourself, you still help when you can.”

“Well, of course I do,” he said, carrying a pile of clothes to the dresser. “You shouldn’t have to take care of everything by yourself.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, “but you have other things to do that’s more important than dusting behind the TV.”

He came back to your side again, putting his arm around your waist and pulling you in so he could kiss your temple. “I’m just thankful you’re here to keep up with the house.”

“And I’m thankful you’re here to spend time with me today.” You popped up on your toes to kiss the corner of his mouth, taking the now-empty laundry basket back to the laundry room.

“Would you like to watch a movie together?” you asked when you were back in the doorway. “The evening is young. We can make a snack and go back to cuddling on the couch. How does that sound, huh?” You grinned and wiggled your eyebrows, trying to sound convincing.

“Sounds perfect to me, babe,” Eijirou said, striding up to where you leaned against the doorframe. “But I think the only snack here is you.”

You rolled your eyes. “Ei-JI—AAA!”

He picked you up and slung you over his shoulder, grinning his shark-toothed smile as you laughed.

“I meant popcorn!” you said, pretending to struggle.

Kirishima landed a gentle smack to your behind and made a little pop noise with his mouth.

“Ugh,” you said, going limp.

“Shall we continue to the living room, my lady?” he asked.

“Fine. But I don’t think ladies are supposed to be carried like a sack of potatoes.”

He chuckled, already making his way down the hall. “You’re the finest sack of potatoes I’ve ever seen.”

“Hey!” You landed the softest of punches against his back, still lighthearted in the situation.

He set you down once you were back in the kitchen, going to the pantry to grab a bag of popcorn. You sat on the counter to watch him put it in the microwave.

“I’m always scared I’m going to burn these,” he admitted, grinning sheepishly as he tried to decide on a time to put in.

“I do it for a minute and fifty seconds,” you said, childishly swinging your legs.

He inputted the time as you said, the microwave humming to life as the turntable began to spin. Eijirou turned to you again, moving so he was between your legs. “Now, about my snack.”

You snorted, giggling until he cupped your cheek in his hand. He slotted his lips against yours, pulling your body flush into his. Your hands wandered over his bare skin, tracing the blade of his shoulder before gliding up into his hair. You let your fingers lace through the vibrant red strands, anchoring yourself and pulling him in further. Your legs even went as far as wrapping themselves around his waist, your feet meeting at the small of his back.

Eijirou hummed into your mouth, happy to savor you, glad he was there to hold you. The microwave beeped that it was done and you felt his attention shift momentarily, but soon he was back to cherishing you, getting lost in your taste and your touch. How could he care about anything other than you right now? You were his everything, his world, his reason to be. He kissed you harder, not caring that he was running out of breath. He just wanted more of you, wishing he never had to stop. His hand traced over your thigh, longing for you to somehow be even closer.

The microwave beeped again, impatient that it hadn’t been opened.

“Are you going to get that?” you asked, pulling back.

“Yeah,” he grumbled, but he still insisted on giving you a few more chaste pecks before he moved.

You released him and hopped down, wandering into the living room with your husband right behind you, newly equipped with a steaming bag of popcorn.

“What should we watch?” you mused. “Ooh, how about Star Wars? It’s been a while and I know it’s one of your favorites.”

“Okay,” he said, settling next to you on the couch. It was a good idea. You were right about him liking it, but he’d also seen it enough times that he could place all his focus on you. There was no way he was going to let your little make out session go interrupted like that.

“Why don’t you go turn out the light?” you asked, already turning on the TV.

Eijirou stood, walking up to the switch on the wall. It was then that he felt his phone begin to vibrate in his pocket. He flicked the lights off as he fished out the device. He figured it was junk, but then he saw it was his work contact. His heart began to sink.

“Who’s that?” you asked, apprehensive when you saw the expression that had already come onto his face.

“The agency,” he said, voice low and small.

He wanted to think they were just calling because he’d left something in his office. Or maybe it was a mistake and they hadn’t meant to call him at all. But they wouldn’t contact him on his day off like this if it wasn’t an emergency. Kirishima wasn’t so naïve that he’d think otherwise.

What if he just didn’t answer? What if he ignored it and went back to you? You were the one he wanted to spend time with. This was his evening off—your evening to be together.

But he had a job. He had a responsibility. An innocent person’s life could be at risk. What kind of person—what man, what hero—would he be if he selfishly ignored it? His passion demanded sacrifice, and that was just something he had to live with. He only wished that you weren’t the one who always had to get hurt.

He never knew his thumb to feel so heavy as he pressed receive.

You watched him put the phone to his ear, watched his face fall further as it seemed your collective suspicions were confirmed. He shot you an apologetic glance before he briskly strode off in the direction of your bedroom, still listening to what his secretary was saying on the other end.

You looked back to the TV, the ‘st’ still present in the search field from when you’d typed it in only moments before. Sighing, you turned off the screen, sitting back into the couch.

Maybe he wouldn’t be gone long, you thought, chewing on your lip. Maybe you’d still have time to be together when he got home.

But you knew that it was little more than a lie to yourself. You knew he never came back soon.

The front door slammed shut somewhere else in the house, and you were alone again. You lifted your left hand, examining the glittering rubied ring that rested on your finger. The ring that claimed you as his. The ring that had made you a Kirishima.

You twisted it absentmindedly, appreciating the sensation of friction against your skin. You’d known what you were getting into when you’d accepted the ring. You’d known as soon as he’d gotten down on one knee nearly two years ago. Being wed to a hero wouldn’t be easy. Not only were you in danger just being involved with him, you were also going to be alone a lot.

And even still, you’d accepted. You always cherished every moment you were able to have with him. Every cheesy, teasing joke, every kiss, every time he’d come home to you exhausted and tired and dirty—you still loved it. Because you couldn’t even imagine spending your life with another. Maybe in some other reality, you’d find someone who loved you as much, but here, you wanted Eijirou. No matter what it took, you’d be the one waiting for him to come home. It was your shoulder he’d cry on, your chest he’d fall asleep in, your lips that were there for him to claim. And nothing would change that.

You knew how guilty Kirishima felt about leaving you. He didn’t like that he’d essentially forced you into being his housewife, even though you still had a day job of your own and didn’t really mind.

Being a hero is what he wanted to do his whole life. You saw how passionate he was about his job, all the wide, toothy smiles he’d display to the live TV cameras when he’d win another battle. His job was something he loved, and you wouldn’t dream of getting in the way of it. It wasn’t perfect, nor was heroing as glamorous as some made it out to be. But this was his dream, and you would continue to be his number one fan no matter the circumstances. If only it didn’t have to take him away so much . . . .

You munched on a handful of cooling popcorn—not burnt—wondering what you should do with the rest of your night off. You certainly couldn’t spend it sitting by yourself in the dark.

You stood, stretching. This was nothing new for you, you could be independent. But a part of you couldn’t help but selfishly wish it didn’t have to be this way.

…

Kirishima fumbled to put the key in the lock on your door. He’d done his work for the day, he’d won. But had he really?

God only knew what time it was. The house was dark when he opened the door, stepping in and taking off his boots. He knew the drill by now, setting his duffel bag down to rest in the genkan before trudging through the shadowy rooms of his home. Could he even call it his home? Sometimes he wondered if he was still able to say he lived here.

The bedroom door was cracked open. Eijirou peeked in to see your shadowy form asleep, alone on the large mattress in the masses of blankets. He sighed and toed his way into the guest bathroom where he knew he was less likely to disturb you, cringing when he flicked on the bright light.

He caught a look at himself in the mirror as he stripped off the hoodie he wore to and from work. His hair was a tangled mess, sweat and grime still smeared on his skin. The shower sputtered to life, the din of water droplets hitting tile filling his ears. It was almost comforting; letting his thoughts drown to a low, unpleasant hum beneath the sound.

Water rolled over his skin, washing away what should have been his victory. No one’s life had really been in danger today, but he’d still stopped a villain from potentially destroying someone’s business. Why wasn’t he as happy as he should be?

Kirishima wearily went through the motions of taking a shower. He just wanted to fall into your arms and sleep, but first, maybe he should apologize for ruining your evening together. Had he even said goodbye to you as he rushed out the door?

At least he smelled considerably better when he stepped into the bedroom, changed only into a pair of loose basketball shorts. He walked up to your slumbering form, wondering if you’d wake up if he were to try and take you in his arms.

Eijirou already felt like he was in heaven as soon as he felt the soft mattress under his body. He practically melted under the already warmed blankets, the lids of his eyes suddenly feeling like lead weights when his head met his pillow. His arm draped over your side out of habit, pulling you closer into his chest before he even realized what he was doing. You began to stir, and Kirishima frowned. He hadn’t really wanted to wake you.

“Eiji?” you mumbled, still half asleep.

“It’s me,” he whispered in your ear. “I’m home now.”

You ran your hand over your face. “Did you eat? What time is it?”

“Shh, go back to sleep, honey, don’t worry about me.” Eijirou placed a soft kiss on the skin of your neck, rubbing circles on your midsection in an effort to soothe you back to rest.

“But I do worry about you,” you protested, voice still hushed. “I’m your wife.”

He sighed in defeat. “Alright, I haven’t eaten anything,” he confessed, “but I’ll make sure to get breakfast in the morning. I’m too tired right now, I just need to hold you and sleep.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, already moving to stand. “It’s not good for you to not eat like this. I’ll get up and reheat something for you—”

“I’m fine. Really, please.” He held you down and nuzzled into your neck, not caring about the way your hair tickled his nose with every breath.

You took his hand, lacing his thick fingers with your own. “Did everything go okay?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “They just needed some emergency backup. I’m sorry I ruined movie night.”

“Oh, honey, it isn’t your fault.”

Eijirou sighed again. “I know.”

“I’m not upset with you.”

“You never are,” he mumbled, and there was a strange bitterness to it that made you frown.

“Well, it’s a part of your job—”

“Why can’t you just be angry with me?” he interjected. “Why don’t you hate me for having a job that always takes me away from you?”

You froze at his outburst, shocked. “Eijirou—?”

“I—I’m sorry.” His voice cracked, instantly regretting the way he’d spoken to you. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No, no, baby.” You turned onto your back, shuffling so Kirishima could lay his head on your chest. “There’s something going on. Please talk to me.”

He nuzzled closer into you again, holding you in his arms as your fingers began to twirl around his hair. “I just wish I didn’t have to leave you so much,” he admitted softly. “I want to be here for you.”

“But you love your job, right?”

“Of course I do.” He looked up at you so his chin rested in the valley of your chest. “But I love you more. And I feel like I don’t show that to you enough.”

You brushed his bangs out of his face, your hand moving down so your thumb could stroke his cheek. “Eiji, I know you love me.”

“Yeah . . . ,” he trailed off. “But I want to show you. Every day, like I did when we were younger. I don’t feel like it’s manly for me to leave you here by yourself all these nights, and come home late, and not be around. You deserve better than that. I want to contribute more. I want to be here for you. What if—what if something happened to you and I couldn’t protect you?” His voice seemed to break at the thought, his arms wrapped around you squeezing you even tighter.

You hummed, taking in his laments, fingers still carding through his long red hair. “I know you’re under a lot of pressure right now,” you murmured, hoping to soothe him with your actions, “but you should know by now that I am more than capable of taking care of myself.”

He nodded against your hand, but his shadowed face still looked glum.

“And yes, I miss you and I wish we had more time for each other, but I’m sure that someday it’ll change. Your job is tough right now, Ei, but this is your dream. Every day, you’re doing amazing things and I couldn’t be more proud of you. This is what you want to do in life, right?”

He nodded again. “Of course.”

“Then I’m going to support you. If this is what comes with being a hero, then we’ll just have to . . . adapt. Take things as they come, you know? You’ve got a lot on your plate and I want to help you. I know you doubt yourself sometimes and it only gets worse when you’re tired like this.”

“Mhm,” he agreed, voice a little airy and distant. He took your hand in his and began to press slow kisses to your palms and knuckles. You could see the shine of his eyes becoming more obscured by the droop of his lids.

“Maybe you can try to get a week off next time?” you suggested. “And maybe tell Bakugou to hire better back up so you won’t have to get called in like that.”

“A whole week with you,” he mused, sighing. “I’d get spoiled at that rate.”

You bent forward to kiss his forehead, smirking. “It’s nothing you don’t deserve. Either way, we’ll talk about this later, sleepyhead. You still have to go in tomorrow. Maybe it was a good thing we slept in today.”

He chuckled, turning the both of you on your sides and sliding up so he could have better access to kiss all over your face. You couldn’t help but smile at his gentle, languid movements; still determined to display his love for you even half-asleep.

“This is my favorite part of the day,” he murmured, lips ghosting over your cheek. “Coming home to you. I just feel so . . . comfortable around you.”

“You should,” you said, poking the tip of his nose. “I’m your wife.”

“Yeah. But you’re also like, warm and stuff.”

Was he even still conscious at this point?

“Goodnight, Red.”

“Goodnight, my little lovebug.”

And so you began to drift off with him. You had to admit, it had been cold and lonely sleeping without him. But now his presence overwhelmed you in all the right ways, from his fresh-out-of-the-shower scent to the feeling of his arms caging you in against his chest. You felt comfortable, yes, but also warm. 

So warm.

*✲ﾟ*｡⋆♡⋆｡*ﾟ✲*

Taglist: @aahilovetheatre​ @basicaegyo​ @hyunmin-1404​ @iiminibattlehero​ @katsugay​ @nabo39​ @pyrofanatic​​ @rainy-skys-and-bright-stars​ @sendhelpimstupid​ @sxngwoos-ash-box​ @xoxopam4​

[arminbitchlover]

reincarnated lovers (3)

armin arlert x f! reader

summary: reader and armin decide to give the start of their relationship a second chance.

word count: 3.7k

content warnings: content warning: mentions of drug use, vaginal and oral sex (F & M receiving), a slight insinuation of overstimulation, fingering, praise, & creampie

“Wow, you have a nice apartment.” Armin opens the door for you, and you gaze at his spacious apartment in awe.

“No need to flatter me.” He slightly chuckles, placing his keys on the small table against the wall.

“Trust me, I would never.” You tease as he grabs your hand and leads you to his kitchen.

You immediately take notice of how modern and simplistic his home is. The color palette throughout his apartment is cool tones, mostly consisting of white and gray. It somewhat makes you feel like you're in a museum rather than someone’s house. He doesn't have any pictures of family or friends on his wall, not even a frame of him and Eren.

“How do you feel about pancakes?” He crouches down to the bottom cabinet and pulls out a baby blue griddle.

“That actually sounds amazing right now.” You place your stomach in your hand, realizing how queasy you feel with only alcohol in your stomach.

“Could you get the pancake mix from the pantry, please?” He smiles at you while grabbing the oil from the upper shelf and placing it on the counter.

You open the door and instantly spot a never-ending pile of ramen neatly stacked on the floor. Adorable. Your eyes shift to the box of pancake mix on the middle shelf that's surrounded by other dessert mixes and grab it. You walk over to Armin, who already took out the ingredients with a bowl, measuring cups, and a spoon that's nicely arranged next to the griddle.

“I’m letting you know right now, I am not a gourmet chef so you cannot complain about the results,” He playfully warns you as he opens up the pancake mix.

“Armin, we’re making box pancakes. Not even from scratch.” You laugh, pulling out the plastic bag from the box, and cutting it open.

“You don’t have to make me feel bad about it.” He fakes a pout as he starts to pour the oil into the measuring cup.

You try to give him a serious look, but immediately break out into a smile when he makes eye contact with you. He hands you the ingredients while you incorporate everything into the bowl, enjoying the presence of one another.

As you pour the batter on the griddle, Armin starts asking you random questions from your dream job as a kid to your biggest fears in life. While it was somewhat arbitrary, you thought how cute he looked while he listened to absolutely every single word that came from your lips. Occasionally, while you're busy flipping pancakes and answering his questions, he gets a quick glimpse at your slightly parted lips, but you never seem to notice.

"You're a really interesting person, you know." He leans back against the counter, watching you place your dinner onto the plates.

"I doubt that very much." You argue while taking the plates to his dinner table.

"Well, I think otherwise, and you still haven't thanked me for making dinner for our date." He rolls his eyes but quickly breaks character, seeing the confused look on your face.

"Huh, so it wasn't you that was just sitting on your ass and questioning me as if I was at a job interview?" You joke with him, taking the seat that's across from him.

"I have no recollection of such." He smirks as he walks over to the refrigerator and grabs two water bottles.

"Thank you." You takes the water bottle out of his hand, taking notice of how pretty his hands looked around your beverage.

He smiles and sits down, eyeing what he thought to be the best-looking pancakes he's ever seen.

"Well, enough about me, I want to get to know you now." You make eye contact, holding it a bit longer than needed before looking down and cutting up your meal, not wanting to make yourself look weird.

"Ask away." He opens his water and takes a quick sip.

"How were you like as a kid?" You begin eating your pancakes, waiting for Armin to answer.

"I was and still am a quiet kid. I've always minded my own business, so I didn't have many friends growing up. I only had Eren and Mikasa and we only met because they defended me when they saw some older kids messing with me." You look up at him, only to be met with a neutral face.

"I'm sorry about that, Armin." You break eye contact, worried that you may have just ruined his night by making him reminiscent.

"Don't apologize, I stopped thinking about those assholes a long time ago." He gives you a reassuring smile as he continues to eat his food.

"I'm happy to hear that." You take a swig from your water bottle, thinking of the next question to ask him. "What's your favorite memory? Whether it be from last week or years ago." You lighten the mood, immediately noticing Armin break out into a huge grin.

"There was this one time during senior year in high school with Eren and Mikasa and we smoked weed but for Eren, it was his first time. So, I guess to like 'impress'," He starts giggling as he does air quotes, "me and Mikasa, he decided to take a long ass hit and it completely backfired on him. When he first breathed out, he started coughing but tried holding it back, but he just started hacking nonstop, and every time he tried drinking water, he would just spit it back up." He throws his head back, cracking up while finishing his story.

"So, you enjoy watching other people suffer?" You smile, not aware of how contagious his laugh is.

"Yeah, I guess." He keeps laughing as his eyes start to tear up.

"It just makes it so much funnier than I was already somewhat high, and everything just gets a billion times more amusing than what it really is." He chuckles before looking back into your eyes, taking in the beauty that'sin front of him.

"Damn, I wish I was there to see it." You snicker, thinking about how Eren embarrassed himself even though you feel a bit guilty thinking it was funny in the first place.

"Well, we frequently have sessions so you should definitely join us if you'd like." He finishes up his dinner and takes his plate to the sink.

"I'll think about it." You quickly eat the last of your pancakes and feel your phone vibrate in your pocket.

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

roomie <3

Today 12:12 AM

where tf are u

i've literally been gone for the

past hour

with armin right ;)

uhhh

omg i need to stop texting you and

sleepover while you're at it :)

we'll see (;

have fun and use protection

love you

oh god

love u too

Read 12:14 AM

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

"Is everything alright?" Armin looks at you concerned, noticing your eyes widening at your screen.

"Huh? Oh yes, uh it was just Sasha." You put your phone back in your pocket, not wanting to give Armin any ideas.

Your heartbeat quicken as you face Armin, Sasha's message ingrained in your head. You doubt anything would happen tonight, it's barely your second date, but it was something to think about. As soon as your mind starts wandering into more inappropriate thoughts, you're interrupted by Armin's voice.

"Do you need me to take you back to your dorm?" He starts making his way to the door, not letting you respond.

"No, I can stay." You clear your throat; he stops in his tracks, having a bit of excitement by your answer.

"Oh okay, well is there anything you want to do?"

He stares into your eyes, feeling the tiny spark that wants to ignite. You feel your face start to heat up, trying to muster up anything to continue your night with Armin.

"Can I ask you one more question?"

"Of course." He feels his chest tighten, the electricity between you grow stronger as the silence stretches out.

What the hell do you want to ask him? You have little to no idea what you wanted to face him with. While you have to admit, everything about him at this very moment is so fucking perfect and you don't mind trying something, you wouldn't dare pressure him into anything. You continue bouncing with thoughts and kept convincing yourself that a little persuasion wouldn't hurt him and besides, it would be a shame if nothing fun went down.

"Is it okay if I kiss you?" You stay in your seat, worried that you may have broken a boundary that Armin had no intention of crossing. Your chest gets knotted up as you feel embarrassment rush over your body, regret started to quickly sink in.

His eyes widen and feels his heartbeat in his throat, indulging at the thought of doing so much more than just a kiss. He starts walking towards you, not aware that he didn't answer your question, rather just pulls you out of your seat and snakes his arms around your waist.

"Is uh- this okay?" His face turns into a bright pink, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness.

"Yes." You wrap your arms around his neck, not wasting a second longer.

You meet your lips with him, a soft whimper comes from his throat as you pull him closer. Your lips move in sync as if you had already done this a million times before. You bring one of your hands to his hair, slightly gripping it to try and get another noise out of him. You feel him pour all of his desire for you into that one kiss.

"Fuck." He mumbles under his breath, moving his hands to your ass, slightly squeezing it. Before you can take it any further, he pulls away from your kiss, grabs your hand, and takes you to his bedroom.

"Are you fine with this?" He has a concerned look on his face, making sure what he felt was a mutual feeling.

"Mhm." You nod your head, and he collides his lips with yours, drawing you in for a more heated kiss.

You part your lips, allowing his tongue to slip through, and you feel your body thrill with electricity. Everything just feels so natural between the two of you, there's no second-guessing or hesitation; it all felt right.

You both slowly started making your way to his bed, not breaking away your kiss as he lowered you onto it when the back of your knees is met with the edge. His hands traveled lower and made their way under your shirt and his cold fingertips are met with your warm soft stomach while pulling your shirt over your head. You slightly gasped when he came into contact with your skin, but this doesn't stop him from going any further. He took his lips to your neck, softly sucking and biting along your collarbone, letting his hot tongue glide over each spot he marked.

"Shit-" You choke and slightly arch your back, thinking to yourself how you've never felt this kind of delectation from someone before.

You grab his chin and pull him back to your lips and push his wrist down to your clothed core. He lightly presses against you, causing a jolt in your thighs while you moaned into his mouth. You feel a slight grin form on his face as he continues to tease you and felt you grind against his middle finger.

"You sound so pretty," He whispers into your ear.

You feel the arousal pooling low in your stomach, feeling him slowly dip under your panties and started massaging circles on your clit. You felt your legs start to slightly tremble and your back arched even more than before as the heat from his body filled you with a wave of delight.

"Armin." You grip your hands against his shoulder, becoming desperate for things to start escalating.

"Say my name again," He commands as he lifts his head and stares into your eyes, full of lust and desire.

"Armin, give me more, please," You whine, feeling your walls fluttered around nothing.

"Anything for you." He makes his way down your body, leaving a trail of peppered kisses from your neck to your pelvis.

He pulls off your panties, leaving you in only your bra, admiring what was inches away from his face. You could almost feel his gaze travel all over your body. You look down and make eye contact with him, watching him lower his face into you. You grasp the bedsheet and your eyes rolled back as his tongue lightly flicks against your clit. You buck your hips against him, growing incredibly impatient and he knows it.

"C'mon, please," You whimper, moving your hands to his head, and clutching his golden hair.

He grips the sides of your thighs and begins devouring you, his tongue becoming completely coated with your slick arousal. You feel his nose bump against your clit and causes your vision to swim while tugging on his locks from the bliss Armin created. You suddenly feel one of his fingers slip into you effortlessly, causing your mind to go blank while he curls it to hit the perfect spot.

"More," You cry out, grinding on his face as you felt your orgasm start to build up.

Without any hesitation, he slips another finger into you, widening your legs even more, making you start to see stars. It all starts to become too much for you, the stimulation starts to overload all over your drenched center. His tongue vigorously presses against your clit and fingers hitting your sweet spot, making everything feel so delirious.

"Sh-shit, Armin I'm close." You dig your nails into his scalp, throwing your head back, trying to hold off as long as possible to make it last a little longer.

"Let me hear you." He pull away for a second before enveloping himself back into you, making sure you feel nothing but pleasure.

That's all it takes to put you over the edge, and you reach your climax while moaning out his name. Your body becomes filled with a riptide of euphoria as you lose yourself in all the sensations. You can't believe the way he makes you feel; every little thing he does to you makes you feel so weak and submissive to him. Your legs are trembling, and he doesn't waste any time and begins to start kissing your inner thighs while gently rubbing your clit to help soothe you from your high.

"God, you're so beautiful," He breaths out while making his way back up your body and to your chest while unclipping your undergarment with a single hand.

"Y-You make me feel so fucking good." Your hands moves across his shoulder blades as he starts kissing your breasts, using his index finger and thumb to stimulate your nipples.

His other hand travels over your curves, feeling as if he needs to memorize every single feature of your body. You feel ecstasy relish over you, breathing heavily as Armin's lust for you takes over his mind. You can't ask for more than this right now, having someone do everything they could to make you feel nothing but absolute pleasure and you want to return the favor.

You slide up from under him, sitting up against the pillow, and flip him to the bottom.

"Wha-" You cut him off with a rough kiss, moving your hands to the bottom of his long sleeve, tugging at it.

You pull away and allow him to take off his shirt, admiring his pale, milky body. You can't believe the sight in front of you, he looks so fucking beautiful. You meet with his eyes and notice embarrassment rush over his face. You lean down and give him a gentle but passionate kiss.

"You're so handsome," You whisper his ear before you nibble on his earlobe, causing his thighs to slightly jolt.

You begin kissing down to his jawline, somewhat pressing your tongue against it while your hand softly traces his abs. You feel his stomach muscles contract under touch while his arms loosely wrap around your waist, delicately sliding his palms across your back. It doesn't take long for you to make your way down his body while you make sure to leave a hickey or two on his chest before meeting his bulge.

"You d-don't have to." He starts sitting up, but you place your hand on his chest to stop him.

"Let me make you feel good." You plead, pulling off his pants and boxers to reveal his hard cock that was seeping of pre-cum, just for you.

You run your hands on his thighs before bringing one up to the base of his dick. You look back at Armin, who seemingly has his head back while his face is flushed into a soft red. You glob spit on his dick before pumping your hand slowly, making sure that he feels every little sensation you're making. He lets out a shaky exhale, trying his hardest not to release with only a single touch.

You smirk to yourself feeling him pulse in your palm before moving it back down to the base and swiping your tongue on his tip.

"O-Oh." He moans out, moving one of his hands to your head.

You start humming very quietly, bobbing your head up and down with the slight pressure of Armin's palm. He groans, feeling his face heat up with everything you're doing to him.

As seconds passed, Armin's pressure on the back of your head only becomes more forceful, making you gag a bit and cause tears to form as he starts throat fucking you. It doesn't take long to begin to feel him twitch in the back of your throat, but before he could release himself, you pull away, looking up and seeing a shocked look on his face.

"I'm sorry, did I take too far?" He starts sliding up against his headboard, thinking he made you uncomfortable.

"No! Not at all... I just want to do something more." You hesitate with your words.

All you want at this very moment is to make sure Armin felt nothing but pleasure from you. Your heart starts thumping sporadically, loving the idea of riding him till he couldn't take it anymore.

"Y-Yeah, of course," He stutters as he quickly pulls out a condom from the drawer in his nightstand.

You think to yourself how cute he lookes getting flustered and excited with the thought of you topping him. You watch him slightly stumble while taking the condom out of its packaging before rolling it on himself. He looks back at you, a smirk on his face as he grasps your waist and pulls you onto his dick.

You align yourself with him before lowering yourself, watching his head fall back. His eyes become filled with desire as you bite your lip from his cock stretching you out.

"Shit.." He groans as you take all of him in, feeling your walls become adjusted to his cock.

You don't move for a second, savoring how it feels with him inside of you; feeling connected with one another. But once you begin to move, it's impossible to stop.

You start off slow and sensual, feeling him hit your cervix that caused a delightful pain in you. You bend down to his face leaving kisses all over across his jaw as you slowly move against him. You don't want this to end, everything feels so right.

"You feel amazing." He drags out his words, sliding his hands up and down the sides of your body.

You pick your head back up, speeding up from his praise.

"I hope I make you feel so fucking good," You cry out, feeling him start to hit all the right spots that you didn't even know were there.

Before your legs could start to burn, you feel his hands form a good grip on you before he starts thrusting forward, at this point making himself fuck you instead.

"A-Armin!' You yelp, feeling overloaded from the overwhelming pressure that begins to build up inside you.

He starts controlling the rhythm, taking all the power you thought you had over him. You grip his shoulders, leaving crescent-shaped markings from his strokes becoming harder and deeper.

He admires the way your tits bounce every time he thrusts into you, wanting to see it happen over and over again. He loves seeing your head falls back as your eyes roll to the back of your head, starting to lose control of yourself from everything he's doing to you. He worships the idea that he's the one making you feel this good.

"I'm about to.." You close your eyes, letting yourself surrender and submerge into the wave of pleasure.

"Fuck, me too." His eyes darken, picking up the pace as your grip on him began to loosen.

You feel your stomach swoop from his words.

"C-Can I cum inside you? He groans, feeling himself twitch in you, worried that he might release himself too soon.

"Please." You unravel yourself onto him, your walls flutter against him and your arousal drips out of you.

"Armin!" You cry out his name one last time, the sensation becoming too much that it was almost painful.

The feeling of bliss and ecstasy take over as you feel his cum gush into you while moaning out your name. You ride him out a little longer, helping him come back down from his high before lying next to him.

You both exchange lazy kisses with one another, savoring each other's warmth for as long as possible.

"Thank you for an amazing second first date." You smile, resting your head against his chest while he softly caresses your jaw.

"You deserve nothing but the best." He kisses your forehead before pulling you closer to him.

At this moment, you fee nothing but happiness; you know from then on that Armin is the person that you're going to spend the rest of your life with. You just can't believe that it took you nineteen years to find your soulmate, but luckily, you'll be spending the rest of your lives together in pure bliss.

a/n: armin does ask reader permission to cum inside her even though he has a condom on because he wanted to make sure she was completely comfortable with it :)

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