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Wan Kindergarten!Chuuya
Bungo Stray Dogs Chuuya Nakahara & Gender Neutral Reader + Osamu Dazai X Reader
Beginning Note: Initially, I wanted to include all the scenarios that were thought of, but I decided to make them separate. So, there will be a continuation of this. @kiwibeanv helped a lot with the scenarios, especially the future ones I’ll do.
Word Count: 2191
(Fluff/Little Crack)
Background:
At some point, you had decided you wanted to take care of a human child, but you didn’t have a significant other and you didn’t really want to go through all the trouble of the process in making it.
So, you went to an adoption center and looked around at all the children there. All different ages, appearances, personalities, etc.
One child caught your eye, a ginger haired boy with big, blue eyes. He was so adorable, and he didn’t seem to be troublesome.
You did all the paperwork and whatever else needed to be done and now had an adopted son whose name was Chuuya.
Initially, he didn’t want anything to do with you, just locking himself up in his room that you’d prepared. He only left it for necessities, but sped back as soon as possible.
You didn’t have much hope in the beginning, but he eventually started to trust you. He would start eating at the dinner table, say good morning to you, sit in the living room for a while.
As more time passed, he was comfortable with you. Chuuya finally saw you as a parental figure, and you couldn’t be happier. All the waiting for him had paid off.
He was such a good kid. If he ever had to say hi to someone, he would greet them politely and introduce himself. He cleaned up after himself, he wasn’t always too loud, sometimes he would yell out, but he quickly calmed down.
Chuuya then reached the age of attending school, so before the year started, you took him shopping for clothes. The ones he had were a little worn and he could use a wardrobe change.
“How’s this one?” You held up a blue shirt with a sheep on it. He took a quick glance before shaking his head.
“I don’t like that one.”
You sighed and placed it back. Of all the options there were, he didn’t like any of them. You turned to him and asked, “Well, do you have an idea of what you’d like? We can look for it.”
Chuuya thought about it before looking up at you. “Something dark. I don’t like bright colors.” He looked at another shelf and pointed at it. “Like those!”
You looked where he pointed at and saw that the clothing were mainly black, gray, white, navy blue, and other dark neutral colors. You raised an eyebrow. “Those are church clothes.”
Chuuya pouted, “But those are the only good ones.” He turned back to you with puppy eyes. “Now you don’t want me to get what I like?”
You decided to check them out so you walked over to the shelves. “I suppose it can’t hurt. But don’t blame me if you don’t like them anymore.” You browsed through them all, asking him what he thought, and he finally made his decision.
When you two returned home, you told him to try it on to make sure it fit. He walked out of his room wearing the new clothes and showed you his outfit.
You were silent for a few seconds before muttering, “You look like a Christian. Like you’re going to the church summer camp.”
Hearing your words, his jaw fell a bit and his eyebrows furrowed. He looked offended at what you said. “I do not!” He screeched. He fell silent and looked down at himself, beginning to quietly mutter to no one in particular.
You let out an airy chuckle and crouched down to his level and pet his head. “I didn’t necessarily say it was terrible.” You didn’t actually know what to think. It was goofy, but you’re not going to hurt his feelings.
He felt a little better and smiled at you. “Can we go get some ice cream? I was good today, right?” He bounced on the balls of his feet.
You couldn’t resist him, so you agreed.
Kindergarten:
The first day of school finally arrived, so you ensured that Chuuya had anything needed and that he wasn’t going to misbehave. The two of you got to the building and you escorted him to the front.
“I trust that you won’t cause trouble while you’re here?” You crouched down.
He sighed, “I’ll be good, I promise.” He was quiet for a few seconds before hesitantly taking a step closer to you and slowly raised his arms. He was asking for a hug.
You smiled and embraced him, caressing his head before planting a kiss on his temple. “Good boy. If you behave today, we’ll have whatever you want for dinner.” You pulled away, but kept your hands on his shoulders. “Sound good?”
His eyes lit up. “Yeah! That’s good!” His smile grew and he quickly hugged you again before skipping to the door. Before entering, he turned and waved to you, then went inside. You returned the gesture and stood up to make your way home.
Once the day ended, you went to pick him up. He was waiting at the front, looking around before his eyes landed on you and lit up at the sight. He ran to you and hugged your legs.
He told you all about his day and that he made a few friends. But he didn’t like his teacher and didn’t really tell you exactly why.
As the year went on, he seemed to have fun. He did complain about a few things, but it didn’t sound too terrible. You had met some of the staff and thought they were lovely.
Dazai, who seemed to be the main teacher, had come up to you at some point to whine about being threatened with bombs. And any time parents and teachers met up, he just says to you that Chuuya wasn’t nice with him.
He just complained about anything and everything, no matter how minor the “offense” was.
At the news of the bomb threats, you didn’t know how to react. You just stood there, thinking why a nice kid like Chuuya would throw out some bomb threats, to his teacher especially.
“I’ll talk to him when we get home,” you told Dazai before leading Chuuya away. And talk to him you did. He wasn’t happy about the lecture.
In general, Chuuya’s a very good child except for when he’s around Dazai, for some reason. He tries to be all mature, but you know that he loves all the children stuff.
He loves Odasaku Man and always plays the episodes when he gets home from school. At this point, you know the whole script of the show.
Doesn’t matter what meal he’s having, he wants milk as his drink. “I want to grow taller!” (Throughout all the years, he didn’t grow as much as he wanted)
The books he reads, he wants to read all the adult books (You never let him), but for bedtime stories, he goes with the picture books and fun plots.
You’ve also seen the other kids in his class, and you’re a little hesitant on the ones he’s best friends with. They might not be the best influence for later in life, but you’ll let him choose his friends. You’ll just make sure he knows how to take care of himself, but he’s still your little baby boy.
One of them is also wearing a strange outfit. He looks like a pilgrim and you feel like him and Chuuya could relate with the odd clothing. He seems cute. [Talking about Akutagawa]
You’re not even sure if Dazai is the best teacher. He’s gone onto his knees and pleaded with you to join him in a double suicide, and you’re skeptical. How was he approved to be teaching the class?
(Bonus) Romance with Dazai:
Despite your doubt concerning Dazai, you’ve somehow gained feelings for him. You never really acted upon them, just letting them exist. Sure, he may flutter your heart once or twice, but you’re not going to ask him out. If he were to somehow reciprocate, you’ll leave the confession to him.
And he did ask you out. Albeit, in a weird way. You still accepted, agreeing to go out with him. You had also befriended Yosano and Kouyou, so you left Chuuya under Kouyou’s care while you were out.
The two of you hit it off, so now you’re both in a relationship. You didn’t tell Chuuya because you knew he would throw a fit whenever Dazai was mentioned. You kinda regret not telling him, but oh well.
He noticed you and Dazai beginning to get closer, and he thought it was weird but shrugged it off as weird adult things. Then Dazai kissed your hand, which he’s kinda done before, but Chuuya was never used to it, so he just loudly gagged at the sight, letting his thoughts be known.
One time, you told Chuuya to wait for you at a specific spot because you wanted to talk with Dazai. He obeyed and started idly playing with the dirt for a while before looking in your direction, wondering why you were taking a bit. You seemed to be saying goodbye to his teacher, but Dazai planted a kiss? On your cheek?
His face morphed into a horrified expression as he let out a shocked sound. He ran up to you, tugging on your clothes and begging you to get away from Dazai.
Really, all he did was throw a tantrum. You excused yourself and took him home, where he locked himself in his room for the rest of the night.
You decided to let him do his thing for tonight, peeking into his room at midnight to see him sleeping in an awkward position on his bed. At least he put on his sleepwear before laying on the mattress.
You repositioned him, gently kissing his head, then left to your own room.
The next morning, he said good morning to you and apologized for his behavior. You forgave him, of course. It’s not his fault that his teacher and guardian got together and didn’t let him know.
Whenever he sees you and Dazai do anything that could be classified as romantic, he just gags and says “Disgusting!” Or “Ew!”
You had asked him to be as respectful as he could towards Dazai, but you didn’t really expect much from him. You just wanted them to at the very least tolerate each other.
He indeed did not act as nice as you wanted. Chuuya would still be the little rebellious kid he apparently was in the class, even more so with Dazai as his parental figure’s boyfriend.
Now, the brunette had two advantages in the power dynamic. Not only could he have the upperhand as Chuuya’s teacher, but also as his future dad. He poked fun at the boy and if Chuuya tried to retaliate in some way, Dazai would just complain to you.
With you, Chuuya is an absolute angel, always smiling at you, cuddling up to you, doing whatever you say, bringing you little gifts, and the like. With Dazai, he was the opposite.
That little demon, he would be louder, cause more trouble than usual, throw little fits, give Dazai weird looks, and more. It’s like Chuuya’s only goal when around Dazai was to make his life hell. And it kinda was.
One time, you had to run some errands, but couldn’t bring Chuuya along. Luckily, there was no school that day, so Dazai came over to babysit. It should be easy, right? Chuuya wouldn’t want to cause any trouble in his parent’s house, would he?
When you opened the door to your home, it was a mess. Furniture was out of place, the TV was on, there was food on the floor, and in the middle of it all, Dazai and Chuuya froze. The former holding the child away from him while Chuuya was biting Dazai’s wrist. They both looked roughed up.
“What happened here?” You slowly asked, closing the door behind you. You placed down whatever was in your arms and removed any articles of clothing, putting them in their proper place.
“Oh, my lovely significant other who I deeply cherish and wish to spend the rest of my life with! I was just handling your little demon!” Dazai’s smile was tight as he placed Chuuya onto the floor. The latter removed his teeth from where they were. “I know it looks terrible, but we were just bonding! Right, Chuuya?”
The boy flinched at his tone before running to you and jumping onto you. You held onto him as he buried his face in your neck. “Mom/Dad! Dazai was a big meanie! Why are you even with him? He tried to hurt me!”
Dazai scoffed, “I did not! You were biting me! And you saw it, (Name).” He sighed, going into the kitchen and wetting a paper towel. “I’ll start cleaning...”
Although the two of them were troublesome at times, you loved them both. You knew Chuuya would grow into a strong gentleman. It doesn’t matter what he will do for the rest of his life, he will always be your baby.
Honestly, when you first felt like taking care of someone, it was an impulsive decision. But you’re glad that you went through with it, otherwise you wouldn’t be with Chuuya.
End Note: When KiwiBean first watched Wan, they thought Chuuya had a Christian fit, while Akutagawa had a pilgrim one. So, thanks to them!
Honestly, it took a few months to convince them to watch BSD, and they watched a few out of context before seeing the first episode. A few days to continue watching, and now they’re hooked. [I kept repeating BSD until random thoughts of Dazai and Chuuya’s name just ran through their head. :)]
#bungou stray dogs#bsd chuuya#bungo stray dogs x reader#chuuya nakahara x reader#chuuya nakahara#chuuya x reader#~writing~#~headcanons~#dazai x reader#osamu dazai x reader
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think about your blorbos ON THE CLOCK
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Bruce has a strict 'no metas/powers (except duke) allowed in Gotham' policy in place but it has a clause, BYOR (Bring Your Own Robin)
No one is allowed entry untill and unless they can produce their very own certified robin-shaped identity card
Whenever someone with even a hint of supernatural powers in them arrives at Gotham, they're first met with Bruce standing at the city border with a notepad in hand
Bruce: State your name and purpose.
Kon: Kon-el, here to hangout!
Bruce: Your Robin?
Kon, flourishing Tim from behind him: Ta-Da!
Tim, waves: Hey Bruce
Bruce: Approved, you may enter
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bruce: Name and purpose?
Hal: Here to investigate a case, Hal Jordan
Bruce: Your Robin?
Hal: I.... don't have one?
Bruce: Denied
Hal: What?! But-
Bruce: Denied.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bruce: Yes, Wally, where's your robin?
Wally: Oh shit lemme just- *zaps away and returns with Dick, who was in the midst of brushing his teeth, in a bridal carry*- Here!
Bruce, grumbling a little: Fine. Approved.
Dick: You gotta stop using me as a key already, man
Wally: Blame Bruce.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bruce: Name and purpose?
Clark: Clark Kent, here for our monthly barbecue
Bruce: Robin?
Clark, producing an actual robin bird: Does this count?
Bruce:.....yes
#The baby robin was seen on batman's shoulder later that night wearing a domino mask. Batman has refused to comment on it#the reason why clark didn't have any robins available is because Dick was mad at him cause of smthing#batfam#bruce wayne#tim drake#dick grayson#batman#dc#clark kent#kon el#wally west#nightwing#superman#red robin#timkon#birdflash#batfamily headcanons#batfam headcanons#batfamily#batman comics#batfam shenanigans#batman shitpost#incorrect batfamily quotes#incorrect batfam#another headcanon post from yours truly#dc headcanon#dc comics#superbat
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I love them so much! What amazes me most about the Sonic and Tails story is that Sonic was a kid himself when he decided to take on such responsibility. And I'm sure Sonic had to change his lifestyle one way or another. But... where did Sonic get a DAMN PLANE???
#best big bro#call them brothers#sonic#sonic the hedgehog#sth#sonic fanart#miles tails prower#gestrel#gestrel art#gestrel sonic comic#my sonic-headcanon
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remember when i said Bruce would forget his kids arre adopted?
imagine the same thing but opposite w damian for some reason.
Damian starts showing interest in medical stuff and Alfred lightly comments, "just like his grandfather," and Bruce hums with a finger on his chin, "Ra's?" and Alfred gives him a look and THEN Bruce realises, oh his father. his side of the family. because he's the dad. for real this time. ohhhhh.
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Lex Luthor hates Superman, Lex Luthor hates the Justice League, bla bla bla… You know who Lex must really hate? Bruce Wayne.
Because he knows that bitch is Batman. He’d worked it through that big brain of his and he’s without a doubt certain that the same idiot who spilled champagne on him last New Year’s Eve moonlights as the Batman.
But he can’t fucking prove it. So he’s resigned to a lifetime of having to make stilted conversation filled with double meaning while Brucie just flutters his eyelashes and pretends to be a ditz. And Lex just has to sit there and take it, because Bruce knows that Lex knows and absolutely uses that knowledge to fuck with Alex at every opportunity—he says the absolute shittest, godawful pickup lines and flirts to his heart’s content, knowing full well that he helped Superman kick Lex’s ass last week and that Lex knows it was him.
#Lex: ah Bruce it seems you’re recovering from last week’s… injury#Brucie: oh Lexi you know I like to be roughed up 😜#Lex: I fucking hate you#dc#dc comics#batman#bruce wayne#batfamily#bruce wayne headcanon#Bruce Wayne and Lex Luthor#justice league crack#Lex: Just admit you’re Bruce Wayne!#Batman: Lexi I would never 😚#Lex: literally die
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"A society that separates its lore masters from its horny posters will have its headcanons written by prudes and its erotic fanfic by fools."
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Canon/Headcanon likelihood chart
So I've been thinking about @macdenlover 's "levels of headcanon" chart (about how heavily a HC is influenced by canon), so I decided to make my own scale about how likely a HC is to be true (including different levels of canon) using queer cartoon characters as examples :)
I just spent an hour making this because I was bored. Enjoy. Image description under the cut.

Inspiration:
ID courtesy of @hatreds-og-imagedescriptions (thank you!!)
[ID: a chart going from 10 to 1, with explanations of the ratings on the left and images of characters with queer flags and descriptions of said characters on the right.
10: "Explicit canon. Clearly stated in the original media." Trans Barney from Dead end Paranormal Park. "Barney says "I'm transgender"".
9: "Implicit canon. Never explicitly stated, but 100% canon in the original media". Nonbinary Raine from The Owl House. "Raine never says "I'm nonbinary," but uses they/them and is never referred to as a man/woman (also, confirmed by Dana)".
8: "Creator confirmation. Never stated in the original media, but confirmed canon by the media's creator". Aroace Lilith from The Owl House. "While never mentioned/implied in TOH, Dana has confirmed that Lilith is aroace".
7: "Heavily implied. Never confirmed, but likely true (either by canon evidence or creator implication)". Genderfluid Nimona from Nimona. ""Aaand now you're a boy" "I am today" (anyway, the whole movie has trans/GNC themes)".
6: "Possibly implied. Hinted at in the original media, but could be explained as something else". Trans Doofenschmirtz from Phineas and Ferb. "Doof COULD be transmasc, or the whole "raised as a girl" thing could just be for the bit".
5: "Fanon. Never confirmed, but generally accepted by the fandom". Aromantic Alastor from Hazbin Hotel. "While only confirmed to be ace, most of the fandom also sees Alastor as aromantic".
4: "HC with evidence. Headcanons supported by a dedicated fan's detective work". Bisexual Mabel from Gravity Falls. "People have noticed bi flag stickers hidden on Mabel's scrapbooks".
3: "Canon neutrality. Could be true, could be false, but overall makes sense and doesn't contradict the original media". Genderqueer Pleakley from Lilo and Stitch. "Maybe Pleakley is genderqueer, maybe he just wanted to crossdress for the mission, who knows? That's why it's a headcanon."
2: "I made it the fuck up. Based on vibes, has absolutely nothing to do with canon". Bisexual Megamind from Megamind. "No evidence, no explanation, he just has Disaster Bi™ vibes".
1: "Um? No? But go off. Directly contradicts canon (but who cares, that's why it's fun)". Trans Stanley Pines from Gravity Falls. "Even though flashback scenes prove Stan is AMAB, some people HC him as transmasc." End of ID.]
#rambling of a bean#fandom#canon vs headcanon#canon vs fanon#headcanons#dead end paranormal park#barney guttman#gravity falls#mabel pines#stan pines#the owl house#raine whispers#nimona#lilith clawthorne#phineas and ferb#dr doofenshmirtz#hazbin hotel#alastor#lilo and stitch#pleakley#megamind#1k#2k#5k#10k#15k#20k
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Intermediate Shenanigans
Bungo Stray Dogs Chuuya Nakahara & Gender Neutral Reader + Osamu Dazai & Reader + Odasaku X Reader Summary: Headcanons about taking care of middle schooler Dazai and Chuuya and dating Oda Beginning Note: Shoutout to all the class clowns/funny people, they're great inspiration for scenarios. @kiwibeanv helped with the stories of said funnies. Word Count: 2629 (Fluff/Crack)
First off, you're their parent figure and they live with you. All comfy with you and they trust you a lot. Now to move on to their stupidity.
Immaturity at its finest.
It’s constant arguing, pointing fingers, and the like.
They’re always fighting for your attention, pushing against each other so your hand can pet them.
You’re sitting on the couch, watching TV, when Dazai runs into the living room and jumps to the spot next to you. Since you’re leaning against the armrest, there’s only one seat next to you.
Dazai pushes himself under your arm and hugs your waist as he sighs contentedly. You idly rub his arm for a few minutes before Chuuya comes in with an annoyed expression.
“Oi, StinkZai, do your history homework before you go do whatever.”
Dazai whined and buried himself deeper into your side. “I’ll do it later! I’m tired right now.” He closed his eyes.
“Dazai, you need to do your assignments before you eventually forget and never get them done,” you told him. He let out a groan at that, “Why can’t Chuuya do it? Isn’t he supposed to listen to me since I’m smarter?”
“You’re not smarter than me! Even a shrimp can do better than you!” Chuuya sped to the two of you and pulled on Dazai until the latter fell to the floor.
“Ow!- That’s my spot!” The brunette rubbed his arm. Chuuya had stolen his spot in your arms now and smirked at the other.
“Maybe you should’ve done your homework first, you idiot!” He blew a raspberry and rested his head on your shoulder.
You sighed, “If you two continue to fight, I’m simply going to go to my room and relax without either of you.”
They both froze and looked at you then at each other. Despite their inability to cooperate without trouble, they agreed on the fact that your presence was probably the most important thing they want. They begrudgingly decided to keep quiet, moving so Chuuya can sit on one of your knees while Dazai reclaimed his initial place.
Eventually, they get their emo phases. One day, Dazai just randomly started wearing bandages over his eye, saying that he looks better.
“Why are you wasting bandages?” “Because I look so cool and a lot of girls come up to me and say I look nice! I know that so many people have a crush on me, especially when I’m like this!” “Just wait til they find out that this stupid mackerel is actually a bad person and a major turn off!” “Chuuya, don’t say that, please.”
And Chuuya had a Sonic phase. He thought the hedgehog was so cool, he wanted to be like him in as many ways he can.
He then found out about Conker’s Bad Fur Day and asked you if he could get it. You thought it’d be a wholesome game for kids, but when you looked at the plot and ratings, you didn’t buy it for him. He was sad, but got over it.
And then he came across Devil May Cry and decided to watch the gameplay and cutscenes because you might not buy it for him (you may consider, but it still has some scenes that you’re skeptical about.)
Nero from DMC4 is so cool despite the excessive “Kyrie!” throughout the game, Chuuya wants to dress like him. And dye his hair white.
Every time he loves a character, he wants to dye his hair their own hair color, but you never let him because why should he ruin his lovely hair? (He may or may not ask to dye his hair just so you can compliment him.)
Hot Topic is their favorite store because it has so many aesthetics and they love the style of the apparel.
They start simping for characters and reading fanfics. You know what they’re reading because they use the family/shared device and don’t delete the history. Why are there so many lemons? What do they mean? (Unless you’re a fanfic reader yourself)
They kinda know what sex is, they have a faint idea, but they’re probably wrong on a few things.
Hence, Dazai is excited for sex ed! Wooo! His head is smacked by Chuuya because the latter is embarrassed that he just yelled that out and now kids are looking at them.
When they’re learning about it, Dazai’s snickering at the pictures. But not the childbirth, what the actual fuck did they just watch?
Oh boy, now they’re the cringe and immature kids who laugh at everything that can vaguely be related to sex.
Anyways, now to the scenario that was the whole reason for this
You were sitting on the couch, Dazai and Chuuya on the floor and you’re petting their heads. You check your phone, keeping a hand on Chuuya’s head and caressing it. He’s smiling with his eyes closed in bliss. Oh, how he loves this affection.
Until Dazai pushes and climbs on him to be the receiver of your pets. He smiles innocently when you glance over, but smirks at Chuuya, who shoves him as well and takes his spot back.
This continues to go on and you’re about to say something, but then the door is unlocked and opened. Dazai excitedly turns to see Oda coming in. He runs over and hugs the man while Chuuya sets himself in your lap.
After greeting Dazai, Oda is carrying him and walks to you and Chuuya, pressing a kiss to your head and ruffling Chuuya’s hair.
You're in a relationship with Oda, and Dazai loves it.
His two favorite people together, who he might call his parents? How blessed he is!
He doesn’t know who he prefers, so the two of you are equal in his eyes. But when it comes to physical affection, he might go to Oda since Chuuya’s all over you and Dazai’s too tired to do anything. Also, he doesn’t see Oda as often as he does you.
Chuuya thinks Oda is great, but he’s not as close to him as Dazai is. If he had to choose between you or Oda, he’d honestly choose you.
Oda loves coming home to find you three waiting for him on the couch. It warms his heart that he is wanted and loved.
Either he comes home to you all cooking dinner, sleeping in a pile on the floor, playing games (board games or video) , or watching TV.
He still takes care of his adopted children at the curry shop, but he also enjoys the company of Dazai and Chuuya
Sometimes, he would bring those five kids to your house so they can play with Dazai and Chuuya. Everyone has fun, it’s like a party. (Sneaking kisses in the kitchen as everyone else plays video games on the TV)
Oda is a gentleman, whenever you two go out, he always opens the door for you, pulls out your seat, and kisses your hand when you both meet and bid goodbye to each other.
If Dazai ever sees you and Oda share a kiss, he’s cheering in his mind. Whereas Chuuya just brushes it off with an unnoticeable upwards twitch of his lips and an eye roll.
Once, you spotted Oda talking to Dazai outside under the moonlight. You knew the former was telling the teen about the right thing to do. Dazai had expressed his want of being involved in some well known group.
He hinted a little about maybe being a detective or even following Oda’s footsteps of going to the mafia. You really didn’t want him to go with the second option, but at least he’d have Oda to guide him if he’s even alive at that time
Thus, he’s told to prioritize other people’s happiness over his own. It’s tough, but it’s for the better of everyone.
He also says the same to Chuuya, but he goes into more detail with Dazai. You mainly handle Chuu with the lectures since he’s more likely to take your words to heart.
Chuuya has great friends in school, they seem like a lovely bunch, and you trust them. You’ve met them before and they were very nice.
Dazai doesn’t have as many, but you can tell he’s not really clicking with them like Chuuya is with his own. When his mood seems to lower, you go to him when he’s alone and you two cuddle. You can faintly pick up the sound of sniffles and feel your clothing moisten. After the session, you two don’t mention it because you know Dazai doesn’t want to remember that.
With any trauma, you take them to therapy. If it’s affecting either kid negatively, they need to talk about it. Initially, they talk to you, but they go see a professional if that doesn’t work.
Academically, the two of them are good. Dazai’s grades are always A’s even if he procrastinates or doesn’t seem to get his work done.
Chuuya usually gets B’s, but his PE is the best with an A+. He signs up for any sports the school offers if he’s interested.
Dazai’s lowest grade is PE, around a C because he’s not athletic like Chuuya.
Both Dazai and Chuuya have the same PE class and teacher, but their participation and effort are the opposite.
“Okay, everyone needs to do fifteen seconds of push-ups and fifteen sit-ups, let’s go! Get started!” The teacher instructed. They were walking around their class in the gym, ensuring everyone was doing what they were told.
They noticed a student lying face down next to the wall and when they walked by, they pointed at him and asked, “Who is that?”
Chuuya heard their inquiry and answered, “Dazai.”
The teacher was silent for a second before focusing back on the other students, “Let’s go! You should be on the next exercise now!”
Whenever there’s a fundraiser, they’re begging you to please donate so they can get a prize.
“Pleeeaaassseee? You can get a refrigerator stuffed with $200! Or even an iPad!” Dazai’s giving you the puppy eye(s) [depends if he’s bandaged his eye or not] and Chuuya is hugging you and kissing your cheek. “We love you so much, can you pretty please with a cherry on top donate? We’ll pay you back!” (They don’t make money, nor do they have an allowance.)
When it comes to projects, Dazai always waits until the last minute.
“Hey, can we go to the store and buy supplies? I have a project.” He whispered to you.
“Huh...?” You were woken up by him at whatever the time was, so you rubbed your eyes and sat up. Oda was still asleep beside you, a peaceful expression on his face. You kept your voice to not disturb him, “What?” When you checked the time, it was 2 am.
“I need some things for my science project,” Dazai was just standing by your bed, with big eyes, looking as though he had thrown up.
“When’s it due?”
“Tomorrow.” You frowned at that.
“Sorry bud, can’t help you. It’s too late, why aren’t you in bed?”
“I had to work on my project and other assignments,” he shifted in his spot and awkwardly averted his eyes. “I only need two things, glitter markers and a poster board.”
You stared at him tiredly, before sighing. “What happened to the ones I bought at the beginning of school?”
“I lost them.”
You blinked, unmoving. “And you can’t borrow Chuuya’s?”
He shook his head, saying they weren’t what he needed. At last, you moved the covers off your body and made your way to the closet. “Fine, go get ready. You should be thankful I’m even entertaining this idea.”
Dazai silently cheered and sped to his room. Why were you so lenient with these children? They’re gonna be spoiled.
His project was claiming that potatoes can power up devices. As stupid as it sounds, he somehow makes it convincing until it’s actually tested and obviously it doesn’t work. But he still gets a passing grade for the effort.
During one of their classes, Chuuya asked to go to the bathroom and ten minutes later when the teacher was about to ask about his location, he comes back with a lunch tray.
“Where’d you get that?” “I look like a sixth grader.”
He just munched away as everyone stared at him confused before they got back to the lesson.
Another time, the teacher left the room for a few minutes. Since Dazai wondered what their coffee tasted like, he waltzed over to the desk and took a sip and immediately spat it out.
“Ugh! It tastes like shit!” When the teacher came back, the whole class silently agreed to stay quiet and not tell on him.
When it was around Halloween and everyone could wear a costume, Dazai wore a squirrel suit. He brought an acorn prop and clipped it to the front of his pants. When walking up to the stage for the best costume contest, he hit the acorn with his legs, playing with it, until it accidently hit his balls and he crouched to the floor in pain. Of course, the guys winced at it, but it was pretty funny. Someone, Chuuya probably, yelled out, “He busted a nut!”
More nonsense, pantsing sometimes occurred. And Chuuya was the unfortunate target for Dazai. He had snuck up behind the former, and yanked down his pants. Regrettably, Dazai’s fingers also caught onto the waistband of the undergarments and when it came down, he got a face full of balls.
He was so traumatized despite being the one to commit the act.
Food fights can also happen. While Chuuya was peacefully eating his lunch, Dazai threw a tomato slice at him and the fruit made a satisfying splat! on Chuuya’s cheek.
He also tried to throw cheese, but he missed and it landed in the hair of someone who was just walking by. (And somehow did not get in trouble).
For presentations, Chuuya had to do an audio recording, and Dazai just sneezed at the beginning of it, He recorded another but when uploading the audio files, he accidently clicked the sneeze one. Presentation day was funny, but Chuuya didn’t necessarily like it.
If they had online school, Chuuya would be talking to the camera before a ball smacks his face. He falls out of frame, and Dazai is just seen running in the background.
There are also interviews or random school news done by the student council. They hate having to work with Dazai and Chuuya together because they always argue. The one time the video went right was when Chuuya had a voice crack.
Rallies also happen, and students would have to cheer as loud as they can for their team. Chuuya and Dazai are the loudest, but they also suffer from voice cracks. After the rally, they lose their voice for about a day.
Rocketry is an elective, and there’s a weird Russian kid named Fyodor. Both the boys don’t really like him. Since he’s associated with rats (Kids call him Rat, and one person did see him surrounded by rats in an alleyway as though they were dependent on him), they wanted to get a rat plushie. They asked you if you could get them the plush. You decided to buy it for them, not knowing why they actually wanted it.
They taped it to a rocket they made for the elective, put more power into it, and they launched it into the air. When it blasted off, they looked at Fyodor with threatening stares.
Occasionally, you and Oda would volunteer to help with some school activities. The first time both of you arrived, so many students had a crush on either of you. They’d go to Chuuya/Dazai and whisper “That’s your parent?”
Oda’s a dilf and you’re also a milf/dilf.
What a happy family you lot are.
#bungou stray dogs#bungo stray dogs x reader#bsd chuuya#chuuya x reader#chuuya nakahara#chuuya nakahara x reader#dazai x reader#bsd dazai#osamu dazai x reader#dazai osamu#bsd odasaku#odasaku x reader#oda sakunosuke#~writing~#~headcanons~
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RETURN TO SENDER | simon riley
It was a joke. A letter to a criminal—UK's most wanted. You told him he was hot. Told him you were a virgin. Left your address, because it’s not like he’d ever get out, right?
✉ 2K FOLLOWER SPECIAL .ᐟ | [ AO3 ]
18+ AU, DUBCON, fem!reader, takes place in the UK, porn with plot, pathetic!reader, harddom!simon, asshole!simon, implied stalking, (morally irredeemable) pining, oral (f receiving), shit-ton of degradation, praise if you use a magnifying glass, virginity kink, pussy pronouns, pussy & face slapping, dacryphilia, unprotected sex [ 10.2k words ]
✘ SEQUEL : ' IN CONTEMPT '
Who knew working at Tesco would be such a fucking nightmare?
It’s almost absurd how people can forget how to use their brains the second they step through the automatic doors. It’s a massive store, but you’ve come to believe that its sheer scale only amplifies some customers’ overwhelming stupidity.
You find yourself watching, day in and day out, as people stumble over the easiest parts of shopping, like scanning a barcode or finding the right aisle despite the sign above their heads. It’d be laughable if it wasn’t so damn frustrating. You can’t even afford the luxury of venting because you're stuck behind the register, forced to plaster on a fake smile, nodding while they hold up the line, your eye twitching as you answer the same question for the umpteenth time in 30 minutes.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity of gritted teeth and hollow patience, your shift comes to an end. The relief is brief, but it’s there, at least. You drag yourself out of the store, shoulders slumped under the weight of the day. The commute home isn’t any prettier, but it’s a kind of mindless ritual that’s grown familiar over time—20 minutes on the train, crammed between strangers who are just as exhausted, just as done with the grind. The train lurches and hums beneath you, a rhythmic noise that almost lets you forget the stress. But you’re too far gone for that kind of escape, your mind still whirling with all the things you’ve had to swallow throughout the day.
The train empties as the sun sinks below the horizon, each stop peeling away another layer of the late afternoon crowd. You finally step off the train at the final stop, the air crisper than when you left for work nearly 11 hours ago. The walk home is short, but it’s long enough for your legs to remind you that you’ve been standing for hours. Ten long minutes to your flat, a familiar route that feels both comforting and suffocating in its monotony.
After walking down some quiet streets, past some sketchy alleyways, you finally reach your tiny one-bedroom flat. It’s tucked just outside Bromley, and it’s small, not much at all, but it’s enough. It’s the kind of space that suffocates you some days and feels like a sanctuary on others. You push your key into the lock and push the door open. You kick your shoes off and they thud as they hit the floor, echoing through your small flat. You hang your keys on the singular hook you stuck on the wall, barely noticing the clink of them settling into place.
This is what most days look like for you: wake up, subject yourself to a long, draining shift, then return home to an empty flat and an even emptier fridge. It's a routine that feels as hollow as the flat itself. The days fly by in a boring cycle of work, silence, and the echo of things you thought you’d left behind when you took the leap and moved out.
After college, you made it a point to leave your parents’ house. You couldn’t stay in the nest anymore, not when you so strongly believed there was something better waiting out there. You had to prove you could stand on your own, that you didn’t need the constant supervision or the suffocating presence of a family that just didn’t get it.
Honestly, who could? Who could stay locked in a house that felt less like a home and more like a cage? College had been the escape you’d craved, the independence you had always wanted. You dove in headfirst, joining club after club, meeting all kinds of people, each one with their own story, a sort of authenticity that people in high school never had.
In college, one of the many things you got involved in was Vets Club, which wrote letters to veterans, thanking them for their service. It was a simple thing, but there was something about it that felt right. You’d write a few lines of gratitude, nothing big, just a small act of kindness. And sometimes, you’d get a letter back. The responses were always the same—surprised and grateful that someone even bothered to take the time. It never felt like much, but it always made you feel good, knowing you could brighten someone's day just by saying thank you.
But now, when you’re standing in your tiny flat, staring at a barren fridge that only houses a bottle of wine and some leftover takeaway containers, you wonder if wasting your time on asinine things like that were worth it.
You’re having a… Well, a hard time, to put it kindly. The kind of time where nothing seems to go your way, and you can't quite shake the feeling that maybe you made some wrong choices. All of your college friends? They're out there, living it up, traveling the world, landing glamorous careers, posting photos of sunsets in Bali and dinners at places with names you can’t pronounce. They’re thriving, but you’re stuck here, watching their highlight reels on social media while your own life feels like it’s paused on a loop of dead-end shifts and lonely nights.
You had big dreams once. You convinced yourself that an art history degree was going to be the key to something meaningful, something that would set you apart. Now, though? Now, you can barely find work, and the opportunities that do pop up feel like they’re beyond you in all shapes and forms.
Rent and bills are manageable, but manageable doesn’t mean easy. To you, it means scraping by, choosing between a decent meal or keeping the lights on for another month.
Your parents help sometimes, covering the electricity bill here and there, but you’d rather die than let them know how bad it really is. You don’t need their pity, their unsolicited advice, or the smug ‘I told you so’ about picking a more practical degree. No matter how deep you’re sinking, you’ll claw your way up alone. It’s not pride, it’s survival. You’ve always done it yourself, it’s just easier that way.
And the real kicker? The cherry on top of this already pathetic sundae? You’re a fucking virgin. No one to warm your bed, keep you company. Mid-twenties and untouched, while your friends from high school are already posting pictures of shiny rings and baby-bumps. Like struggling to stay afloat wasn’t humiliating enough, you’re also trailing behind in the one thing that’s supposed to have happened already.
You’ve had chances—plenty of chances—but every time, you freeze. The pressure, the vulnerability, and the fear of not measuring up always make you bail.
Not that you’re a prude. You’ve done everything but. Had shitty oral a few times, given it even more. And if the guy’s screaming was anything to go by, you were either naturally good at it or he was just being dramatic. Either way, it was a fleeting moment of triumph in an otherwise awkward, unremarkable sex life, not quite the high point you’d imagined, but in your world of half-hearted hookups and ‘almosts,’ it was something. Proof you weren’t completely out of your depth.
Not that it really mattered.
You shut the fridge and turn to open the cabinet with the same lack of enthusiasm that’s come to define your evenings alone. Peanut butter and jelly, quick, mindless, barely even a choice. You spread the peanut butter, then the jelly, the motion mechanical, just something to fill the silence. The takeout leftovers can last till tomorrow.
You pad over to and collapse on your second-hand couch, the cushions sighing under your weight, and pull your legs beneath you. You grab your phone out of your pocket, thumb idly swiping up to unlock it. The screen lights up, and for a moment, you just stare at it. An infant-sized handful of notifications blink back at you—an automated bill reminder, a news alert you’ll ignore, a lone text from your mom checking in. That’s it. No stream of messages, no flood of tagged posts or party invites. Just a near-empty notification bar, silent in its own damning way.
With a sigh, you lock your phone and toss it aside, letting it land somewhere on the cushion beside you. No one’s waiting for you to reply anyway. Instead, you grab the remote and flick on the TV. The screen blinks to life and you skim through a few channels, the lowest-tier cable offering not much more than black-and-white novellas and the news. You settle for the latter, knowing it won’t add much to your day, but it’ll at least fill the space with noise.
The pretty woman on the screen drones on about politics and stocks, things you don’t have the capacity to care for. You nibble at your sandwich, half-listening as the segment shifts. The soft murmur of the newscaster is background noise until something catches your ear, an undercurrent of excitement creeping into her voice as she announces a breaking story. Your attention sharpens as she mentions a supposed notorious figure, someone whose name apparently carries weight in the world of crime.
A man known only as Ghost. No full name, no history, just a shadow stitched together by word of mouth and grainy security footage. The anchor’s voice is steady as she rattles off his crimes. High-profile armed robberies that bled banks dry, embezzlement schemes that unraveled entire corporations, and a trail of bodies left in the wake of meticulously executed mob hits.
It’s the kind of name you’d expect to hear on the news, or in the underbelly of the city where crime festers unchecked. A name spoken with a mix of fear and reverence, as if he was more myth than man.
And yet, despite knowing nothing about him beyond what you've learned in the last 5 minutes of the broadcast, the sight of him on your TV—towering, masked,—hits you in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Intrigue coils in your stomach, but you can’t fight the way he unsettles you.
He’s been arrested. The news anchor’s voice carries the weight of the revelation, the story intensifying with every word. After years on the run, the law has finally caught up with him. Ghost—a ghost no longer—is now locked away in the High-Security Unit of Belmarsh, one of southeast London’s most formidable prisons, home to terrorists, murderers, and just the worst of the worst.
You stare at the screen, the words sinking in as you take another slow bite of your PB&J. There’s a strange sort of chill that runs through you, not from familiarity but from the sheer presence of the large man on the screen, as if he’s in the very room you’re sitting in. The news anchor’s voice drones on, but you’re already lost in thought.
You think back to Vets Club, remembering how the club would sometimes send letters to other people—petty criminals who were locked up for minor counts of drug possession, vandalism, or shoplifting. Stupid shit. At first, it seemed odd, but the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. Why not offer a little kindness to anyone that needs a pick-me-up? They didn’t have to be war heroes.
As long as they didn’t kill anyone—or anything.
So just like the veterans, you guys would send letters. And just like the veterans, you'd sometimes get a reply, a genuine thank you, as if the fact that someone cared enough to reach out made a difference. It was just about being human, about showing some kindness when so much of the world felt cold.
You never wrote to someone like Ghost before. Not someone so... bad. Not someone whose reputation is so undeniably, explicitly rotten. Someone who, many would argue, is explicitly undeserving of such kindness.
You snap back to reality, and his figure dominates the screen—broad shoulders, large muscles even under the clothing, the kind of man who demands attention. The CCTV footage is grainy, a mere screen capture from a longer video plastered on the TV for your viewing pleasure
His face is masked with a skull-patterned balaclava, the fabric stretched taut over his facial features, distorting the skeletal design just enough to make it seem like the grinning visage is shifting with every movement, angular lines that give him an almost inhuman quality—like a wraith lurking in the dark.
He’s swathed in black from head to toe, the fabric of his dark jacket and and even darker pants absorbing the dim light, making him one with the shadows that cling to every surface around him. Each step is silent, calculated, his presence more of a feeling than a sight—an omen in the periphery, waiting.
It’s strangely captivating, the way he looms, the way the static buzz of the television makes it feel like he could crawl through the screen at any second, like that stupid Ring movie. You sort of wish he would.
His image lingers, burned into the LEDs of your TV, burned into your mind. You’re not sure why it catches you the way it does, but you can’t look away. Something about him—his sheer presence, even through a screen—snags at your curiosity like a loose thread begging to be pulled, a sweater unfurled into a heap of yarn. God you’re so lonely.
Your mind drifts as your fingers move almost instinctively. A few quick Google searches lead you down a steep rabbit hole, a litany of news reports covering crimes that stretch back years. No one has seemed to figure out his real name, no verifiable background. Alleged military ties, some say, possibly ex-special forces. Others insist he was born into the criminal underworld, raised by it, shaped by it, an enforcer forged in violence.
Though nothing could be determined for sure, most of the reports agree on one thing for certain: he was methodical, precise, and had an undeniable dedication and passion for his craft. You presumed that’s what made him a terrorist-level threat.
Then you stumble upon another fact—and you pause. Belmarsh Prison, his current home, isn’t even that far. Just a thirty-minute drive from your flat.
That should be alarming, but the thought sinks in your mind like a stone dropped into a well. For a second, the dull, predictable rhythm of your life feels disrupted—a ripple in reality, as if you've slipped into some parallel version of your life, one that isn’t just last night’s leftovers and tomorrow's 10-hour shift.
For the first time in a long while, you feel a flicker of excitement. It makes your life feel a little less dull, like something unexpected, something outside the ordinary routine, has just entered your world. Maybe you could write him a letter—
—No. What the fuck? That’s insane. He’s killed people, and you want to send him a letter?
…
You decide to send him a letter.
It’s not like you’re his number one fan—or a fan at all, for that matter. Plus, the chances of him even reading it are slim to none, he’s probably buried under piles of letters that sound just like the ones you used to write, if not worse.
It’s just a letter. You’re not looking for anything in return. You’ll write to him, then move on, because why not? It’s not about trying to change him or sympathizing with him, it’s just... kindness.
Your half-eaten sandwich is abandoned on the coffee table, forgotten the moment the thought takes root. You push yourself up from the couch. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you move down the narrow hall and toward your bedroom, each step fueled by something you don’t care to name—excitement, recklessness, boredom, maybe all three twisted together.
Your bedroom is dim and poorly lit by your bedside lamp. The air feels alive, the window cracked open, allowing the evening breeze to slip through and blow through the room. The curtains sway with it, shifting shadows across the walls, fleeting and fluid, much like the thoughts in mind.
You reach for an old journal tucked away in your bedside table, its spine softened by years of thumbing through its pages. The cover, once smooth, is now rough with wear, smudged with time and old ink stains. As you flip through, the pages crackle—thin, fragile things filled with half-formed ideas and late-night ramblings from high school.
You find a blank page and grab a pen from the bedside table, its weight familiar, and grounding, and shift into a cross-legged seat on your bed. The mattress dips beneath you, the duvet stretching with the movement.
For a moment, you hesitate. What do you even say to someone like him?
You reason with yourself that if he’s unlikely to even read the letter, then it doesn’t matter. You don’t expect anything to come of it, but the thought of sending a message feels like the most fun you’ve had in years.
You press the pen to the paper.
‘Dear Big Bad Ghost,’
A quiet giggle escapes you at that, the kind that bubbles up when you know you’re doing something absolutely stupid. But really, what’s the harm? You have nothing to lose, no reputation at stake, and no consequences beyond a letter that will likely end up thrown in a trashcan. You might as well have some fun with it. A little tongue-in-cheek humor never hurt anyone.
Your pen glides across the paper, words spilling faster than you can second-guess them. You tell him how you found out about him, how you saw his face flash across your TV screen, how his name is spoken like an urban legend on the news channels. And—because there’s no point in pretending otherwise—you admit the truth outright: you thought he was hot, because—let’s be honest—you wouldn’t be doing something this rash if he wasn’t (you make sure to write that, too).
You just keep going. You tell him you’re 24, impossibly lonely and still a virgin, stuck working at Tesco with the worst coworkers possible, with little excitement in your life. You’re sure you’ve painted yourself as painfully average, definitely the most boring woman on the planet, though you wonder if that in itself might intrigue him. Or maybe he won’t care at all. Either way, the words are already there, ink drying on the page.
You tell him that if this were happening back in the States, they’d have slapped him with a RICO charge so fast he’d get whiplash—but lucky for him, he’s dealing with the UK’s legal system instead. A small mercy, though not much of one.
Your pen barely lifts from the paper as you continue. If he ever gets out, you tell him, your door is open for a ‘good time’. You underline it for emphasis, like a wink through the page, though you’re quick to add that, realistically, you’re sure he’ll be locked up for life.
Still, you suppose, even the worst criminals must get bored. Maybe he’ll want a pen pal to entertain him for the rest of his days.
You sit back, tapping the pen against your chin as you reread the letter. It’s ridiculous, a tad insane, but the thrill of it makes your stomach buzz. Some prison guard will probably skim it, roll their eyes, and toss it straight into the bin.
But still…
You scrawl your name at the bottom and the moment the ink dries, you tear the page from your journal, fold it neatly, and slide it into an envelope. You write your address in the return section. Just in case. Your fingers hesitate at the edge, but before second thoughts can creep in, you lick the edges, the bitter taste making you wince and seal it shut.
Next thing you know, you’re sliding on some slippers, unlocking the front door, and stepping into the cool night air. The mailbox is just a few paces from your front door. The world has gone to sleep for tonight.
You reach the rusted blue box, heart hammering as you pull open the slot. The envelope feels heavier now like it carries more weight than it should. You hover there for a second longer than necessary, gripping the paper between your fingers.
And then you let it go. It’s chilling how easy it is.
The past two weeks have passed in a blur of work, exhaustion, and the crushing weight of an uninspired routine. You’ve long since moved on from the letter. You’ve nearly forgotten about it entirely. Life doesn’t give you much room to dwell on dumb things like that—not when you spend your days dodging entitled customers and biting back the urge to commit minor acts of violence in the break room.
Today was particularly brutal. Some guy spent ten minutes arguing with you over a 5 quid price difference like it was a matter of life and death. A toddler managed to knock over an entire display of crisps while her mom scrolled through Instagram, blissfully unaware. By the time your shift ended, you felt like you’d been put through a meat grinder and then asked to clock out with a smile.
Rush hour on the train only adds insult to injury. Someone sneezes directly onto the back of your neck. Another person else eats an offensively pungent egg sandwich within arm’s reach. You spend the entire ride back gripping the overhead rail and wondering why you ever thought adulthood would be anything more than a slow, soul-draining trudge toward the grave.
By the time you finally get home, your body aches with exhaustion that seeps into your bones. You kick off your shoes, chuck your bag onto the floor, and drag yourself toward the kitchen. There’s no energy left in you for cooking, so you grab some leftover takeout from the fridge and toss it into the microwave, staring blankly at the rotating container as it whirs to life. No, it’s not the same takeout from two weeks ago.
You settle onto the couch with your dinner, flicking through the limited selection of channels. With an eye roll, you settle on the news once more, just as a reporter’s voice cuts in, crisp and professional.
At first, you’re barely paying attention, too focused on shoveling lukewarm noodles into your mouth. But then—
BREAKING NEWS: MASS PRISON RIOT ENSUES AT BELMARSH – GHOST AT LARGE
The bold red banner streaks across the screen, sharp and urgent. Your fork stalls midway to your mouth, noodles slipping off the prongs and back into the container as your brain struggles to catch up.
The news anchor doesn’t miss a beat, her voice steady, polished, and edged with just the right amount of alarm:
“Authorities have confirmed a large-scale riot at Belmarsh Prison earlier this evening, resulting in multiple casualties and the escape of several high-profile inmates—including ‘Ghost’, who was awaiting trial for dozens of indictable offenses.”
Your stomach tightens.
Ghost might be on your doorstep and London might look like Gotham, all before dawn even breaks tomorrow.
For a moment, you simply sit there, absorbing the weight of it. You should probably be more concerned. Probably get up, lock the doors, check your windows, and maybe even send a half-hearted text to your parents that, no, you haven’t been stabbed or kidnapped yet.
After a few more seconds you wisen up, mentally slapping yourself. Super-Mega-Criminal-Ghost has bigger problems than tracking down a random girl who sent him one dumb letter out of the hundreds you’re sure he’s gotten. You’re not special. You’re not even remotely relevant in this situation.
Your eyes lock onto the screen as aerial footage of Belmarsh fills the frame. The prison looks like something out of a videogame—thick plumes of smoke curling into the night sky, roaring flames illuminating figures in riot gear as they swarm the perimeter, floodlights sweeping across the wreckage of what was, until hours ago, one of the most secure facilities in the country. Sirens wail in the background.
Somewhere in that chaos, a man you sent a letter to—that more closely resembled a dating profile— has vanished into thin air.
You exhale, exhausted and too tired to brood on it further. Even if he did show up and break down your door, you’re sure your life couldn’t get worse, so you decide to ignore the news and reach for the remote. With a press of a button, the world of reports and fear-mongering headlines is cut off and replaced by the manufactured warmth of a sitcom.
The studio audience laughs on cue.
You force yourself to eat, to go through the motions. Take small, measured bites, as if chewing will somehow settle the restless feeling creeping up your spine.
It doesn’t.
When you finish the sad lump of noodles, you head to the kitchen. Dishes clink as you rinse them, your mind half-present as your body moves on autopilot.
By the time you’ve cleaned up, the tension in your body has quieted. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. It’s just another night with one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of reasons why this city is exhausting.
You make your way to the bathroom with a sigh, shutting the door behind you. The day clings to your skin, heavy and lingering, but the promise of hot water is enough to shake off the worst of it.
You twist the shower knob. Pipes groan, then sputter, before a steady stream rushes out. You strip down, kicking your dirty clothes into the corner as steam billows, curling against the mirror until your reflection blurs.
After testing the water with your hand, you step in, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips as the warmth crashes over you. It seeps into your muscles, loosening tension you hadn’t even realized you were still holding. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as you let it pour over you.
Your body moves through the motions on autopilot. Shampoo, scrubbed into your scalp. Conditioner, combed through the ends with your fingers. The buy-one-get-one soap glides over your skin, the scent of cheap vanilla and pomegranate thick in the humid air, mingling with the steam that cocoons you. You carefully shave where necessary before the water washes everything away.
You finish your shower, stepping out into the warm fog of steam clinging to the bathroom walls. You take your towel off the hook and drag it over your skin, patting your hair just enough to keep it from dripping but not enough to fully dry it.
Right now, all you want is to crawl into bed and pretend this night is just like any other, despite the very real fact that the London Bridge might actually go down overnight.
You don’t bother wrapping the towel around yourself. There’s no point. It’s just you here—always, unfortunately, just you. As much as you wish that wasn’t the case, there’s no reason to pretend otherwise.
Pushing open the bathroom door, steam rushes past you, rolling into the hallway like a ghost of its own. The air is cooler than usual, biting at your damp skin. A shiver rolls through you, goosebumps prickling to life as you clutch the towel tighter around yourself.
You move quickly, bare feet padding against the floor, the cool air chasing you down the hall. You shake it off, the shower was especially hot today, after all.
Once inside your bedroom, you flick on the small lamp on your bedside table. The weak glow struggles against the shadows, barely illuminating the room beyond a soft, feeble pool of light. You sigh, staring at it for a moment. You really should invest in another one, something stronger, something that does its job—but the thought of subjecting yourself to the blinding glare of overhead lighting is unbearable.
The usual cool breeze from the window rolls in and whisks against your skin as you stand in front of the large mirror sitting atop your dresser, as naked as the day you were born. You absentmindedly rub lotion onto your arms and legs, the smooth cream sinking into your skin with satisfying ease, a small act of self-care amidst the shit-show of your life. You swipe on some deodorant, a miscellaneous powdery scent briefly masking the other smells that linger in your room.
You pull open the top drawer, fingers brushing past folded fabric until you find a pair of plain black no-show panties. The material is soft between your fingertips.
You hook your thumbs into the waistband, bending slightly as you slide the fabric up your legs, smooth against your skin. It settles high on your hips, snug and familiar.
But as you straighten, the air feels different.
Your breath stalls, a tight, involuntary hitch in your throat. A prickle skates down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck rising, your body sensing the shift before your mind can grasp it. Then comes the scent. Subtle quickly shifts to suffocating.
Ash, woody and bitter like a lonely bonfire.
Gunpowder, metallic and pungent like a shrill war cry.
And beneath it all, something brutally masculine. Utterly tart, like blood welling on your tongue, bitter, metallic, yet impossible to spit out so you’re forced to swallow.
You’re still facing the mirror, bare skin gleaming under the dim light, damp where the shower’s heat still lingers. Your reflection is all soft curves and slow, steady breaths, the delicate contrast of black fabric against your skin.
But you’re not looking at yourself anymore.
Your eyes are locked onto something else. Someone else.
Over your right shoulder, a hulking figure sits backward in your desk chair, big, long legs spread on either side, the heavy, shadowy outline of him filling the space behind you. His presence is so sudden, so jarring, that it takes you a moment to even process it. From what you can make out, he is facing you, arms crossed over the backrest like he owns the room.
You’re frozen, trapped in your own body, your mind a tangled mess of confusion and fear. You scramble to process how this could even be happening. Your eyes dart to the window over your left shoulder in the reflection, the wind howling on cue as if to mock you.
Your window is violently wrenched ajar, and suddenly, the drop in temperature makes sense. That’s what you felt earlier—the sudden chill that wrapped around you the second you stepped out of the bathroom. How you didn’t feel it moments ago is beyond you.
Your heart pounds in your ears, a brutal thundering that mutes the voice in your head telling you to run, single-handedly hijacking every morsel of reason you possess. Each beat is so violent, that you think you can feel your ribs splintering, cracking to make room.
You can’t help but stare at yourself, standing there, exposed and utterly vulnerable, tits perked and on display like it’s time for Sunday dinner. But it’s impossible to make yourself move. Your feet feel like cinder blocks.
Your eyes flick back to him.
He hasn’t moved. Not an inch. A statue of flesh and shadow, his towering frame swallowing the space behind you. Your breath stutters as your gaze collides with his—an accident, a mistake. Dark eyes, barely visible, catch the light as he leans in, closer, closer still.
You regret it instantly. Your stomach flips, twisting in on itself as something molten ignites deep inside you. Butterflies—you’re sure—but they feel wrong, tainted, clawing their way up your throat, wings drenched in bile, desperate to break free.
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe.
Just silen—
“Shouldn’t’ve given a dog a bone, Girl.”
Oh.
Oh.
Shit.
You swallow, the motion sharp and dry, as your eyes fixate on the sliver of him that the mirror allows you to see. Your tongue feels like it’s too big for your mouth, thick and clumsy, but it's not just that—it’s as though it’s been wrung dry like you’ve forgotten how to speak, how to make any sound at all.
Could be fight, could be flight—or could be sheer, reckless stupidity. Superficial courage floods your veins, burning hot and impulsive. You don’t know where it comes from, only that it’s there, forcing you to turn, to face him, not through the mirror’s reflection but for real, head-on. Your body obeys even as your mind screams to stop, to run, to do anything but face the giant sitting in the chair behind you. It must be adrenaline.
You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.
He fills the room—dominates it—far more than four walls should ever allow, and far more than your traitorous mirror portrayed. His frame is more ape than human, more God than man, every inch of him radiating undomesticated power that seems to bend the very air around him like a mirage.
He’s dressed in grey, prison-issued sweatpants, the soft fabric taut over his thick, spread thighs. A matching grey sweatshirt is tied around his waist, a small, white wife-beater stretched across his chest. The fabric strains against the thickness of his body, pecs beneath like boulders, barely contained by the threadbare material. The shirt looks as though it might snap under the sheer pressure of him.
It almost seems pointless for him to wear it.
A sick part of you wishes he didn’t.
Around his neck, a set of dog tags dangles, the metal catching the light as it sways in rhythm with his slow, steady breaths. His arms are a canvas of dark ink—twisting amalgamations of war and death, flames and ruin etched into his skin. The same balaclava you’ve seen on your screen stretches over his face, but it feels even more menacing now.
His eyes—dark brown, nearly black—burn as they lock onto you. There’s an eerie glow to them, a depth that makes your stomach twist. You can barely make out their full shape, but you feel the weight of his gaze, the way it maps your body with an intensity that singes. He’s memorizing you, branding you into his mind, scorching every visible inch of your skin just by looking.
Which, right now, is essentially all of it.
It’s suffocating, and overwhelming. The space around you seems to shrink, the walls pressing inward, forcing you to feel the heft of his presence. Your bubble, your safe little world, vanishes, replaced by the oppressive weight of him, his sheer size and power making the room feel like a part of a dollhouse, too small to contain him. Every breath feels harder to take like you’re drowning, and he’s the rip current that dragged you out from shore and pushed you under.
And then, as if sensing your every thought, as if aware of your discomfort and your disbelief, he shifts. Just a subtle movement at first. But a shift is all it takes before he’s not sitting anymore.
Your breath catches in your throat, as he slowly rises from the chair, taking up even more of the room, shadow growing longer in his wake, his muscles rippling in the lamplight. He doesn’t rush. No, there’s no need. He moves, each large step bringing him closer to you.
All that ‘courage’ drained. You never thought you’d be the frozen-in-fear type, but here you are, your body stiff and uncooperative as you look up at him. Your neck cranes back further and further, unwillingly following as he stalks toward you, each step near imperceptible to the ear. At least you know why you didn’t hear him come in.
You’re backed flush against your dresser, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your chest tight with panic, but you can’t look away. You don’t even know if you want to. There’s a strange magnetism to him, something almost predatory in the way he moves, so controlled, so sure.
It’s addicting.
Your thighs clench together at the internal acceptance, a small attempt at some kind of control over the sick part of your brain that’s turned on by this.
“Quiet little thing.” His voice is low, gravelly like it’s been rubbed raw, but there’s a hint of amusement in it, a wicked edge that makes your skin prickle and your cunt gush. He takes another step closer, a mere foot away, the distance between you is agonizing. “Glad you’re not a screamer.”
He pauses just in front of you, towering over you. The weight of his gaze chokes you like a noose. He doesn’t miss when your thighs clench. You could have sworn you saw the flicker of a smile beneath the balaclava, though it’s hard to tell.
“I’m not gonna bite, Girl,” he tuts, “unless y’want me to.”
The way he says it—so carnivorously—sends a jolt of electricity down your spine, a hot flush of pure shame of pooling low in your stomach. You're still frozen, unsure whether you should respond, run, or drop to your knees.
“Y’sent me a letter,” he continues, his voice softening just slightly as his eyes flick to your tits like he’s checking out a new appliance.
“Tellin’ me all about your boring little life,” He steps even closer, “And that sweet little cunt, untouched like you want me t’make it mine.”
You try to speak, but only your mouth moves, your vocal cords too dry, too hoarse, and your throat constricted. He notices. The slight twitch of his lips like he’s enjoying how utterly speechless you are, how dumb you look.
“Y’want me t’make it mine? Hmm? That why you gave a ‘Big Bad’ man your address?”
You swallow in an attempt to lubricate your throat, but it’s futile. Is this what you were subconsciously hoping for when you wrote down which street you lived on and your apartment number? Did you want this? Were you that lonely—that desperate?
“Can y’imagine how hard I came,” he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear, you feel it through the mask, “How I rubbed my cock raw to the thought of some dumb virgin with the audacity of a dozen slags?”
Yeah. You were that desperate.
You nearly whimper at the way he talks to you. You finally manage to take a breath, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I— I didn’t think you’d—”
He cocks his head slightly as if considering your words “What? Didn’t think I’d show?” he repeats, dragging the words out slowly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as if he’s savoring the mockery in them. “You invited me here. It’d be rude to reject such a generous offer.”
You bite back a scoff. As if he’s so gracious, breaking into your house and cornering you while you’re naked. Talk about audacity.
“Go fuck yourself.”
“I have,” he shoots back, shrugging almost imperceptibly as his hands find your hips, tracing the fabric of your panties, eyes darkening at the way your mons dimples beneath his thumbs. “Won’t be as good as her.”
Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and something darker curling in your chest. You should shove him away, scream at him to get out, but his hands are so warm when they hold you. The proximity of his body has you paralyzed, his hands still firm on your hips, as if to remind you that he can have his way with you at a moment’s notice.
You open your mouth to speak, but his hand moves higher, wrapping around your waist, while the other slides down to grip your ass, pulling you against him with a force that leaves no space between your bodies. The words die in your throat as your tits collide with his stomach and your cheek presses into his chest, the hard beat of his heart thudding beneath your ear, as he holds you there, pinning you in some weird, bone-crushing hug.
He smells like soap and something musky and everything you’d expect a fugitive to smell like, like cigarette ash and a smidge of gunpowder. It makes your pulse stutter, like a drug you didn’t know you were addicted to. You can’t help but melt into his strong frame despite your brain screaming at you to push him away.
“Y’feel that, sweetheart?” he hums, his hand kneading the fat of your ass, pressing his bulge against your pelvis through his sweatpants. “Ever felt a cock that big before?”
“Please,” you whisper, the plea a stark contrast to the defiance you try to muster. Your body trembles, a mix of fear and blistering heat. “Just... don't.”
He chuckles, a low, mocking sound. “Don't what, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his fingers rising from your ass to trace the delicate line of your throat. “Don't touch you? Don't remind you of what y’are?”
He tips your head up to his as you flinch at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than any physical blow. “I…” you stammer, faltering as you meet his dark hazel eyes.
“Virgin,” he deadpans as he grips your chin between his digits, “Y’terrified. It's written all over your face, baby” He coos condescendingly, eyes scanning your body, lingering on the cute flush in your cheeks, “Curious, too, aren't you? Wondering what it would be like.”
You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his. “No,” you lie, the denial weak and utterly unconvincing.
He lets out a low, exasperated grunt, like you’re testing his patience, like this is tedious for him. And then, without warning, his hands clamp around your thighs, lifting you effortlessly before settling you atop the dresser. His grip is firm as he pushes your legs apart, spreading them as far as they’ll go to make room for himself. The wood is cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him, from the rough drag of his palms as they find purchase on the soft flesh of your thighs, from where he dips his head to your throat.
“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, sweetheart,” You don’t know when he pulled his mask up, but you can feel his canines graze against your jugular, making you wince. He crowds your space, forcing you to tilt back until you’re leaning against the mirror, until there’s nowhere to go. You can feel his lips twitch against the skin of your neck, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
“I can smell your cunt.” He licks a fat, hot stripe from your collarbone, past your jaw, and to your cheek, all before growling in your ear, “She’s droolin’ f’me, ain’t she? Gonna give me a taste o' her?”
Your eyebrows knit at the feel of his tongue slobbering all over you. Your breath hitches, and you can’t help but tremble. You can feel your panties sticking to your folds, but you’ve never been this wet before. “I... I don't know,” you whimpered, overwhelmed by everything he was making you feel.
“Don't know? Please,” he scoffs, his voice thick with disdain. Without any hesitation, both of his hands find the gusset of your panties, balling them before ripping them in half. You yelp as they fall and settle against the dresser top. “Awh. Look at that,” he gets to his knees, thumbs spreading your glistening folds. “She's leakin’ onto my hand." He chuckles as he stares at the dampness between your legs.
He lunges forward, his mouth latching to your pussy like it promised him a million dollars. A strangled moan rips through you as his tongue swirls and plunges into your weeping hole, mimicking the thrusts he intends to deliver later. He laps and nips, teeth gently but fervently grazing your clit, sending shivers of both pleasure and terror through your body.
Your head jerks back, waves of pleasure that have you gasping for air. His tongue works you in ways that should be illegal. You cling to the edge of the dresser, your knuckles turning white as he buries his face in you. You peer down at him as he eats you, his mask pulled over his nose.
“Whinin’ already?” he growls, his voice muffled against your cunt. He sucks harder, reveling in the way you arch your back and press your hips into his face. “Like a bitch in heat.” Your hands find his head and he suckles at your clit harder, eliciting a string of please, please, please’s from you.
“Beg for it,” he commands, “Beg to come on m’tongue, baby.”
“Yes,” you choked out in a gasp, the word a desperate plea lost in a wave of overwhelming sensation. Your body thrums with frantic energy, every nerve ending firing in a symphony as you desperately claw at his balaclava, nearly smothering him. “Please,” you beg, your voice thick with need. “Please, I— ‘m—”
He pulls away from you, gasping for air. His eyes find yours and he lands a firm slap to your cunt, making you jolt. “Tell me,” he hisses. “Tell me y’want to come for me.”
“I... I want to,” you gasped, your body trembling on the verge of collapse. “I wanna come for you, Ghost— Please—.”
“Good fuckin’ whore,” he slaps your cunt again, before diving back in, his hot tongue carding through your folds. He slips his ring and middle finger into your hole and you wail as he massages your g-spot. He slobbers on your clit, wet squelches echoing through the room as you feel the coil tightening in your belly. “Come, let me taste this slutty fuckin’ pussy.”
A strangled cry rips through you as the pleasure reaches its peak, a blinding wave of sensation that absolutely shatters your control. You convulse around him and he has to hold you still, pinning your hips down as your muscles clench and release in a series of involuntary spasms that make up the best orgasm of your life. Hot, thick spurts of cum flood his mouth as you croak out a broken string of curses and moans.
He laps at you unhurriedly, savoring the taste, the feel of your release coating his tongue. “Fuck,” he moans, his voice rough with satisfaction. He pulls back, lips and chin glistening, and looks up at you with a smirk. “Love you virgins. Come so easily.”
Heat surges up your neck, pooling in your cheeks—a traitorous flush of shame that only worsens when you try to press your legs together. You didn’t think it would affect you like this, didn’t think you’d feel a spark of something twisted at being called the most horrific of names.
Your gaze darts away from his, unable to withstand the weight of it. Your hands move on instinct, a feeble attempt to shield yourself, to reclaim some sense of control. “Stop staring,” you whisper, not used to having eyes on you. But even to your own ears, it sounds weak—like a plea rather than a command.
He chuckles, a low, mocking sound as he rises to his feet, pressing his massive bulge against your bare cunt. “Stop what? Admiring my handiwork?” He reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before harshly squishing them between his index and thumb, your lips puckering. “Don't be shy, sweetheart. You should feel lucky. Could’ve ruined this pretty fuckin’ mouth instead.”
You bite your lip at the thought of taking him in your mouth, stretching your throat and making you gag. He was so big, would stretch your pussy so good and you know it. He could give you what you’ve been wanting, what you’ve been needing. Tears prickle your eyes as you recover from your orgasm. “Just... fuck me, Please…?” you hum, unsure..
He grins, briefly flashing his teeth in the dim light. “Eager, are we?” He straightens, pulling you by your knees to stand on your feet. “Don't worry. Got more in store for you.”
He hauls you off of your dresser and toward your bed without much effort. Your legs feel like jelly and you trip over yourself, falling back onto the mattress, your body bouncing with the impact. He chuckles as he moves toward you, looming over you, his eyes burning with lust at the sight of you all spread out beneath him.
He reaches for the hem of his wife beater and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside without care, not bothering to take off his balaclava. You drag your gaze over his broad torso, taking in every inch as he stands before you. His muscles shift beneath scarred skin, every ridge and plane carved by years of violence you can’t even begin to imagine. Scars that have scars, bright pink wounds closed over. His dog tags rest between his pecs, gleaming dully against the heat of him.
Your eyes trail lower, catching on the unmistakable wet patch darkening his sweatpants, a frighteningly long outline of his hard cock to accompany it. He watches you closely as your gaze traces the contours of his body, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.
"Like what you see, Girl?" His voice is low, thick with a dark amusement. It’s rhetorical, he knows you do. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down, revealing his length with a singular motion.
No underwear. A Right dog, he is.
Your breath hitches, a gasp trapped in your throat as you take in the full view. His cock is thick and heavy. A brutal, veined length that periodically twitches every time his gaze drops to your sodden cunt. A thatch of dark, dirty blonde hair frames its base, leading up to his navel. The uncircumcised head glistens in the lamplight, a single drop of pre drooling from his tip. You wish you could flick your tongue against it, gulping down every ounce of his slick he’d be willing to let you swallow.
“What’d y’want?”
You can't form the words, your mind blank, throat tight with a mix of fear and anticipation, the air heavy with implicit tension and the scent of sex.
How could he even fit inside of you?
You just dumbly nod in response to whatever he said. Meek, almost imperceptible.
He tuts, “Noddin’ ain’t enough, sweets,” he growled. “You’re a big girl, ain’t you?
“I…” you stammer, your cheeks burning with shame at saying something so lewd out loud. “I want…”
“Say it,” he taunts as he takes his cock in his hands, pumping slowly. His voice is like thunder, a low, dangerous rumble. “Say y’want this cock.”
“I... I want your cock,” you whisper, the words barely audible. You’re too focused on the way his pre drips onto your spread pussy.
“Louder,” he demands, landing a firm slap against your clit. “Can't hear you.”
“I want your cock,” you enunciated, your voice a little stronger this time.
“Louder, y’fuckin’ slag—”
“I want your fucking cock!” you shout, the words echoing through the room.
He shrugs and a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. “Geez, all y’had to do was ask.”
You could slap him.
He positions himself between your legs, the bed dipping as he crawls closer to you. He takes your thighs in his hands, pressing them up to your chest. His knees dimple the duvet on either side of your hips, the ruddy head of his cock tracing the puffy folds of your entrance. Each time his tip grazes your clit, a tremor runs through your body.
“So fuckin’ sensitive,” he groans, “So wet f’me, too, Christ.”
He presses forward, your pussy stretching taut over his mushroomed tip. You wince, your eyebrows knitting in pain. He was huge, impossibly thick, and the feeling of him pushing against your sensitive flesh was both terrifying and exhilarating.
“Gonna split this cunny in half, girl,” he winces as you pulse around him. He draws tight circles on your clit and you’re reeling, choking on your own gasps, “gonna feel me in y’fuckin’ throat.”
He pushes himself deeper, inch by agonizing inch until he sheaths himself inside of you completely. Tears stream down your face, a mixture of pain and pleasure overwhelming you. You cry out at the stretch, your body arching into his as your hands search for anything to steady yourself, settling on the hard plains of his back.
“Jesus baby, so tight,” he grunts, stalled inside of you as he tries not to blow his load. “So fucking tight.”
You slowly loosen around him as you adapt to his size, but the burn still has you lightheaded. You've never been so full in your life. Your nails claw into his back, leaving raw streaks and crescent-shaped marks on his scarred skin. “Fuck me,” you rasp, “Please, Ghost, fuck me.” Your hips buck involuntarily as you babble, desperate for more of him.
He chuckles a low, guttural sound that you swear you can feel vibrating through your body. “Cock-drunk already, are we?” he taunts, “Fuckin’ whore,” He pulls back slightly before plunging forward with renewed force, cramming his cock against your cervix, hitting places you couldn’t even reach with your own fingers.
He was right. You could feel him everywhere, stretching you, filling you, owning you, utterly consuming you. Every thrust punched the air out of you, the rhythmic plap, plap, plap of his thighs meeting yours reverberating through the room as he fucked you.
“Fuck me harder, I need you— please—” You were so close already, worked up from your last orgasm and already teetering on the edge of another, the pleasure building each time the head of his cock strokes your g-spot. He picks up the pace with a groan and hammers into you, unable to breathe as his cock stretches you to your limits.
“Ghost,” you sob, fat tears falling from your eyes, wetting your cheeks before you can stop them. His name escapes your lips through hiccups, unable to think of anything except how full you feel, how you could’ve possibly missed out on this for so long.
He slaps your cheek, the sting is a sudden shock that jolts you back to the present. “Stop fuckin’ callin’ me that,” he snarls, his voice thick with pure sex and an edge of possessiveness, just lurking beneath his words. He leans directly over you, your legs pinned between his torso and yours. He groans before shrugging up his balaclava and licking your stray tears. You’re too deep in it to fully process, too consumed by the heat of the moment to care.
“Call me Simon when I fuck you,” he rasps against your lips,
“Say it.”
“S—Sim—on,” you mewl, your voice punctuated by each of his thrusts. “S—simon, p—ple—ase…”
“Please what?” he snarls, the head of his cock devastatingly rubbing your g-spot with each thrust, “Please fuck you harder? Please make you cream all over this cock?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” you wail, your body writhing beneath him. “Please, Simon— Fuck!”
“Atta fuckin’ girl,” he praises through gritted teeth, and with renewed vigor, he fucks you harder, caging you in as he fucks you into the mattress, each stroke shoving you farther up the bed.
“Squeezin’ me so tight,” he rasps, “So fucking tight.” he gripped your thighs harder, the fat dimpling beneath his fingers, surely to bruise in the morning. He presses you further, painfully folded in half. “Feel me? Feel how deep I am inside o’ you?”
You gasp, your body trembling, heat pooling low in your belly, sparks shooting up your spine, “Yes,” you breathed, your voice a strained whisper. “Too much... it's so much, Si—”
You’re on the edge, pressure just building and tightening as your walls pulse around him, ready to milk him for all he’s worth. His hips stutter and he knows he’s done for. “Fuck, let go, Let it happen, pet,”
At his command, a raw, guttural cry tears from your throat, and a shattered echo of his name launches into the humid air. It isn’t much of a word, not really, but a primal sound, a desperate, broken exclamation born from the white-hot core of your pleasure.
Your back arches, lifting you off the bed, your spine a rigid curve against his. Your hips buck wildly against his, grinding and shuddering. The hot, slick rush of your release coats his cock. It spreads across his abdomen and your thighs as well, a glistening sheen in the dim light. Your breath hitches and ragged gasps escape your lips as the waves of pleasure wash over you.
The world narrows, focusing solely on the feel of his skin on your own as he still thrusts into you, telling you to “Cream this fuckin’ cock,” as he groans, just as lost in the pleasure as you. The aftershocks of your orgasm reverberate through you, leaving you trembling and weak as he fucks you through it to reach his own.
A series of breathy moans escape his lips in tandem with yours, each one a ragged exhale as his hips begin to twitch, thrusts growing sloppy as you pulse around him, energy rippling through his muscles as his own orgasm approaches.
“Oh-,” he breathes, his voice a low, jagged rasp, a guttural urging. “Fuck! Fuck— Shit, just like that, girl.” His hips slam against yours, a final, desperate thrust that presses him flush against your cunt. He spills inside you, a hot, thick tide of his cum flooding your cunt. Ropes of his seed paint your inner walls, as far as he can reach, marking you as his. A wave of heat pulses through you, the feeling of him filling you completely, claiming you from the inside out.
Eventually, the tremors die down, and he rolls off you, the sudden absence of his weight pinning you down leaving you feeling strangely hollow. Your thighs fall limply as he lets go of them, a strange ache that almost bothers you.
A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound of contentment.
“Broken little bird aren’t you?” he drawls..
You lift your head to see him eye-level with your pussy, watching as his cum leaks out of you. You lay still, your body aching, your mind spinning. You want to protest, to deny his words and shut your legs, but you don’t think you could form a genuine sentence if you tried.
Not only did you (finally) lose your virginity, but you lost it to a criminal. That broke into your house.
He moves to sit next to your laid figure and reaches out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Don't look so glum, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice softening slightly. “You did well,”
“for a first-timer.”
A blush creeps up your neck, and you instinctively turn your face away, curling into yourself. “Shut up,” you mutter, your voice hoarse.
He lets out a low, husky chuckle. “Oh, usin’ fightin’ words now, are we?” His fingers find a stray strand of your hair, twisting it lazily between calloused fingertips. “Funny, didn’t see you puttin’ up much of a fight five minutes ag—”
You don’t let him finish. Grabbing a tousled pillow, you launch it at his face. It bounces off his head with a pathetic little thump. He snorts, catching it mid-air, the plush looking comically small in his massive hands.
“Oh, we’re throwin’ shit now?” He smirks, squeezing the poor thing for emphasis. “Little minx—”
The sudden blare of the doorbell slices through the moment. You both freeze.
His eyes flick toward the door, sharp and assessing, mood immediately changing. “You expectin’ anyone?”
You shake your head. “No.”
His jaw tightens. The weight of reality comes crashing back. He’s a fugitive, and did, in fact, break into your house.
“I’ll get it,” you hum, already moving.
He gives a slow nod, hungrily watching as you rummage through your dresser for something decent. You yank an oversized T-shirt over your head and grab the first pair of pants you can find, his sweats. They nearly slide right off your hips, the waistband hanging dangerously loose, but there’s no time to fix it.
You leave the bedroom, your pulse drumming in your ears as you make your way to the front door. The second you pull it open, your stomach drops.
Two cops.
Their faces are unreadable, their eyes scanning you, the dim space behind you, everything. “Evening, miss. Sorry to bother you, but we’re making the rounds,” one of them says, flashing a tight-lipped smile. “You seen anything suspicious? Anything out of the ordinary?”
Your fingers tighten around the doorframe. You think of Simon. His hands on your waist, the weight of him between your legs, the low rasp of his voice still ringing in your ears. But you swallow hard and shake your head.
“No, nothing,” you say, keeping your voice light, casual. “Why?”
The other officer exhales sharply, shifting his weight. “ Highly dangerous man on the loose. Escaped with the rest of those arseholes from Belmarsh. Last spotted in this area.” His gaze flicks past you again, scanning the dreary interior of your flat. “Figured we’d check in, see if anyone’s seen him.”
You school your face into something neutral, shaking your head again. “Haven’t seen anything lately, sorry to disappoint.”
They watch you for a second too long. You wonder if they can hear your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. But finally, they nod.
“All right. Just be careful, ma’am. Lock your doors.”
“Will do,” you say, forcing a tight-lipped smile of your own.
You shut the door.
Your heart is pounding. You press your back against the timber, exhaling sharply before pushing off and heading back to the bedroom.
“Simon—” you call, nudging the door open.
The bed is empty, sheets tangled, the ghost of his warmth already fading. The curtains billow, the night air slithering in, laced with the scent of him—sex, sweat, something else that’s so distinctly him.
He’s gone.
But ghosts always return to their haunt.
#༒︎ sai int#♱ angel’s writing#�� . ݁𝜗 { ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇɴᴅᴇʀ } 𝜚. ݁₊#he definitely stole readers pants in return and is running around the uk in spandex#this is so nasty don't look at me#simon ghost riley x f!reader#simon riley smut#simon ghost riley#simon riley#simon riley headcanons#simon x reader#simon riley x reader#cod simon riley#simon ghost x reader#ghost call of duty#ghost mw2#ghost#ghost cod#ghost riley#simon riley x you#simon ghost riley smut#simon ghost riley x reader#simon ghost smut#cod smut#call of duty
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Situation where Clark has formed a tentative working relationship with Batman, but somewhere in that time, Batman acquired Robin and, naturally, didn't tell him.
Clark finds out about Robin's existence when a ten year old Dick Grayson in full Robin gear breaks into his apartment at two in the morning and shakes him awake because Batman's missing and Alfred's away and Bruce taught him that, in the case of emergency, Superman was one of the only people he could trust. Bruce just didn't think to tell Clark that he was, by all means, his son's emergency contact.
Clark: -wakes up to a small boy that he's never seen or heard of before in a cape and a mask with lenses that reflect light like a cat's perched on the edge of his bed in a pitch black room-
Dick, calmly: Hey, Batman's -- stop screaming -- Batman's missing. I need help.
#it's up to you how Dick got himself to Metropolis#batman#comics#dc comics#dick grayson#dick grayson robin#clark kent#superman#batman and superman#dick grayson headcanon#headcanon#batman headcanon#superman headcanons#superheroes#dc robin
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The only acceptable trans Tim headcanon would be Tim introducing himself to the batfam as a boy from the get-go with such confidence that no one questions him. Then, his first solo case as Robin is investigating the disappearance of Jack and Janet Drake's "daughter," so he pretends to have a twin sister by forging a bunch of documents and photoshopping family pictures. He then fabricates evidence of her death, committing multiple crimes in the process, and holds a fake funeral at the end. Because if his previous name is dead to him, he's gonna kill it the Tim Drake way
#tim drake#red robin#robin#bruce wayne#batman#dick grayson#nightwing#jack drake#janet drake#batfamily#batfam#batboys#batbros#batkids#batsiblings#batman family#trans tim drake#dc comics#headcanon#transgender#tw death mention#don't try this at home
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headcanon that stan hates wearing glasses (for many reasons) and went without them for years until he really needed them
[Image Description: Comic of a younger Stanley Pines from "Gravity Falls." Alt text is provided and copied below the cut. End ID]
A younger Stan squints at his blurry reflection in the mirror, leaning in really close to see himself clearly. He sighs and grabs a pair of Ford's glasses on the dresser. Putting them on, he stares at his reflection. "Welp," he says, "this is unsettling."
He turns away from the mirror to adjust his tie, saying, "But it can't be helped." His reflection is now a disheveled Ford, mirroring Stan.
#gravity falls#stanley pines#stan pines#stanford pines#ford pines#digital art#artists on tumblr#doodleswithangie#500#1K#5K#10K#15K#20K#25K#30K#(from the flashback i'm pretty sure he used ford's glasses then got new ones)#(or at the very least i'm adopting that into my headcanon)
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multilingual batkids. they learn each others languages so they can mix and match. for example:
tim in french: have you figured out how we’re gonna tell b we’re not going to that gala yet?
damian in arabic: no i thought that was thomas’ job?
duke french: me? no jason said he’d do something
jason in arabic: hey don’t drag me into this!
dick in romani: i’m gonna kill him i really i am
steph in russian: who are we killing?
dick in english: ah! nobody! wait i didn’t know you spoke romani
tim in greek: you’re an asshole
jason in english: wait my greek is rusty say it again slowly
tim in greek: you’re an asshole
jason: …. you motherfucker
cass signing: nice drawing
damian in chinese: thank you
dick yelling at bruce about something he did
jason in spanish: what language is he speaking right now?
tim also in spanish: uh all of them i think
jason: does bruce even know-
tim: no he doesn’t
#in my head dick is the king of languages#he knows all#also in my head bruce knows a few but not as many as the rest of them#batfam#dick grayson#jason todd#tim drake#damian wayne#duke thomas#steph brown#cass cain#headcanon#bat family#dc#dc comics#rambles
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