#it is infinitely more likely for him to sit there like 'how did i get myself in this mess'

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

without ever touching his skin, how can i be guilty as sin?

synopsis ; you weren’t technically doing anything wrong, right? especially not when your fiance was doing the exact same thing.

cw ; afab!reader, emotional cheating, swearing, aged up characters (reader, reo, and nagi are in their 20s) thoughts of sex, mentions of poly, nagi is a nonchalant little fuck

now playing ; guilty as sin by taylor swift

you and reo were the perfect couple.

childhood sweethearts, both part of wealthy families, both always the top of the class, both so beautiful that it blinded one’s eyes just looking at them together. engaged and soon to be married, and always seeming to know exactly what to say in interviews.

everyone loved you and reo. there was no denying it. reo’s fame came much less from being the ceo of the infinitely wealthy mikage corporation, but much more from being an extremely loyal man to his fiancee. edits of you both had millions of likes, with numerous comments of “may this love find me” or similar sentiments.

you were both always stuck together like glue. holding hands and showering the other in affection or just being in each other’s presence. no one ever doubted you were both in love, not even the miserable strangers online who commented “pr relationship” on every celebrity couple’s tiktok.

until you both met nagi seishiro.

nagi was, well, for you at least, refreshing to be around. he never automatically assumed anything or you or reo or the both of you as a pair. he was always calm and tranquil about everything, no matter what you told him. he never bugged into you or reo’s business, and you really felt like you could tell him anything.

you could tell him when you felt as if reo was being overbearing. you could tell him about the times when reo was angry at you for being around other men, even if it was for school or work. you could tell him about your frustrations at reo and how he uses money to “solve” anything, as if trying to purchase your forgiveness.

and nagi just listened. occasional comments such as “wow” or “yeah”, but he usually just stayed quiet and played on his console. but at the end of every venting session, he always gave, at least attempted to give, you advice. it honestly got to a point where you trusted nagi more than you did reo.

“y’know, i can’t believe it. he does it every damn time. i get mad at him, and suddenly, he goes out for a few hours and comes back with a dozen pieces of jewelry and sends me a few million yen. i get that he wants my forgiveness, but what the fuck? it’s like he’s trying to buy my love. it’s not even cute anymore, considering how this is like, his 80th time doing it.”

nagi hummed, tapping away on his console. “well, talk to him about it.”

“i do! all the time! but he never listens. just sighs and says ‘i do this because i love you’”

nagi hummed again. “good luck then.” you stared at him, eyes trailing to his lips. he looked so beautiful, sitting here on your bed, in your room. you shouldn’t think like this; you can’t. not when your wedding with his best friend is only in three months. but you can’t help it; he makes you feel safer than reo does after all.

“miss (l/n), mr mikage has returned from his conference.” your heart dropped at the maid’s words, sighing. you turned towards nagi, who sat there limply, pressing away at the buttons on his console.

“okay. i’ll see you later, nagi.”

you still loved reo. of course you did. you would have called off this marriage long ago if you didn’t. but your love for nagi still overtook your love for reo.

reo was never sure whether you or nagi was more important.

he loved you, obviously. he wouldn’t have wanted to marry you in the first place if he didn’t. he’d be willing to spend every single penny and second of his life for you if you had asked him to. but at the same time, he can’t help but feel like a terrible future husband.

you were his one true love, the love of his life. but nagi was his treasure, the treasure of his life. both were irreplaceable, and reo wanted to live his life out with both of you. but at the same time, he always felt so thrilled whenever he was with nagi. but whenever he was with you…yes, he felt warm, but the sensation was dull compared to how he felt around nagi.

he’s known you since age 4, but these days, reo doesn’t even know how to behave around you anymore. not when most of his thoughts are consumed by nagi. his thoughts are 65 percent nagi, 25 percent you, and 10 percent stocks and business.

he doesn’t even know how to properly apologize or talk to you anymore. all he can do is go to the mall and buy you some jewelry and expensive goods and leave them in your room. does he feel bad? yes. but he doesn’t know how to act. with nagi, spoiling him with gifts and games work perfectly. but not with you.

nagi never got mad at him. never gave him the silent treatment. reo felt as if he could confide anything in nagi, and he knew you felt the same around nagi as well. he saw the way you looked at him; it was the same way that you looked at reo so many years ago, before you both met nagi, but so much more intense. you never looked at reo this way.

reo’s considered being in a polyamory relationship with you and nagi, but that would be far too controversial and might bring the company down from the drama. so it’s best to just stay quiet and love both you and nagi all the same.

reo balanced a soccer ball on his knee as he sat in his leather black chair, eyes fixated on the ball. nagi sat next to him, playing on his phone mindlessly.

“i think she hates me.”

“that sucks.”

reo sent nagi a short-lived glare before looking down and sighing. the soccer ball glided to reo’s foot, and reo shot it right to nagi’s head. “you’re not helping.” nagi made a derp like face and shrugged.

“you know what we should really do? run away for a few weeks and just live together. just us two.” reo mumbled mindlessly, now twirling an elegant ballpoint pane around his fingers.

“(y/n) would get mad at us.”

“yeah.”

[rekino2114]

Hello! It's my first time requesting but can I request Male reader x fem Isagi? She overhears reader going off on someone over a ranked video game

Fem!isagi and fem!hiori reacting to you rage in a videogame

A/n:I added fem!hiori to the request cause it really fit with her and I also really wanted to write something for her I hope you don't mind

Fem!yoichi isagi

Isagi isn't that much of a gamer herself, but since both her boyfriend and one of her best friends/teammates enjoy them, she often stays and watch when you or hiori play but doesn't join that often

Except in fifa, she gets incredibly competitive whenever she plays fifa and will never accept to lose (if bastard münchen ever held a fifa tournament I think someone would get murdered)

So one time she was just chilling on the couch in your room while watching you play a ranked game

She was hyping you up, praising you when you got a kill and giving you some tips whenever you died. It seems like her leadership and adaptability skills translate to videogames as well

When you died more times than usual a guy on the server started trash talking you and so you obviously reciprocated and started shit talking him too

When he started getting louder and more disrespectful, and you actually got pissed off, you were about to curse at him again before you felt a tap on your shoulder and turned around to see isagi offering her hand to you

"Can you let me try?"

"Hm? You want to try the game?"

"No, not really, I just wanna talk to the guy, can you give me the mic?"

".......uh....sure"

"Thanks sweetie"

You were a bit confused at that but still handed her the headphones, you heard the guy talk again and then........

Isagi proceeded to verbally abuse the guy to no tomorrow, she didn't let him speak she just spouted insult after insult after insult, with so many swears she would have needed to fill at least a dozen swear jars to make up for them

After she finished she just handed you the headphones and smiled like nothing happened

"Yeah, yeah just keep running your mouth moron, and think twice before you insult my boyfriend again, actually already thinking once would be an improvement"

"................."

"Here you go y/n, sorry if I took too long hehe"

"................"

"What's wrong? Come on keep playing I'll be cheering you on from here"

"I......i-......*sighs* nevermind"

Fem!yo hiori

You and hiori have gaming dates basically every night, so one of these nights she told you to go ahead and start playing whatever game you wanted while she went to get snacks

When she came back she saw pillows thrown all around the room and you holding your head in your hand screaming at the mic while trying your best not to crash out

"Is.......everything OK y/n?"

"Oh hey yo, i-it's alright........mostly"

"Are you having trouble?"

"......yeah, I swear it's like these guys have infinite health or something. They also always shoot me when I least expect it"

Hiori then puts the snacks down and sits down next to you before kissing your cheek and watching you play a round

"SERIOUSLY!? I DIED AGAIN!? THAT'S JUST UNFAIR!!"

"Just calm down y/n, take a deep breath and restart, I know you'll do it next time"

"How are you always so calm?"

"Hm? What do you mean?"

"You're the biggest gamer I know and yet I've never heard you rage"

"Yeah I don't really get angry too often"

"Then you try to beat it"

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah"

"Alright y/n, if you want"

Being the gamer she is hiori had absolutely no problem winning every round in the game, killing every other player and not dying even once

You were very shocked at this but didn't say anything cause you knew how focused she got when she was playing

When she finished she turned towards you and smiled a bit smugly

"Well that didn't seem too hard to me"

"Yeah that's cause you're a fricking gaming genius"

"H-huh?"

"Didn't you see what you did there? I'm sure you could give some professional players a run for their money"

"O-oh it's nothing special, I just kinda stopped thinking and started playing"

"And that's why you're so amazing yo"

Hiori smiled and kissed you again. Having her skills in something that wasn't football recognized felt really nice, and it was even better that it was by the man she loved

"To be honest I don't think I can handle anymore pvp games"

"Oh that's totally fine, we can play a chiller game together if you want"

"I'd love to"

You then spent the rest of the night cuddling and playing animal crossing together

[catcas22]

Thought experiment -- What if Moash had been the one to find drunk!Elhokar in WoR? (spoilers through Oathbringer)

Let me back up a bit. Tbh I've never cared for Elhokar x Moash as a ship. No hate, I just don't see it, at least not without some significant deviations from canon. Not all hate is born of repressed sexual tension. Moash never seemed to me to be obsessing over Elhokar the way he did over Kaladin. He just wanted him dead, he didn't even seem to consider him much as a person so much as a manifestation of lighteyed corruption and incompetence.

That being said...

Elhokar's story never felt like a tragedy to me so much as a cautionary tale. On Elhokar's end, the moral is "Don't assume you'll get infinite second chances. Don't put off changing for the better, because you might not get another chance." On Dalinar and Navani's end? "If you don't parent your child, society will." Society in this case being Moash.

I'm specifically calling out Dalinar here. You know how parents will sometimes let a very small child sit in their lap with their hands on the steering wheel and let them pretend like they're driving? Dalinar spends a good chunk of the first two books (and the backstory) running down pedestrians, because if he swerved it would break the illusion that Elhokar was the one driving the car. And then Elhokar would throw a tantrum. And that would be the worst thing ever. Far worse than chewing through thousands of your soldiers treating the War of Reckoning like a game instead of pushing inland and forcing an ending. Far worse than throwing the man who just saved both your sons' lives in prison for a month or so. Far worse than allowing a man who uses his political power to murder get away with a slap on the wrist. Clearly, Elhokar's feelings must take precedence over all.

The only time Dalinar effectively parents Elhokar is when he beats the shit out of him in full Shardplate and makes it clear he could kill him if he wanted to. He is fully capable of telling Elhokar to go cry about it when he wants to, for instance, marry his sister-in-law. But he can't muster up that same tough love to tell Elhokar that he can't jail Kaladin for making him look bad. And eventually it all catches up to them both when Elhokar is killed by a man who lost his family to the Roshone Affair, a scandal that Dalinar helped sweep under the rug.

I get it, Elhokar probably had no idea how to be a good king or a good man after having been raised by Gavilar. But he's more than old enough to start thinking for himself. Look at Adolin. Adolin grew up steeped in the same culture as Elhokar, and he spent his formative years with Blackthorn-era Dalinar and Alcoholic-era Dalinar as his role model. He still held plenty of Alethi prejudices well into WoR, but Adolin could observe why those prejudices didn't line up with reality and adjust his worldview accordingly. For all of the "bridgeboy" wisecracks, Adolin was the only man of rank to meaningfully protest Kaladin's imprisonment. And then a book later he's treating Skar and Drehy, his darkeyed, formly enslaved bodyguards, as friends and equals.

All of that to say...

As the ever-wise @cosmerelists put it, Elhokar needs a good shaking. The only thing that's fixing that man is someone putting him in a mason jar and shaking him vigorously. Someone needed to slap him, repeatedly, and tell him to get over himself and start doing better. It would quite literally have saved his life.

Kaladin gives it half a try in canon, but Elhokar just responds something along the lines of "You go too far, peasant," and goes back to wallowing in self-pity.

Now imagine if, rather than Kaladin finding him drunk, Moash went in to talk to him before the attempted assassination. He knows the guy's going to be dead within the hour, but he wants some closure. He wants Elhokar to know why he's about to die, because he knows for a fact that Elhokar does not remember the innocent old couple he left to die in his dungeons.

Moash: My grandparents died because of your incompetence!

Elhokar: Do you have any idea how little that narrows it down?!

There's a 50% chance this just ends with Moash throttling Elhokar before Graves ever gets a shot at him. But there's a 50% chance that Moash gets caught up in his rant (it's quite cathartic) and hits Elhokar with the harsh truths that no one else ever dared or bothered to tell him. He's going to die, so why not lay it all out?

He's a terrible king not because he can't make people respect him, but because he is not worthy of respect. Who cares what he feels entitled to, he as a duty to his people, a duty he has repeatedly failed. Moash would be willing to go in on him harder than Kaladin ever could. He wouldn't have to listen when Elhokar tells him to remember his place. He could shake Elhokar in a jar.

I'm not sure how Elhokar gets out of that room alive, but if he did, I wonder if any of it would stick? Would he hit rock bottom in a way that Kaladin and Dalinar shielded him from in canon? Would he actually start to change instead of just talking about it?

How would he feel about the only person in his life who's ever cared enough to be straight with him? (And tried to kill him, but I'm sure the Alethi consider that to be acceptable first date behavior.)

If nothing else, it would fit Brandon's agenda of making Moash suffer.

[blacksurvivalnostalgichanges]

i want to say this because it left me in stitches

i felt the sort of need to write, didn't feel like writing for my original thing, and i want to rethink the plot/lore of the fic so it's less based on stranger things. the attachment to it completely kills it for me. i got into the magnus archives because i was hoping to find the right inspiration, currently hoping i find other good horror. anyway, not important beyond my feeling of having to update on this

and i dug deep into google docs wondering if there were any things i wrote or started writing that could help

i, apparently, had this isbs drabble doc? that was entirely ideas for writing. i wrote a little on one, but it's too weak on the ground and i never finished it

one of the ideas involved the premise that yuki is calm, and ergo capable of mediating. like, he ends up allying with hyunwoo and isol because i liked those three as a group, still do albeit differently. and he'd help make them fight less

i'm gonna be real with you

i don't think i understood yuki back then at all

[arabella0001]

⋆˙♱ 𓆩♡𓆪 cn: hurt/comfort, slightly soft sukuna, suggestive

Nothing could’ve prepared Sukuna, the King of Curses, the strongest Jujutsu sorcerer from over a thousand years ago, to be so weak right now.

His cursed energy that’s almost infinite, was helping him before in his brutally fights, winning against every enemy he ever faced—or just killing for his own pleasure. All in vain, right now.

Not when he’s on the floor, with his back against the door. With his opened disheveled kimono at the chest, strangely making him look—along with his expression—almost like a helpless teenager.

Behind the door Sukuna was leaning against, you hadn’t stopped crying since last night.

At first, he dismissed you. Sukuna didn’t have time for your childish, dramatic whining that you threw around daily since he met you.

Even though this isn’t the first time he’s met you, right now, he wants to curse the day he met you the second time.

You were definitely her—the one from a thousand years ago. The one he only sensed and saw once but the memory stayed fresh all throughout these years. The only thread of emotion he was ever able to hold on to, one he always found disgusting. He regretted for eternity not speaking to you back then before you disappeared like a ghost, haunting his mind ever since.

Until he found you again. And this time, he didn’t hesitate. He made you his concubine. Your fear of him faded over time. After all, your love began at first sight. Your immediate desire was to alleviate his loneliness with your whole heart. Giving it to him, and only him.

So no one prepared you, not even for a second—on the contrary, the other servants even criticized you since the day you came—considering you were already placed above them. No one prepared you for how much it would hurt to see Sukuna, your Sukuna, letting another concubine, on a random day, amuse him and staying too close to him.

What was more shocking when you opened the door, to be surpised with her sitting on his lap, intentional, after seeing you. Even though he was completely disinterested in her existence, it was just in that one moment that he was entertained by her presence.

So your reaction—your disobedience more exactly—to leave right after he summoned you, made Sukuna not only be bewildered by your boldness and your apparent desire to die because you defied him, but also to completely ignore your jealous attitude, that was so unnecessarily loud.

That was until you started crying, slamming the door in his face.

And ever since, his soul, felt every tremble of yours from the other side. And this only managed to paralyze him on the ground by the door.

Pathetic. That’s what he thought. Pathetic, especially for what he’s about to do.

“Open the door.”

Your cries stopped for a second, only to surprise him even more with your stubbornness.

“No.”

He sighed so hard, probably the whole damn temple heard it.

“She means nothing to me, woman. I don’t understand why you get so worked up over such a meaningless existence.”

But you only yell in return, in a pitch he never heard from you before, your bleeding heart punching straight into his chest.

“Then why did you let her? Why did you let her sit closer to you?” You add between panting, “You swore to me. You sealed your heart to me. Only to humiliate me and ruin all I have left?”

Sukuna couldn’t help but rise to his feets, now facing the door and barely containing himself from breaking that stupid weak door. His clenched fists pressing slighy against the wood, just above his head.

You felt how his cursed energy swallowed the whole place. Almost making you fear him again, especially when his voice dropped low—commanding.

“STOP.”

His fists tightened until his knuckles turned white, trembling against the door. But his voice was almost a whisper, nor that it didn’t terrified you.

“Never. Never since I landed on this pathetic earth—have I ever fucking wanted any human being. I despise them. All. I don’t fucking care about absolutely nothing on this revolting land. Only you.”

He added, with a calmer tone, “So open the door.” Then cursed under his breath before speaking again. “Please.”

Your crying stopped instantly after hearing that unexpected beginning. Your eyes widened and Sukuna’s word halted for a moment when he felt a shift in your energy. But you treated him with silence again—and that was his breaking point.

“I’ll kill her. Her and any other concubine in this fucking temple.”

Just as he turned with determined footsteps and a murderous look on his face, you opened the door.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

Sukuna gave you a side glance, disappearing instantly from where he stood before appearing now right in front of you.

His intense gaze trailed up and down your tear-stained face, your weakened body barely holding itself up.

Your eyes widened, and something he’s grown to hate the most since he met you stirred inside him again—seeing you scared. Again. Watching you step back, hands lifting instinctively to protect yourself, when in reality he is the one who’s supposed to protect you. Always.

His eyes softened with a tone slightly light, until his big rough hands grasped your firmly.

“You made me insane. So insane I wanna break this entire world in half. And I could, if I wanted.” He added, not leaving your face for once, like he was trying to hypnotize you. “I will never, ever hurt you. I don’t want you scared in my presence, in any fucking circumstances—You understand?”

Seeing how your legs tremble, your swollen eyes scanning his face frantically that he is not used to it—only your adoring, worshipping gaze should exist in his mind. This look needed to be completely erased. He did something much lower than he already was.

He knelt.

His movements so deliberate that your body froze.

Sukuna looked at you with such loyalty that you felt guilty. Expecially when he spoke, in that voice you loved so much, the one he only used at night and sometimes in the mornings—but even that was rare.

“Forgive me. For disgracing you. I will not put you in this position again.” And because it wasn’t enough, in his mind, he pushed, “Please.”

Your hands flew to his shoulders, trying to lift him. “My lord—”

“No. I don’t deserve your devotion right now.”

You corrected yourself, “Please, Kyo. Stand up, my love.”

And he did. Almost humiliatingly amused on the inside that now you were the one commanding him—and he listened.

Your hands cupped his face, looking at him with that loving, yet still hurt eyes.

“I—I forgive you.”

At that, Sukuna leaned into your parted lips, your body responding subconsciously before your mind even processed it, and kissed you so hungrily—yet different than before. Like he was pouring his entire cursed heart into that kiss. Devouring you.

He lifted you up like you were the lightest thing in the world, a small surprised sound escaping your lips. And as he held you like a queen—his queen, because that’s what you were, no matter your title—he carried you toward the bed, Sukuna’s gaze never leaving your face the whole time.

Until he threatened you—but not in the way you’d expect.

“Now. You need to deal with the consequences of almost ruining my most precious human heart. Your heart.”

Despite his menacing voice, his hands laid you down on the bed almost too gently, his red eyes piercing your. Then his leg settled between yours, towering over you and tossing his black kimono god knows where.

Sukuna’s voice was only a malicious whisper, tickled the skin of your earlobe.

“Now it’s your time to beg for mercy, woman.”

[catchastarorten]

—“This one’s mine.”

Pairing: Hwang Jun-ho x VIP!fem!reader

Summary: after being pestered by your own brother, you agreed to accompany him to the island to watch the games, only to find yourself helping a waiter—Jun-ho—who was being eyed by a creepy panther-masked VIP.

Warnings: your sarcasm, mentions of death/violence in Glass Bridge, your brother is a VIP, brother & sister bickering/you put him in his place because he's being annoying, the VIPs—panther masked VIP being a weirdo, you save Jun-ho tho, English isn’t my first language, mistakes should be present, not proofread, sorry!

Word count: ~ 2.6k

The golden fox mask felt heavy on your face, pressing against your skin in a way that made you want to rip it off and toss it across the room. But that would be improper, wouldn’t it? A VIP must maintain decorum. At least, that’s what your insufferable little brother kept reminding you.

Speaking of him, he was sitting beside you, his wolf mask barely concealing the delighted smirk on his face as he leaned forward, watching the players stumble and fall to their deaths on the Glass Bridge. He laughed—actually laughed—when a man made the wrong choice out of the two and jumped, crashing through the wrong glass panel, screaming all the way down.

You sighed, swirling the drink in your glass, watching the liquid catch the dim light. It was infinitely more interesting than the so-called “game” before you.

How had you let brother dearest drag you here? Oh, right. He had whined and pouted and gone on and on about how you never did anything fun with him. You had rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle they hadn’t gotten stuck in your skull, but against your better judgment, you agreed.

And now here you were, surrounded by a bunch of snobby men—your presence wasn’t nearly enough to balance out the testosterone levels—draped in velvet robes, sipping on the finest liquor, and betting on desperate people fighting for their lives.

You suppressed a yawn.

“This is so much better than another charity gala, isn’t it?” your brother drawled, nudging your arm. “You have to admit, this is real entertainment.”

“Yeah, watching poor people die really warms the heart,” you said dryly.

“Don’t be such a bore, sis,” he said, rolling his eyes. “This is tradition. You should be honored to be here.”

Oh, you were honored, alright. Honored that your parents left everything to him, making sure he had enough money to play dress-up with his rich little friends while you had to fight for your own wealth. Not that you needed their inheritance, but the principle of it still burned. He got to be the spoiled prince while you had to claw your way up in the world. And now here he was, wasting it all on cheap thrills.

The Glass Bridge game was nearing midway. The players were hesitating, trying to strategize their way across. The VIPs around you were buzzing with excitement, shouting bets, clapping, drinking like it was the biggest sports event of the decade. But all you saw were walking corpses, their fear so thick in the air it nearly masked the expensive cologne in the room.

You took another sip of your drink, letting the burn coat your throat.

“At least pretend like you’re having fun,” your brother whined. “People are gonna think you’re some kind of a… prude.”

“Oh no.” you responded mockingly.

He huffed, crossing his arms like a petulant child. If there was one thing he hated, it was not getting his way. You could practically hear the gears turning in his spoiled little mind, trying to come up with a way to make you enjoy this, but his thoughts were interrupted when the other VIPs erupted into cheers and groans. You just exhaled through your nose, staring at the mess.

It was the players on the glass bridge, arguing, too afraid to jump. One shoved another forward, out of desperation or malice. The man screamed as he plunged to his death.

“Ugh, finally,” your brother muttered. “I hate when they hesitate. Just jump, you cowards!”

You turned your head slightly, studying him. Did he even realize how pathetic he sounded? Lounging in a silk robe, sneering at people who had nothing? He wouldn’t last a minute in their position.

“You should play,” you mused, tilting your head. “Next year.”

He snorted. “Please, I would dominate these games.”

You smiled behind your mask. “Would you?”

Your brother scoffed. “You doubt me?”

“I know you,” you said. “And you wouldn’t make it past the first round.”

He looked genuinely offended. “I’d make it to the finals, at least.”

You leaned in, voice dropping. “Tell you what. If you join next year, I’ll bet against you. Just to make it interesting.”

He rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath. But you saw it—the flicker of doubt, of fear. As much as he enjoyed watching, he knew very well he would never survive playing.

And that? That was the only entertaining thing you’d seen all night.

A moment later, your eyes flicked toward the Panther-masked VIP, whose frustration over losing a bet had quickly turned into something much more unpleasant. His focus had shifted from the game to the waiter standing stiffly beside him—a waiter who, you observed, wasn’t moving quite like the other servers.

You weren’t an idiot. The way that waiter hesitated when he was called, the way his shoulders were a little too tense, the way his hands remained perfectly still as if not used to serving—it all screamed of someone who didn’t belong.

That was because he wasn’t really a waiter, it was Jun-ho disguised as one, though you didn’t know that. He had taken down one of the servers moments before the VIPs arrived on the island.

And now, the Panther-masked VIP was ordering him to sit beside him and take off his mask.

Jun-ho—recognizing the sharpness in his tone—tried to resist, his voice calm. “I need to serve the other guests, sir.”

The Panther VIP scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. “Oh, come now, the others won’t mind if I keep this one for myself, will they?”

A chorus of laughter and amusement rippled through the room, the other VIPs agreeing without a care—“he’s all yours!” one of them laughed. Your brother even chuckled beside you, raising his glass as if this was all just another part of the entertainment.

You, however, did not find it amusing.

Before Jun-ho could be forced into something he clearly wanted no part of, you lazily raised your hand and gestured toward your glass.

“I need a refill,” you said smoothly.

Jun-ho’s eyes darted toward you, wary but sharp, understanding immediately that you were giving him an out.

Your brother groaned, shifting beside you. “Come on, sis, let him have his fun—”

Your hand shot out, swatting him hard against his arm before he could finish his whining.

He yelped, rubbing his arm. “Ow! What the—?”

“Shut up.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, but the look you gave him through your golden fox mask was enough to make him think better of it. He slumped back into the couch with a huff, grumbling under his breath.

The Panther-masked VIP tsked in annoyance but didn’t say more as Jun-ho bowed his head slightly and stepped away from him, making his way toward you. You could see the tension in his shoulders ease, if only slightly.

As he reached your couch, he carefully took your glass and poured you another drink, his movements slow and precise. Up close, you could see the way his jaw was set tight, his eyes flickering with restraint.

You leaned in slightly as he finished pouring. “You okay?” you murmured, just loud enough for him to hear.

Jun-ho hesitated for the briefest moment before nodding once. “Thank you,” he said quietly, placing your glass back into your hand.

You didn’t reply, just took a slow sip while he stood beside the couch you sat on.

However, the weight of the Panther-masked VIP’s stare was suffocating. You didn’t even have to look to know that he was still watching Jun-ho like a predator eyeing its next meal.

Annoyed, you turned your head ever so slightly, locking eyes with him through your golden fox mask. You raised your glass in a slow, mocking salute before downing the rest of your drink in one smooth motion.

The message was clear: Back off.

Unfortunately, subtlety was wasted on men like him.

“Come back here,” the Panther VIP drawled, waving his fingers in a lazy command at Jun-ho.

Jun-ho’s grip on the bottle in his hands tightened slightly, his body as still as a statue. It was subtle, but you caught it. He didn’t want to go back over there.

So, before he could even think about stepping forward, you reached out and grabbed his forearm, holding him in place. Your fingers pressed firmly against the fabric of his uniform—a silent message that he could stay with you.

You sat up straighter, your voice cutting through the noise.

“This one’s mine.”

The room went quiet for a beat.

Jun-ho stiffened beside you, clearly taken aback. You didn’t mean it in the way it sounded—he wasn’t a possession. But these men only responded to power plays, and if that was the language they spoke, then fine. You’d speak it fluently.

Your brother let out a low whistle beside you, his amusement clear. “Ohhh, big sis is getting bold.”

You didn’t even hesitate—your palm struck his arm again with a sharp thwack.

“Ow!” he rubbed where you smacked him.

“Shut up,” you muttered, leveling him with a glare. “If you don’t stop embarrassing yourself, I’ll give you a real beating in front of all these people.”

He grumbled something under his breath, soothing his arm, but he didn’t push it further.

The Panther VIP, however, was not so easily prevented. “Come now,” he chuckled, though there was irritation beneath his voice. “You can’t hoard all the fun.”

“Sure, I can,” you replied dryly.

A few of the other VIPs laughed at that, enjoying the exchange. The Panther VIP let out a breath through his nose, clearly displeased, but he wasn’t about to pick a fight with another VIP. That was the unspoken rule—annoyance was fine, but outright challenging each other was bad form.

Jun-ho turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at you. You met his eyes for a brief second, and then you stood up, keeping your grip on him firm.

“We’re leaving,” you announced.

Your brother groaned. “What? Where are you going?”

You didn’t even look at him as you responded, voice utterly monotone. “Somewhere that isn’t here.”

More amusement rippled through the other VIPs, some watching with interest, others indifferent as they returned their attention to the game. But as you turned to leave, you felt it—that silent, looming presence watching you.

The Frontman.

He didn’t say a word, didn’t move to stop you. He simply observed, his masked face unreadable.

You met his gaze for a long moment before turning away, leading Jun-ho out of the room. No one stopped you. No one dared to stop you.

And just like that, you stole the only honest man in the room away from the wolves.

The moment you got him alone into a dimly-lit, empty room, you could feel the tension radiating off of him. Jun-ho wasn’t stupid—he knew he didn’t belong here, and he knew that you knew. His shoulders were taut, his breath controlled but just a little too shallow, and his hand was subtly reaching for something. A gun, maybe. A knife. Whatever he had managed to smuggle in.

You raised your hands slowly, showing you had no weapon, no ill intent. ��Relax,” you said, your voice calm, softer even. You let go of his arm, stepping back to give him space. “I’m not going to turn you in… or whatever you’re thinking right now.”

Jun-ho’s sharp eyes flickered with suspicion. “And why should I believe that?”

“Because if I was planning to sell you out, I would’ve done it back there.” you tilted your head slightly, crossing your arms loosely. “Would’ve let that old man have his fun.” you said with a hint of distaste at the thought.

That gave him pause. He studied you, his gaze flickering over your golden fox mask, as if trying to gauge whether you were lying, or just the need to understand why a supposed VIP was helping him. You didn’t blame him for being on edge. This entire place was a slaughterhouse dressed up in gold. If you were in his position, you wouldn’t trust anyone either.

“You don’t belong here,” you stated plainly, watching for his reaction.

“And neither do you.”

That actually made you laugh, just a short, soft chuckle. “You’re not wrong.”

He hesitated. Maybe because your mask didn’t hold the same predatory amusement as the others. His fingers twitched, like he was still deciding whether to draw his weapon, but then he let out a slow breath.

You sighed too and gestured toward the door. “You should go. Before someone actually does come looking for you.”

Jun-ho didn’t move right away. He just stood there, looking at you like he was trying to solve a puzzle. And for a brief moment, you could tell—he wanted to ask.

Who are you?

Why are you helping me?

What’s under the mask?

But he didn’t ask. He just gave you a small nod before slipping out the door, disappearing like a shadow. You shut the door.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders as you turned back toward the empty room. Not even a minute later, a knock came at the door. You raised an eyebrow, opening the door, meeting the presence of a square-masked guard, who stepped inside.

“The Frontman sent me to check on you,” the guard said, his voice hollow under the mask. “Where’s the waiter?”

You gave him a blank look. “What waiter?”

The guard straightened. “The waiter you left with.”

You tilted your head, voice dry. “Oh. Him.” you shrugged lazily. “I got bored. Told him to get lost.”

The square guard didn’t buy it. “Where did he go?”

You sighed, as if this was the most exhausting conversation of your life. “Am I his babysitter?”

The guard didn’t move. He was pushing. You didn’t like being pushed.

So you took a slow step forward, closing the space between you and the guard. He stood his ground, but you could feel the slight hesitation in his stance as you slowly backed him up against the wall.

When his back hit the surface, the shift in atmosphere was instant. You weren’t loud. You weren’t aggressive. But the weight of your presence—the empty, unreadable calm of someone who knew how to lie—was enough to make the guard tense.

You tilted your head slightly, a slow, empty smile forming under your mask. “What exactly are you suggesting?” you murmured, voice smooth as silk. “That I’m hiding something?”

The square guard stiffened.

“Because that would be a very bold accusation to make against a VIP,” you continued, voice dropping to something almost sickly sweet. “And you wouldn’t want to insult a guest, would you?”

There it was—the slight shift in his posture, the hesitation and hint of nervousness.

“I—”

You stepped back, your fake smile still in place. “Good talk,” you said dryly, dusting off your robe like this was nothing more than an inconvenience. “Tell the Frontman to send someone more competent next time.”

The square guard didn’t argue, he just quickly stepped away from the wall, stiffly nodding before leaving the room without another word.

You sighed as the door shut behind him, rubbing a hand against the side of your neck.

This whole thing had been a drag, but at least you’d managed to do one decent thing tonight.

[plethorawrites]

I know a lot of people HC that Damian Wayne would be a terrible dad because of how he was raised and his own trauma keeps him emotionally detached, but imagine if his upbringing did the exact opposite? (1.2k)

He'd be terrified the moment he finds out his wife is pregnant, utterly unable to comprehend it. He wants to be excited, like everyone else in his family is about it, but can't bring himself to get over the fear. He's worried he won't love it or feel attached to it like she already is. Hell, he keeps calling it and IT.

That fear only grows and grows, getting infinitely worse as she's closer to having the baby. He doesn't feel worthy of being a parent, he's got too much blood on his hands to know how to be gentle or caring, especially not to someone as small as a baby. His wife alone had to break through a dozen of his walls before he fully trusted her enough to be vulnerable with her. But then, the baby is born. He's a dad. His wife is alright, which is his first concern, the next being making sure the baby is too.

She is.

She's a she.

He has a little girl and it's like time stops, staring at her little face, her dark skin, her full head of hair, her chubby cheeks. That fear in his chest both grows and disappears all at once. He knows then and there that his worries about not loving her were absolutely ridiculous. He's never let the world hurt her. But the apprehension about being good enough still persists.

He refuses to hold her, claiming his wife should be the first since she did all the work. Which she did. Then, he still refuses. He doesn't want to cradle her when he keeps thinking of all the blood his hands have spilled. His wife can tell and deep down it worries her too, but she doesn't say anything because she knew it would take a while for him to get used to being a dad. His family comes to see the baby a few days after they leave the hospital, they all hold her, but Damian keeps his arms crossed.

He's still terrified from afar that one of his brothers will drop her, though.

One night, after she got to bed, he hears her crying. His wife is exhausted, rightfully so, so he gets up. She's eaten recently so he has no idea why the baby is crying, just that she is. He shushes her while she lays in her crib but she's a few weeks old, so of course she has no idea what that means.

Finally, he reaches down, scooping her up into his arms, just to try to keep her quiet so his wife can sleep. "Shh. Please let your mother sleep," he whispers, his eyes softening as she immediately stops crying.

He puts her back down, the anxiety having already flooded him just by having her in his arms, but the second she's back in her crib, she's crying again. He's forced to pick her back up and the crying turns to soft cooing, staring up at him with wide eyes. He sighs, sitting in the chair his wife likes to rock her to sleep in, holding her close in her blanket. Which wasn't really a blanket at all, just his old cape that she had somehow taken to finding comfort in.

She reaches out, with that iron vice of a grip all babies seem to have, grabbing his finger with her hand. "Such a strong grip for such a small person," he whispers to himself or perhaps to her. "I love you, you know? More than anything. I just...feel like you deserve a better father than me."

She's still staring, silently, with absolutely no recognition of his words and his grips around her tightens as he leans his head back in the chair, falling asleep until morning when his wife finds him in the nursery with her still in his arms. He won't pretend he didn't feel a little bit of comfort holding her. But it was still frightening to him. Even if his wife assured him every other day that he was doing fine and she knew he could be a good dad.

He takes to being the one to soothe her at night so his wife can sleep, both because he's used to staying up at night for work and because he's somehow a lot better at getting her to calm down. He begins calling her 'beautiful' or 'darling' in Arabic, which always elicits a small smile. And he knows without a single doubt that he'd never let the darkness he's seen touch her.

The older she grows the better he gets at it. She's less fragile, he's more confident that he does deserve her. He can raise her better than he was raised. And he does. He can recognize each of her cries, knows what she needs, sometimes before she does. He presses a kiss to her head every night before she goes to bed and even when she starts sleeping through the night he'll still sit in her nursery for a while because he knows he'll never see her this small again.

She turns one and his whole family is there, spoiling her with extravagant gifts, even though he knows her favorite thing in the whole world is the blanket she sleeps with, made from his old cape. She's old to stand and starts babbling, not quite forming words, but it's enough that he knows what she wants when she points in a vague direction and starts getting frustrated about wanting something. He sits on the floor, holding her little hands while she stands, learning to take her first steps and his wife grimaces, worried the baby will fall.

She does.

Damian catches her.

She giggles and he can't help but grin with pride. "That's my girl. Already learning to walk a few months early." She's smart, he knows it. He doesn't boast to anyone aside from his wife or family about it, but secretly judges all the other kids in the group his wife takes her too. They weren't quite as advanced as his daughter.

After all, she responds to some words in Arabic. Her nicknames, mostly. Although she'll turn her head when he says 'look' or tells her 'good job' for finishing her mashed veggies. How many other babies did they know who were bilingual before two? Not many.

After fourteen months or so, her eyes change from blue to green and he finds himself even more transfixed with her wide eyes that track everything he does when he wakes up before his wife to make them all breakfast. He scolds her lightly when she throws the teething ring she loves at him, telling her "That's rude." Before handing it back to her and making her some steamed vegetables, since he always refused to give her store bought baby food.

It wasn't good enough for his child.

Around the time her babbling turns to poorly formed words, she starts calling him Babba and realizing how it makes him smile utters it over and over when she wants to be picked up.

She goes: "Babbababbababba." Like it's all one very long ramble until he lifts her out of her high chair and lets her rest on his hip asking her what she wants. "Stuffed animal?" He questions, pointing at her collection of them. She just repeats. "Babba." again, laying her head against him.

He realizes she just wants to be held and he gladly holds her for as long as she wants.

[theblacklewinsky]

Note: Hey y'all! I hope y'all enjoy, the next one might be submissive Terry idkidk 🫣 kinda hate this one.

Perfect Gentleman. | Aaron Pierre.

Gentle!Terry Richmond x Black!Female Reader

Warnings: MNDI!! this story is 18+ with depictions but not limited to; sexual content ( penetrat!on, oral s3x ( m receiving), extreme language (cursing, sexual references) established relationship, slight daddy kink if you squint. Not proofread!

Summary: terry's been the perfect gentleman, maybe a little too gentle.

swear you can have me, you really one-of-one.

how you so nasty? you really one-of-one.

You eagerly scratched the itch away in your bitten up ankles. The mosquitoes out here in the Black Bayou had torn your exposed ankles up—and this was why camping wasn't your thing. You'd never complain though, any excuse to be with Terry was a good one.

"I told you to wear long socks," he chuckled looking back you and at how you'd scratched the skin on your ankles red, "all that gardenin' you do and you out here with no socks on," he softly lectured as you watched him pitch the tent, at his demand. He was such a gentleman.

You'd been dating Terry for over four months, you've both went on a plethora of dates, had the steamy first kiss, and even spent a night at each others apartment, but you still hadn't fucked yet. Was it you? You knew you had an Oscar worthy performance of your coy-innocent act that Terry ate up all of the time, but you weren't a prude. You couldn't count how many times you'd hinted, and seduced only to be met with more gentleness.

And you loved how patient, protective, and gentle he was with you. He was everything you'd practically asked for when you started dating. A nice man, a sweet man—and you got it, a full blown golden retriever boyfriend. He had so many amazing qualities, he was always on time arriving fifteen minutes early. Something he said was one of the most useful things he learned from his time in the Marine Corps. He was a full blown de-escalator, he never wanted to argue with you, always communicating as calmly as he could before coming to an understanding with you. He was gentle. But maybe he was too gentle? You wanted Terry in the worst ways. It didn't help that he stayed in good shape, gym four times a week, and his infinite morning runs kept him in tip-top shape.

You pouted, squinting your eyes as you looked at Terry from underneath the brim of the Nike bucket hat you'd retrieved from him. Although he was pitching the tent and the sun was currently beating down on him, he decided that, you, sitting in the shade doing nothing, needed the hat more. Such a man.

"You said come comfortable, and I garden in my crocs—that's what I came in!" You defended your reasoning for not wearing the socks that he did tell you to pack last night over a quick FaceTime call, but he did say come comfortable in the same sentence. "These mosquitos are relentless, baby, look at my ankles!" You frowned looking at how red and irritated the skin has gotten there even on your deep brown skin.

Of course Terry stopped his meddling with the tent and came over to assess your so badly injured ankles. He tsk'd softly his big hands cradling both of your ankles gently. Now push them behind my head! you eagerly thought feeling him touch you at all always sent shocks and shivers through your body.

"They eatin' my baby up," he somberly acknowledged rubbing his thumbs where the bites were firmly, "you put bug spray on like I told you?"

You nodded. "Yeah, just go and finish the tent," you dramatically sighed waiting to eagerly scratch at the bites, "I'll just be sitting over here, itchy, getting ate up." At least something was eating you up.

He brought your left ankle up to his lips casually, placing a soft kiss there before setting the both of them back down carefully. You almost moaned, it had been way too long. "stop scratchin' at em, you makin' em worse."

You looked at him, batting your eyelashes at him a dazed nod following right behind. He was so gorgeous, and it didn't help that he was so sweet and treated you like the absolute brat you were. He continued on with his quick work with the tent and you continued on with your sneaky scratching. After it was perfectly pitched, he got you inside as soon as it was done to rub a bit of alcohol on your itchy ankles and making you put on a pair of his socks that were way too big for you.

You frowned looking down at your legs later that night as you both set around the campfire, that you had gotten started. You hadn't forgotten all the survival tips your father had shown you. Terry focused on cooking the fish he and you caught earlier from the pier. He'd cleaned it and dissembled it himself. "These are puttin' a damper on my outfit, so not cute."

Terry chuckled, quickly flipping the searing fish over in the pan. Your eyes flickered over to him. "What?"

"You so country," he commented through a light chuckle, "damper?"

"That's not country!" You defended through a smile. "Everybody says damper!"

"Nobody says damper,"

"Does too!"

"Why you gotta be such a brat? Why you act like that?" He teased playfully, holding his hand out to you only to pull you up from your chair and into his lap. "Hm?" He hummed nuzzling his faced into your neck where he playfully nipped at the skin on your neck, knowing the ticklish effect it had on you.

You laughed hunching your shoulder up to push him away from the area, "stop!" The assault lasted a few more minutes before he reluctantly stopped, only when he seen the tears from your nonstop laughter, and how you cradled your aching stomach when you laughed.

"Brat," he mumbled in between persisting kisses to your lips. You happily returned each one, who were you to deny the brat allegations. They were very true. "Always gotta have yo way."

"You love how bratty I am," you retorted, trailing your own lingering kisses from his lips, to his jaw, to his neck.

"I do," he mumbled out an agreement making you laugh against his neck before continuing on, and you thought maybe, as his hands kneaded the back of your thighs and the undersides of your ass. But all that came undone when he urgently removed you from his lap in light hysterics about almost burning the fish.

The fish.

How could he even think about fish when he had your throbbing pussy in his lap, was he really blind to all this shit? Or was he just not sexually attracted to you? Or was he fucking celibate? The questions brought on a lingering insecurity. The rest of the night you were more distant, quiet, the situation left you a little embarrassed and salty. You'd never had a man be so indifferent to your advances. Or did he even see them as advances? Hell, you didn't know anymore.

Your distance and quiet demeanor didn't go unnoticed either Terry, who constantly made it his mission to see if you were okay and enjoying yourself. You answered the same all the time, yes, which did very little to comfort him—but he also didn't wanna push you into irritation.

"You sure you good, baby?" He asked later that night as you both settled into the cozy tent. You made sure to nestle yourself into your cute, pinky, sleeping bag. It was so you.

"Yeah." You simply answered with a nod, forcing the weak smile. Such a liar. But you weren't gonna admit that the situation left you feeling a little salty. You didn't wanna bring the situation up at all, you'd much rather forget it.

"You sure? You not actin' like yourself, baby. You want me to take you home?" There he went. Being so him. Always being so caring.

"No, I'm fine. It's nothing really, im just..itchy still." You seamlessly lied. Or maybe not. You were still itchy.

Terry decided not to press the issue instead making sure he got as close as possible to you, something he always did when you slept together, he loved being right up under you—you didn't contest to it. Ever. You both gave your good nights, and Terry made sure to turn off the LED lantern lamp you both had in the tent. A soft and easy silence falling over the both of you. Terry's soft breathing, body heat, chirping crickets and the pitch black were enough to lull you to sleep. And they almost did, but damn, you were still itchy.

You brought your knees to your chest, hastily scratching at your extremely itchy ankles, a heavy, draws out sigh from the temporary but almost euphoric relief skipped past your lips.

"Stop scratchin'." Terry's deep voice but through the silence, the raspiness on the edge of his voice attributed to the sleep that had took him in quick. The words halted your actions quickly as you tried to quietly morph into a comfortable position.

"I'm not," you spoke quietly.

"But you were."

His damn hearing. He heard everything.

"Well I wouldn't have been if I was doing something else." Your tone snappy but the suggestiveness fore fronted the sassiness.

"Somethin' else like what?" Terry questioned.

You huffed immediately, sitting up abruptly from your sleeping bag and flickering the lantern on. "Are you really that clueless?" You exclaimed almost, looking at his ever so lost expression. "Terry, are not you sexually attracted to me?"

Terry looked at you as if you'd grown two heads. Like he couldn't understand why you'd ask him such a question, like you didn't know he was a full blown raging man. "Why would you even ask me that, of course im sexually attracted to you, baby."

"You don't act like it," you quietly murmured, "it's like every time I try, you pull back. What is it? I really thought I was obvious enough with everything."

And you were. Terry wasn't ignorant to your advances. But he also wasn't ignorant to your past relationships and the men that you dealt with. Full blown sex addicts a few of them seemed to be, and some of them seemed unable to form a real bond with you without sex. He wanted to prove to you that he actually liked you, that he wanted to get to know you past sex. That he wanted this to last. It'd taken copious amounts of restraint for him to slyly deter away from the advances. Copious amounts.

He wasn't exactly sure how he made it to four months himself, without caving in. Maybe it was his serious he'd gotten about your relationship, maybe it was genuine like for you that made it somewhat easy. He was still a man though, taking care of himself when he was finally away from you.

He said your name slowly, sitting up himself, "im utterly, completely, and deeply sexually attracted to you. But I wanna show you that when it comes to keeping this together, sex is indifferent to me. I don't want you to think we need that shit to connect. I genuinely like you, alot."

"I like you too, but I already knew that Terry," he softly laughed, the weight of the insecurities dropping off your shoulders. You couldn't believe that once again, all this time, the lack of sex was catered to his feelings about you. You were gonna fuck this man so good. So good. "I knew that at the end of the first date when you didn't try to kiss me when you dropped me off." You giggled at the recanting of the memory.

"I wanted you to feel it though."

"And I do feel it," you slinked even closer to him, hand trailing up his thigh, "I feel it so much." You looked up at him, batting your long lashes.

Terry sat there slack mouthed, brows furrowed, his stormy eyes looking down at you with bursting pleasure and astonishment as he watched you suck him down. How the fuck did you get so good at this shit? You'd completely covered his shaft in your saliva, you were loud and sloppy. Just how he liked it. Throat so tight around him, every time you nuzzled him in. You were dazed yourself, tasting him, having him in the back of your throat where you craved him so many times before. You were savoring all of this.

Your hands wrapped themselves around his girthy length, stroking them at a brisk pace, your wet mouth guiding them in their dizzying up and down movements. His grunts and groans of approval only furthered you to please him more. You looked up at him, eyes watery, and soft as you took him down, spit bubbles formed around him, as you nuzzled him in deeper into your mouth. Removing a spit soaked hand, you nuzzled that into your soaked panties, pleasing him, pleased you.

"Sss-shitttt," he drug out through a groan, his strong hand grasping the back of your neck, as he bucked himself up into your mouth, relentlessly fucking your throat. You shut your watery, burning eyes letting him use you how he wanted. "Fuck, eat that dick up baby. You do that shit so good," he slurred through his persisting moans.

That only furthered your arousal, which furthered your efforts. The rough gags and choking from you was almost enough to send him over the edge. Almost. You finally pulled back, giving him a chance to recover and giving yourself a chance to catch your ailing breathing.

You stroke him off, spitting down on his shaft in your hands, eagerly stroking the lubrication in, leaning your head down to suck one of his balls into your mouth; gently. You knew too much. How did you know so much?

"Why you so nasty?" He mumbled grabbing your chin once you were done tending to his balls. "Hm?" He hummed before pressing your wet lips to his own. His kiss rushed, sloppy, and deep. His tongue searched every inch of your mouth, his lips sucking your own into his mouth.

Oh he was nasty like that?

"Move," he knocked your hands away from his still hardened dick, "take that shit off." He comments taking heed to the articles of clothing you still had on, his own hands slithering under the oversized shirt you'd put on for bed.

"But I wanted to make you cum—" you started, wiping your wet mouth with the back of your hand once he eagerly pulled your t-shirt off, nipples immediately pebbling due to the exposure of the cool night air in the tent. You didn't get to finish your sentence before Terry's lips were already latched onto the flesh on your neck, creating red blemishes as he cascaded down your body skillfully.

"You bout to," he mumbled attaching his lips to yours once again, "open up," he tapped your jaw firmly, "lemme see." The firm taps to your jaw ignited the fire and aching need in your belly, a moan slipped past your lips as you opened like he asked.

You watched, dazed, as he spat down into your mouth. Oh, he was nasty.

It was like yin and yang to you. This couldn't be your Terry. Not the Terry that bought you flowers every Sunday and never let you lift a finger Terry. This was a different Terry, nasty Terry. Impatient Terry. Demanding Terry. Just what you wanted.

"Oh my god-uhhhh!" You slurred out through a moan. Terry's vice grip on your locs matched the same vice grip you currently had him in right now. He had you positioned on all fours, one hand on your hip to steady his hard, dizzying strokes. He was fucking you hard, too hard. Too good. Your thighs trembled beneath you, knees threatening to buckle as he slammed into your heated core repeatedly. It's like he knew exactly where that spot was located. "Right there, daddy! Right fucking there," you whimpered, face pressed pathetically on the pallet beneath you.

"I know, i feel that shit," he groaned, sending another hard smack to your ass cheek, the recoil from his pelvis constantly slamming into your ass had him in a complete daze. Four months he kept himself from this, restrained himself from what he knew had to be good. But he didn't expect it feel like this. "Wettin' me right the fuck up—mm mm, keep that shit right there, you better not fuckin' lay down, keep that shit open just like that." He mumbled out into the tent, taking into head your trembling legs. The lewd sounds of your sopping wet pussy, followed by the loud slapping of your skin together filled your tent and your empty head.

"Fuckkkk," you groaned out, managing to sit up in your elbows, acrylics clawing at the covers beneath you, your eyes crossed as you felt his tip kissing a little too deep, "so deep, baby."

"Mhm," he hummed pulling your head back with his tight grip on your hair, his lust filled glare looking right down into your own crossed eyes, "right where i should be. Look at you, takin' this dick like a good girl. This what you wanted right?"

"Yesssss," you managed to fully get out, a series of breath taking moans following. He was giving you exactly what you wanted; hard, rough shit. He was fucking you like he hated you, like he had a point to prove. This shit was only making you delusional did he not understand the type of you he would get now?

"Yeah? Wanted daddy to dig yo' shit out just like this, huh?" He nodded watching you nod in response, your breaths coming out in a series of heavy puffs. "I know you did, can tell by the way you creamin' on my dick."

"Shittt!" You gasped out the exploitive, planting your hands flat against the ground, mustering yo whatever weak energy you had to fuck yourself back against him, working toward your own impending orgasm. "I'm finna cum!" You rushed out.

Terry pulled you back toward his chest, your small frame engulfed in his as you sat promptly in his lap getting impaled in the most delicious way possible. You felt lightheaded, high, and perfect all at once. "Babyyyy, im cummin'!" You whined out.

"Keep tellin' me, do that shit. Lemme feel you cum on my dick," he grunted, the lewd works making you clench around him as they clearly sent you tumbling over the edge. Terry mocking your long, loud and drawn out moans with his own. His lips attacking wherever they could on your exposed neck. His impaling strokes never stopped, even when it was clear you'd completely rode it out. He kept fucking you, sending you into a deep place of overstimulation. When was he ever planning to cum?

"Look at you," he mumbled a smug smirk on his lips, hand firmly holding your slacked jaw in his hand, "dick got you dumb—breathe through that shit, baby." He tapped your jaw, repeatedly. The sight of you alone, plus the constant contracting of your walls around him had earned you a deliciously sounding groan. You hadn't even realized you were holding your breath until he spoke up.

Everything was too much. It was too much to focus on. The pleasure, his voice, his kisses. Forgetting to breathe in the middle of your overstimulation was warranted.

Your breaths cane tumbling back to you fast, hard and quick you panted. Body trembling in Terrys grasp, as dared to lean forward feeling another orgasm approaching, but this one felt harder. Body-shattering. It hurt and felt so good at the same time.

"Fuck, ima nut baby," Terry grunted in your ear. "Pussy so good, why yo shit so good like this?" Finally.

"Cum in my pussy, please daddy," was the first and only thing you could get out, not even warning him about your oncoming orgasm. This one cramped everything, the tightness in your stomach didn't subside but seemed to get tighter. Your thighs were numb, but your legs ached. The squeal you let out left your throat raw, and that's why you didn't hear Terry when he finally announced that he was cumming, but you felt him for sure, right where you told him to.

You felt Terry's lips against your jaw, kissing you repeatedly. Telling you how well you did for him, how he couldn't believe he kept himself away from that for four months. How good it was. These were finally the words that lulled you off to a blissful sleep, you'd finally got what you wanted. There you were, fucked out In a tent, with cum leaking out of you. Such a whore. A happy whore.

-

still no tag list! 😭 hope you enjoy this little filler! 💕

[worstghost]

teaching bob how to kiss and accidentally slipping into a 20 minute makeout session

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

it was a weird situation that you were in, an impossible one really.

bob had confessed to you that he hadn't really kissed anyone, at least not sober. and he had this insane crush on some mystery girl and couldn't stand the thought of embarrassing himself with his lack of experience, so he never went for it.

and you, being a good friend, who happened to dream about kissing him, offered your services. you weren't a professional by any means, but he didnt need to know that.

once you pushed past his nerves and settled down on his bed, fingers twisting the tassles of his threaded blanket, you looked at him and waited for him to give you the go ahead.

let him take his time, spending it admiring his freshly washed hair and the bright flush across his cheeks. the way his eyes looked anywhere but you and then- he leaned in, squeezing his eyes shut and gripping the blanket tight.

you couldn't help your smile, sliding your fingers closer and intertwining them with his as you met him in the middle.

you were careful, slow, just pressing a gentle kiss against the corner of his mouth.

he let out a shaky slow breath of relief, tilting to the side and making sure the next time you came in it was a real kiss.

his boldness surprised you, but it wasn't unwelcome. you took it as a sign to keep moving, scooting ever so slightly closer and bumping his thigh with your knee.

bob jumped just slightly, pulling away until your noses touched. kissing was more fun than he remembered, not that he remembered much.

you smiled up at him, waiting for him to continue.

"Wow..." he spoke so soft, breath fanning across your cheeks, mint like his toothpaste.

that made you giggle a little, biting your lip to stop it from coming out completely.

"Oh Bob. I haven't shown you anything yet."

he swallowed hard, watching you like he couldn't imagine there was anything better than what just happened.

"Here... do this." reaching for his hand, you brought it up to the side of your face, mimicking the motion yourself and brushing your thumb across his cheek.

he smiled so sweetly at you, your heart leapt. what a beautiful man.

"What?" his blush rose ever higher, hand shaking against your jaw.

did you say that out loud?

you decided to run with it, "You are, Bob. So beautiful. I thought you knew."

it felt like his room was getting infinitely warmer, your clothes too tight. keep going.

before he could respond you brought him down to your lips, it was easy, wherever your hand brought him, he followed.

this kiss was easier, more comfortable, he sighed against you and you could feel the flex of his fingers against your throat.

you held him tight, wanting to see if he'd let you show him more. your lips parted, swiping your tongue against his and he groaned.

bob immediately reciprocated, opening up for you and bringing you closer, letting your tongues meet in the middle. his free hand started wandering, sliding across your knee and settling on your thigh.

the heat radiating off of him was enough to have you panting when you pulled away.

his eyes were so dark, pupils blown, mouth dropped open in shock.

"Can you... show me more?" he was so uncertain, completely unaware of the fact that you were so fucking in love with him, the fact that you could spend the rest of your life like this and never be unsatisfied.

you didnt even respond, threading both of your hands in to his hair and sitting up taller to meet him in the middle this time.

he understood immediately and wrapped his arms around you, practically pulling you in to his lap as you connected again.

this one was messy, constant adjusting and tongues sliding against teeth and you truly wouldn't have it any other way.

bob started leaning back, it just felt natural to pull you with him, until you were straddling his thigh and moaning against his mouth.

god, his heart couldn't take this. he didn't know you'd offer to help like this. he was being hopeful when he talked about his mystery girl, hoping he could sense if you somehow reciprocated.

this was probably the best case scenario right?

even if you rejected him, he at least got this experience.

you pulled away, leaving soft kisses against his swollen lips, shushing him when he started to complain. you were confident he'd love this part, mouthing across his jaw and down his throat, scraping your teeth against his rapid pulse.

you didn't even react when his hands slid down to your ass, grabbing hard like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

the moan he let out was so soft, surprised and breathless and you wanted to hear it again and again and again so you sucked until he had hickeys down to his collar bone.

"Fuck- you're amazing..." he couldn't help the whine to his voice, embarrassed at how easily you've unraveled him.

finally, you sat up to meet his eyes again, panting and trying to get your mind back on track. this definitely went off the rails but god you couldn't have asked for a better way to spend your night. at the very least if you never speak again, you got a chance to make him feel good.

"Mm. Think I've taught you enough to ask her out?" no, you were hoping he'd ask you to stay and keep going.

bob looked shocked, biting his lip as he looked away. "There was no her... it was just you."

your smile was so big it made your cheeks hurt, "God, I was hoping you'd say that."

you didn't give him a chance to respond, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pulling him right back in.

[on-the-clear-blue]

Dead Man's Diner pt 4

"THOSE FUCKING BITCHES SAM!" Danny shouted as he stormed into his apartment, slinging his backpack off by the door as he toes his shoes off.

Rounding the corner of the hallway, Danny was met with Tucker, shirtless with only a pair of plaid boxers on, staring at him with sleep glazed eyes, he had a box of cereal in one hand, and a bottle of oat milk in the other, raising the bottle in a salute, Tucker stuffed a handful of cereal into his mouth before taking a swig of the milk, holding up a hand to stop Danny from speaking as he chewed, only letting his hand fall before he spoke.

"What?"

"The Bats are fucking assholes!"

Tucker looked back at the bottle of oat milk, sighed and placed it back in the refrigerator, chucking the box of cereal on the counter, Tucker grabbed Danny by the shoulders.

"Of course they are Jerks Danny..." his grip tightened as he started to shake the Halfa, "I have ten deadlines and 5 missed calls, I really want to geek out right now about you meeting the local heroes but I really don't have the time, so yes, jerks, tell me about it later okay?"

Danny phased through the tough grip on his shoulders, letting out a giggle as he watched Tucker fumble as he no longer had someone to help steady himself, "I did yell specifically for Sam, Tuck so you can't get mad at me! Go huant the Wanyetech building, I know for sure those dudes are way more dead inside than I am!"

Getting a groan from his friend at his dead pun, Danny continued into the apartment, snatching Tuckers cereal box off the counter as he went to sit in the living room.

Spotting Sam typing something on a lap top, her big over the ear headphones blaring as he flops down next to her, which thankfully was enough for her to notice him.

Offering g the box of cereal to her, she sent him a tired smile as she slipped the head phones off and took some of the fruit flavored rings, "Hey there Deadstuff...how was work?"

Danny sent her a grin, "Well, Clocky decided to throw me a bone and I think I got this? He is a little bitch boy that sends me all over the place but this time it was a dined, Lunch Lady taught me how to cook." Pasuing to stuff a new handful of tasty fruity goodness, Danny spoke around the cereal in his mouth "Cookin' ish so much more cool when da food isn't trying to kill you"

Slapping Danny's arm as she rolled her "Don't eat with your mind full and tell me what got you so riled up" Sliding her laptop of her self she tucked her knees up before stretching them out over Danny, who was already going off on his story.

"Wait wait! You had Nightwing in you're restaurant and you didn't get me an autograph?" Same shot Danny a scowl, who at least had the decency to look sorry

"I was going to but they fucking dined and dashed Sam! Even when I was actively Phantom, I never, ever just left a bill!"

---

Dick knew that perhaps eating the food was a slightly bad idea, given the look B gave them when him and Tim pulled into the Cave.

He was standing there, arms crossed, thankfully cowl down, what made the sight infinitely less intimidating was Damian doing the same next to him, his head tilted to look down at them and perhaps standing on his tittpy toes a little bit.

Dick wanted to coo at the father son bonding, but remembered he had to act at least a little chastised at the moment "Yes I am sorry B, It was my decision to head in, there was no outward danger so we just took a chance."

Wincing at the gruff grunt he got from that Dick powered on, "I will write a more detailed report, but personally if anything wrong it's likely that the kid working there is Meta? I dont-"

"He can't be meta! He is very clearly a ghost Dick!" Tim interrupted already flipping through some notes he had made on the way back home, "its the only explanation...or he is a 5th dimensional Imp with a passion for cooking but I really hope not those guys suck to deal with..."

Dick nodded at that, but had to say some thing foe his own superfan imp "Nightmite is a chill dude helps sometimes with cases back in Bludhaven!"

Giving a sigh, Bruce rubbed the bridge of his nose, "No mites, no metas, no ghost, go to Medbay I am running blood tests on what sweet hell you have ingested."

---

Bruce ran the test again, sure that it was wrong, praying that it was wrong.

TEST COMPLETE

TRACE LAZARUS WATERS DETECTED

Underneath was lists of chemical make ups of the samples Tim took and his sons blood, there were varying levels through out the food samples, some lighter but others were heavy on it.

What was stumping him was...it was nearly perfectly pure, the pits naturally over time get polluted, with the dirt and sediment that falls in, and with the various amounts of bodily parts and fluids that are dipped in it.

But the trace amounts Bruce was finding were a better quality than Ra's own personal pool, not the one he dips in to regain his youth that the LOA make a ritual out of, no the privet one in the Alps that was clear as glacial water.

It didn't make any sense to Bruce, who would be spreading Lazarus water around? Ra's would not simply share his secret pure stash...

Lost in thought, Bruce sat back glaring at the test results.

---

"And after I thought I was giving great service, they fucking left, no bill, no tip! I didn't even get to see Nightwings ass as he left! People say it's a godly experience! I was robbed!" Letting out a huff Danny shot Sam an incredulous look at her sudden burst of laughter. "Sa~am, this isn't funny! Never meet your heroes! I am taking this to Twitter! They shall know my fury!" His words only served to make Sam laugh even harder.

Stifling a grin Danny took out hos phone, a old busted thing that was more ducktape and prayers than actual technology, but dear go's did it still work.

<@i-haunt-spirit-holloween

[@.realwing @not-that-red-robin.real yall are toxic twinks came in to my workplace and fucking dined and dashed 0/10 Nightwing has a flat ass.]

Hitting send, Danny put his phone down, choosing to let the nights happenings go past his mind and just hang out with Sam before showering and finally going to bed.

---

Tim was hunched over his lap top, going frame by frame of his body cam footage, he *needed* to figure this out, it was like an itch in his brain that he would go through bone to get through.

His work payed off as he clicked forward another time, his feed went static before it showed a blurry blue blob in place of the diner! Proof! It was there!

Jumping at the sudden bang of his bedroom door being thrown open, Tim whirled to around to see Dicks distressed face, standing up, Tim prepared for the worst, something happened. Bruce was dead agian it had to be-

"TIMMY I AM A TWINK AM I??" Was Dicks wail as he flopped down on Tim's bed.

Letting out a shuddering sigh, Tim looked longingly at his laptop before closing it, "Dick, what the fuck."

Rolling around on the bed, Dick finally looked up at Tim "Littlewing sent me a tweet and...ugh just look!" Thrusting out his phone as he spoke

Pasuing at the mention of Jason, Tim  looked down at the screen and froze

"Holy shit...we forgot to pay didn't we...fuck Jason is never going to let us live that down."

Tim still remembered the first time he witnessed one of Jason's famous "make Bruce spend more money" rants about tipping.

It was glorious.

Tim now realized he would be one of two that was likely going to have to face it next.

"UGH?? You focus on the money and not the other parts? Tim I was called a toxic twink with no ass! This is a declaration of war! I have never been so offended!" Dick sat up, eyes narrowd while Tim opened up the tweet on his own phone.

"The comments agree Dick, I am sorry, you now have a flat ass congrats and welcome to the club" Tim said dryly, trying to go to the posters page, since it was clearly Danny who posted it.

Only the app crashed when he tried to. And again when he tried to a second time, and his web browser crashed when he tried opening it there

Tim was baffled on what was happening while Dick lemented on his bed before deciding to hack it later.

<@not-that-red-robin.real

[@i-haunt-spirit-holloween super sorry about that send me venmo and I'll pay with tip]

<@i-haunt-spirit-holloween

[@not-that-red-robin.real Fuck that face me like a coward bitch bet you wont]

<@not-that-red-robin.real

[@i-haunt-spirit-holloween...bet]

---

Somewhere in a safe house in Crime Ally, Jason let out a little giggled as he scrolled through the comments on the funniest post he had found in a while, Jason was surely going to have to speak to Timberly and Dickiebird about paying their bills but right now?

He was kicking his feet watching Dick have a public meltdown as Nightwing.

Finally, he wouldn't be the only one who had to retake the Bat Media course.

How was he supposed to know doing peace signs next to a person he just shot wasn't allowed?

[sixeyesonathiel]

infinite void? more like infinite errands!

being married to the strongest sorcerer has its perks—like teleporting across continents for pudding at 3am—but for gojo satoru, nothing could have prepared him for the emotional rollercoaster that is your cravings. between taho diplomacy, gummy-related interrogations, and gelato-fueled meltdowns, he faces his most terrifying foe yet: love, in its most hormonal, snack-obsessed form.

a/n: enjoy the 6k words of satoru suffering, simping, teleporting, and getting emotionally whiplashed by the love of his life <3 i’m literally dozing off while formatting and proofreading this, if you see any error pls tell... i sleep now 😪

even gojo satoru—the strongest sorcerer alive—trembles before the wrath of his pregnant wife’s 3am food demands.

the curtains are drawn shut, casting a warm, drowsy amber across the bedroom. outside, the soft hum of cicadas lingers in the summer air. inside, you’re nestled in a fortress of pillows like some spoiled, slightly overcooked bao bun, one leg propped atop a plush bolster and the other tucked under a heating pad. the air smells faintly of lavender balm and something vaguely sugary—leftover cravings from the previous night.

satoru sits at the edge of the bed, thumbing through a baby names book with one hand and absentmindedly holding your ankle in the other, gently massaging in slow, practiced circles. he’s wearing a navy blue hoodie with the sleeves bunched up around his elbows, silver hair mussed from sleep and sticking up like the petals of a windswept flower. his blindfold is pushed up into his hair, revealing the full brilliance of his eyes, which scan the pages with a kind of amused seriousness. the light catches on his long eyelashes as he blinks, casting delicate shadows on his cheekbones.

“how about... ‘tangerine’? no? okay, okay—‘yuzu’?” he glances up at you with a teasing glint in his eye, the corner of his mouth quirking upward as his thumb draws a gentle circle around your ankle bone.

you don’t even open your eyes. “that’s a fruit.” your voice is muffled, cheek squished against a pillow, a strand of hair stuck to your slightly parted lips.

“so’s our baby, technically,” he grins, pushing his thumb slightly deeper into a sore spot near your heel. “a little fruit of our loins—” his eyebrows dance mischievously as he speaks, fingers drumming playfully against your skin.

“satoru.” you scrunch your nose in mock annoyance, shifting slightly against the pillows.

“right, sorry. sacred temple. your womb is a sacred temple.” he straightens his posture dramatically, placing his free hand over his heart with exaggerated reverence.

you groan into the pillow, but your toes curl at the ankle massage. then suddenly you bolt upright, eyes flashing. “did you just compare our CHILD to FRUIT?” your hair falls messily around your face as you rise, one sleeve of your oversized t-shirt slipping off your shoulder.

he freezes, thumb mid-massage, his confident smile faltering. “i—well, technically the size comparison apps do that all the—” he swallows visibly, adam’s apple bobbing as he realizes his tactical error, fingers stilling on your ankle.

“our baby is NOT an AVOCADO!” you shriek, tears already forming, your lower lip quivering dangerously as you clutch the nearest pillow to your chest.

“of course not!” he backtracks frantically, dropping the book with a soft thud onto the carpet. “more like... a sacred vessel? a divine manifestation? the culmination of—” his hands gesture wildly in the air, silver rings catching the light as he searches for appropriate words.

“i want taho,” you interrupt, mood switching instantly, voice honey-sweet again, batting your eyelashes as you tilt your head to one side.

“taho,” he repeats, relieved for the simple request, shoulders visibly relaxing as he brushes a strand of hair from his forehead.

“but not from the vendor on the main street,” you continue, your expression dead serious, finger wagging for emphasis. “it has to be from the old man who sets up by the mango trees. and only if he’s using the special brown sugar from his cousin’s farm, not the store-bought kind. you can tell by the smell—it’s more molasses-y. and make sure he gives you extra arnibal, but not too extra, like three tablespoons extra, not four. and the tofu needs to be from this morning’s batch—if it’s from yesterday, it’ll be too firm. the silken texture should wobble EXACTLY three times when you shake the container gently. oh, and ask him to put the sago pearls on the side, not mixed in, so they don’t get too soft on the journey back. and the container needs to be warm but not hot, like exactly the temperature of a baby’s bath water.” you count each requirement on your fingers, leaning forward with increasing intensity.

he’s gone before you finish the sentence, a soft whoosh of cursed energy rippling through the room, leaving behind the faintest crackle in the air and the subtle displacement of the bedsheets where he once sat. no sparkles or dramatic flair—just quiet efficiency. he’s done this too many times to make a show of it anymore.

five minutes later, he’s back, hair tousled by wind, hoodie now zipped halfway up and clinging to him like he’d been sprinting through alleys. his cheeks are slightly pink from the sun, a thin film of sweat glistening at his temples.

“manong said i looked too pale to be out in the sun,” he mutters, placing the warm taho container in your waiting hands with reverence, his long fingers brushing against yours. “he gave me extra arnibal out of pity.” he smooths down his windblown hair with quick, slightly embarrassed movements.

you sit up, eyes half-lidded with sleep but sparkling with delight. “tell him your wife’s a goddess carrying divine offspring next time.” you wiggle your eyebrows, accepting the container with grabby hands.

“i did,” he says, dropping to sit beside you and poking a straw into the taho, his knee bumping playfully against yours. “he gave me a thumbs up and told me to ‘hang in there, hijo.’” he mimics the old vendor’s gravelly voice, complete with a sage nod.

you snort, mouth full of silky tofu and syrup. “you’ve become a local.” a small dribble of syrup escapes the corner of your mouth.

then you pause, straw halfway to your mouth. “wait. what did you tell him about me exactly?” your eyes narrow suspiciously, straw frozen in midair.

satoru looks up, sensing danger. “just that my beautiful wife is pregnant and craving taho?” he leans slightly away from you, instinctively creating distance as he senses the mood shift.

“did you tell him i’m enormous?” your eyes narrow further, nostrils flaring slightly. “did you make the universal ‘big belly’ gesture with your hands? did you MIME my WADDLE?”

“what? no!” his eyes widen in genuine panic, hands raised defensively. “i would never—” his rings catch the light as his fingers splay in protest.

“because i DO waddle,” you continue, lower lip trembling, your hands moving to cradle your belly protectively. “i waddle like a PENGUIN. a FAT penguin.” a tear slides dramatically down your cheek.

“you glide gracefully,” he insists, looking increasingly distressed, reaching for your hand with tentative movements. “like a... majestic... swan?” his voice rises at the end, betraying his uncertainty.

you burst into tears. “swans have LONG NECKS. are you saying my NECK is LONG?” you wail, shoulders shaking, sleeve slipping further down your arm.

“no! your neck is perfect! everything about you is perfect!” he’s practically pleading now, the mighty gojo satoru reduced to stammering, his usual composure completely shattered. “i love your waddle! i mean—your not-waddle! your walk! your everything!” he runs a hand through his hair in agitation, making it stand up even more wildly.

you take another sip of taho, suddenly calm again. “this is really good. thank you, baby.” you smile sweetly, all traces of distress vanishing as you delicately lick syrup from your lips.

he exhales slowly, shoulders slumping with visible relief, a hand pressed against his chest as if to calm his racing heart.

he leans in, stealing a bite with a second straw like you’re sharing a milkshake. his leg nudges against yours under the covers. “anything for my darling, my queen, my slightly hormonal ray of sunshine.” his eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, the blue in them almost luminous in the amber light.

“i’m gonna cry.” your bottom lip wobbles dramatically, eyes immediately filling with tears again.

“is it the hormones or the taho?” he asks, thumb gently wiping a drop of syrup from your chin.

“yes.” you sniff loudly, leaning into his touch.

he chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple, his fingers grazing the fine baby hairs at your nape. his palm moves to your belly, rubbing slow, warm circles through your oversized sleep shirt. “next craving, just say the word. i’ll be back before you can say ‘global import taxes.’” his breath is warm against your skin, his voice a low, comforting rumble.

“i want the sour rainbow gummy strips. the ones from that specific konbini in osaka. not the one near the train station—the one three blocks east with the cat that sits in the window. and it HAS to be the package with the blue corner, not the green one. the blue ones are more sour. and they need to be from the middle shelf, not the bottom one, because the bottom shelf ones get too warm from the heating vent. oh, and make sure they were stocked today, not yesterday. you can tell because the fresh ones have a slight bend in the plastic wrapper.” you count off each requirement on your fingers again, eyes bright with determination.

he exhales like a man being sent on a divine quest, but his eyes sparkle with determination. “for love, for honor, for vaguely sour artificial fruit flavors that meet seventeen specific criteria.” he gives a dramatic bow, hand flourishing over his heart.

and then—pop—he’s gone again, the air beside the bed displaced, your hair rustling slightly from the force.

you blink at the empty space where he’d been. then you sigh, deeply content. being married to the strongest sure has its perks.

thirty minutes later, he returns with a crinkly plastic bag and three different brands of rainbow gummies. his shirt is sticking to his back, and there’s a leaf tangled in his hair, which is now flattened on one side as if he’s been running his hand through it repeatedly.

“why did it take so long?” you raise a suspicious eyebrow, biting down on a chewy strip, your eyes narrowing as you examine his disheveled state.

he flops dramatically onto the bed, limbs splayed like a marionette cut from its strings. “turns out it’s a limited seasonal item. had to fight off three middle schoolers for the last pack. almost got arrested. worth it.” his chest rises and falls rapidly as he speaks, a thin sheen of sweat visible on his collarbone.

“you better have gotten me the fizzy ones.” you poke his side with your toe, examining the bag with critical eyes.

he holds them up like sacred relics, eyes sparkling with pride. “with extra sour powder. i had to charm the cashier.” he wiggles his eyebrows, a strand of hair falling across his forehead.

your expression shifts instantly from hunger to outright murderous. “you WHAT?” tears well up in your eyes faster than he can blink, your hands curling into claws. “so you’re just out there batting your pretty eyelashes at konbini girls while i’m here looking like a BEACHED WHALE?” your voice rises dramatically, one hand gesturing wildly at your belly.

“i—i didn’t mean—i just smiled i swear—!” he stammers, sitting up quickly, the leaf falling from his hair onto the bedspread.

“did she give you her number?” your voice rises an octave, hands curling into claws. “did you TAKE it?” your nostrils flare dangerously as you lean toward him.

“it was for the gummies!” he sputters, looking genuinely terrified for the first time since sukuna, pressing himself back against the headboard. “she was going to sell them to someone else!”

you burst into tears, full-on ugly crying now. “of course she was! everyone wants a piece of gojo satoru! meanwhile i can’t even see my own FEET!” you gesture dramatically at your legs, sleeves flapping with the motion.

he stares at you, bewildered and panicking. “love, darling, light of my—” his hands hover helplessly in the air between you, unsure whether touching you would help or make things worse.

you snatch the gummies from his hands and stuff three strips into your mouth at once. “i hope she was UGLY,” you mumble through your full mouth, tears still streaming, cheeks puffed out with candy.

“horrifically so,” he swears solemnly, though you both know he’s lying. “multiple heads. fangs. probably a curse in disguise.” he draws an X over his heart, eyes wide with false sincerity.

you narrow your eyes, then suddenly break into giggles, mood shifting like mercury. “you’re so full of shit.” a piece of candy falls from your mouth onto your shirt.

“you’re glowing with divine fury. it’s hot.” he grins, reaching out to brush the candy away, his fingers lingering on your shoulder.

“shut up and feed me before i change my mind about forgiving you.” you open your mouth like a baby bird, eyes challenging him.

he does, reverently. he even wipes the sugar dust from the corner of your lips with a soft tissue, fingertips lingering for half a second longer than necessary, like you might disappear if he doesn’t stay connected.

between bites, you mumble something about wanting a foot rub later. he nods solemnly like a knight accepting a royal decree, his hand already moving to your ankle.

the afternoon sun shifts through the curtains, painting gold across your shared bed. satoru has taken up his position at your feet again, thumbs working magic into your arches. you’ve half-dozed off, the sugar crash hitting hard after demolishing most of the gummies.

suddenly, you jolt awake. “i need pickles. but not just any pickles. i need the half-sour ones from that jewish deli in new york. the one with the red awning, not the blue one. and they have to come from the barrel on the left side, not the right side. the right side ones are too garlicky. and they need to have been brining for EXACTLY seven days—any less and they’re too cucumbery, any more and they’re too soft. and i need them sliced lengthwise, not in rounds. oh, and can you bring back some of their mustard too? but only if it’s the batch made on wednesday, because thursdays they add too much turmeric.” you sit up suddenly, hair wildly messy on one side, eyes bright with newfound purpose.

satoru blinks, trying to mentally record all these specifications, his brow furrowing in concentration. “anything else, my love?” he asks carefully, fingers pausing on your foot.

“yes. i need to dip them in chocolate pudding. not store-bought. it has to be the pudding from that café in paris with the blue chairs. the one that uses madagascar vanilla beans and that specific brand of dark chocolate that’s 73.5% cacao, not 70%, not 75%.” you clasp your hands together as if in prayer, eyes gleaming with devotion to this new craving.

he stares at you for a long moment, then simply nods, a lock of silver hair falling across his forehead. “pickles from new york, pudding from paris. got it.” he rises from the bed, stretching his long arms above his head, his shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of toned stomach.

“and satoru?” you call as he prepares to teleport, fingers fiddling with the edge of the blanket. “don’t mix them before you get back. the pickle juice makes the pudding separate.”

pop.

you watch him through heavy eyelids as he focuses on your feet, his expression soft but concentrated. his hair falls forward, obscuring his eyes slightly. you’ve memorized every curve of his face, every microexpression, but somehow seeing him like this—so gentle, so devoted—makes your hormones riot. one second you’re overcome with love so intense it hurts, and the next you’re irrationally annoyed that he’s breathing too loudly.

“what if the baby has your eyes?” you murmur drowsily, tracing circles on your belly with your fingertip.

he looks up, startled by the question, his hands pausing momentarily. “let’s hope not. might be a handful at parent-teacher conferences.” a strand of hair falls across his eyes as he tilts his head thoughtfully.

“but they’re beautiful.” your voice softens, eyes meeting his with unexpected tenderness.

his cheeks color slightly, a rare show of bashfulness from the normally confident sorcerer. “flattery will get you nowhere, except perhaps another foot rub tomorrow.” he ducks his head, focusing intently on your feet again, but not before you catch the pleased smile tugging at his lips.

“i’ll take it.” you sink back into the pillows with a contented sigh.

three nights later, you bolt upright at 3:42 a.m. and slap his arm. “toru. TORU.” your hair is a wild nest around your face, eyes wide with urgent purpose.

he sits up with a start, hair standing on end like he just got electrocuted, blindfold askew across his forehead. “what? labor? demons? is it sukuna again? i’ll kill him with a slipper.” his hands are already forming a seal, cursed energy crackling faintly around his fingers.

“no. i want that specific grilled cheese sandwich from that diner in brooklyn. the one with the checkered floors, not the one with the neon sign. and it has to be made by the old guy with the mustache—not the young one, he uses too much butter. make sure they use the white cheddar, not the yellow, and the sourdough bread needs to be toasted for EXACTLY three and a half minutes so it’s golden brown but not dark brown. and tell them to cut it diagonally, not straight across, and to let it rest for exactly forty-five seconds before wrapping it so the cheese sets but doesn’t harden. oh, and NO pickles on the side—actually, yes pickles, but the half-sour ones from the jar under the counter, not the ones they put out for everyone else.” you grip his arm tightly, eyes shining with fevered intensity in the darkness.

he stares at you, groggy and incredulous, one eye half-closed, his silver hair flattened on one side. you stare back, eyes wide and a little watery, lower lip caught between your teeth.

“please?” you whisper, your lips puckering in a pout. your hands rest protectively over your belly, thumbs brushing together in circles, nightshirt stretched tight across your rounded form.

it works. it always works.

pop.

he’s back in twelve minutes, the scent of butter and garlic clinging to his hoodie. he places the sandwich in your lap like it’s a newborn, the white paper wrapping still warm to the touch.

“i tipped the guy a hundred dollars. he gave me his grandma’s pickles too.” he drops a small jar beside you, condensation beading on the glass, his movements slow with lingering sleepiness.

you grab the sandwich reverently, as if it’s the last meal on earth, inhaling its aroma with closed eyes. “you’re a good man.” your voice is almost solemn with gratitude.

“remind me of that when i’m sleep-deprived and covered in spit-up.” he rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand, stifling a yawn.

“you already look like someone who owns ten diaper bags.” you take a bite, a string of cheese stretching from your mouth to the sandwich.

“they’re color-coordinated. don’t underestimate me.” he flicks his wrist as if displaying an invisible catalog, slumping back against the headboard.

you eat in thoughtful silence, savoring each bite like it’s ambrosia, then suddenly burst into tears. “it’s so good,” you wail, mouth still full, a crumb catching on your lower lip. “why is cheese so BEAUTIFUL?”

satoru blinks rapidly, caught off guard by the emotional whiplash, his hand freezing halfway to your shoulder. “do you... want me to get another one?” he asks cautiously, weighing each word.

“NO!” you snap, then immediately reach for his hand with a desperate look, nearly knocking over the pickle jar. “yes? maybe? i don’t know what i want anymore!” your grip on his fingers is almost painful.

he watches you with a mixture of adoration, exhaustion, and mild terror, chin propped in his palm. the baby kicks, a sudden flurry of movement that makes you pause mid-emotional breakdown.

“active tonight,” you mumble through a mouthful of cheese, placing a hand where the kick landed.

satoru’s hand finds your belly without hesitation, his palm warm through your thin nightshirt. his eyes widen slightly as another kick meets his touch, lips parting in quiet wonder. “strong like their mother.”

“flatterer.” you roll your eyes but can’t stop your lips from curving into a smile.

“no, really,” he insists, voice uncommonly soft, fingers splaying gently across your rounded belly. “not even six continents of distance could keep you from your cravings. that’s power.”

you roll your eyes but can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. “power would be being able to get my own damn sandwiches without feeling like a beached whale.” you brush a crumb from your chest with exaggerated dignity.

he leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours. his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks in the dim light. “i’d cross every ocean for you. for both of you.” his breath is warm against your face, voice dropping to a whisper.

“even for pickle juice at four in the morning?” you tilt your head, eyes challenging despite their softness.

“especially then.” he presses a gentle kiss to your nose.

one week later, you demand gelato from venice. “and not the tourist kind. the real kind. specifically from that tiny shop on the corner of via garibaldi and that alley with the blue door—not the green door, the BLUE door. and only the pistachio flavor made by the old lady, not her son. he churns it too much and it gets icy. make sure they scrape it from the bottom left corner of the container because that’s where it’s creamiest. and it needs to be in the white paper cup, not the plastic one, because the plastic makes it taste different. oh, and if they offer you that wafer cookie thing on top, say no. unless it’s the rectangular one with the sugar crystals, not the round one.” you pace the bedroom as you speak, one hand supporting your lower back, the other gesturing emphatically.

“you want me to teleport to italy,” he repeats, eyebrows rising slowly, fingers pausing on the book he was reading. “at eleven at night.”

“don’t act like you haven’t done it for fun.” you narrow your eyes, hands moving to your hips.

“but that was pre-baby that was me being whimsical. this is you being a gremlin.” he marks his place in the book with a finger, head tilting to one side.

“this gremlin has swollen ankles and can end you with a look.” you point at your puffy feet for emphasis, toes wiggling ominously.

he sighs, closing his book with a soft snap. “you know what? fair.”

he disappears before you can finish your smug grin. twenty minutes later, you’re eating gelato while satoru rants about pigeons, his hands gesturing wildly, his normally perfect hair windswept and slightly damp from italian humidity.

“i tried to eat it there, for like, the whole experience,” he says, hands gesturing wildly, a smear of pistachio at the corner of his mouth. “but the pigeons. babe. the pigeons wanted blood.”

you lick the edge of your cup, then suddenly narrow your eyes. “wait. so you had time to sit down and try to eat there? while i was here SUFFERING?” you point your spoon at him accusingly, eyes widening dramatically.

his face falls, genuine distress flashing in his eyes. “it was—i thought—maybe thirty seconds?” he holds up his thumb and forefinger to indicate the tiny amount of time, shoulders hunching defensively.

“you went SIGHTSEEING?” your voice rises to glass-shattering pitch, spoon clattering to the floor. “i bet you took PICTURES for the MEMORIES!”

he swallows hard, looking like a man facing execution, adam’s apple bobbing visibly. “i just—you always say i should appreciate the moment and—” his fingers twist nervously in the hem of his shirt.

you burst into laughter so abruptly he physically startles, nearly falling off the edge of the bed. “your FACE! oh my god, you should see your face right now!” you continue giggling, one hand clutching your belly, then just as quickly, your expression turns somber. “this gelato needs chocolate sauce. why didn’t you think of chocolate sauce?” your lower lip juts out in dramatic disappointment.

his mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. “i... can go back?” he offers tentatively, already half-rising from the bed.

“no, it’s fine,” you sigh dramatically, gazing forlornly at your gelato, stirring it with slow, mournful movements. “i’ll just suffer. alone. with my inferior dessert.”

he looks genuinely pained, caught between panic and confusion, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “i’ll be right back—”

“NO!” you grab his wrist, suddenly desperate, nearly upending the gelato cup. “i was kidding! don’t leave me! what if the baby comes while you’re hunting for chocolate in venice?”

“it’s... week twenty-three,” he says carefully, like he’s disarming a bomb, eyes fixed on your grip on his wrist.

“anything could happen,” you whisper intensely, clutching your gelato protectively to your chest. “anything.” your eyes are wide and serious, a tiny dot of pistachio on the tip of your nose.

here's your text with straight quotation marks replaced by curly ones:

he hasn’t known peace since week sixteen.

some nights, when the cravings subside and the world grows quiet, you find him with his head resting against your belly, whispering stories about infinity and curses and all the places he’ll take them someday. sometimes you catch fragments—tales of mountains that touch the sky, oceans that glow in the dark, cities where time moves differently. his fingers trace gentle patterns on your skin as he speaks, his blindfold discarded, eyes soft in the dim light.

“did you just tell our unborn child about that time you beat sukuna’s ass at shinjuku?” you ask sleepily one night, fingers playing with the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

he doesn’t deny it, lips curving into a smile against your skin. “they should know their father is very cool.” he turns his head slightly to meet your gaze, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“tell them about the time you cried watching that documentary about penguins.” you tug gently at his hair, fighting a smile.

“betrayal,” he whispers, but his lips curve into a smile against your skin, his thumb drawing circles near your navel. “fine. i have many dimensions. emotional depth is sexy.”

“mmmm,” you hum, fingers threading through his silver hair, enjoying the silky texture between your fingers. “i liked when you said the penguin couples who stay together forever reminded you of us.”

even in the dark, you can tell he’s blushing, the tip of his ear turning pink where it peeks through his hair. “i was sleep-deprived.” he mumbles against your belly, hiding his face.

“you’re always sleep-deprived. occupational hazard of loving me.” you trace the shell of his ear with your fingertip.

his laugh is soft against your belly, breath warm through the thin fabric of your nightshirt. “worth it.”

by week twenty-five, he keeps a backpack by the door labeled ‘snack quest gear.’ inside are a passport, an umbrella, three currencies, spicy dried mangoes, a backup blindfold, and wet wipes. he updates it weekly like it’s a mission kit. sometimes you catch him restocking it with the focus of a soldier prepping for battle, his brow furrowed in concentration as he checks off an invisible list.

he has a spreadsheet for cravings. with timestamps. and detailed reviews. you rated the brooklyn grilled cheese 9/10 but deducted a point because he forgot the pickle slice on the side. he never made that mistake again. you’ve caught him studying the spreadsheet late at night, highlighting patterns like he’s tracking a particularly elusive curse.

sometimes he tries to guess your cravings before you say them. he warps in with takoyaki one afternoon while you’re quietly reading. you laugh so hard you cry, snorting inelegantly as you try to catch your breath.

“i just wanted ice,” you manage between hiccups, wiping tears from your cheeks.

he disappears and returns in thirty seconds with a cup of shaved ice in the shape of a swan, condensation beading on the outside of the glass. “do i win?” his eyes gleam with childlike hopefulness.

you nod, eyes glassy with laughter. “you win. you always win.” you accept the ice with both hands, your fingers brushing against his.

one morning you wake to find him gone, a note on his pillow: “emergency meeting. back soon. don’t have the baby without me.”

“HOW DARE HE,” you shriek to the empty room, suddenly and irrationally furious. you crumple the note into a ball and throw it across the room with surprising force. “he LEFT me. ABANDONED. in my CONDITION.”

the note bounces off the wall, leaving a tiny mark that you’ll definitely blame him for later. your hands shake with indignation as you grab your phone from the nightstand, nearly knocking over the glass of water satoru had carefully placed there last night.

you’re halfway through typing an all-caps text message about his betrayal when your mood flips entirely, and you’re suddenly overcome with guilt for being angry. tears spring to your eyes as you smooth out the crumpled note with trembling fingers.

“what if he never comes back?” you whisper dramatically to your belly, running your palm over the taut skin beneath your oversized t-shirt. “what if the love is gone? what if—”

your stomach growls, loudly, interrupting your spiral of despair.

“really?” you mutter to your belly. “now?”

you wait, hoping the feeling will pass, drumming your fingers impatiently against your swollen abdomen. it doesn’t. what you want—no, what you need—are those specific egg tarts from that tiny bakery in hong kong. the ones with the perfectly caramelized tops and the custard that’s somehow both firm and silky.

you reach for your phone, then pause, lower lip caught between your teeth. there’s something strangely satisfying about waiting, about knowing he’ll come back and immediately sense what you need.

two hours later, he bursts through the door looking harried, blindfold slightly askew, wisps of silver hair sticking out at odd angles. “sorry, sorry—gojo clan politics, you don’t want to know—” his long fingers adjust the blindfold, revealing a hint of that impossible blue beneath.

“i want egg tarts,” you interrupt, not bothering with hello. you shift your weight on the bed, one hand supporting your lower back. “the ones from mrs. chan’s bakery in hong kong, down the alley with the red lanterns. but ONLY if she made them after 10am today, because the morning batch uses eggs from the vendor who feeds his chickens fish meal and it changes the flavor. and make sure they’re from the third tray, not the first two—those are always undercooked in the center. they should be golden brown with EXACTLY seven visible burn spots on the crust, not six, not eight. and they need to still be warm, but not hot—exactly 27 minutes out of the oven. oh, and if she offers you the ones with the swirly tops, say no. i only want the ones with the flat tops, because the swirly ones have more air bubbles.”

satoru’s lips part slightly, his head tilting to one side in that way that makes your heart flutter despite your current state of hormonal chaos.

“how did you know?” you blink in surprise.

he taps his temple with a long, elegant finger, a smug smile playing at his lips. “twenty-seven weeks in. i’ve developed a sixth sense. i call it ‘pregnant spouse intuition.’”

your eyes immediately well with tears, your hands clasping together against your chest. “that’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me,” you whisper, voice thick with emotion.

he smiles, shoulders visibly relaxing, relief washing over his perfect face. “well, i—”

“or are you MOCKING me?” you snap, tears evaporating, eyes narrowing dangerously. you sit up straighter, nostrils flaring. “making fun of my PERFECTLY NORMAL cravings? laughing at my SUFFERING?”

his smile drops instantly, replaced by genuine alarm, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. “no! never! i love your cravings! the more specific and geographically impossible, the better!”

your expression softens again, just as quickly, shoulders slumping as you rest one hand on your belly. “really? you’re not just saying that?”

he approaches cautiously, like someone trying not to startle a beautiful but unpredictable wild animal. his movements are fluid but hesitant, the fabric of his dark jeans whispering against his long legs. “i live to serve your every culinary whim,” he says with complete sincerity, a bead of sweat forming at his temple, catching the light as it slides down. “it’s my greatest joy in life.”

you beam at him, dimples appearing in both cheeks. “good. now go get my egg tarts before i burn this entire place down.”

pop.

forty minutes later, you’re sitting cross-legged on the bed, box of egg tarts balanced on your belly, making indecent noises with each bite. satoru watches you with fond amusement, chin propped in his palm, the late afternoon light filtering through the blinds casting stripes across his impossibly perfect face.

“good?” he asks, already knowing the answer, one eyebrow arched above his blindfold.

you nod emphatically, flakes of pastry clinging to your lips. “she gave you extra?” you ask between bites, licking your fingers with unabashed pleasure.

“she thinks i’m part of a smuggling ring,” he admits, a dimple appearing in his right cheek as he smiles. “says nobody comes that far for egg tarts unless they’re selling them black market.”

“technically, i am a black market,” you gesture to your round belly with a sticky finger. “highest bidder gets premium goods.”

he climbs into bed next to you, the mattress dipping under his weight, pulling the blanket over both your bodies, his long, graceful hand curving instinctively around your belly. his thumb moves in lazy arcs against your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

“when the baby’s born,” he murmurs into your hair, his breath warm against your scalp, “they’ll never believe the lengths i went for snacks.”

“they’ll know,” you whisper, eyelids drooping, nestling back against his solid chest. “they’ll have inherited the craving powers.”

“my legacy lives on.” his voice is a low rumble you can feel through your spine.

just before sleep claims you, you hear another quiet pop beside the bed.

he’s gone again.

he forgot the soy sauce for your rice crackers.

he returns in under a minute, face pale with urgency, a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, clutching the soy sauce bottle like it might save his life.

“i’m sorry,” he gasps, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath his fitted black shirt, “i can’t believe i—”

“took so long?” you finish, voice dripping with sugar-sweet venom. you sit up straight, hair mussed from almost-sleep, eyes suddenly sharp and accusing. “were you chatting with someone prettier? someone NOT carrying thirty extra pounds of water weight?”

his eyes widen with genuine panic behind the blindfold, his knuckles whitening around the bottle. “it was forty-seven seconds! i counted!”

your bottom lip trembles dangerously, your fingers plucking nervously at the bedsheet. “you’ve never forgotten before. never.”

“i know,” he whispers, voice cracking slightly as he kneels beside the bed, offering the soy sauce like a penitent knight. a lock of silver hair falls across his forehead as he bows his head. “i’ve failed you. our sacred pact is broken.”

you snatch the bottle, still glaring, nostrils flared,

then suddenly beam at him with pure adoration, your entire face transforming in an instant. “thank you, baby. you’re the best husband ever.”

he blinks rapidly, emotional whiplash evident in his stunned expression. a muscle twitches in his jaw. he opens his mouth to speak, then seems to think better of it, slowly rising to his feet with the careful movements of someone who has just narrowly avoided catastrophe.

smart man.

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

Hello, I love your stories! Would you be willing to make a Yandere x willing! Reader. Where the reader is so burn up and tired with the world that she accepts everything the Yandere says. From not leaving home ever or even letting him put chains on her.

Yandere Captor x Reader

An: I’m actually really proud of this :> I hope you like it!!!

The world ended quietly for you.

Not with a bang. Not with fire. Not even with a scream. Just... silence. The slow drowning of a life you once tried to build, piece by piece, until the waves took it all.

You used to try.

Used to wake up every morning and tell yourself: One more day. Just get through one more day. You worked, you smiled, you talked to people who didn’t care, and pretended you didn’t notice. You kept going, like a machine running on a dying battery.

But the world didn’t give back what you gave it. You bled and it stayed thirsty. You cracked open your chest and offered your ribs, and it still asked for more.

Until one day, you didn’t get up.

And that was when he came.

You don’t know how long it’s been. Days bleed together in this place. The curtains are always drawn, the lights dim, the walls a warm, enclosing gray that keeps the world out. There’s no clock. No phone. No internet. Just him.

Your protector. Your shadow. Your captor. Your everything.

“Open your mouth, baby,” he murmurs, crouching beside the bed.

You do. Without hesitation. He places the pill on your tongue like communion, and his fingers brush your lips a second longer than necessary. You swallow, because he asked you to. Because that’s what you do now. You obey.

“Good girl,” he whispers, his voice dripping pride. His hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking softly. “So good for me.”

You nod, eyes fluttering closed under his touch. It’s easy, now. Easier than fighting. Easier than pretending the world still holds something for you. There’s nothing out there. You know that. You remember it.

And in here, there’s warmth. There’s his voice. His presence. His fingers always curling around your wrist, gentle but firm. His breath at your ear when he pulls you close at night and says, “You’re mine, you understand? Only mine.”

You understood from the beginning.

The first time you woke up here—confused, drugged, your limbs heavy and your mind in fog—he had been sitting at your side, stroking your hair with infinite patience.

“I know it hurts,” he’d said. “I know how tired you are. That’s why I brought you here. You don’t have to pretend anymore. No one’s going to hurt you ever again.”

And you’d wept.

Not out of fear, but relief. Because you were tired. You didn’t want to go back. You couldn’t. The world was a monster, and he had pulled you from its jaws.

So you stayed.

When he brought in the soft restraints, you didn’t fight. You lifted your wrists for him, docile, like a doll. When he closed the heavy iron cuff around your ankle and kissed the mark it left, you only said, “Thank you.”

He tells you things while you sit in his lap, curled against his chest. His voice is calm, loving, possessive. Always possessive.

“You don’t need anyone else. Just me.”

“I don’t want you talking to anyone—not even through a screen. They’ll try to take you from me.”

“You were meant to belong to someone. Me. I saw it in your eyes the first time I watched you.”

You don’t ask what he means by that. You don’t ask how long he watched you before he took you. It doesn’t matter anymore.

Nothing matters except him.

Sometimes, he puts a blindfold on you and leads you to different rooms. Sometimes he washes your hair and hums while you sit between his knees like a child. Other days he binds you to the bed, chains wrapped in velvet so they won’t bruise, and tells you how beautiful you are like this—helpless, dependent, perfect.

“You trust me, don’t you?” he asks once, lips grazing your temple.

You nod.

“Even if I did something bad? Even if I hurt people to protect you?”

You hesitate, then say, “Yes.”

Because it’s the truth.

He kisses you then—slow and soft and grateful.He touches you like you’re holy, like you saved him. And maybe you did. Maybe in his broken, twisted world, you’re the one thing that makes sense.

“You were wasting away out there,” he says one night while you lie chained beside him, your head on his chest. “They didn’t see you. Didn’t know what you needed. But I did.”

You whisper, “You saved me.”

He holds you tighter. His arms are iron. His heart beats a little faster under your cheek.

“Say it again.”

“You saved me.”

“I’ll never let you go,” he vows. “Even if you beg me to. Even if you try to run. I’ll break your legs if I have to. I’ll chain you to my fucking spine”

You don’t flinch. You don’t cry.

You only close your eyes and whisper, “Okay.”

Because you’re tired of making decisions. Tired of pretending freedom ever meant anything but loneliness. You’re so, so tired.

And he’s not the world. He’s not the cruelty you came from.

He’s just the man who took it all away.

So when he tightens the chains a little more, when he slides a collar around your throat and kisses your lips with trembling reverence, you let him.

You let him.

Masterlist

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Miguel w/an Innocent S/O

Warnings: Protective Miguel, Slight Yandere Miguel (if you squint), Implications of Smut, Fluff, More Fluff, Spooning, Mentions/Implications of injuries, Insecurity, No Pronouns used for Reader Except 'You'.

Him being fiercely protective of you 24/7.

If someone even so much as looks at you wrong, he stares them down until they either break down and start apologising, or their heart gives out.

You’re the only person he shows any affection to. You’re also the only person allowed to touch him. Period.

He’s so touch starved; please hold him and tell him he’s your big guy :-(

Goes FERAL when you rake your fingers through his hair; his eyes roll into his skull and he can’t help but moan a little, even if the context isn’t sexual.

Don’t bring it up or he’ll punish you for it later 👀.

He finds your innocence both endearing and worrying.

On one hand, you believe in the good of everyone, which, considering how insecure Miguel can be, is what initially drew him to you; your ability to empathise and sympathise with others, to not judge them.

However, he knows people would take advantage of your kind and giving nature.

One time, he found out that one of the Spiders – a Victorian England era ‘gentleman superhero’ – had tossed you a used coffee cup and told you to dispose of it on his behalf. When you tried to say something, to tell him you were busy and had better things to do, he just dismissed you.

Of course, Miguel had seen this. He has eyes on you every second of the day.

You never saw that Spiderman again. Nor did anyone else. All that seemed to remain of him was his suit thrown haphazardly into the storage room, where a great big tear edged with blood was ripped into the chestpiece, the hero’s signature top hat abandoned and crumpled beneath it.

He also broke another Spider-Person’s arm when they tried to steal one of the fairy cakes you’d lovingly baked for him; poured your heart and soul into.

Miguel also growls at people he thinks are looking at you strangely. Full-on bares his fangs like a rabid dog and watches them cower.

He purposely grows his fangs out and lets you play with them.

He’s careful to make sure you don’t get hurt, though, guiding your hands away from the pointed tips.

His guilty pleasure is when you kiss his fangs and tell him he’s “The coolest, most handsome man in the world!”

“Just the world?” He says, smiling, raising an eyebrow. His heart melts in his chest as your smile widens, eclipsing your eyes into crescents.

“In ALL the worlds!” You say, throwing your arms around his neck and hugging him, laughing. He brings his arms, thick and muscular, around your waist and pulls you into him, pressing ticklish kisses into your neck, revelling in your laughter.

Intimacy-wise, Miguel is horrified at the prospect of hurting you.

He’s ever so careful, as if handling glass, holding back his strength.

It’s worth it, though. The strain.

Especially when he hears you mewl and try to hide your face in his chest.

“Oh no, Sweetheart,” he says, tangling a hand in your hair and pulling your head back. His pointed fangs flint as he gives a smile. “I want to watch you like this.”

Loves your gentle kisses – they give him life.

Nothing can get him down when you’re around; especially when you’re sitting in his lap.

Though, issues have arisen as a result of your oblivion to…compromising positions.

More often than not, Miguel’s had to bite his lip and tongue when you shift in his lap, catching him, making his heart start and his breath shutter, electric anticipation jolting through him.

He takes you aside in the bathroom to deal with the issue you’ve unknowingly caused, but you don’t complain. Not that you can with your mouth full.

He looks at you with eyes which have seen the deaths of countless individuals, yet when he finds yours, he sees love and light spanning infinite universes within them. And they give him hope that there is more to life than loss and grief; more to him than his failures.

He revels in the feeling of you hiding behind him whenever you’re scared.

Sometimes he takes you to areas of the facility where he knows you’ll be easily frightened – for example, where captive villains are held – so he can feel your hands tightening around his arm or gripping the back of his suit. It makes him feel useful, like he can take on the world.

And he gets off on being the only person who can truly protect you. But he’d never tell you that, of course.

Loves demonstrating his strength around you. He can pick you up single-handedly and carry you anywhere without so much as thinking of breaking a sweat.

He prefers to be the big spoon, curling around you like a shield and protecting you from the outside world, his warm, broad chest to your back.

Tells you how much he loves you through hushed post-intimacy whispers and soft touches. Shows it through acts of service and the insurmountable adoration that fills his eyes whenever you’re around.

He can’t imagine being with anybody else. He can’t even remember the last time he felt anything save for contempt before you showed up.

And he’ll do whatever it takes to protect you. No cost is too great for the love of his life <3.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterpost

Yandere Masterlist Juicy Original Content <3

[ilovetvgirlmorethanyou]

PAIRINGS! ✩ — isagi yoichi x fem!reader

SLURSAGI

wanted to write fluff so i went to a random head cannon generator lol

your beloved husband has many skills definitely. cooking, playing soccer, and an infinite amount of stamina (which comes into play sometimes). but in the name of god he cannot understand social cues for the life of him.

going out in public can be kind of a hassle especially with a famous husband who people just love taking pictures of. so you two tend to stay in your community for the most part. while you both do plan to have children soon, you’re not in any rush being as young as you are.

however, one day isagi mentions how he needs to go out with you for a meetup with friends because he knows himself better than that. he’s going to mess up and embarrass himself in front of everyone.

“baby pleasseeeeeee just come with me” he whines as he grabs into your waist lovingly as you’re making lunch for the both of you. he wraps his big muscly arms around you as he nuzzles into your neck.

you giggle as you start to get a little tickled by the vibration of his whines on your neck and you flick his forehead causing him to jolt back.

“okay ouch” he complains.

“honey i’m not going with you. you need to learn how to talk to other people without my help” he scoffs at this and puts his hands on his hips as he steps back.

“your help? i don’t need your help im perfectly capable of talking to people by myself!” you widen your eyes at this and scoff.

“oh really? you? good at speaking?”

“very! i’ll show you im the best at it! im leaving without you and im going to come back with more friends than before!” he yells (lovingly) as he closes the door and leaves.

you were used to his childish tantrums that usually ended up with his head on your lap like the baby he was.

unsurprisingly, after a good hour, you hear someone knocking on the door as you’re setting up the table for lunch. the door opens and in comes isagi who looks completely defeated.

“baby…” he whines as he slowly walks to you with sadness written all over his cute face. you pout and open your arms allowing him to cuddle you.

“what happened?”

“um…”

“tell me—“

“i thought we were all just playing pool at the bar but… everyone wanted to play soccer and…”

you raise your eyebrows and back up from him in confusion.

“i may have said a few bad words to them”

you purse your lips then laugh out loud. “oh really? bad words like what?” you ask in sarcasm. “oh no did you call them stupid?”

he proceeded to tell you every single slur in the urban dictionary.

the next hour was dedicated to isagi sitting on the couch and watching youtube videos on what not to say to people you wish to be friends with.

[evellynssocbrainrot]

Kaz and Inej are the touch-repulsed ship, but it's crazy how touchy they still get in the books.

In Six of Crows

Kaz can reveal one-half of his naked body to Inej, and that is a fuck ton of skin (This isn't really touching, but it's still important)

Kaz had to carry Inej bridle style, in his arms, which meant that their bodies were PRESSED, her side to his front and they stayed like that for a while

Kaz and Inej were sitting pretty close together when Kaz went to talk to her after she recovered a bit from her injury, and then Kaz proceeded to wonder what would happen if he got closer

Kaz and Inej were pressed shoulder to shoulder during the prison wagon ride and stayed like that long after Kaz had woken from fainting

Inej woke Kaz up after he fainted by POKING HIM IN HIS THIGH!!! (I am infinitely jealous of her)

*INEJ*WORE*KAZ'S*GLOVES* (Not really touching, but still extremely important)

Kaz gripped Inej's wrist and felt her pulse

Inej touched Kaz's cheek skin to skin, and he withstood for a fair while

Kaz gripped Inej's hand during the "How will you have me?" scene, AND INEJ SQUEEZED HIS HAND BACK!!! T_T

When Inej falls in the end, after she killed the squaller that was trying to kidnap her, Kaz RAN BLINDLY to her without LOGIC OR PLAN in the hopes of CATCHING her

In Crooked Kingdom

When Kaz rescued her from Van Eck, there is a small and supremely slept-on moment in which Kaz INTENTIONALLY touched his fingers to the top of her upper arm, and Inej, the girl who flinches when her best friend hugs her, was COMPLETELY relaxed

Kaz canonly daydreams about touching Inej's hair :3 (No touch, but INSANELY STUPIDLY ADORABLE)

I know y'all have read the bathroom scene, but let me remind you of the things they did

Inej was near a guy while having her shoulders and her arms exposed, this is big for her

KAZ WAS STANDING BETWEEN HER LEGS!!!! HER KNEES WERE FRAMING HIS BODY, HE WAS SUPER CLOSE TO THE CIRCLE OF HER ARMS AND HER WAIST

AT SOME POINT, KAZ BROUGHT HIS ARMS AROUND HER ON THE BASIN

KAZ STARED AT INEJ'S PULSE SEVERAL TIMES

HEEEE KIIIISSSEEEDDDD HHHHEEEERRRRR NNNNEEEECCCKKKKK, the same spot at which Inej was kissed by clients

After Kaz took his revenge on Pekka and after he explained his "child burying" scheme to Inej, he extended his hand AND HELPED INEJ UP, and after that, their hands were still joined (It is a CRIME that this scene was removed in the show, Freddy and Amita would have KILLED it)

The skin-to-skin hand-holding at the end of the book, in which their hands stayed like that for a good while, need I say more??

When Inej saw her parents, she was about to FALL, AND KAZ BRACED HIS BODY AROUND HERS TO STABILIZE HER!!!

As you can see, I still have not recovered from Kanej

[heartkaji]

2O WOMEN VS 1 EGOIST !

bllk boys if they were in the videos by the sidemen + beta squad

includes: michael kaiser, isagi yoichi, nagi seishiro, itoshi sae

MICHAEL KAISER !

“kaiser, ask her if she’d let you put your balls in her jaw.”

isagi’s voice is only a static crackle through the ear piece speaker, but it’s more than enough to have kaiser gnashing teeth & wrinkling nose. it was taking everything in his power not to snap the headset between his fingers. kaiser wasn’t even sure why he had to do this ; fuck yoichi and fuck bastard münchen’s publicity team.

he tries for an exhale but his dignity accompanies it, “would you let me put my balls in your jaw ?”

you’re the third girl who’s sat with kaiser so far & fuck his heart is aching— you’re far too pretty for this, blood drenched cheeks & freckled nose & silver draped around your neck like rings of vined ivy. kaiser can’t help but wonder why a pretty thing like you is here seeking male validation in thigh highs & skimpy bralette. surely someone of your beauty would know better, no ?

“what ?”

you ask so sweetly, lashes fluttering as you blink hurriedly as if it’ll help you hear better. if you were actually somebody, michael kaiser would be almost embarrassed by now, but you’re only pink painted lips & syrupy sweet voice so kaiser clears his throat & swallows his pride. he parts his lips to repeat the query but a hiss in his ear interrupts him, “she didn’t hear you, say it a—“

kaiser snaps the headset between his fingers & tosses it somewhere behind him. “i said, can i take you out sometime ?”

ISAGI YOICHI !

“try to sit on her lap while she’s talking.”

“you lot can’t be serious.”

unfortunately for yoichi, hiori & kurona were dead serious. he picked at the earpiece as you babbled on about your ideal first date, teeth kissing as he plotted on how he’d sit himself between your thighs.

“— and i’m not trying to be different or anything, but i think dinner dates are rather boring. i’d rather go to an amusement park or—“

“same, honestly,” yoichi was a charmer with a voice heavier than tree sap. his baritone alone had your guts knotting & spilling. “rides are way more exciting, really get your adrenaline going huh ? and then at the end of the date you share a kiss on the ferris wheel. i fuck with that.”

you blink, flesh pinkening & blush crawling up your throat as your fingers play with your bag strap. yoichi thinks you’re cute. you’re a fucking doll really, a pretty little thing isagi has decided he likes staring at.

yoichi can’t help but tease your further, “you wouldn’t mind if i kissed you on a ferris wheel, right ?”

you bite your inner cheek & yoichi swears you’re the cutest thing in the world. as if rehearsed, you cross your legs, shoulders tucking as you straighten your spine,

“on the first date, isagi ? quite the manwhore aren’t you ?”

it catches him by surprise but also pulls him back to earth. he bites his tongue, “oh ? when would you let me kiss you then ?”

he gets off his seat as he speaks, striding towards you like it’s the most normal thing in the world. you choke on your tongue, “um, me ? on the first date is a bit too— isagi ? what are you—?”

he positions himself on your lap. “you were saying ?”

yoichi’s ear piece blares with booms of laughter. “nah this man’s not real ! man said—“

NAGI SEISHIRO !

“are you a magician ? because when i look at you, everyone else disappears.”

“next.”

this was the eighth girl nagi had rejected. each girl came in with a new pick up line, and to nagi, each one seemed to be worse than the last.

“nagi, you have to say yes to someone already. you’ve rejected almost every— don’t listen to chigiri, nagi ! you don’t have to say yes to any of these bitches—“

nagi was about mid eye roll when you walked in.

you were rose dappled cheeks & fluffy jacket upon crème tee. your eyes met the room before his, scanning the seemingly infinite white walls & high ceiling. you even did a little wave to the camera before taking your seat. cute

even then, your eyes settled everywhere except him.

“hi,” he broke you out of your trance.

“ah— hello !” you flash him a shy grin, dimpled cheeks & freckled nose. “i was supposed to say a pick up line, right ? are you french, because—“

“no, no, please don’t,” nagi interrupts. you’re a pretty thing, red bruised knee bouncing over the other as you tuck away a strand of hair. fuck, you’re like candy for the eye.

“you get a pass.”

“huh ? but my pick up line—“

“no need, it’s a yes from me.”

pretty pink lips bend into a pout & nagi is almost tempted to let you say your line, but he shudders at the thought of your incomplete statement. you nod a bow & show yourself out with another tiny wave to the camera. perhaps this game isn’t all that bad after all.

mid thought, nagi’s earpiece crackles to life. “nagi, why’d you say yes ?! what’s she got that—“

ITOSHI SAE !

“ask her if she’d get with a bisexual dude.”

“what ? stop it shidou he doesn’t like dudes. ask her if she—“

“how about i ask her to shut the fuck up?”

sae says it a bit too loudly so your eyes widen a bit before you seemingly shrink in on yourself. sae hadn’t actually meant it—he was only trying to put a stop to the squabbling in his ears but now your nose is red & you’re biting your lip like you’re about to cry.

truthfully, he doesn’t give a fuck.

but his PR team sure does. sae was live right now & his public image already wasn’t the prettiest. he’d also rather not receive yet another lecture from his manager.

“um, girl number nine ?”

the sound of a facepalm rattles in his earpiece. “isn’t she like, the fourth girl ?”

sae bites his bottom lip. you’re fidgeting with your nails & your breathing seems heavy & your eyes seem to be everywhere but his. you don’t even respond to his call. he sighs.

“that wasn’t meant for you, sorry.” he swallows. “you were talking about red flags in a relationship, right ?”

you seem to perk up—perhaps you thought he wasn’t listening ? you were going on & on but how could sae not pay you any mind when your voice seemed smoother than redwine & myrrh ?

“yes—yes i was ! um, what about you ? any red flags ?”

“when they’re too horny.” a damn-it ! blares through his ear piece.

you nod, “i get that. though honestly, i’m a bit of a freak myself.”

you say it like you didn’t just admit to being a professional dick sucker. “sae, ask her for her number—“

he taps a button & the humming in his ear ceases. “a freak, you say ? do elaborate.”

© ─ heartkaji ; do not steal, edit, translate or reupload