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i-cant-sing · 4 months

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I can’t get this scenario out of my head with yan!batfamily in which Bruce worms his way into a depressed reader’s life by marrying their mother and slowly taking over the role of parenting reader while dealing with the depression.

No because Bruce would do that. In his head, its just another mission to "save Y/n" and sure, your mother isn't exactly his type, and your depression isn't exactly her fault- the poor woman just works day and night for you both to survive in this outrageous economy, she doesn't have had enough time to see you not doing so well mentally.

Bruce and his sons, by whatever sequence of events, are now infatuated with you. What started as concern for your well being has now turned into obsessive need to control your life to make it better. So, yeah... Bruce decides to marry your mom, who is more than happy to finally find a chivalrous, handsome man... who just happens to also be very rich.

Meanwhile, you hate him. It's stupid, but you hate how filthy rich he is and even though you know that he donates a lot to charities, you still hate him because Bruce thinks money can solve everything (and in your case, it almost can), but you can't help but feel insulted everytime he offers you a cheque, a wad of cash to pay off your bills and loans, or even a $20 bill to get yourself some snacks. It feels... abnormal. You're not a charity case.

Perhaps your socioeconomic status isn't the only reason you're depressed. Maybe it's just you missing your father (could be dead/murdered/suicide/just moved far far away).

The moment Bruce finds out that your dad is the reason why you're so depressed, oh it's "I WILL FATHER ANOTHER CHILD IN NEED OF PROFESSIONAL HELP" time. He's doubling down on his paternal instincts and he's just mentally smacking himself like "ofc you need a father figure in your life. Who better than me????"

And it just makes your skin crawl at how nonchalant Bruce is about all this- about incorporating himself into your and your mother's life. Treating you both, especially you like you're actually related. Like he's been around with you two his entire life. You lose your appetite when he stays for dinner, but you sit at the table for your mother. You try to make excuses when your mother tells you that you have to go with her at the Wayne Manor because "Bruce wants to spend a day with family". You can't help but look at your mother in wonder at how she is comfortable when you both pull up at the manor. You thought things would be easier if Bruce's sons were also uncomfortable or even hated you and your mother (or thought that your mom was a gold digger), but no, they're just as worse as Bruce. Dick being particularly the worst in the sense that he's more affectionate and his love language is physical touch, so you get squished to his chest everytime he sees you, with a small cry "my baby!" Sometimes, "sis" would be added.

You didn't like either nickname.

Then there's Jason, who is the most normal one of them all, perhaps because he isn't around much and when he is, he just makes small talk.

Tim doesn't talk much either, but he stares a lot. Somehow you feel like he knows something about you, at least more than he's letting on.

And lastly, there's Damian, that pompous little shit. You know he's being amicable for Bruce, but his eyes look at you like he's judging you- thinks you're beneath him. Which is true, in the sense of finance. Despite all of that, Damian still wants to show you off his interests/things around the manor. He's still being arrogant ofc, "Look at this oil painting- it's a Van Gogh original. Van Gogh is a famous painter- he's dead though. I'm sure you aren't familiar with his works. I can take you to the Gotham gallery to show you more paintings. Father owns it, so it can be just us two without other people bothering us." He's nice but also not nice. But at least he's not doing it intentionally.

Then there's Bruce. Who is always looking at you with a small smile, but his eyes are always analysing you, even when he's not looking at you directly, you know that he's watching your every move like a hawk. He tries spending time with you, often he succeeds, only because your mother makes you go. He's a good man, hasn't done anything exactly inappropriate, but... even something as small as making you walk on the inner side of the sidewalk so that you're safe from the cars... it doesn't sit right with you. Why is he being so paternal? You certainly have been rude to him on purpose. Always giving him one word answers when he asks you how your day was.

Then one day your mother returns home with a beaming smile.

"Bruce proposed to me! We're getting married!"

After only 3 months of dating? It's what you wanted to say, but you held it back when you saw how happy she was.

The next day, Bruce held a dinner at the manor to celebrate the engagement. Surprisingly, that was the first time you saw Damian looking mad at you and your mom.

It was a reasonable reaction. Acceptable to you, instead of the overly excited yell of Dick "WE'RE GOING TO BE SIBLINGS! That means we can have slumber parties and pillow fights and-"

Your mother and Bruce were shopping for the wedding, looking at dresses and venues and all the shenanigans while you were at the manor, moving your and your mom's stuff in with the boys. It was the last thing you wanted, but your mother.... she insisted on it. Or at least that's what she says, you know Bruce insisted.

Doesn't matter because by next year, you'd be moving away to college anyways.

You just need to put up with this for a little longer and see your mother finally be happy.

You didn't expect your mother to be dead a week before the wedding.

It was out of the blue. You were sitting in the library at the manor because Dick refused to let you be alone in your room all the time, so he was making you some cookies while you read. Then he and Bruce came together, their faces pale as they looked at you.

"Y/n... your mother, she... she got in an accident."

She was driving to some restaurant, wanted to get you your favourite fried chicken and spend some time with you alone. But on her way, a truck crashed right into her car.

She died on the spot.

Whatever little improvement you had on your mental health went straight down the drain. You locked yourself in your room and just cried quietly. They left you alone the first few days, but then Bruce and Dick tried to persuade you to come out, that they were concerned for you. You did come out the day the funeral was held. And it hurt you... it hurt you so deeply when you found out they were burying her at the Wayne cemetery.

She wasn't a fucking Wayne.

If you had any strength, if you had any energy at all, you would've taken your mother and buried her someplace else.

But you didn't.

When you returned inside the manor, you went straight to your mother's room, which was also Bruce's room but you didn't care if he saw you in there or not. You just started packing all of your mother's stuff, her clothes, her jewellery, her photos, everything she came here with, which wasn't much to begin with but still.

"Y/n?" You stiffened when Bruce called you, but you didn't pause on packing. "What are you doing? Looking for something?"

You sighed. Might as well get this over with.

You turnd around, not looking him in the eye.

"I'm moving out. And I'm taking mom's stuff with me. You can check, I'm not stealing anything that belongs to you."

Bruce looked at you in confusion. "Moving out? Where are you going?"

"College. I'll be going there soon anyways, so I'm moving to an apartment with some friends."

"Oh, but you don't need to move out. You can stay with us. Youre family-" you cut him off.

"Bruce, let's not." You finally look at him. "We're not family. I never was, I never wanted to be. Mom's gone now, and I have no reason or desire to be here. Thank you for letting me stay here for as long as you have, but I will be moving out by tomorrow, if not tonight." You said picking up your mother's bag of stuff and walking out of the room. Bruce followed you to your room.

"But I don't want you to move-"

You dropped the bags. "I don't care what you want!"

Bruce looked at you with his brows furrowed. He didn't get why you were acting like this. Your yelling had gotten the attention of the boys too, all looking in confusion at the bags.

"I don't want to be a part of this family. I never have, and I never will. I never liked you or anyone in this family. And if you're concerned about me speaking to the media about you guys, don't worry. If it helps you, you can make me sign an NDA!"

Damian narrowed his eyes at you. "Dont talk to father like-"

"Shut up!" You yelled harshly. You didn't care who you were hurting. Your mother was gone, you had no reason to be amicable to them anymore.

They left you alone that day, and by the next morning, you were ready to leave. At 6 am, you walked down to the main door, with your bags. You weren't expecting them all to be waiting for you, but here they were. You took a step towards the door, but Dick stopped you.

He cleared his throat. "Um, this is the NDA... if you'd just sign it here." He handed you the papers.

Unbelievable. They actually drew up a contract. You took the pen from his hand and signed at the dotted lines.

"Bye." You took another step, except Damian and Tim blocked your path.

"What now?"

"Where are you going?" Tim asked.

"Do we have to go over this again?" You grumbled. "College." You answered.

"You can't." Damian said smugly. What's he smirking for?

"You're gonna break my legs?" You scoffed.

"No, you just signed a document saying that you're a part of this family, and Bruce Wayne is your guardian and has authority over all decisions concerning you like going to college, or even... going out of the house." Damian replied.

You looked at Bruce, because there's no way Damian is being serious. But there were no signs of joking. You looked at Dick, at Jason-

They were all dead serious.

"You cant- you can't be- you can't keep me here." You said.

"You signed the documents. It's your fault for not reading them." Tim said.

"Bruce-"

"I really do believe that it'd be better for you to stay here." Bruce said, taking ahold of your shoulders. "At least until you're doing better mentally."

"I'm fine-"

"I don't think so. And I could even take you to a psychiatrist, they'd agree with me." Bruce cupped your cheek as you flinched away. "You'd be happy here. I promise you that, you'll be safe and happy with us."

You'd try fighting, but you already knew you were outnumbered.

Besides, even if you weren't, even if you were alone with the smallest one of them, you still wouldn't be able to leave. You have no idea what Damian is capable of.

After all, he's the one who had your mother killed.

#yandere batfamily #yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfam #yandere batman #yandere batboys #yandere bruce wayne #yandere damian wayne #yandere dick grayson #yandere tim drake #yandere jason todd

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twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 5 months

Text

you are somebody that i want to keep ; satoru gojo

synopsis; you aren't sure what you have with satoru gojo, but you know that it’s good.

word count; 6.7k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, colleagues to friends to something unlabelled, you love each other though!!, fluff, hurt/comfort, very very soft, reader falls first but gojo falls harder, both of u are afraid of intimacy lol, a lil angsty if u squint, satoru gojo cherishing u for ~7k words straight <33

a/n; basically just a collection of moments between you and gojo throughout the years <33 (a significant amount of time has passed between each part!!) hes an emotionally repressed loser but i love him and he is smitten w u.

in the soft luminescence of daybreak, your kitchen looks something like a dream.

tainted with a hazy sunshine, simmering with warm colours and pleasant scents, it almost seems to sparkle in the peripheral of your vision. brimming with that feeling of home, a home you’ve broken your bones building, desperate to shape it into something safe — and you think you’ve done a pretty good job.

it’s soothing, comforting, all of these sensations. bleeding into each other like smudges of paint on a canvas; hyacinths blooming by the windowsill, espresso-flavored steam wafting up to the roof, soft meows stemming from the cats by your feet. absolute bliss.

indulging in a peace yet to be shattered by the strain of the working world, you rub the sleep from beneath your weary eyes. blinking and yawning like a drowsy child.

beyond the translucent glass of your windows, glimmering with the light of a sun soon to rise, the world is painted pink and indigo — save for that one hint of gold, a streak of honey slathered across the surface of the sky. fluffy clouds drift through the chilly air, melting in the wake of a new day, and you think they look a little like tufts of cotton candy. soft enough to sink your teeth into, if only the glass wasn’t in the way. keeping the cold out.

it’s a new day. a pleasant morning, sitting comfortably on the brink of dawn, before the city has a chance to rouse from its slumber.

a kind of solitude you so rarely get to bask in.

a false solitude, really. because, for once, there’s another human being in your home — one you don’t know nearly as well as you’d like, for him to be fast asleep on your couch, cheek smushed against the leather. snoring softly.

satoru gojo.

like this, he looks very… human. vulnerable. hair just slightly tousled, from tossing and turning on your not-so-comfortable couch, blindfold only covering one of his eyes and close to slipping off entirely. his expression has melted into one of something vaguely resembling relaxation, as close to unguarded as you assume he can physically get.

even in his sleep, he looks a little stiff. not entirely at peace; like a stray cat sleeping under the hood of a car.

(you’re curious. fascinated, maybe, by the loneliness that clings to the strongest person in the universe. by the paradoxical innocence of his grin.)

honestly, everything from last night is kind of a blur. you remember accompanying the strongest sorcerer on a mission, one long enough to leave you completely and utterly spent, fatigue nestled deep into your bones. remember gojo getting a sudden migraine, so earth-shattering that you thought he was going to keel over and throw up in the middle of the street.

then you remember bringing him back home with you. very hesitantly, only after he begrudgingly accepted the fact that he didn’t have much of a choice. because you were fucking exhausted, and so was he, and your apartment happened to be conveniently close. you remember him practically passing out on your couch, still somehow managing to crack a bad joke you can’t recall, while you went to collapse into the comfort of your bed.

and now you’re here. dyed in half-transparent sunbeams, caffeine bubbling in your veins, gazing at your sleeping coworker from your spot by the kitchen table. waiting for the world to open its weary eyes.

it’s still early. some part of you expects him to sleep a while longer, but you can’t say you’re particularly surprised when gojo begins to stir.

a splotch of sunshine splatters across your living room window, staining the floorboards, falling over the contours of his pretty face. in the light, he looks positively holy; white lashes, pale skin, plump lips. like a goddess.

when he opens his eyes, it’s even worse. a single iris cracked open, pooling with unbridled brilliance. eyes so blue they seem to cut through the stillness of the air.

(— and the world wakes up.)

a little groan slips from his lips, barely audible. with groggy movements, he brings a hand up to his face, obscuring the grating light of the sun flitting in. you think you can almost see the gears of his mind turn, as he takes notice of his surroundings, remembering what transpired just hours before.

faster than you thought, he regains some semblance of composure. huffing under his breath, as he forces himself into a sitting position.

it feels a little wrong, to see the closest thing this world has to a god act so human. be so human. morning-fatigued, just like you, wearing droopy eyelids and a soft, sleepy pout. a little disheveled. groggy with lost dreams.

when his gaze meets yours, you can’t control the breath that hitches pitifully in the back of your throat. a meek skip of your heartbeat, like you just saw something you shouldn’t have. oops.

gojo cracks a grin.

“.. watchin’ me sleep?” he calls out, cheeky. paired with a drowsy yawn. composed, unbothered, but there’s something almost performative about it, something you’re sure you’d miss if he wasn’t still in the process of collecting himself.

“good morning,” is all you offer him. ignoring his teasing remark. he doesn’t push it, to your surprise. “sleep well?”

a hum. absentminded, jovial. one of his large hands goes to adjust his blindfold, the other to fluff up his hair. kicking off the blanket you just barely had the energy to throw over him last night. your fluffiest one, warm enough to protect him from the chill gnawing at the windows. hopefully.

“like a log,” he quips, stretching idly, muscles straining under his baggy uniform. they must be sore, after that mission. or maybe he’s above such things.

choosing not to comment on his obvious lie, you put your lips against the ceramic of your cup. sipping from the bitter brew, a tinge of hazelnut on your tongue. letting him gather his bearings without you scrutinizing him. a little favor, one liar to another.

“thanks for letting me crash,” he grins, lazy. toothy. stumbling to his feet with a low groan, gaze flitting around the room — looking for the exit. “i’ll get outta your hair,” he mutters, and you raise a brow.

“not staying for breakfast?”

gojo stills. your question rings out, bouncing off the walls of the kitchen, into the living room.

his smile twitches, ever so slightly, in what you think must be surprise. then it’s back to normal; like putting on a mask, not allowing a sliver of weakness to slip through the cracks. he exhales a raspy chuckle, a sound that flows through the air and crawls down your spine.

”generous, aren’t you?” he hums, voice rich with amusement. dappling sunlight licks at the white locks of his hair.

you shrug. “i wouldn’t mind the company.”

the words climb up the walls of your throat, a little reckless, eager to catch a glimpse of the miracle before you. satoru gojo, framed by the simplicity of your home — somewhat hard to let go of. sunkissed skin, restless hands. a little out of tune. shifting from foot to foot, eager to get away.

(a little like a frightened fawn, you amuse yourself by thinking. he’s really more like the fox who scared it.)

you think he must be bit uncomfortable. forced to spend the night in a coworker’s apartment, one he doesn't even know that well, one he probably doesn’t have any intention of getting to know. still trying to politely excuse himself. persistent, stubborn.

maybe he didn’t expect this. maybe he was convinced he could sneak away, before you had a chance to wake up. maybe he thought you’d be all too eager to let him leave, and never speak of this again. maybe he’s not used to being wanted.

“ha… i’m flattered, believe me, but —“

“what do you usually eat?” you ask. cutting him off, gently, tapping your fingertips against the edge of the table. “for breakfast, i mean. i’ll whip something up.”

a chuckle slips from his lips. you can’t put your finger on it, but something about it bothers you. “really, there’s —“

“if you’re worried about inconveniencing me, don’t be.” you pause, unsure of what to say. but the words end up spilling out of your throat, oddly honest. ”it’s been a while since i had the chance to make breakfast for someone else.”

it’s strange, really, how intent you are on seeing this through. how much effort you’re putting into making him stay. you barely even know him. actually, you don’t know him at all — all you know is that his smile makes you happy and his strength makes you envious. that you aren’t afraid of him, even though you probably should be.

something about him just feels safe.

“i’m pretty good at making pancakes,” you hum, a small smile playing at your lips. polite, jovial. pale light flits in through the window and slips into its curve. ”do you want some? before we go to work.”

(something in his fingers twitch, when you say that tiny word; pancakes. a little tell. you just barely catch it, before it sputters out. before he reels it back in.)

a moment passes. slow, drawn out, a rubber band bound to snap.

gojo stands there, a very subtle contemplation etched into his features. behind him, your cats begin to scratch at the couch, but you don’t scold them. just waiting for something to happen. beyond the glass of your windows, the sun unfurls in the sky, stretching its arms to envelop the world.

he grins, suddenly. soft light reflecting off the white of his teeth. cocky, composed. not quite performative, a little more natural.

“well, if you insist.”

he strolls over to your side, just a tiny bit sluggish, lazy steps and comically long limbs. he must still be tired. but he takes a seat, right across from you, plopping down on the chair with an effortless air of confidence. lighthearted, leaning his elbows on the table, crossing his legs under it. comfortable. settling into his role.

you’re pleasantly surprised.

“how would you like them?” you ask, and you think some of your excitement may have spilled out with the question. if it did, gojo doesn’t comment on it. ”your pancakes.”

“with chocolate chips, please!” he shoots you a sweet smile. “and whipped cream on top.”

so demanding. for some reason, it makes the corners of your lips quirk up. kinda like a bratty younger brother.

“got it.”

the smell of dark chocolate hangs heavy in the air as you get to work, shuffling around the open space. all while gojo waits, patiently, tapping his foot under the table and staring out the window. leaning his jaw on the heel of his palm. listening to the humming of nightingales on the branches of the apple tree down on the ground, and the buzz of your old radio.

the kitchen fills with motion, sounds, smells. life. splotches of sunlight, crinkled cartons of orange juice. the clinking of plates. two tired adults, seated at the same table, indulging in a fleeting peace and the promise of something new. something almost concrete.

a small, precious moment. enough to make your fascination shift into something you know must be fondness. or close to it.

gojo grins at you, mouth full of pancakes, eagerly telling you about something the kids did last week. wolfing them down, chocolate smeared over his bottom lip. you laugh, and suddenly the world feels a little safer than it should. a little more intact.

you wonder what it means. where it’s going to lead. this feeling of something wonderful beginning, something you couldn’t stop if you wanted to.

a budding connection.

the city lays blanketed beneath a layer of thick snow. blurry pale dots dancing in the wind, obscuring the sky, frost engulfing every building in a bone chilling hug.

with a slight shiver, you dig your hands into the comfort of your pockets, seeking the fleeting warmth you find. admiring the frozen landscape before you, the hustle and bustle of people going about their day. the saffron light of the lamp posts, the glittering snow by your feet, the skeletal apricot trees and their bare branches. this monochrome city you find yourself in.

gojo exhales. strolling cheerily down the street, in tandem with you, a frosty breath to your left that scatters and melts into the open air. it smells minty.

today, he’s wearing black shades — like he usually is when you meet outside of work. it’s kind of nice. when you angle your face a certain way, you can almost see the blue pooling in his eyes, the white of his eyelashes.

he’s beautiful. he always has been. but like this, you think his beauty is simply unfair, highlighted by the winter wonderland you find yourselves in. mesmerizing, the red flush of his cheeks, how he hums along to some jolly tune playing from a little corner store further down the street. all bundled up, in a stylish overcoat and a nice scarf, untouched by the snowflakes fluttering about.

protected by his infinity, always. the silly god you call a friend.

he looks content, despite the cold that keeps nipping at your bare skin, smiling widely. blabbing on about the movie you’re about to watch, how he saw it back in high school but never thought it’d get a remake. how his friend thought it sucked but that friend always had bad taste so his opinion is irrelevant. how he has faith that you’ll like it.

(cute.)

distracted by the pretty man so close by, close enough to touch, you don’t look ahead. maybe just a little bit entranced. which would be fine, if you didn’t happen to be walking on the right side of the street —

crashing straight into a lamp post.

”owch!”

it’s sudden. and it’s a harsh collision, enough to leave your nose stinging, an ache that makes you whine. cursing under your breath as you take a couple steps back, hands reaching for the part of your face that took the brunt of the hit.

and gosh, is this embarrassing. you dance on the edge of death for a living, and here you are — whining over walking into a fucking lamp post. because you were too enamored by the beauty of your own coworker to pay attention to your surroundings.

a coworker who is currently looking at you, silently. having failed to warn you in time, stuck in his own memories, caught up in his in-depth, spoiler-filled review of a movie he’s been waiting to watch all week.

for a moment, all he does is blink. long eyelashes fluttering, like a dove flapping its wings.

then he starts laughing.

scratch that — gojo is downright cackling, thoroughly amused by your clumsy mishap, like he just saw the funniest thing in the world. laughter ringing out into the cold air, white breaths to compliment the red of your burning ears.

asshole.

with a harsh furrow of your brows, you attempt to look angry; but before long, your lips are curling up. infected by his joy. a soft punch to his shoulder is all you manage, biting back a little puff of laughter. you’re embarrassed.

(so embarrassed you don’t even notice how he puts his infinity down.)

”don’t laugh, you piece of shit!” you hiss, grinning even still, flushing and trying to ignore the curious glances you get from passersby. ”it really hurt!”

but gojo doesn’t stop. doesn’t even attempt to. you think he just grew even more amused, if anything, practically bending over from how hard he’s laughing — clutching his stomach.

”sorry, sorry — ’m just…” he tries to speak, taking deep breaths in between bursts of giggles. ”how the hell — how’d you —”

he stops trying. laughing, again.

and it’s a genuine laugh. a little wolfish, spilling out from his pretty parted lips, showing off his sharp teeth. from the very bottom of his gut, clear and bright, deep and infectious. melodic. shades close to slipping off the bridge of his nose, eyes tearing up behind them. trying to collect himself, muffled giggles turning to soft vapour in the cold air. dimples visible on his rosy cheeks.

and suddenly you can't think, can't speak, can only look at him and wonder how a human can be so very beautiful. how it’s metaphysically possible. like a crushed cluster of stars was given human form, a body of celestial light.

he looks so young, like this. a millenia younger, no weight on those broad shoulders, no immovable wall to separate you both. he looks like one of the guys you used to hang out with in middle school, running through corridors and play fighting and holding back shared laughter in the library. before the bite of the world left a mark in your skin.

he looks like himself. like someone pulled the mask off, and all that’s left is the human. none of the godhood he was saddled with at birth.

while you’re busy staring, gojo finally finds his composure again. wiping at his glassy eyes, a chuckle slipping out here and there. distracted by the breathtaking sight, you begin to forget the sting of your collision — until you feel something warm trickle down your chilled skin.

searching for it with the pads of your fingers, you feel a trail of wetness beneath your nose. and when you bring them down, to get a look, all you see is red.

”ah.”

gojo moves closer. maybe just a little alarmed, by the blood dripping from your nose, staining the white of the snow beneath your feet. a chilling contrast, one you’re frighteningly used to. it’s almost comforting. blood on your skin, that sting of pain clogging up your nose, enough for you to get lost in. colours melting together, memories rising to the surface —

when suddenly, something touches your cheek.

one large hand goes to keep your jaw in place, gentle. smooth leather, sneaking under your chin, lifting your face up ever so slightly. warmth trickles from his fingertips through the fabric, and you can smell a hint of his perfume. strawberries and vanilla.

gojo looks at you fondly. wiping the blood from your nose, smudging his expensive gloves. from this angle, you can see his eyes, a blue shimmer in an evening painted white and gray — the sole flicker of colour in this monochrome city. they’re crinkled at the edges.

he looks awfully amused.

(you stay still, not breathing, like any slight motion could have him pulling away.)

”careful,” he croons. so low you barely hear it, almost a purr. the word has a soft underbelly, something you don’t need to dissect to feel.

a sentiment that seems to simmer in the air around you, drifting past the little corner store, a dog tied to a lamp post, your reddened cheeks. past the blue of his eyes, a peripheral that stretches to cover the city before you. words too heavy to speak aloud.

stay safe for me, silly.

then he’s letting go. sudden, the bite of the air replacing his hand. it lingers on your skin, like a memory, like the ghost of a memory. but it’s there. strawberries and vanilla, leather and warmth. something kind. warm.

and it stays there, even as gojo takes a step forward, no longer facing you. walking confidently, the wind bending around his tall stature. long legs and large steps, leaving an imprint in the snow for you to follow. a northern star.

he turns his head, and grins. hair tousled by the breeze, white locks glittering with snowflakes. ”you coming? it’s starting soon.”

a moment passes.

”or do you need me to call shoko?”

you puff out a breathy laugh, at that, stumbling forward. reaching up to wipe more of the blood sticking to your skin. sniffling, but smiling, teeth peeking out between your lips.

”yeah, yeah,” a roll of your eyes. ”’m right behind you.”

gojo’s eyes crinkle, disappearing behind his shades when he straightens his back and raises his head. moving forward, while you follow; his back turned to you, snowy hair melting into the white all around you. like something out of a painting.

with a pep in step, you catch up to him. eager to hear more of his voice, his memories. still basking in the warmth of his hand on your jaw.

a touch from the untouchable.

gojo’s lying on your couch.

he usually is, to be fair, so it shouldn’t be surprising. kicking his legs up, watching tv — or sleeping, snoring loudly, like the couch belongs to him. like your home belongs to him. like he pays rent, and doesn’t just laze around and devour all the sweets in your kitchen cabinets.

(he’s there so often that you’re starting to wonder if you should give him a copy of your keys, or something. but you have a feeling that’d be just a smidge too intimate for him to ever accept.)

this time, however, gojo is doing neither of those things.

he’s on your couch, but he isn’t manspreading, or draping himself over the leather with a lazy grin. he doesn’t have that air of effortless confidence. and it’s palpable, in the air, the open space, enough that you can feel it. an itch on your skin, a lump in your throat. you could practically feel it as soon as you walked through the door.

he isn’t wearing his blindfold, or his shades. he isn’t even smiling. and gojo is always, always smiling.

you think he might be having a rough day.

even the cats are noticing that something’s off. jumping up in his lap, trying to comfort him, brushing against his legs. purring, when he cradles them close — always so gentle with them. hands petting down their backs, softly, the same hands he uses to rip out the throats of curses and curse users alike.

then they mewl and run away. and for once you wish they wouldn’t, wish they could keep clinging to him like they always do. just to make him feel better. right now, in the state he’s in, you wouldn’t even mind gojo’s usual smug declarations of how does it feel to know they like their papa best?

you can’t help but feel unsure of yourself. gojo isn’t doing anything, and he isn’t saying anything. he’s just lying there, on his back, eyes closed. letting the darkness of the room engulf him. drowning in his own thoughts.

he must know that you’re there. he must have heard you come in. but he isn’t saying anything, and you wonder if that means he wants you to leave him alone.

you’re reminded of that one morning. when he woke up on your couch, and looked more human than you’d ever seen him. how you wanted to avert your eyes, how wrong it felt to see a god rouse from its slumber.

(but you know better now.)

hesitantly, you begin to inch closer, step by step. quiet, floorboards barely creaking beneath your weight. tentative, as you settle down on the couch. brushing against the infinity between you.

gojo’s eyes flicker open. like an old tape beginning to play. they still shine with that same brilliance, they always do, but now you think they look just a little dull. a little red.

a moment passes. agonizingly slow.

before you can properly think it through, you’ve done it. almost on instinct, jumping the gun before he has the chance to cover everything up with jokes and laughter. opening your arms; a silent invitation.

gojo only stares.

his gaze moves down to your outstretched arms, and then up to your face. your pursed lips, nervous eyes, worried crease between your brows. one second passes. two, five. you stop counting.

for a moment, you’re almost certain that he’s about to get up and leave. that he’ll flash you a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, walk out the door and then never return. like you flew too close to the sun, just another icarus too mesmerized by the glow of his grin to notice your melting wings. like you stepped over the fragile line that separates his bones from yours, his heartbeat from your greedy hands.

— but then he sluggishly gets into a sitting position, and doesn't look at you.

when gojo collapses into your embrace, you’re so surprised that you almost forget how to breathe. almost forget your own name, forget whose home you’re in, why your arms are wrapped around a pale man. all you can think of is how warm he feels, how he’s like a weighted blanket against you. how he trusts you enough to come so very close.

cheek pressed against your chest, arms loose around your waist. no infinity, no barriers. just a single touch shared between two damaged human beings.

a brief inhale gives you the composure that you need. air flowing into your lungs, your brain, as you settle into a comfortable position. no words leave your lips; you just continue to hold him, one hand on his back, testing the waters. letting him hear the echo of your heartbeat. unsure, the both of you, but something about this feels right. close to right. almost there.

gojo is stiff. when you strain your ears, you hear a sharp intake of breath, and a full body shiver courses through him. a tremble of his spine. like he’s itching to run, like he doesn’t quite know where to put his hands. so painfully unused to a proper embrace.

(a little like a frightened fawn.)

a tender something unfurls within your chest, and you feel almost devoured by the fondness rooting itself into your beating heart. delicate, as you begin to brush away his tousled bangs, leaning close. pressing a kiss to his forehead, glistening with sweat. letting your lips linger on his skin.

he’s pale, shining in the bleak moonlight cast from the translucent curtains of your living room windows. pale like a ghost. and there are dark crescents beneath his dull eyes.

nightmares, you surmise. they haunt him too, don’t they? of course they do.

eyes brimming with emotion, you gaze at him; quiet as a mouse, closing his eyes. leaning into your touch, ever so slightly, breathing out a sigh tinged with pure exhaustion. and a certain realization washes over you, akin to a tidal wave, sudden and inevitable. so obvious it’s funny.

you’re not a god at all, are you?

a coo slips from your lips. barely a sound, more like a soothing breath. warm against his cold skin.

you’re just like everyone else. just as fragile.

one of your thumbs goes to smooth over the puffy skin beneath his eyes. so, so gentle. like one wrong touch could have him crumbling into little grains of stardust, spilling out over the worn leather of your couch.

there are so many things you wish you could say to him. so many things you’ll never be able to say, because you’re afraid that if you give him too much it’ll scare him off. like love could burn him if it were to leak out too fervently. like it’s burned him before.

so you don’t say anything. but you think it, you repeat it inside your mind like a prayer, and some part of you thinks that’s enough. i’ve got you — a whisper that you don't dare to voice.

one gojo still manages to hear, somehow, if the way he tugs you closer and snuggles into your neck is anything to go by. a shaky exhale brushing against your collarbone.

(if you feel something wet touch the skin of your shoulder, you don’t mention it.)

you simply hold him, and don’t even think the thought of letting go. even though it takes him hours just to fall asleep, hours you spend anxiously wondering if he’ll change his mind and pull away. but he doesn't leave, even though his body may want him to, and that's enough, and you don’t let go. not even once. he stays cradled to your chest the same way you’d hold a tiny puppy, something fragile. something you need to handle with care.

and when his heartbeat finally mellows out, when you hear little barely audible snores flow from his lips, you finally begin to relax. melting into the couch beneath you, watching him get the rest he deserves. praying that any nightmares of his will be given to you instead.

sleep comes, eventually, to the both of you. tangled up on the couch, him on top of you, comforted by the flutter of each other’s heartbeat. by the warmth of another human being. safe in each other’s arms.

(the next morning, through hazy sunshine and the clinking of coffee cups, he teasingly tells you that just satoru is fine.)

it’s barely daybreak when satoru wakes you up.

a rude awakening, to say the least. he pulls out all the stops, intent on not letting you sleep even a second longer; poking at your cheek, pinching them when that doesn’t work. tickling you, blowing cold air into your ear, flopping down on top of you like a big dog. anything to rouse you from your deep slumber.

and he just will not give it up. no matter how hard you try to ignore him, no matter how many times you swat him away with your duvet pillow or turn to bury your face into the sheets. that’s how satoru always is, how he’s always been, how he hopefully always will be — an absolute pain. one you wouldn’t trade for anything else in the world.

so, when he starts whining for you to just wake up already, voice tinged with a sadness that tugs at your heartstrings, you find yourself opening your tired eyes. all while he murmurs on and on about something unintelligible, still trying to bribe you.

”i’ll make you coffee, okay? just get up. c’moooon.”

”… what time is it, satoru?” is all you mutter, voice leaving your lips in a raspy, disgruntled fashion. stirring a little at the promise of coffee.

he cracks a grin. ”don’t worry about it! just come with me.”

despite your grumpy attitude, and the ungodly hour at which satoru shakes you awake, you find yourself letting him scoop you up and set you down on the kitchen counter. placing a hot cup of coffee in your hands, made just the way you like it, before grinning mischievously in a way that has you feeling ill at ease.

and ten minutes later, you find yourself on top of a hill. overlooking the woods, and a big lake below you, no city lights visible no matter where you turn — god knows where he’s taken you, but it’s pretty.

breathtaking, even. all frost and wildlife and peace, sweet solitude, tiny flowers blooming on the patches of grass around you. a murder of crows takes flight in the distance, scattering into the indigo of the sky.

gojo grins, boyish and bright, excited breaths turning into vapour as he speaks. awfully proud of himself.

”i can’t take you on vacation, but —”

he drags you with him, arm looped around your own, plopping down on the ground. not before taking off his jacket, to cover the ground beneath you. grass tickles the skin of your palms, as you comfortably spread your legs, making sure to sit as close to him as possible.

and your heart softens a little.

because he’s mentioned it, before; how it’d be nice to go on a road trip, someday, just the two of you. all around the world, wherever the wind takes you. basking in that feeling of freedom. it’s no more than a fever dream, though, with how busy satoru is, the responsibilities you both shoulder.

so this’ll have to do. that’s probably what he’s thinking.

”the sun’ll rise soon. it’ll be pretty, i promise,” he beams, so close that you feel his warm breath on your skin. that you can see the dimples on his cheeks, his barely visible freckles.

”oh, so that’s why you woke me up so early.”

his smile widens. ”nice, right? i wanted to surprise you. d’you like it?”

a smile blooms on your lips, in tandem with his, honeyed and content. indulgent. gojo looks at it, and immediately knows your answer.

”yeah. it’s really pretty out here,” you face forward, taking a deep breath, fresh morning air entering your lungs. cool and crisp, stirring your sleepy mind. ”kinda nostalgic.”

satoru hums, and follows your lead. looking ahead, admiring the beauty of an empty world.

the big lake looks like a mirror, from here, glittering in the peripheral of your vision. the sun licks at the frozen sky, not quite breaking through, not entirely ready to rise — but it paints everything a rusty gold and you can almost feel spring shining through, taste it on your tongue, that promise of something better, something more concrete. a warmth you don’t have to question.

a warmth that’ll stay with you for a long time to come.

it takes about ten seconds for the man by your side to start speaking, again, shattering the peaceful silence. but you don’t mind. his voice is nice, a mellow melody to your morning-fatigued brain.

side by side, you wait for the sun to rise. sharing hushed whispers and laughter, like two kids having a sleepover. like nothing exists but the space that cocoons you, wraps you up in a nostalgia so palpable the entire world feels like a fond memory.

(it makes you feel a millenia younger.)

satoru giggles like a child, telling you about something shoko said, or something megumi did, and you don’t miss a single word that spills from his glossy lips. hanging on to every word he’s willing to give to you.

he looks so unbothered, like this. eyes crinkling, humming some tune you don’t recognize, like a little nightingale ready to take flight into the skies.

you part your lips, admiring his features. every patch of skin you can see. words making themselves manifest, hungry to see inside his brain, to know more about him. a fascination that’s never quite left you — though now you think it may be better described as love. ”hey, satoru?”

at the sound of his name, he turns to you. the weight of his eyes feels so light, like this. those blessed eyes staring into yours. he tilts his head, a smile playing at his lips. ”mm?”

”if you could go anywhere you wanted, where would you be right now?”

satoru blinks.

he looks at you, a mild surprise flitting through the lines of his face, as he takes you in. measures the weight of your words.

then he smiles, again. lopsided, almost a smirk, rich with amusement. a hum buzzes in his throat, like a butterfly itching to break out.

”.. you teasing me?”

a huff fills the air. ”it’s a genuine question!” you insist, moving your leg to nudge his own. ”c’mon. anywhere in the world. i’m just curious.”

another hum. he narrows his eyes, playfully, biting at the inside of his cheek to hold back a chuckle when that makes you grumble. pouting softly, tilting your head. he’s amused, you can tell.

but he closes his eyes, lashes fluttering, glimmering with morning dew. and you can tell he’s taking you seriously. tasting the question on his tongue.

something shines in his eyes, when he opens them again; crinkling at the corners, soft lines of crows’ feet. you can almost see that burst of aquamarine, breaking through the black glass of his shades. like the laws of physics can’t contain it. and he smiles, as always, a smile so beautiful you wish you could live on the curve of his lips. flimsy, no teeth peeking out, no dimples to admire. but sweet. slathered with honey, as sincere as can be.

his voice comes out a little raspy, tainted with a tinge of fatigue, a smokey residue that sticks to the walls of his throat. but it's genuine, like he just woke up, like he's too sleepy to be dishonest. like every word he says can be no more or less than the absolute truth.

and when he turns to face you, tilting his head enough for you to see that shade of blue you love so dearly, his eyes shine with an honestly so palpable you feel like you’re being devoured.

satoru parts his lips.

”right next to you.”

a moment passes. silent, endless, no sound to be heard but the beating of your own heart.

at last, the sun breaks through that layer of frost, peeking up from the boundary of the world — and the morning begins to thaw. streaks of sunlight cascade down the contours of his handsome face, painting him a mellow gold, and it’s almost enough to distract you from the warmth of his hand finding yours.

for a moment, satoru looks unsure. smile shifting in the light, into something slightly stiff, and you know that means he's nervous. silent, as he wets his glossy lips. pink tongue tasting strawberry chapstick.

then he’s leaning forward.

it’s chaste, the kiss he plants on your forehead, soft as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. but it lingers, even after he’s pulled back — a warmth on your skin. a silent declaration.

he doesn't have to say anything. when you look up at him you can see the red flush of his ears, and when you strain your ears you can hear all those unspoken whispers. the sentiment neither of you will ever have to say out loud, because you know. it’s there. and it means everything.

and you know that for as long as you live, you’ll both have this. one single thread of normalcy, in your unorthodox existences, one single glimmer of something almost entirely good. something that heals, something that isn’t a blessing and a curse all in one. something soft to the touch.

there’s no need to find the right words for it. there never was.

”kinda looks like melted ice cream.”

the words pull you out of your stupor. satoru’s looking at the sky, and you follow his gaze, watching the sunrise in tandem with him.

it’s beautiful. soft clouds melting into pinks and oranges, dappling sunbeams lapping at the trees, a saffron shade washing over the empty world in front of you. a world that may not be so empty, after all, because you hear crows in the distance, and someone’s fishing by the lake, and you think you spot a squirrel in the tree closest to you.

and you have someone, right next to you, right by your side. someone who won’t ever leave.

sometimes, loving satoru gojo feels a little like strolling on the edge of a cliff. like one wrong step could have you tumbling down, a mess of broken bones and unspoken words. but if you do stumble and fall — you know he’ll be waiting at the bottom of the precipice. arms outstretched, wearing that same innocent grin, ready to hoist you both back up.

so you know it’ll be fine.

swallowing down a bout of fresh laughter, like a flower unfurling in your chest, petals brushing against your ribcage, you give in. opting to bask in the moment, in his presence.

”yeah,” you puff out a chuckle, head slumping against satoru’s shoulder. he makes a little noise of approval, and your grin grows. ”it does.”

he doesn’t say anything. smiling, wordlessly, admiring the way the sun kisses up your collarbone. lighting up your face. and you bask in his warmth, how right it feels to be tucked into his side. how safe he feels, even now. how safe you make him feel.

you look at the man to your left, and he looks back at you, and that wonderful unnamed something unfurls inside your chest again. and, without having to speak it aloud, you know it will continue to do so.

many, many years later, he’ll still be satoru, and you’ll still be you. the distance between you will be what it always was; breachable.

and that will be enough.

#someone sedate me i giggled while writing this. im so in love w this stupid weasel #this is rly just my attempt at writing a more canon-aligned gojo and the kinda-sorta relationship i could see him having in canon #i firmly believe that he’d feel most at peace w a love that sits somewhere right between platonic n romantic !!#”me n the bestie <3” (selfie of u wearing matching rings)#its the kinda love that u dont need to label bc its just There. its just love !! a love that comes easy #im happy w how this particular gojo turned out i think!! :'3 hes my lil baby #in other news hes so bambi coded ☹️ i need to nurse him back to health #listen to capable of love by pinkpantheress btw its so gojo to me #jjk x reader #jjk #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #jjk fluff #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #jjk x gender neutral reader #gojo fluff #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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littleseasiren · 8 months

Text

Hypothetically speaking

Summary: Hypothetically speaking, Bucky Barnes is the perfect man. You have a list that proves it. What happens when someone overhears you telling Natasha about it?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Warnings: None, just fluff

Words: A drabble at 800 words

"All I'm saying is, hypothetically, Bucky is the perfect boyfriend," you whisper to Natasha over the kitchen table.

"And why do you think that?" Her green eyes stare past you, making you nervous for a second before her gaze meets yours. "Hypothetically speaking, of course." Natasha knew how you felt about Bucky but humoured you nonetheless.

You don't hear anything so you continue, "Well, I mean, he's the full package. Just look at what he's like," you chuckle. You lift your thumb as you start counting the points. "He's handsome with his dark hair and his eyes to die for." Your index finger goes up, "He's quiet but authoritative, like the time he saw a guy bothering me at the bar. He didn't hesitate before threatening him with bodily harm if he didn't stop bothering not just me - but all the ladies in the bar." Your middle finger rises, "He's got muscles galore like we've seen when he and Steve burn off extra energy in the gym and take their shirts off." Your ring finger raises, "And he's kind - too kind sometimes. Remember I told you about that time we were stuck in the rain in the middle of nowhere on a mission? He gave me his jacket and stood freezing in the pouring rain for more than an hour while we waited for our pickup." Finally, your pinkie raises, "Then there's the vibranium arm," you say as you drop your hand, your eyes sparkling with excitement.

Natasha smirks at the look that crosses your face when you talk about Bucky's prosthetic arm. "What about his arm? Most people would think it's a bad thing."

"Huh, as if! If they think that, then they're stupid. His arm is amazing. The black and gold design makes him look like a masterpiece painting. If I were an artist, I could spend hours watching him, getting every shadow and groove perfectly immortalized on the canvas." You giggle softly before continuing, "He's super strong - even stronger than Steve is, with that arm. He has amazing coordination and precision, and the temperature difference between his human hand and his vibranium hand is awesome. On a hot day, you can hold his left hand without sweating like crazy, and on a cold day, his right hand will be nice and toasty. But the biggest thing?" You take a deep breath, "His arm is vibranium, so I'm 100% sure his arm won't fall asleep like a normal man's when spooning with him in bed. A woman can lie on that arm for hours - I'm sure Bucky won't move an inch. That's the type of man he is..." A dreamy look passes over your face as you imagine yourself in that situation.

A perfect eyebrow raises in question, "Honey, why don't you just tell him you like him?"

"What? No, I don't! I was speaking hypothetically!" You aren't like Natasha, you can't just walk up to Bucky and confidently tell him you like him. Just thinking about it makes you anxious.

Natasha's smile is huge as a shadow hovers over you, making you feel like your heart is beating out of your chest.

Please, please don't let someone be behind me.

"Hypothetically speaking," a deep, confident voice starts behind you, making you drop your head into your hands, "if I do my best to live up to your expectations, would you go out with me tonight?"

You slowly raise your head, seeing Natasha leave the kitchen quietly and Bucky take her spot opposite you.

Why can't I keep my big mouth shut?

You can't meet his eyes, your cheeks burning with humiliation as your eyes focus on your wiggling hands. "Uh, Bucky, how much did you hear?"

This time, Bucky's voice is softer, unsure. "Pretty much everything. I know I shouldn't have listened; I couldn't help myself. Not when I heard your hypothetical. How about it, doll? Do you want to go out with me on a date?"

"Bucky, you don't have to do that just because I embarrassed myself. You don't want to go out with me."

You slowly meet his blue eyes, a smirk plastered on his handsome face. "Of course, I want to, doll. I honestly just never thought you would want to go out with me. You're so sweet and beautiful. I just never thought someone like you would be interested in me. Not with all my baggage." His gaze becomes nervous at your hesitation. "If you give me a chance, I promise I'll do my best not to disappoint you."

Can he be any sweeter? "You could never disappoint me, Bucky. You're amazing."

His face lights up at your honest reply. "So, how about it, doll? Let me take you out on a date. If you play your cards right, I'll let you test your theory on my arm tonight. I promise I won't move an inch if I get to hold you all night long. I won't even cop a feel tonight; I'll be a perfect gentleman, I promise."

You can't stop from giggling, feeling mischievous. You weren't making stupid promises like that, something he might figure out soon if all goes well. "It's a deal, Sarge," you reply as you grasp his hands, shivering from the hot and cold sensation.

This is going to be fun.

Tag List:

@cjand10

@buggy14

@crazyunsexycool

@tripleoyaa

@mandijo17

@fluffysucker

@moviegurl2002

@shelbygeek

#bucky x y/n #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky barns x reader #bucky fluff #the avengers #bucky x you #bucky x female reader #natasha romanoff #avengers tower #james barnes #bucky x reader #bucky imagine

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hyperactively-me · 10 months

Text

black tie affair (part 2)

“You’re beautiful. So handsome,” you coo, beaming up at him with a certain tenderness that he’s only ever seen you use with him. He’s stunned, his eyes widened and jaw ticking. He wants to fuck you so bad. He doesn’t think he can wait a moment longer. “I want to rip this dress off your body. ‘S all I was thinkin’ about all night,” he says huskily, murmuring close to your ear. “I could barely control myself when you called me here to zip up this dress.” “I know,” you whisper, eyes searching his as you lean your face closer and closer. “Simon, I want you. I want you, I want you.”

hi guys. this is my first time writing smut, therefore 18+ only. 5.4k words. hope you like it. have fun. bye guys.

(asks are open)

happy reading

warnings: smuttyyy smut

The military ball was in full swing in the grand ballroom of the elegant hotel, the area bedecked with glistening chandeliers and adorned with gold and maroon hues. Soldiers and their partners mingled in the room, their attire resplendent and their medals glistening brilliantly.

You felt like you were on cloud nine, soaring high in the sky. He remained relatively quiet, but he kept taking “sneaky” glances at you. God, he thought you couldn’t see, but you noticed. You noticed every time. You noticed during training, during meals at the mess hall, during debriefing meetings, during missions. His eyes bored into your being, your soul.

At one point, a champagne toast was made, the bubbly liquid dripping down your throat as you took little sips here and there. You had handed Simon his glass, clinking the edge of it to yours before everyone took a collective sip, a nod to the reason of the occasion. Simon had swirled the liquid in his flute, eyeing you as you took a small sip from your own glass. He observed the way your painted lips hugged the edge of the glass, wishing nothing more than for your soft lips to be on his own. And maybe on his cock.

As the night progressed, people had started taking to the dance floor, swinging their partners to the tempo of the music. The dance floor beckoned them in as the orchestra played a steady tune. Simon extended his hand to you, his eyes turning up into what you assumed to be a smile behind his mask. Your eyes lit up as you placed your hand in his, your pulse racing at the thought of dancing with him.

You stepped onto the floor, surrounded by fellow soldiers and their partners. The ambiance of the room fades away as he places a firm hand on your waist, the other taking your hand. His body aligned perfectly with yours, molding together as if they were meant to fit. You could tell he was nervous. His movements were stiff, calculated as he kept his eyes trained to the floor as if to prevent himself from taking a misstep.

"I know you’re nervous," you smile gently at him, nudging him slightly.

His eyes flicker to yours, a lighthearted scoff threatening to spill over. He didn’t want to make a fool of you.

“Just tryin’ to make it seem like I know what I’m doin’,” he admits.

You squeeze his hand in yours.

“Just follow me,” you say, pulling him towards you slightly. You led him through the dance, already impressed enough that he had the courage to ask you to dance with him. The melody acts as a guiding force, you pull Simon along with you, slowly, methodically. You can feel the tension leaving his body as you move him, his hand squeezing yours, a silent thank you.

As the ball came to a close, you took Simon’s arm, laughing and smiling like there was no tomorrow.

“Simon, there’s absolutely no way that I’m letting you go back to your room right now,” you smile, a giggle escaping your lips. You tug on his arm gently, leading him towards the elevators in the lobby.

“Wasn’t plannin’ on going back, love,” he quips. “Besides, how else am I going to find out what’s under that dress of yours?” A smug expression takes over his face.

Your face heats as you tug on your dress. Did it just get hotter here? You snuggle closer to his arm, your face rubbing up against the fabric of his tux, leaning your cheek on his muscled bicep.

The elevator arrives with a quiet ding, making you stand up a bit straighter as you realize what's about to happen. Simon has been wanting you, needing you, since the moment he laid eyes on you all that time ago. He leads you in the elevator, and you let go of his arm, much to his dismay. He looks at you for a moment, but you look up at him with a reassuring smile, bumping your arm against his own.

“Don’t get frowny on me,” you joke, brushing some stray hair behind your ear.

“‘M not,” he deadpans, flitting his gaze to you for a moment.

He quickly presses the button to the fourth floor, rocking side to side, as if the elevator was taking its sweet time going up.

“Impatient, I see” you giggle, watching him press the button to your floor repeatedly.

“I’ve been patient for a long, long time,” his voice was gruff and low, a mocking tone solely for you to hear. You nod once, letting this revelation sink in. Oh. Oh.

As soon as the elevator door opens, you grab his hand tightly, yanking him out into the hallway. He stumbles for a moment, and that's when you turn around, grabbing him by his tie, pulling him down to your eye level. A grunt escapes his lips as you pull him down, his hands come to settle on your waist. You lean over to his ear, hot breath fanning over the shell of his ear.

“And I’ve been waiting for you the whole time, big man,” you whisper, tightening your grip on his tie.

His cock twitches in his pants. You give him goosebumps, but you can’t see them. God he wishes you could. He wishes you could see how much you affect him. Simon’s mouth is agape under the mask, a small pant coming through the fabric. You step back, letting go of his tie, smoothing it out before turning around on your heel making your way to your room. He stands there, unabashedly staring at your ass before following behind you.

You pull open your door, but his hand reaches above your head to hold the door open for you to enter first. As soon as you step into the room, you toe off your heels, kicking them to the side. You turn to watch him shut the door, his eyes trained on you. You’re brought back to what happened in this very room a few hours ago, and you’re already pressing your thighs together, trying to savor this moment for a little longer.

“What are you waiting for?” you question, batting your eyes at him, a smirk pulling at the corner of your lips.

“I’m just lookin’ at you,” he says as if he’s in a trance. “Jus’, let me look at you.”

He lands a hand on your face, cupping your cheek. You press into it, a small whimper building in your throat. His skin feels rough and calloused, despite how gently he drags his thumb along your cheekbone, savoring the silky texture of your skin. You stare at each other, all silent communication. You turn your face into his hand, bringing up your hand to cup his own, and inhale, taking in his scent.

“You’re beautiful, you know that, right?” he murmurs, watching your every movement.

“Mhm,” you acknowledge weakly, dragging your lips across his palm. You see him shiver as your lips brush over his skin. Simon handles you with care, dragging his thumb to the corner of your lip, stroking your lip.

You take his hand in yours, pulling it down as you grab his free hand, squeezing them both in your grasp. You push up onto your toes, pressing a feather light kiss against his mask on the corner of his lips. You pull away, admiring the lipstick mark you left on the skull, a stark contrast of the symbolism behind it.

He stares at you, shellshocked, pupils blown wide by your tenderness, and in an instant, he’s trying to pry his mask off his face, hands fumbling with the edges as his fine motor skills are knocked down a few pegs as if he was drunk from the kiss.

“Need this thing off,” he murmurs, and you push up on your toes and grasp the hem of the mask. He stills immediately, hands coming up to rest on your hips. You grab onto his bicep to steady yourself, and in one motion, you slip his mask off his face.

His eyes. Oh god, his eyes. His eyes. They’re staring straight into your soul. There's nothing for him to hide behind anymore, his final and strongest wall down. He’s laid bare in front of you. All he wants is you, you, you. You make him feel like he can’t breathe, like he can’t function, like he’ll evaporate from even the slightest acknowledgement from you. You can see a redness dusted over his cheeks and ears, his pupils blown wide, blond eyelashes dancing as he blinks, once, twice. His stubble-covered face and muscular jaw look appetizing, as if it was sculpted by the gods. His dirty blond hair is disheveled, but you don’t care. Frankly, you think it's endearing. You gingerly bring your hands up to his cheeks, running your hands over his skin as if you can’t believe he’s standing in front of you, face bare.

“Simon.”

He blinks, trying to register your words. He feels like he can’t breathe, your face is so close to his.

“Hm,” he hums, entranced by you. He can’t help himself. The way you’re looking at him, the way you’re dressed, the way you’re able to walk into a room and light the whole place. He can’t help that he wants you, needs you, wants to make you feel like you’re the most special woman in the world. The way his name rolls off your tongue so perfectly makes him want to collapse.

“I want to rip this dress off your body. ‘S all I was thinkin’ about all night,” he says huskily, murmuring close to your ear. “I could barely control myself when you called me here to zip up this dress.”

“I know,” you whisper, eyes searching his as you lean your face closer and closer. “Simon, I want you. I want you, I want you.”

You leaned closer, your breath mingling with Simon's, your lips slightly parted. Your eyes flicker from his gaze to his lips, then back to his eyes. Simon takes the chance and places a delicate, chaste kiss on your lips. There is no urgency or intensity, only a gentle press, a delicate touch, and a defining moment that cannot be expressed through words. Your lips brush across his, feather-light, the contact lingering only a fleeting moment. Your heart overflows with affection, care, and tenderness as he gently draws away, his gaze fixed on yours.

The next thing you know, he’s crashing his lips on yours, hard, filled to the brim with passion. You’re grabbing his shoulders, wrapping your arms around his neck as he pulls you flush against you, squeezing the flesh of your hips as he presses into you. More, more, more. He swipes his tongue over your lips, asking for permission. He kisses you like a man starved, your lipstick smearing across his own lips as your teeth clacked and tongues pushed against one other. You didn't bother suppressing the lovely moan that escaped your lips, swallowed by the man in front of you. The two of you pulled away from each other hesitantly, your hand raking through his hair, pulling at it gently. You leaned in and bit his lower lip, placing a brief kiss on his cheek while rolling your hips against him. He walks you backwards until your back slams into the wall behind you, pressing you against the wall. You gasp into his mouth as he paws at your dress, pulling your sleeves off your shoulders, lips not breaking contact from yours. Finally, he pulls away, looking at you for a moment before flipping you around, pressing your face up against the wall.

“I’ve been waitin’ to do this all night, darlin’,” he says gruffly, his hot breath against your ear, making you shiver in anticipation. “I’m goin’ t’ take my time.”

You clench your thighs together at his words, a throaty, quiet moan escaping your lips. His hand brushes up against your back, his hot touch nearly making you moan. He toys with your zipper, then agonizingly slowly, starts pulling it down. His touch is hot, you swear your skin is melting off your body as he works his way down, his hand unabashedly caressing your skin until the zipper reaches the bottom, stopping with a singular click. Your breathing nearly stops as your dress falls off your body, leaving you in your bra and panties.

He chuckles slowly, watching your reaction with narrowed eyes. Simon starts to lean your head back, exposing your bare neck to him. He drags his tongue from your ear to your neck, leaving open mouthed kisses along the delicate skin, lightly biting along the soft flesh of your neck. Simon grinds himself hard against you, pushing you back into being pinned against the wall. His hand begins to graze down your body, his hand slipping under your bra strap, fingertips gliding along your bare shoulder.

You moan lightly as he nips at your neck, you press your back up against him just to get closer, wanting to feel every part of him. He suddenly flips you around, grabbing onto your shoulders like it's his lifeline. Leaning down again, he lightly licks along your collarbone, inching down to lick across the top of your breasts, reaching around behind you to unclasp your bra, letting it drop to the floor. You shiver as your bare skin hits the cool air, clasping your hands on his shoulders as he moves back up to kiss you, hard, for a couple of seconds. Pulling away, he moves lower down to take your nipple into his mouth, sucking it as his tongue flicks against it.

You gasp, hands squeezing his shoulders hard, shuddering at the warmth of his tongue toying with your nipple.

“Where can I go?” he asks quietly, so quietly that you don't notice it at first.

"Any- anywhere," you exclaim as his mouth descends, one hand gently caressing between your tits, tongue locating your other nipple and sucking hard. You gasp, unconsciously arching your back higher, and you can feel him tighten even more as he pushes his hips deeper into the space between your legs.

“Oh– more, more please.”

You gasp, wanting him there forever, and suddenly, he's gone, kissing up your collarbone and to your neck. He latches onto the valley between your neck and shoulder, sucking at the skin hard, eliciting a soft moan from your lips. He hums as he pulls back, admiring the bruise forming against your skin.

“Here?”

He's taking his time with you, exactly as he promised, barely brushing up against you when you want him to fucking ram into you at this very moment. He's relishing you, every inch of you, leaving no stone left unturned, but you want him to devour you, take you as you are now. God, your frantic mind is screaming right now, chest heaving as anticipation threatens to bubble out.

“More everywhere,” you manage, your voice quivering. You can't bear how desperately you want him inside you. “Please—will you– please,” you whimper, nonsensical.

He shoves two of his fingers in your mouth, shutting you up. You think you see stars as he pushes his two digits against your tongue, beckoning you, teasing you to suck.

“Good girl,” he says simply. “Just be quiet and let me make you feel good, pretty girl.”

His breathing grows ragged as you suck, moving your tongue between his fingers and circling around the skin. He groans at the pressure, adjusting his dress pants. You whimper slightly as he pulls his fingers from your lips. Strings of your saliva drip as he pulls his fingers from your mouth. He pauses for a moment, looking straight at you before plunging his two wet fingers into his own mouth, sucking them clean. You stand there, mouth agape, your panties becoming significantly wetter as you watch his tongue dart out to lap at your saliva.

“Hot,” you pant out, eyes half lidded. You run your hands over his chest, the fabric of his tux blocking you out.

“You need this off,” you say, pawing at the fabric, gliding your hands up to start pushing his tux jacket off. He doesn’t move, letting you take it off for him. A shiver runs up his spine as your fingers deftly move to his collarbone, fiddling with his tie. You slowly, agonizingly slowly, start to loosen it, untying the loops you had created it into a few hours ago. Finally, you yank it off, twisting the fabric in your fingers for a moment before letting it fall to the floor. His cock jumps in his pants as he watches you bite your lip, eyeing him with a look of pure lust.

“Darlin’ you don’t know what you’re doin’ to me,” he mutters, bringing his hands up suddenly to help you unbutton his white dress shirt.

“No, let me do it for you,” you stop him.

He’s letting all of his barriers down, letting you see every inch of himself. He’s wanted this, wanted to feel your fingers grace the bare skin of his chest, his face, his arms. You lean up to his neck, still unbuttoning his shirt as you move. You start to suckle on his neck, your searing hot tongue surging against his skin. He groans, your teeth nipping his skin ever so gently. You shake his shirt off his shoulders, his chest finally bare in front of you. You lightly run your hands over remnants of scars, reminders from his past. He shudders, the urge to pull away, to hide himself again, imminent. But, when you lean down to kiss a scar above his pec, he stills. Warmth. Warmth is all he feels, all he wants, all he craves. The warmth from you, your touch, everything about you.

“Simon Riley, you are so beautiful,” you mumble against his skin, gingerly tracing over old scars on his back. You press the front of your body against his, just embracing him in a hug. A fucking hug. He flounders for a moment, his heart feels like it's going to explode out his chest. He’s dizzy, chest heaving from the overwhelming urge to take you, to let you know that he fucking craves you, sees you for who you are, remind you that you are a beautiful person, inside and out. His primal desire bursts out, he can't hold back anymore.

“‘M gonna fuck you so hard n’ good, just like you deserve, love.”

Your knees go weak as Simon grabs your upper arms, walking you backwards until your knees hit the bed. He takes your back in his arms, slowly laying you down on the bed. He takes a step back, just staring at your body, raking his eyes up and down your form. He brings his eyes right up to yours, gaze unwavering as he opens his mouth

“‘M gonna savor this.”

You whimper at his words, getting impossibly wetter, slick coating the insides of your thighs. Your thighs press together, trying to alleviate the growing pressure low in your abdomen, your clit throbbing for release.

“Please,” you whimper, eyes flitting to his form.

“Needy, needy,” he tuts, a smirk tugging at his lips. He chuckles slowly, leaning forward, kneeling on the bed over you. His hands ghost over your thighs, coming up to your soaked panties. He reaches forward, palming over your clothed cunt, fingers pressing into your wetness. You moan at his touch, back arching to press him closer. This time, even more encouraged by your moan, Simon reaches for the waistband, and slowly pulls it off your frame, revealing your dripping cunt to him. Unbeknownst to you, he slips your panties into his back pocket.

A little treat for later he thinks to himself.

He slides off the side of the bed, now kneeling on the floor, eyes trained on you. Simon takes a sharp breath, sinking down to eye-level with your pussy, picking up your ankles and throwing them over his shoulder, yanking your hips down the bed. His hands come under you to rest on your ass, giving you a hard squeeze. You let out a small yelp, hands gripping onto the duvet, nearly shaking from anticipation. You know he’s staring, his gaze locked in between your thighs, then you feel his searing tongue drag up your pussy, a single stripe.

“Si- Simon,” you mewl, hands searching for his hair.

The second you mewled his name, moaning for him, his mouth grows into a blaze against you, his tongue a blazing inferno. It's skilled, and he drags it everywhere you want without saying a single word. You just moan, loudly and haphazardly, as the tip of it grinds up against your clit, scorching. His nose presses against your clit as he dives down, licking and sucking your wetness. He's starving. His groans are muted and blazing with desire against your wet cunt, lapping at your arousal and drowning in you. You can feel him drooling against you, worshiping you, and he gasps, heated, against you when your floundering hands manage to tangle in his hair.

“So fucking good for me,” he grunts against your throbbing clit, “such a pretty girl.”

“Y- you, really good– I’m gonna–” you moan breathlessly, chest heaving as the tight coil of an orgasm builds higher and higher in your abdomen, mere moments away from being released. You clench around nothing, cunt throbbing as he works his mouth on you.

“Cum for me, pretty girl,”

“Such a perfect girl, tasting so good for me,” he moans out, slightly lifting up so you can hear him clearly. You keen at his praises, tugging at his hair harder, pulling more grunts and sounds from his busy mouth.

He starts to run a finger through your slick folds, finger gliding along until it stops at your clit. You gasp at the slight pressure he applies, before fully massaging your clit. You nearly scream from the sensation, knees jerking and back arching, bucking your hips into his face as he plays with your clit.

“Such a beautiful girl you are, y’ taste so good,” he slurs. The vibration of a grunt rumbles against your sensitive skin, causing you to nearly faint, the pressure in your abdomen about to snap.

“‘M gonna cum—” It's half-gasped before tearing through you like a flash of electricity, strong and brilliantly tight, ripping every ounce of strength from your body and every ounce of sanity from your thoughts. You climax forcefully in his mouth and then simply lay there weakly and let him taste you, let him stroke your swollen pussy with his tongue. He groans, lapping up as much as he can before pulling away, eyes boring into yours. His nose, mouth, and chin are glistening, dripping in your slick.

“S’ perfect,” he groans whilst licking his lips, rubbing his chin slightly. You’re panting, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling, blissed out from your first orgasm.

“Fuck, Simon, you eat pussy like a champ,” you chuckle breathlessly.

“Look at me, love,” he says, removing your legs from over his shoulders. He starts to crawl over you, and you can see how incredibly hard he is, his cock straining against his pants. You push yourself up onto your elbows, eyeing his bulge with interest. First, he kisses you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. He shoves his tongue in your mouth, licking the inside of your mouth fervently. As he pulls away, strings of saliva leak from his mouth, making you clench your thighs together once more.

His hands begin to travel over your body, following the contours of your curves. He rubs the flesh of your ass, eliciting a tiny moan from you. He groans softly in your ear, brutally smacking your ass, your brief moan encouraging him.

“I want it so badly,” you grunt. You were the first to snap, feeling his palms graze the flesh of your thigh, his grasp so tight that he would probably leave some bruises.

“Go on, then. Take it.”

Your gentle fingers ease his belt free from the hoops of his dress pants, nipping at his neck as you remove it from his waist. You bring your hands to the edge of his pants, quickly pulling them down and off his legs, letting him kick them off the bed from his ankles. He's bent over you, his lips on the shell of your ear.

"You're such a tease" he grumbles, his hips shifting to grind against your core.

"So are you," you taunt back, grabbing his massive bulge through his underwear, palming your hand over his length. You finally pull down his boxers, letting his cock spring free from its confines. It's massive. You nearly moan just from the sight itself, the tip leaking precum. You immediately grasp it in your hold, wrapping your hand around it, stroking his length into your hand. You caressed his big cock, prompting him to press his hips into your hand while he groaned, high-pitched and needy.

“N– need you right now,” he groans, crawling on top of you, pressing his cock up against your stomach, grinding it over your soft skin.

“Mhm,” you murmur, hand coming up to stroke his cock.

Although he hasn't made any attempt to put anything inside you yet, his hips thrust into yours, like he’s trying to create a mental image for himself for the task at hand, burying his lips back under your ear, and you can hear how hard he's breathing, and before you can say anything, his lips are back on yours, his hand moving your legs open to give him more room.

“If—I'm too rough,” he growls, his voice resonating in your ear drums, “you need to tell me.”

Your pupils dilate. “You can do whatever you want to me,” you assert, “fucking ruin me— be as rough as you want, if that's what you want—”

“D- don't say that," he says, his lips brushing against yours. You bring your hand between his legs, wrapping it around his cock, pumping him once. He moans so loudly, it sounds like music to your ears, and then he pushes the tip of it against you. “I won't be able to control myself.” The blood rushes into your ears, your heart wants to sprint out of your chest.

“Fuck me, Simon,” you breath, barely audible.

That’s all he needed to hear.

“‘M gonna fuck you senseless.”

In a rush, he’s pushing your back into the bed, lining the tip of his cock up with your sopping entrance before he pushes the tip inside you, letting you adjust to his size. The stretch was a bit painful, but you didn’t let the pain stop you from releasing a deep seated moan. Your back arches as the sensation, a gargled moan erupting from the depths of your body. This only encourages him, as he starts to slide the full length of his cock into.

“Fu– fuck,” he moans, his voice husky and high-pitched, “y- you feel so fucking good, so fucking perfect—.”

He bottoms out, his hips meeting yours as he pants, his thumb coming up to rest on your clit once more. He stays completely still, feeling your tight pussy squeezing his hard cock just right. He growls and thrusts himself into you as far as he can. It's nearly too much, God, it's nothing like you've ever felt before. You can barely even breathe while he's pounding into you, you feel like you’re choking on air, your vision being taken up entirely by Simon. His body rocks in a steady pace against yours.

“Too perfect—beautiful," he grunts. "You're so soft, so soft, and so wet—that's my good girl.”

Your face flushes at his praises, you want to shy away, too flattered by his words to even look at him.

"Keep your eyes on me, love" he demands, pulling at your chin with his hand quickly, forcing you to look straight into his eyes.

You feel giddy, pure bliss at the thought of him holding you in such high regard. He hits something deep inside you, and you moan as you're abruptly pulled into the sensation of him circling your clit as he fucks you into the mattress. A coil of heat builds faster by the second, your stomach muscles clenching.

His hand comes back down to grip your waist, his hold tightening on you as he continues to thrust into you at a brutal pace. You grasp his neck, weak with the motion because every muscle in your body is fatigued from his unbelievable pace. He slides your hands down to his shoulders, grounding you as he keeps himself upright, continuing to slam his hips onto you. He massages your clit, knowing the way your cunt flutters around his cock, you’re close to another orgasm. You moan loudly, savoring the way the sound bursts out of you.

“Fuck– fucking me so— so amazing,” you blubber, trying to convey how fucking amazing he’s making you feel right now. And then he's pulling back out, tearing into you again, and you can't even find the proper words in your head, you just listen to Simon absolutely fucking you into oblivion.

“You're squeezing around me— so perfectly, love,” he strangles out, and you feel his hips buck up against yours, and you try to find his collarbone, and you bury your face into it, leaving open mouthed kisses along his skin. You can hear Simon mewling against your ear, guttural and deep, and all you can do is close your eyes and attempt to stay in this moment forever.

“I’m gonna fucking cum—” you blurt out.

“Good girl, cum for me, sweetheart,” he gasps, death grip on your hips.

The coil inside your core snaps as he hits the perfect spot inside you. You clench your eyes tight only to realize it's because you're in the middle of an orgasm, the rest of the world fading away, until it's just you and him.

“‘M gonna cum,” he blurts out, you feel his cock twitch inside you. You can feel him pulsating and throbbing as he grunts his way through his orgasm, breathing heavily and unloading his cum deep inside you. It was enough for you to see stars as his orgasm ripped through him, a loud moan pressed up against your neck escaping his lips as his cum filled you to the brim. He falls on top of you, sweat glistening on his forehead as he comes to take deep gulps of air.

Neither of you say a word as you both catch your breath, brains fucked out. He rolls off of you, laying by your side as you both stare up at the ceiling.

“Holy fuck,” you say first. You're done for. Panting and worn out, you find yourself in the exact position he left you in. You try to move but can't seem to do so. You merely lie on your back and wait for the feeling to return to your body.

Simon turns back towards you, pushing himself to sit up, leaning over to stare at you. You reach a hand up, pressing it into his jaw

“You’re fucking perfect, sweetheart. Everything I ever dreamed about and more.”

You hum under him as he comes to lay his upper body on top of you, his fingers tangling into your hair as he stretches his muscles out. You turn your face just in time to feel all the oxygen rush out of your lungs the second he kisses you.

“Says you,” you murmur as he pulls away from the kiss.

Sleep threatens to take over both of you, waves of exhaustion and bliss intermingling. Simon stills on top of you, before flipping over on his back and pulling you on top of him. He takes your hand in his own, eclipsing it, squeezing it once, twice.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers.

“Hm?” you hum, nearly asleep.

“Let’s do this again tomorrow.”

You press your face into his chest, he feels your smile against his skin.

"For the rest of time."

@neoarchipelago @allaboutirem0 @galagcica @alexia77 @rioluxx @madysato @ghostlythots @broken-kneecaps @poohkie90 @1-fuzzy-squirrels @simpingforfakes @kaysav608 @lieblinqs

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vilhelios · 3 months

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— I THINK I LOVED YOU IN ANOTHER LIFE .

( WHERE I WAS THE SEA, & YOU WERE THE SHORE . ) ; general fluffy romantic headcanons for rafayel / qi yu from love and deepspace <3

CW: not beta read, general rafayel story/lore spoilers, may be slightly ooc, tooth-rotting fluff, very slight angst !!!

— RAFAYEL is a terribly sweet, loyal, and affectionate lover. sometimes, you think he is something like a lovesick puppy—always ready to greet you at the door with a warm hug when you return from a mission, always eagerly awaiting your phone calls and texts. always at your side. when he calls you darling and holds you close, burrows his head into the crook of your neck, you can't help but feel like your being has been warmed by a pleasant summer sunbeam.

despite this, sometimes he feels like he's drifting somewhere far away from you. a receeding ocean tide, sea foam dissolving from your fingertips as you dip your hands in the waves. he's somewhere you don't understand, when he looks into your eyes and searches for an iteration of you in the reflected image of his own eyes—perhaps he is 800 years away, a lifetime and more. and yet, when you gingerly cup his face in your palms, feel him lean into your touch, you know he returns to you.

— RAFAYEL'S art studio is admittedly, a mess. there are days where you'll enter that room spotless and leave with splatters of some new shade of red and his beloved blues all over your clothes and skin. some days, this happens purely on accident—a trip right into a canvas here, a palm pressed onto wet paint there—and on others, rafayel seems to delight in using you as a canvas.

— when RAFAYEL kisses you (in that gentle fashion, where he cups your cheek like if he doesn't you'll slip like seafoam from his hold), those soft lips of his taste of cherries and grapes and strawberries. and perhaps that best encapsulates what loving rafayel is like, this sweetest red, red, red: the way his cheeks and ears flush when you press a kiss to his cheek; the colour of his eyes when the morning's rose-gold sunlight hits the pink in them just right; the bleeding, beating heart he offers to your awaiting hands. eventually, he pulls away to let the both of you breathe, and when he presses his forehead against yours, glances at you with that charming smile of his, you're enveloped in warm crimson all over again.

"there." rafayel smiles, leans back to admire the flamulla he'd painted on your cheek and the pout that graces your lips. "a cute flamulla for the cutie that keeps distracting me."

"you weren't even painting anything when i came in!" you scoff, dabbing the paintbrush he'd given you into the paint upon the palette. while he painted moon jellies, flamulla, and blowfish on your skin, you'd busied yourself with painting seashells on his. some of the clamshells are too close together, the venus combs look a little too spiky, and some conches don't look quite right. when he looks like he's about to chuckle at the sight of them, you poke him with the other end of your brush; "hmph. you're just a meanie."

"how rude!" he feigns, hand to his heart. "this is how you treat me for making you look like one of my most precious paintings?"

— you notice, eventually, that RAFAYEL always gifts you red jewelry (if not pearls, of course). the little treasures glint in the sunlight; rings with a ruby or red spinel centerpiece, a necklace with a red coral pendant, fire opal earrings... they're beautiful and never gaudy, as to be expected from a man with an eye for aesthetics, but it still perplexes you.

you ask him why, while he helps you put on his most recently gifted necklace as you two get ready to attend his aunt's opera show. your painter answers with a thoughtful hum, deft fingers clasping the necklace for you: "red disappears the fastest in the deep sea, so i never got to see it much." rafayel presses a kiss to your cheek, then, before settling his chin on the crook of your neck. "what better way to appreciate a colour i missed out on for so long than seeing it on you, darling?"

— RAFAYEL'S smug and haughty countenance seems to crumble at the mere press of your lips against his skin, little pecks gracing each beauty mark. the first kiss is placed on his cheek, a little ways away from his eye, his head cradled in your palms; you feel how he heats up beneath your touch, a light blush dusting across his cheeks and a bright vermillion burning at the tips of his ears. the second is placed on his chest, your lips and gentle, roaming hands sparking the rapid thrumming of his heart.

— RAFAYEL sees you in everything. in the morning sunlight that filters into his kitchen, in the cherry blossoms that land on his hair, in the sea breeze that rushes past him as he walks along the shore. the mundane of daily life has become filled with so many traces of you that he cannot see them as anything other than beautiful. there's a piece of you in every one of his paintings now, a streak of your favourite colour intertwined with his reds and blues. he made the pigment himself, of course, extracted the colours he needed from your favourite things.

THE LOVERS ; Rafayel (20XX) ; Oil on canvas

This painting consists of only two colours, and depicts the view of a simple shoreline, with waves lapping at the shore. Although simple in essence, the two paints were handmade (as is the norm for pieces by Rafayel) with pigments extracted from materials that represented himself and his beloved. Upon closer inspection, one may notice the difference in brushstrokes between colours—where they start to blend, so do the strokes, perhaps one hand guiding the other. As per the words of the painter himself, this artwork is meant to represent a "marriage and a transfiguration; the way two souls are forever intertwined and changed by love."

a/n : pretty privilege is real because rafayel acts a lot like marius but i like him infinitely more than i do lu jinghe 😭👍 my love/obsession for this pretty little fish has made me rise from the grave of uni work and writer's block... please fill his tag i need to satisfy this itch in my brain that he gives me <\3 might write some more for him + him as abysswalker <3 (p.s. that final hc is perhaps the cutest thing i thought to do)

#love and deepspace headcanons #rafayel x reader #qi yu x reader #rafayel headcanons #qi yu headcanons #love and deepspace x reader #rafayel fluff #love and deepspace fluff

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violentdelights-violentendss · 18 days

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Ryunosuke Akutagawa having to kiss you to keep his cover.

Pairing: Fem!Reader/Ryunosuke Akutagawa

Synopsis: The two of you need to pretend to be married for a mission, and when your cover was almost blown, Akutagawa could do nothing but press you to a wall and kiss you.

(Initially, this had been supposed to be for multiple characters but I got carried away…lmao… let me know if I should do other BSD men with this trope, and if yes, which ones)

Warning: NSFW

You and Akutagawa sat in silence in the sleek limousine, the thump of the wheels on the road the only noise. You picked at your expensive dress, making sure the, excessively long, slit in your skirt did not reveal anything you did not want to reveal. As you adjusted the black fabric, your eyes could not help but catch the fake wedding ring that sat on your finger. Well, fake as in you weren’t married, not fake diamonds. The glittering diamonds that resembled shards of heaven were very, very real.

Akutagawa was sitting next to you, trying to press himself against the side door to touch your body as little as possible. His elegant suit had made you stare when you saw him before stepping into the car: he almost never wore anything like that. He was wearing a similar wedding ring around his finger.

You two had been chosen last minute to pretend to be a married couple to sneak into the house of a rival boss to gather some information. The party he was hosting for his daughter’s engagement was the perfect excuse. Usually, other people would be chosen, and with more preparation, but a mishap had occurred suddenly and you had been thrown headfirst in the mission. You were reading the paper with your backstory while getting ready, memorizing that you two had met during an economics course at the Yokohama university and all the surrounding unnecessary details, just in case anyone asked.

The car rolled to a stop, and Akutagawa slid you a look, before stiffly taking your hand in his and placing it on his arm. “Let’s go, (Y/N).” He murmured, opening the door. You two stepped out, immediately feeling the gaze of the rest of the party-goers around you.

Nervously, you leaned against Akutagawa as you walked up the stairs. The eyes of the other couples walking alongside you did not help your already unstable feet in the heels. You almost tripped on the red fabric that had been delicately placed on the marble steps, but Akutagawa stabilized you by placing a warm hand on your waist.

You stepped inside the ballroom, and quietly gasped in shock: the room was breathtaking, carved windows with encrusted gold decorations, painted ceilings and mosaics on the ground. “It’s gorgeous,” you whispered, and Akutagawa nodded silently by your side.

You threw him a glance, elbowing him in the gut discreetly. He frowned at you. “You need to look more in love with me, Akutagawa and not stand there as if you were forced to be here.” You whispered, speaking through gritted teeth while a smile adorned your lips. The man next to you nodded, trying to subtly lean into you, pretending to search for your body warmth.

Truth be told, he was actually wanted to do so, holding himself back because he feared he would accidentally reveal something to himself he had tried to keep hidden: his heart thumped a little louder when you were around.

“Let’s get some champagne,” He murmured, starting to lead you to table. Right before you managed to secure to glasses for the both of you, a couple bumped into you, pushing you in Akutagawa’s unsuspecting arms. He froze, before he remembered he was supposed to be married to you. The couple had also clearly wanted to grab some champagne.

“Oh dear! I apologize!” The man said.

“Oh, no worries!” You reassured, grabbing two flutes and handing one to Akutagawa, almost propelling yourself out of his arms.

The man’s wife had been looking at your hand as it delicately held the expensive flutes, immediately grabbing it to observe the ring. “Oh, darling! This is a gorgeous ring!” She said, inspecting it.

“Oh, thank you.” You blushed, looking at Akutagawa with a shade of red on your cheeks.

“I chose one that matched her eyes,” Akutagawa spoke, so quietly that you almost didn’t hear him. Your heart fluttered, and the couple could not help but swoon at the two of you.

You four talked for a few more minutes; well, you talked to the couple and Akutagawa simply stood next to you, nodding or echoing your words.

You then went your separate ways, and you and Akutagawa knew you needed to find the information. The two of you quickly slid to a more secluded area, knowing from the blue prints of the building that the owner’s office was directly above you, and you just needed to climb the stairs unseen.

“Let’s do this,” Akutagawa said, heading towards the stairs after you two had waited for a few minutes, making sure no distant echoes of steps reached you. You followed, the tapestry on the steps muffling the sound of your heels.

As the two of you were exactly halfway up the stairs, you heard movement coming from the office, and some shadows peeked from underneath the illuminated door, projecting eerie shadows on the wall behind you.

Akutagawa, who had been in front of you, noticed first. “Back! Back!” He hissed, and you spun around, starting to run down the stairs. But the staircase was so long that the door opened before you guys could reach all the way down. You only heard the creek of the wood, neither you or the people could see one another, since the staircase curved to the left. But you and Akutagawa had nowhere to hide.

You two shared a terrified gaze, knowing what to do: pushed by Mori, the two of you had agreed on various ways to escape uncomfortable situations such as these, and one of them, as cliché as it sounded, was to pretend to make out. Akutagawa had argued initially, and had only agreed when Mori had uttered his name quietly, the weight of his control hidden behind the single word.

You pressed yourself against the wall, letting the spaghetti straps of your dress slide down your shoulders. Akutagawa loosened his bow tie, and unbuttoned a few of the first buttons of his shirt, clearly hating every minute. You gulped as his pale skin shone in the moonlight. He then approached you, yanking your leg out from the slit, gripping your thigh with his fingers. You flinched, suppressing the real moan that threatened to escape your mouth.

“Sorry,” he whispered in your ear, before he leaned down, pressing his lips to yours. The kiss initially had been just a peck, but both of you knew you needed to be more convincing if you wanted it to be true.

Akutagawa pulled back, before diving in with all his passion, secretly letting go of all the feelings he had been hiding for quite some time. The kiss turned heated, and soon, the hand that hadn’t been resting on your thigh, moved to your jaw, holding you in place as he dared to slide his tongue into yours. Your lipstick was smudged everywhere, and the whimpers that tumbled from your lips soon became real.

The two barely noticed the steps that had been approaching you, only breaking away from your kiss when someone cleared their throat next to you. You two broke apart, a string of saliva connecting your lips. It almost looked like crystal in the moonlight.

Your chest was heaving, pressing against Akutagawa’s with every shaky breath. Your fake husband’s eyes were wide, and your lipstick had smeared all over his face. Your unfocused gaze slowly zoned on the men that had “caught you”, and you almost felt your heart rumble out of your chest when you tumble out of your chest: it was the owner of the building, the one you had to steal information from, and a few of his most trusted men.

“Ah, young love.” He called, bringing his cigar to your lips. “Unfortunately, I regret to inform you that this area is restricted to authorized personal only.”

You tried speaking, but your words kept freezing in your throat. Akutagawa took the lead. “I am deeply sorry…I lost control. We’re…newlyweds,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically loud.

You leaned against the wall, barely registering what happened, only smelling and remembering Akutagawa pressed against you. You hazily watched as Akutagawa talked to the men, seemingly excusing himself. You closed your eyes, dazed, opening them to find only Akutagawa there, standing in front of you.

“Where..where did they go?” You asked, your voice shaky.

“I told them we would leave right away, simply needing to readjust our clothes.” He grumbled. “This is our chance.”

You nodded, trying to push yourself off the wall, but Akutagawa’s hand on your wrist stopped you. “Wait here. I’m going to make this quick. I’ll come back. And we’re talking.” He said, his dark eyes staring into your soul.

You tried protesting but your whispers were tears in a rainfall, and Akutagawa scampered up the stairs, and you slowly flopped down to the ground. Your eyes widened when you closed your legs: no, it couldn’t be…

You quickly eyed your surroundings, seeing only shadows hiding in the forgotten corners. You rapidly shoved your fingers underneath your skirt and between your legs, slipping one finger inside you. You slapped a hand on your mouth, half in shock, and half to cover the moan that was about to pour out of your swollen lips. Akutagawa had kissed you for just a few minutes, and had managed to make you soaking wet.

You leaned your head against the wall, angrily wondering why you had had to get a crush on the most cold-hearted person in the port mafia.

•

Akutagawa appeared next to you suddenly, his face half in the shadows, rendering his eyes even more shrouded in mystery. Without talking, he grabbed your hand, starting to walk hastily towards the exit. You knew he had probably snapped pictures of whatever you guys needed, and had slipped out of there as quickly as his feet could carry him, leaving behind only his cologne as a testament of his presence.

The two of you walked down the steps you had used to get in, and once again, your stiletto got caught in red fabric. Akutagawa seemed to know that it would happen, and already had his hand firmly pressed on your hip.

The two of you glided down the Yokohama alleyways, resembling living fragments of memories that littered all Yokohama. The minute you stepped into Port Mafia territory, the darkness around you felt much safer, more welcoming, and the two of you slowed down your steps, slightly more relaxed.

“Did you get everything—”

Before you could finish, Akutagawa had pressed you against the wall in a forgotten alley, his eyes so dark they resembled a moonless night. He was unusually close, his breath caressing your lips with fragility.

“What did that kiss mean to you?” Akutagawa croaked.

“What?” Your words were unsure, unclear, begging anything or anyone to help you understand what was happening.

“What. Did. That. Kiss. Mean. To. You. (Y/N).” He asked again, his voice sharper, and his eyes slightly darker.

And suddenly, you understood everything, as if the moon had sent a star to whisper a hint in your ear. You could feel Akutagawa’s heart beating, his chest pressed so close to yours. His eyes weren’t dark becasue of anger, but because of fear. He was scared. Scared that you did not feel his same way.

You reached up a hand to graze his cheek, and Akutagawa flinched, already imagining that you were about to let him down kindly. You were far too perfect for him, after all. But his downward spiral was interrupted by your soft voice, a melody he would recognize even in hell itself.

“Everything, Akutagawa. It meant everything.”

You waited, staring deep into his eyes, feeling the pressure of the darkness surround you. You inhaled sharply when you saw Akutagawa’s eyes lighten, before he leaned down to press a soft kiss to your lips. He timidly pressed against your body, delicately, almost afraid to hurt you. He pulled back to see your reaction, and when he saw you lick your lips, hoping to taste any drops he had left behind, his whole restraint crumbled to the ground.

Akutagawa passionately pressed himself against you, his lips crashing down on yours with fervor. Your two bodies were so close you could feel everything. Akutagawa almost went crazy when he felt your breasts against his chest. Your arms clasped his shoulders, trying to hold him even closer. Your lungs were burning, but you didn’t care, threading your hands in his locks, whimpering in pleasure when he rolled his hips against you.

“(Y/N)…if, if we continue I won’t be able to stop,” he whispered in your ear, his hands gliding down to your waist.

You shook your head as quickly as you could, your perfect hairstyle slowly giving in to the emotions of the night. “I don’t want you to stop.”

That’s all that Akutagawa needed to hear. Without wasting a minute, he yanked down your spaghetti straps, uncovering your breasts to his eyes. His hands reached to grope them, while his lips attacked your neck, sucking a hickey on it, claiming you as his. Your spread legs had made the slit in your dress expose your soaking core, and Akutagawa used that to his advantage, pressing his hips against you.

Both of you reeled in pleasure when his hard dick pressed against your sopping heat. You gripped his shoulder, while he held your hips, the two of you stopped kissing for a second, starting to dry hump each other. Akutagawa lifted your thigh, wrapping it around his waist, making his clothed tip rub against your already swollen clit.

You whimpered his own name in his ears, and he had to still your hips to prevent from cumming on the spot.

“(Y/N), I need to fuck you, right now.” Akutagawa slurred, his words mixing together from his lust.

“Please! Please do it!” You begged, trying to spread your legs even further, but the fabric of your dress stopped you. Akutagawa, noticing your struggle, used Rashomon to rip your dress further from the slit. You gasped, impossibly feeling even more aroused. “Akutagawa! That dress was expensive!”

“I’ll buy you ten more.” He grunted, caressing your thighs. He moaned your name when he realized you had soaked through your panties. He yanked your frilly underwear from you, and stuffing them in his pocket. He blew on his fingers to warm them, before shoving one, and then the other inside you, grunting at your tightness.

“Oh my god, you’re so wet.” Akutagawa almost whimpered, but he managed to control his tone. You threw your head back, when he touched your g-spot, falling forward against his shoulder. Akutagawa fingered you for a few minutes, making sure you were stretched out for him, giving one simple lick to your nipple as a shy tease. He had not meant to make you orgasm, but when you gripped his shoulder tightly, almost screaming his name, he realized what had happened. Your fucked out gaze went directly to his dick, making him leak precum.

After you had come down, Akutagawa did not weight to unbuckle his belt, appreciating your helping hands. You glanced down at his cock when he freed it, feeling yourself gush in anticipation at how gorgeous it looked, red tip and all. Akutagawa gripped his base, aligning himself with your entrance. He looked up at you, making sure everything was fine. His white hair almost glittered in the moonlight, and you could not help but feel your heart beat excitedly as you nodded affirmatively, telling him everything was fine.

With your reassuring gaze warming his chest, Akutagawa pressed his tip inside you. Both of you grunted, and Akutagawa had to stop himself before he blew his load straight away.

You pressed your lips to his, reassuring you everything was okay. Both of you kissed for a few minutes, Akutagawa scratching your scalp with his fingers, moaning into your mouth as he slowly slipped inside.

Akutagawa pulled away from your addicting kisses when he finally bottomed out, pressing his hands against the wall, leaning heavily against you. “(Y/N),” he whispered in your ear, pressing a kiss to your earlobe. He seemed to be calling out for you, needing you to reassure him that you were there, you were real. He was so afraid that this was a cruel joke of life, a dream he would inevitably wake from.

You clasped his back, caressing his quivering skin. “I’m here.” You croaked into his mouth, nibbling his lower lip.

Akutagawa started moving his hips, hiding his face in your neck. His hands blindly clasped your legs around his waist, using Rashomon to carry your weight. His tip managed to reach much deeper into you, and your moans loudly shattered the silence of the alley. If there was anyone scuttling in the alleys next to yours, they definitely knew what was happening.

Akutagawa started repeating your name incoherently, jackhammering his hips into yours. He hit your g-spot at every trust. His eyes were mesmerized by your bouncing tits, flicking the hardened nipple with his thumbs.

“Akutagawa!” You mewled.

Akutagawa went faster, gripping your hips so tightly he left bruises. He wrapped his arms around you, tightly pressing your chests together, the feeling of his dress shirt rubbing against your nipples being exactly what you needed to topple over the edge. You pressed a bruising kiss to his lips, kissing him so passionately you almost forgot your name.

Akutagawa caressed your mouth with his tongue, closing his eyes in blinding pleasure when you gushed around his cock as you climaxed, a cascade of your juices running down your thighs. His thrusts started to turn sloppy, and with one final thrust, sheathing himself as far he could, Akutagawa moaned your name as if it were a prayer, painting your walls white with ropes of cum.

The two of you stayed still for a few seconds, panting against one another, in a silent embrace that was worth a thousand words. Akutagawa’s hands caressed your arms, while you peppered as many kisses as there were stars in the universe on his flushed neck. Slowly, he slipped out of you, stuffing his cock back inside his pants. You winced, feeling his cum start to drip out. Not caring about his expensive shirt, Akutagawa used his sleeve to clean you up, quiet praises tumbling from his mouth.

His hands also slid your spaghetti straps back in place, eyeing the now torn slit that revealed everything he wanted to keep hidden about you. Akutagawa shrugged off his coat, tying it around your waist. Rashomon slowly let go of you, making sure your legs were safely on the ground before slithering back into oblivion.

“Akutagawa!” You called, feeling your weak legs start to stumble and your body starting to fall. Your partner came to the rescue, wrapping his arms around your waist. He was suddenly shy, and awkward, afraid that maybe he had revealed his heart to you too soon.

“Akutagawa, you’re truly the only person I would have wanted to experience this with.” Your words flew to his heart, erasing any doubt that could have sprouted, and you were almost certain you saw Akutagawa smile.

He couldn’t offer the same profound words, years of pain and betrayal blocking them before they even reached his lips, but Akutagawa offered you the closest thing he could to a love confession: “My house is nearby…would you like to come over?” His voice got quiet towards the end, and he hid his face in your hair.

“I’d love to,” You smiled back at him, and Akutagawa knew, that from that moment on, he would no longer be alone. When he intertwined your two hands together, he could not help but gaze at your fake wedding rings, hoping that, one day, they might become real.

#bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs #akutagawa x reader #bsd akutagawa #akutagawa smut #bsd smut #port mafia #akutagawa ryonosuke #bsd x y/n #bsd x you

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diejager · 5 months

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what would eldritch reader vs some other eldritch person look like?

[A cheese wheel has been added to your inventory.]

[A cheese wheel has been consumed.]

Opposition Cw: blood, gore, death, cannibalism?, tell me if I missed any.

Despite old-age rivalries and ancient hostilities, to fight a Lord for One’s territory, the bloodshed and animosity shared between many, and the death of a ruling, primordial being, they had forgone the older ways, taken to learn and study humans and monsters alike, especially the sudden emergence of hybrids, a perfect cross between human and monster, one that rivalled the flawlessness of Old Ones. You were one of those that sought change, to live and prosper farther than in their imagination, their faith and their fear. You wanted something substantial, tangible under your clawed, see thing you could taste and touch, more than the pleas and cries.

Most had left their territory, travelling wherever the wind blew, some ventured far and high, drifting from the country they were born to new colonies —the Caribbean or the Thirteen Colonies in the West of the great Monopolies of the 17th centuries. You rarely strayed outside familiar lands, presiding over a small stretch of land in Europe, it was familiar, comfort. It was a decision many agreed with, those you crossed would peer at you, a subtle nod of their head and they’d be gone, vanishing when someone broke your contact; gone along the wind, leaving only a whisper of their existence in monstrous words too high for human and monster ears.

Perhaps that’s why it felt odd to fight another one after centuries of peaceful coexistence, to throw yourself into the fray, broad and towering over the trees, beak snapping at the canidae entity and talons gripping their paws, claws threatening to rip into your feathered body. You felt stretched, rusted with joints creaking and bones groaning, too old and too tired. This Entity was young, a few centuries old, with a wolf-like appearance and a character that fit a mutt more than it would a being of such prestige. They were chaotic, acting recklessly and without thought, you needn’t ask it their age, it was written all over the scarless skin and brutish acts.

Rather than fighting for land, coveting wealth and fine metals that humans loved with greedy hands, you took on the wolf for protection, the ward of your small family, under a dozen with years of bloodshed and violence under their belt. The 141 had a mastery in different skills, utilizing what they did best to push on, to fight and survive to see the next sunrise, but even hybrids had limits, where their great feats and insurmountable reputation were useless against something of old; be it young or primordial, Eldritch beings had little predator, prey to their own kind but rarely from another.

You clashed with the Wolf, standing on muscular, hind legs ruffled with dirtied fur, blood staining the greyish hair; a strong tail swaying carelessly, cutting trees down with a rough swing; a well-defined abdomen painted with a tribal tattoo, gleaming with a gold light, portraying the image of a holy symbole on a blasphemous being; sculpted arms holding back your own feathered ones, hands bleeding from your talons; and a wide mouth, silver teeth bared in a loud growl, the sound near deafening to you. It was strong and well-trained for something born in times of peace, body built to it’s peak and mind sharpened to ignore every distraction, but you were from the old, racking up more experience and wisdom it could only dream of wielding.

You were defending the LZ, standing between the Wolf and it’s mission of killing those it could kill, beings weaker than it. The only thorn in their mission was you, the lone Entity that engaged it. The Wolf hadn’t been told that the TF had an Old One, primeval in every sense. It struggled against you, your more monstrous figure compared to their tamed one, their creation stemming from some wild fantasy of the Middle Ages, when France feared the human eating wolf.

You screeched as loudly as it growled, voice gaining in force, a cacophony of screams and cries slipping from your tongue, the fears and terror of beings that brought you to life. Spreading your second pair of limbs, you slashed at it, digging into the soft skin of it’s abdomen, tearing away fibres of muscle and warm fat. It yowled, struggling to pull away, frantic at your shift of tactic —fearful that you decided to attack than defend your group. It stood on the single probability that you wouldn’t engage, preferring to protect than fight with the risk of endangering your family.

The Wolf would die today. Your grip was unyielding, keeping it in this situation however much it tried to squirm away, hands prisoners of your first pair of wings and chest bleeding from your second. Before long, it would be another body added to your count, cooling and gutted on the forest ground. You swung your tail around them, wrapping once around their slim waist, adding further leverage over it while you dug their intestines out. The strong stench of blood, metallic and tempting, filled the air, bringing fearful tears to the Wolf’s eyes, beady, yellow eyes growing hazy.

You revelled in it’s slow death, your thirst for violence growing with the ages of peace, strung tight like an itch that bothered you incessantly. You hungered, you couldn’t remember the taste of Eldritch meat, the rich ambrosia in the veins or the last whip of their dying breath. Your beak cracked open, white teeth gleaming inside your black mouth until they were dirtied, stained red with the blood of an Entity, you clamped down on it’s neck, breaking the rough skin with enough force to shatter bone, but the Wolf had tough bone. That would only prolong it’s suffering, the pain feeding you as much as the meat and bone would —a delicacy of the ages. You wonder how König and Ghost would think of Eldritch flesh.

You wouldn’t need to eat for another month after this buffet.

Taglist: @warenai @capricorn-anon @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143

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plutoswritingplanet · 7 months

Text

Unpunishable (Shang Tsung x F!Reader)

a/n: no one asked for this, but hey, i've been in love with that soul stealing stink-man, i had to finally write something for him. this one is specifically MK1 story mode adjacent, but i do want to write more (for MK11 and the movie), Cross-Posted on AO3

Warnings: Dub-Con (kinda i guess), Captivity, playing fast and loose with the canon, Kinda Soft Shang?, Reader is a Blood Mage (nothing too serious tho)

Summary: After you and your friends raid Shang Tsung's laboratory, you get caught and kept captive by the Sorcerer himself.

Is it wrong to want more?

That was the thought plaguing you from the beginning of your training at the Wu-Shi temple. Blood magic was frowned upon in Outworld. For you to even cross the threshold of the realm, there had been some serious negotiations set in place. Still, the Fire God has managed to convince Empress Sindel of your assets as a healer.

And, you were a curious thing, after all. Humans were not born with magic in Earthrealm, it could only be bestowed by a God. Which is why your natural talent at commanding blood, both yours, and later someone else's, was a strange sight indeed. Strange enough to stir the interest of Outworld's nobility, granting you a safe passage to the tournament with your training companions.

Which is how you landed here. Between helping Raiden navigate the Tournament, through the secret mission on behalf of Liu Kang, and right up to now. As you sit, poised like a decorative doll, hands locked behind your back, intricate, golden cuffs digging into the skin of your wrists. There are piles upon piles of golden coins surrounding you, gold trickles down the walls in long smears of paint, golden dust stains your skin. A kink forms deep within your spine, from the uncomfortable position you have been put in.

And then, there's the deep, bleeding cut, stretching the expanse of your thigh. It was a stupid idea, tagging along for the mission to find Shang Tsung, and bring him to Liu Kang for questioning. You shouldn't have followed your friends into that one. Even more idiotic, was your short stand against Princess Mileena, as her Tarkat affliction took control of her. The fight, if you could even call it that, ended with you gaining a black eye and an awful, ugly cut, made by Princess's knives.

You shift in your position, trying to relieve some of the discomfort. Instead, the thick fabric of your pants slides on the wound, making you wince in pain. Flexing your fingers behind your back, you try to focus on the constant throbbing in your leg. If the traditional means of escape have been taken from you, perhaps a more finessed touch would be efficient.

Blood trickles on your skin, and every fiber of your being zeros in on the feeling. Sweat forms on your forehead, as you slowly force the stream to run upwards, towards your hip, and around your back. Your fingers flex into intricate positions, a thin line of your own blood reaches your wrist.

You have never tried this trick with your magic, all your life dedicating your gift to the art of healing. Dealing with the blood of other people, stopping, pushing, extracting, those were the things you were good at. Solidifying your own plasma, so it can cut through metal cuffs, was an entirely different topic.

But you have to escape. You have to. There's no telling what will happen to you, should you remain in this prison. Surrounded by gold and jewels, like some sort of perverted spoil of war. You valued yourself too much, to allow that. And, most importantly, your friends needed help. The intel you've gathered while being stuck in this wretched place wasn't much, but it was something, which in turn was enough to keep fighting.

Breathing becomes a hassle. You've already exerted far too much of your power, trying to extract from your bleeding thigh, and your hands shake behind your back, as you visualize particles sticking together, forming something solid, something that would free you of this prison. The liquid curling around your wrist shifts, an outer layer forming around it. All you've managed to achieve, is a sort of coagulated jelly, sticking to your skin.

"Your dedication to freedom in commandable." a familiar, male voice surrounds you, and you whip around, chain jingling at the sudden movement.

There he stands, in all his glory. Your captor.

Shang Tsung stalks towards you, his hands clasped behind his back as he leans down, hair flowing past his shoulders and obscuring the two of you from the world in a thick, black curtain. He smells rich. Sandalwood and jasmine, mixed with a nauseating undertone of blood and rot, no doubt, a leftover from his laboratory. It forces you to reel your head back, to try and escape it, but your efforts are quickly destroyed, as the sorcerer closes in further.

"Your skill, however…" his dark eyes fly around your face, taking in your distressed expression with a cruel smile "Well, let's just say there's some room for improvement."

Your eyebrows crease, as he flashes you a grin, before straightening up to his full height, allowing you a moment of relief from his overpowering presence. The bloody clot you've managed to form around your wrist falls to the floor as soon as you lose focus, and silently, you mourn the feeling of blood sinking between golden coins, never to be recovered again. You couldn't even if you tried, not with the Outworld's Snake right in front of you, circling your body like a hawk ready to strike.

Suddenly, he crouches down, right beside your abused leg, your breath catching in your lungs at the sudden change. The way he moved never seized to amaze you, as much as you hated to admit it. There was grace burned into his very being, every step a slithery dance. It terrified you, rightfully so, but underneath something new was brewing. A feeling, which you could easily dismiss during the rush of fighting, was no longer satisfied with staying dormant.

There was a strange pull between the two of you, like two magnets on the opposite sides of a table. Whenever your eyes met with the Sorcerer, you could feel something buried inside your soul start to wake. It felt so foreign, yet so very familiar at the same time, like a ghost of some ancient prophecy clawing at your mind.

Once you free yourself from this hellish predicament, you'll ask Liu Kang what is going on with you. He has to know, or at least, suspect something, and you knew very well, feelings like those could not be ignored. Too much was at stake, to keep secrets out of some misguided shame. That is, if you even make it out of here, because the man beside you suddenly pushes his robe outwards, producing a small box with a practiced flare, like a magician during one of his shows.

"Do not fret, Mortal" you're not sure if the "pet" name is a thinly veiled insult, or if it's just the way the Sorcerer speaks "This is simply something to heal your leg."

Now, your confusion must be palpable, because Shang Tsung's smile widens, as he takes in your face. Then, he laughs quietly to himself, barely above a whisper, and the hairs at the back of your neck stand straight at the sound.

"I don't want anything from you" it's a pathetic effort at staying defiant, and both of you know it.

Instead of entertaining your little outburst, the Sorcerer grabs your leg with his free hand. Immediately, you start to struggle, despite the sharp pain overtaking your senses, as his grip on you tightens. Then, you let out a sharp squeak, when the man's golden claws tear into the fabric of your pants just above the wound, and dangerously close to the apex of your thighs.

The wound looks back at you, swollen and bloody, and you swallow thickly, as blood flows from your face. You could treat it, successfully as well, if only your hands weren't currently bound behind your back, with very limited moving space. Shang Tsung opens the box with delicate fingers. There is some sort of salve packed inside, a rather large indent right in the middle proving it's been used quite extensively.

His hold on you becomes less of a grip, bordering almost on a soft caress, which brings an entire wave of concerning feelings to the surface of your mind. If he notices the way your cheeks flush, he says nothing, opting instead on dipping his fingers into the salve.

"This might hurt" he warns you, although there is not a single note of concern in his voice.

"What is that? Another Tarkat experiment?" you try to mask the shaking in your voice, as the thought of being experimented on genuinely frightens you.

Your leg twitches under his fingers, and he digs in deeper, turning to face you with an unexpected, serious expression. Again, you feel short of breath, as his dark eyes bear into yours with intensity you haven't yet experienced.

"I would never..." he cuts himself off.

The word, or rather, the tone in which he says it seems to startle you both. His eyebrows furrow in an expression of annoyance, or worry, you're not entirely sure, and he turns back towards your wound, his black hair shielding his face from your gaze. Was that repulsion, hidden within his voice? Your chest suddenly feels much too tight. Was the merciless Sorcerer disgusted by the prospect of conducting his inhumane experiments on you? You weren't sure if the sentiment warmed your heart… Or terrified you to the very core of your being.

Still, all your thoughts leave your brain, as soon as Shang Tsung places his fingers on your wound. At first, a cold feeling overtakes you, pain letting go for just a split second. Then, fire. White, hot, burning ache, seeping into your wound. It feels as if it reaches your bone marrow, and with a silent scream you fall on your back, writhing on the floor. Golden coins fly from under your feet, as you kick around, the golden chain tying your hands together strains, as you pull on it with all your might. Slowly, the pain fades, some sort of tight sensation pulling at the skin of your thigh.

And one more thing.

As you come down from the initial shock of the painful treatment, your brain registers something warm and firm, rubbing circles into your flesh. It takes you another while longer to realize it's Shang Tsung's hand, resting right above the wound, claws tapping on the inside of your leg. He watches you, as your breathing starts to slow, eyes following drops of sweat falling from your forehead and mingling with tears. Your lips parted, your eyelids flutter, and you let out a long sigh, finally being able to look down on your leg.

Where the wound once was, now, a long, pink scar shines in the light of the torches strung around the chamber. Shang Tsung closes the box, before hiding it amongst the many layers of his outfit. You half expect him to stand up and leave, but your hopes are squashed once again, as the man kneels down next to you, turning his attention towards your heaving chest.

His hand comes up, towards your face, claws shining gold. You wince and close your eyes, despite your best efforts to appear strong, but the pain you've anticipated doesn't come. Instead, you feel something sharp drag itself across your forehead. You risk cracking an eye at him, face scrunching, before relaxing into an expression of utter confusion.

There he was, your captor, tormentor, your enemy, brushing flyaway hairs from your sweaty forehead. Your eyes meet, and again, feelings swirl inside your gut, some you're too scared to decipher, and some need no explanation. His lips curl into something akin to a smirk, yet his eyes remain focused on you entirely, thoughts swimming behind his irises. Then, as if some magic spell has been broken, you can see him shift into his true self, the same scheming energy overflowing him, as if a new, frightful idea has formed inside his mind.

Once again, he reaches into the pockets of his robe, this time producing a deliciously red apple. Its skin is shiny, the potent smell makes your mouth water, and suddenly you remember you haven't eaten in Gods know how many hours. With a dark chuckle, the man turns the apple, from side to side, as if he wants you to take full stock of just how sinful it looks. Then, with a simple gesture, he tips it towards your lips. Your eyes snap up at him.

"I can't eat it with my hands tied" your voice sounds rough from all the pain you've experienced before.

"Nonsense, I shall feed you" he answers, as if this was the most obvious way out of your predicament, and the heat of embarrassment mixes with anger in your gut.

"You want me to eat out of your hand like some damned pet?"

Now, he laughs, fully. His eyes crinkle at the sides, as he inclines his head towards you.

"I know full-well you're too dangerous to let roam freely" your eyes flicker towards the apple, "And after all you've been through, aren't you hungry, Mortal?"

Your teeth grind against each other, as you weight your options. Shang Tsung moves the apple again in a tantalizing manner, and your resolve crumbles. Your eyes lock onto his, giving him the best performance of defiance you could muster, and slowly, you open your mouth.

"Good girl" he croons, and for a split second you ponder, if spitting at the man was worth the consequences.

He brings the apple closer, lets it rest on your bottom lip, before giving you a patronizingly inviting smile. Swallowing your pride, your teeth sink into the fruit, and you can't stop the absolutely shameful moan from slipping out of you, as the sweetness of the apple hits your tongue. Damned be precautions, damned be your dignity, you were hungry, and that apple was delicious. So you take a bite so large, it almost reaches the stem, letting some juice flow down your chin.

Shang Tsung watches you eat with a laser focus one might imagine he reserves for his experiments, teeth catching his bottom lip.

Another bite, this one silent on your part. His eyes follow the column of your throat, when you swallow. One more, and you give him a show of looking up at his darkened expression when your teeth all but tear away from the fruit.

Your hands are shaking behind your back, a coil is forming deep within you, and you press your legs tight together, to shield the rest of your dwindling dignity from completely being torn away. He notices. Of course, he does, as your actions seem to have a similar effect on him, if his bitten lips and heavy breaths are anything to go by.

"Why go through all this trouble, Sorcerer?" you ask, licking your lips from the remnants of your meal.

His eyes follow your tongue, before looking back right into your eyes. The rest of the apple is thrown somewhere amongst the golden piles of treasure, forgotten entirely. Time seems to slow down, air becomes thick between the two of you, surrounding you like a vat of tar. The pull you've been feeling since meeting this infamous monster becomes almost too strong to ignore.

Shang Tsung raises his hand, grabbing your chin and pushing it upwards. There is a myriad of emotions running rampant on his face, until it finally settles on something so dark and wanting, your stomach tightens at the mere sight. His lips come down upon yours in an avalanche, slipping towards your chin, where he provocatively licks at your skin, tasting the apple's juices and humming to himself.

Your voice comes out as a small whimper, entire body reacting to his kiss, as you fight between pushing him away and pulling him much closer. He decides for you, coming back to claim your lips again, as his hands start to travel up the sides of your stomach, gathering your shirt in the process.

His clawed gauntlets scratch at your skin, not enough to actually hurt you, but enough to elicit a wave of shudders from your body. Finally, he pulls away, considering your swollen lips and disheveled hair as one would their newest painting. Pride and mischief mix well in his black irises, and he licks his lips slowly, making you blush impossibly red.

"You look quite beautiful, like this" he croons, tangling his free hand in the hair at the back of your neck, "So pliant under my fingers."

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him, poised above you with his usual smirk gracing his features. Then a thought materializes in your head, a chance at finding an escape route, if you could play your cards right.

"Untie me" you moan wantonly, arching your neck, as if to give him better access.

He launches at your exposed pulse point immediately, licking a long stripe up, before giving your skin a few delicious nips, ones that make you almost forget your half-formed plan. Almost. Gathering all your resolve, you writhe against him. His clothes are hiding a lean, but well-muscled body, and you wish so hard, you could run your hands down his chest.

"Untie me, please" you don't recognize your voice, so broken and needy.

The Snake stops his ministrations, tugging at your hair, before sliding his hand towards your shoulders, where he grabs you and pulls you even closer, so your body is leaning almost completely on his lap. His other hand makes quick work of the zipper on your trousers and worms itself into your underwear. A wave of humilation hits you, as your pink, polka-dotted panties look at you from between the fly.

"I can't risk you getting away" he whispers in your ear and takes a long whiff of your hair, humming in pleasure, "My Benefactor has made it clear, you are crucial to their plan."

That startles you. Or it would, if the Sorcerer hadn't began to delicately rub his fingers over your lower lips, just shy of entering you. It's torture, a new brand of cruel experiment, you think, as you buck your hips against him, trying to get some sort of pressure

"I would've thought you wanted me for yourself" you pant between heated kisses you're leaving on the exposed skin of is neck, "It certainly - oh - seems so."

The hand which is currently not occupied sneaks around your middle, before grabbing a handful of your right breasts.

"Would you like that?" he asks into the crown of your head, his fingers finally dipping into your opening.

It takes you several tries to form an answer in your brain, and another few to vocalize it. His thumb makes quick work of finding your bundle of nerves, and instantly starts to abuse that newly-found knowledge. You bite your lip, hard, to stop any sounds from escaping you, but the Sorcerer wouldn't have it. His mouth finds yours, and he swallows your moans of pleasure with an approving hum reverberating through his chest,

"Would you like to be kept by me? Be mine and mine alone" his lips brush against yours as he talks, and you tug mercilessly on your binds, wanting to hold onto something, anything. Him.

"I-" you can't quite finish your sentence, because the hand that's been, for the most part, playing with your breast like it's a stress ball, begins to travel further down, until it rests on the lower part of your stomach. "No."

It comes out as choked and desperate, as his fingers curl upwards inside you, hitting a spot that nearly makes you fly off the ground. He laughs, right in your ear.

"No?"

"No" you swallow, "I'm- oh fuck... I'm too good for you."

Another deliberate motion of his fingers and your toes start to curl. He might be the key to undoing the entire universe, but hell, he does know how to use his fingers. Long and elegant fingers, trained by years spent on studying ad practicing spells, made dexterous by whatever horrors he has committed in his laboratories. Fingers, which are currently pumping in and out of you with a pace set specifically to drive you insane.

"Yes" he hisses through his teeth, pressing his nose to the crown of your head, "You are too good for me, aren't you? That's why you're here, taking my fingers like you were meant for it."

Gods, his voice really isn't helping you focus. By the feeling of something hard and rather large poking you in your thigh, you guess you're not the only one getting off on the sound of his voice. A coil starts to tighten deep within you, growing tighter with every movement of his fingers, every word coming out of his filthy mouth

"Even the Fire God couldn't keep you away from me" his thumb presses down onto your clit and begins to rub it in quick circles, "He was so scared to let you go into my lair, wasn't he?"

You nod absentmindedly, thrashing in the Sorcerer's lap, as a strong shiver of pleasure wrecks your body. Experimentally, you move your backside, rubbing against his growing erection, and the man hisses into your ear, his movements faltering for a split-second.

"He was right" Shang Tsung seethes the words into your skin, before coming down to bite on your shoulder, "We will be each other's undoing."

His palm presses flat on your lower stomach, as his efforts inside your pants increase tenfold. The coil is so close to breaking, you can feel tears start to form in the corners of your eyes.

"Ladies first, sweet thing" he hums, pressing your writhing body even closer to himself, "Come undone for me."

And you do, as if compelled by some ancient magic. Your face buries itself into his robes, teeth catching on the skin of the juncture between his neck and his shoulder. And you bite, hard enough to break his skin, taste his blood on your tongue. The coil shatters, and so does your grip on the world. You let out a muffled wail, the Sorcerer pulling you even closer, engulfing you entirely in his presence, his smell. Your legs are shaking, as Shang Tsung lets you ride out your orgasm on his nimble fingers, and soon, your body becomes boneless.

He doesn't let you go for a while longer, still pressed to your body, swaying with you in some sort of perversion of intimacy. Or perhaps, as much as the thought terrifies you, there is some link building between the two of you. Something more than lust and curiosity. Then, his hand leaves your pants, coming up out of your field of vision. You catch a glimpse of his soaked fingers, and your imagination fills in, what might be happening just above your head, as an obscenely wet sound of sucking reaches your ears.

Then, like the gentleman he is, he helps you button your pants back up, straightens your shirt and ties your hair more neatly. You want to kiss him again. There is another need brewing inside you, as you watch him stand up and dust his clothes, which are now stained with gold dust in places.

Is it wrong to want more?

You want to reach up, brush your fingers through his hair, kiss him until he can't speak clearly. You wants to feel his breath quicken again, feel his pulse run wild. You want to drain his blood and feed on his power until there's nothing left.That last thought freezes you in your spot, cold shivers climbing up your body like a dead hand gripping you from beneath the earth.

Too dark, too power-hungry, and you were none of those things. You never will be.

"Beautiful" he murmurs again, watching you from above, but this moment of sentiment is cut shortly, as his head snaps towards the entrance to the chamber, expression souring instantly

Your eyes follow his, but there's nothing you can see in the darkness. A chill runs up your spine.

"Get ready, Mortal" oh, so we're back to thinly veiled insults, "My Benefactor will want to meet you soon."

With that, he turns to leave, not sparing you a second glance, and you're back to being alone. Used and left between the piles upon piles of gold surrounding you, like your part of this chamber. A pretty thing, stained gold, made to exist only when it's owner is looking at it.

You need to get out of here, before you lose your mind.

#my writing #shang tsung #shang tsung x reader #mortal kombat #mortal kombat x reader #mortal kombat 1 #mk1 2023 #i love shang in every version but i really like the way they carried his character in this game #there's more nuance to him now #at least that's what i think mk stans don't stab me

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thorougly-melted-brains · 6 months

Text

Ghost keeps a clean house. Soap knows this is true for his pack, his office, his room, and—to all assumptions—his apartment.

The circumstances of how Soap got there are too jumbled with the high of a mission and the drop of mandated time off. He didn’t want to take time off, neither did Ghost.

He can’t quite remember which one of them fumbled through the offer to stick together- only to maintain their schedules, of course. They still had additional reports and inventory to do, it was only tactical.

So now here he stands, in Ghost’s wholly spartan apartment. It’s been stripped of all charm and frivolity not painted on the walls or molded into the quaintly patterned glass by the front door. It’s not intentionally devoid of comfort- Ghost may be many things, but even he didn’t go out of his way to live without small comforts. There’s an old but soft couch, rugs and mats placed around the doors, and even lamps to offset the harsh over-heads.

The most curious thing, the one that really catches Soaps eyes, is the only visible adornment, quilts.

Great, sprawling tiled blankets (tapestries?) are hung from most of the walls. There’s one draped over the back of the sofa, tucked into the seat of the solitary plush chair. There’s smaller, flat pillows on the few chairs in the kitchen. There’s even placemats on the table. All colored with swirls of vibrant linen in dazzling patterns.

Ghost catches him staring as he leads them through his space (They decided on his apartment, given Soap’s was a bachelor pad, while Ghost had a guest room).

“My mum used to quilt.” Ghost says cryptically, and snags the pack off Soap’s shoulder while he’s still too busy gawking to protest.

Later, after they’ve showered off their travel and eaten something not wrapped in plastic and some amount of mud, Soap tries to breach the topic. Ghost replies as vaguely as ever,

“She tried to make me a baby blanket, never finished it.” Which takes Soap for a spin because based on what Ghost had previously (not) said, he’d assumed his mom had made them. He leaves it be.

Much later, after they’ve settled back into some semblance of their normal routine, Soap finally figures it out. It’s late at night, later than he should be awake after running himself ragged in the gym.

He’s stuck in a state of un-anxiety, which is in itself anxiety inducing, when he hears something next door. It’s rhythmic, mechanical, sharp, but in a way that’s distinctly well milled.

It’s coming from Ghost’s room, and if it were earlier in the night he might’ve just let it be, but he’s curious and without anything better to do.

He drags himself out of bed, slips on a shirt, and makes his way to Ghost’s room. It had been excluded from the gruff house tour he’d been giving on arrival, and right as he creaks the door open he understands why.

There are shelves covering the whole wall opposite to the door, obviously custom built, filled with bat upon bat of colorful fabric. The same colorful fabric, Soap realizes, that makes up the sole decoration in Ghost’s apartment. Sat at a desk, hunched slightly over a near-antique sewing machine, is Ghost.

Soap stares.

Ghost stares back at him, deceptively warm in the light of the machine. Soap can only imagine what he looks like, half awake and face cavernous in the dark of the hallway. There’s a momentary stand-off, Soap inanimate, Ghost giving him a look of challenge.

Soap breaks it first, glancing away and to Ghost’s project. It’s half-way finished, colored with calming blues and grays. Ghost seems satisfied and turns back to his work, ignoring him entirely.

Soap, sleep addled and out of his depth, takes the dismissal for all it could be. He shuts the door behind him, for both their sanities, and sits down on Ghost’s bed. It’s covered in a thick quilt, made of reds and golds and the occasional maroon hexagon. It’s unlike anything he’s thought of Ghost as, but he’s beginning to think this is the most raw he’ll ever see him.

The hum of the machine, combined with his tiredness, or maybe with the air of safety that curled around him with Ghost in his sights, starts to lull Soap to sleep.

He blinks himself an awake every time, waiting for the cozy haze to lift and Ghost to kick him out. But it never does, and the time between his eyes closing and opening slowly becomes longer and longer.

He must’ve properly fallen asleep when he’s jolted awake by the sound of plastic on plastic. Ghost had switched off his machine and was clamping closed a large, sorted box of pins. He glances back at Soap,

“Go to sleep, Mactavish.”

And Soap is nothing if not trusting of Ghost, so he does as he’s told. He’s woken again, briefly, by Ghost pulling the quilt out from underneath where he’d laid on top of it. There’s a rush of cold air, a dip in the bed beside him, and then the warm blanket being draped over him.

He makes a slight noise of alarm as he realizes it’s Ghost crawling into bed with him. Ghost huffs and grabs him by the arm, stopping him from sitting up and pulling his head to rest on a pillow in one motion. He lets go, then, and turns away from Soap.

“You can go if you want.” He rasps. Soap belatedly realizes he hadn’t talked to the other man much the previous day. He hums in clumsy thanks before finally falling asleep.

Later, Soap asks (he doesn’t beg, he’s a grown adult) Ghost to make him a quilt. He doesn’t expect him to say yes, or to have him pick the patterns, or to let him intrude on his room again almost nightly, but Ghost does.

They both know it’s not about the quilt.

#the quilting is here #i will make ghost a seamster every chance i get #arts and crafts (homo edition)#simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #ghostsoap #soapghost #cod mw2 #writing

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akiswife1237 · 1 month

Text

AMORALITY

When the king of curses stuns himself by falling for someone who represents everything he's not.

This will be a series! I'll try to update frequently but again, tag if you want to join the ride!

tw: smut, violence, mentions of violence, angst,

true form sukuna, this also takes place in the lovely heian era

This story will kind of go backwards LOL, it starts with Sukuna being a confused simp and then it delves more into the angst hehehe

Again, I'm not religious at all so heavily religious ppl i mean no harm or disrespect! there's no specific religion mentioned as well

The sky was adorned with an intense blue, the clouds scattered all across as they hover over the blossoming flowers that have grown beautifully over time. The warm wind blew gently over the grass and you smiled peacefully as you tended to the community garden in front of the church.

Your, church.

Due to the good deeds you had done for your village and decently populated community, the people decided to appoint you as their priest. Someone who would spread the word of their god, someone who would provide wisdom and comfort, and someone who was pure.

You thought the task too heavy at first, but afraid to let down the people who relied on you, you gave in.

Things got easier over time, and you performed just as everyone expected of you; you gave them everything they needed and more. It was the least you could do for the people who adored you so dearly.

As you continued to tend to your garden, you halted in tilting your watering can when you felt a strong aura behind you, it was so heavy that you could feel it all throughout your body, the hairs on the back of your neck standing up as you froze in place.

As you fought against this unknown feeling, you forced your self to turn around, your eyes widening when you saw an absolute beast of a man standing in front of you.

He was as tall as ever, definitely taller than 6 feet, thats for certain. His well-kept and muscular body was nearly covered in what seemed to be tattoos? You couldn't tell. But what caught your eye the most was the two pairs of arms that he had, one pair was seemingly ready to strike you as the other hands on his lower arms rested against his hips. He did little to cover himself, and you didn't fail to notice the presence of a mouth near his abdomen as well.

Craning your head upward, you were met with crimson-red eyes—no, multiple crimson-red eyes staring down at you—and the pink-haired man's face wore a slight scowl.

Despite looking like a beast and a half, you couldn't deny that, despite his unique qualities perplexing you, he was indeed handsome.

Sukuna had been busy traveling from his fruitless missions and was as irritated as ever. Though the reward had been heavy in gold and luxuries, the requests he took on were pretty much useless and resulted in him just burning the shameless town to the ground.

He needed something else to satisfy him, and fast.

As he headed north, deep in thought, he suddenly paused, a wicked grin painting his face when he remembered just what was in the town he'd be passing through.

A church.

He had heard from passerbys that the priestess's there were absolutely divine, hopeful, and represented purity itself.

He couldn't wait to ruin them. Perhaps he'd kidnap one after the mass slaughter, if he felt generous enough.

He had nearly made it to the entrance before pausing when he saw someone outside, his wicked grin only growing wider.

Perfect, his first victim.

As he drew closer, he suddenly paused when the priestess tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. He now had a full view of her face, which made him freeze once he got a good look at it.

He felt a sudden rush in his chest, his heartbeat quickening the longer he stared. The rush he felt wasn't the normal one he had; it wasn't one of adrenaline, but one of... surprise?

He was stunned, to say the least.

He tried to ignore this feeling and drew closer to the priestess, he had his own mission after all, but he couldn't deny the foreign feeling sitting heavy in his chest.

He was now behind you and just as he was about to strike, the priest' instincts suddenly kicked in and she turned around to meet his gaze.

He scowled when he realized he couldn't come as quietly as he hoped, oh well, he was never good at being subtle anyways.

The moment your eyes met, though, he couldn't move, he felt his world slowing down and he gulped as he stayed in place, the scowl still on his face.

Your innocent eyes batted up at him with confusion and your lips parted so perfectly that it was enough to turn his brain into mush. It didn't help that the sunlight highlighted all of your beauty perfectly.

You were unlike anything he's ever seen before, absolutely breathtaking...

...What was he here to do again?

an: that's chapter one! stay tuned for chapter two hehehe, again comment to be part of the tag if you want to be updated !!

tags: @getossluttt @busyreader17 @scarasluvvr @unknown5029 @koshii-meji @genderfluidnuggettt @sterzin

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk smut #sukuna x you #sukuna smut #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #king of curses #amorality #divider by cafekitsune

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many-shades-of-violence · 8 months

Text

fireworks

✢ pairing: Trafalgar D. Law x Reader

✢ characters: Trafalgar D. Law, Shachi, Penguin, Ikkaku , Bepo, Jean Bart

✢ word count: 4.500

✢ genre: romance, slice-off life, nsfw

✢ contents: NSFW, kimono-sex, switch-dynamics, body-worship, tattoos, mention of infertility due to amber-lead poisoning

The vibrant streets of the Flower Capital burst forth with a kaleidoscope of colors, an intricate tapestry woven from the threads of life, sound, and movement. As you meandered through the bustling streets, a symphony of scents enveloped you – the intoxicating perfume of exotic spices mingling with the vivacious banter of vendors. It was a sensory masterpiece, a feast for the senses that you savored as you immersed yourself in the rich fabric of the country's capital.

It had been a mere few days since your arrival in Wano Kuni alongside the rest of the Heart Pirates, united in your mission to challenge the reign of Kaido in alliance with the Straw Hats. The details of Law's intricate plan had initially left you uncertain, the memory of his harrowing experiences in Dressrosa still sending shivers down your spine to this day. The lingering scar on his left arm, was a testament to the battles he had fought and the risks he had taken, knowing that it could have been his last.

However, amidst the colorful chaos that was Wano Kuni, your crew thrived more than ever. Especially Bepo, Shachi, and Penguin embraced the country´s vibrant culture with an infectious enthusiasm, but even the more reserved members, like Jean Bart and Ikkaku, had found themselves swept up in the festivities. And as much as you longed to fully immerse yourself in the island's otherworldly charm, the shadow of the Straw Hat Pirates and their unpredictable influence constantly loomed over your enjoyment.

This evening, however, you had finally temporarily relinquished your role as a spy. A customer's passing mention of the upcoming fireworks had piqued your curiosity, and with a sense of adventure, you decided to seize the opportunity, since they weren´t a thing in your hometown. Dressed in a borrowed summer kimono, its lightweight cotton fabric adorned with a subtle plum pattern, you ventured into the festivities, silently hoping to catch a glimpse of your crew amidst the crowd.

As the sun dipped lower, casting a warm golden glow over Wano's bustling streets, the atmosphere crackled with anticipation. The town had transformed into a vibrant tableau of color and light, adorned with fluttering banners and lanterns that painted a vivid contrast against the deepening dusk. The tantalizing aroma of street food wafted through the air, a call that beckoned your senses.

Stalls had sprung up, each offering an enticing array of culinary delights – skewers of yakitori sizzling on open grills, mounds of freshly rolled sushi that seemed almost too beautiful to eat, and steaming bowls of fragrant ramen that whispered promises of comfort. Amidst the culinary treasures, you thought you caught a glimpse of Sanji, the Straw Hat Cook, bustling at one of the stalls. Yet your attention was quickly diverted by a striking and familiar figure – no other than your captain, Trafalgar Law.

Law stood by the sidewalk, his gaze fixed on a group of children engrossed in a lively goldfish-catching game. His appearance was a curious sight, dressed in a black kimono with a red haori, the vivid reds and gold accents creating a captivating contrast against the traditional backdrop. A soft chuckle escaped your lips as you noted that despite his best efforts to blend in, Law couldn't part with his signature hat.

With a stealthy approach, you reached his side, your touch light as you tapped his shoulder to announce your presence. His attention shifted, and the sight of you in the borrowed kimono seemed to elicit a reaction – a slow, lazy half-smile that tugged at the corner of his lips. His voice was laced with amusement as he spoke, his words playfully teasing. "And who do I have the pleasure with?"

Caught off guard by his question, a flush crept up your cheeks, quickly stifled by a cough as you composed yourself. "Don´t tease me and speak for yourselves, captain." you replied.

Law's grin stiffled as he gripped the black fabric of his kimono between two fingers, apparently a bit self-concious. “Shachi, Penguin, and Bepo set me up on this. Had a whole ass speech about “embracing Wano culture” and what not.”

Your gaze traveled over Law's kimono-clad form, the sight of him in the traditional attire an unexpected yet fitting sight, trying your best to not oggle his tattoo lingered chest too much. "Well good for them, they´ve finally developed something a kin to taste. Looks good on you, especially with Kikoku" you said, pointing to the long sword leaning on his right shoulder. You couldn´t help but muster a chuckle as your captain blushed faintly at his ears, his slight discomfort at your back-handed compliment endearing in its own way.

You patted his shoulder playfully before steering the conversation to a more neutral topic. "So, what brings you here?" Law's gaze returned to the lively crowd, his tone thoughtful as he responded. "I'm actually keeping an eye out for another Supernova.” Surprised by his mention of the Supernovas, your curiosity piqued. "Do you need assistance?" you offered, ready to lend a hand if needed.

Law waved off your offer with a casual gesture. "Nah, with how crowded it´s getting, I think my plan went down the drain anyway. And the last thing I want is to cause a commotion." Your thoughts briefly drifted to the Straw Hat Pirates, the very embodiment of chaos and commotion, before returning to Law's presence. "Guess so." you quipped.

Law's attention shifted to you, an interested glint in his eyes. "And what about you?"

"Well, as you can see the tea house owner practically insisted, I take the evening off and put me into this thing here. The lady’s been obsessed with dolling me up since she saw me in my boiler suit.”

You sighed raising the hem of your kimono.

Law's lips curved into a small smile. "I can see why.” Surprised at his flirtatious retort you looked up to your captain, who looked briefly at you, before returning his gaze back to the crowds.

“Aw, that´s sweet of you, captain." You retorted giving him a faint slap on his shoulder. He seemed to stiffen up at that, making you retreat your hand and quickly changing topics so things wouldn´t get too awkward. “Anyhow, I was just on the way to look around the festival stalls. Wanna join?” You offered politely, not thinking he would partake your offer. To your surprise he answered very quickly, letting himself be guided by you deeper into the festivities. “Lead the way.”

Amidst the lively streets of the Flower Capital, you and Law continued to explore, the festival together. As you walked side by side, the captain's reserved demeanor seemed to melt away, replaced by a sense of ease. The elusive surgeon of death had momentarily laid down his mantle, revealing a side of him that only a few including his crew were privileged to see.

Time seemed to blur as you lost yourselves in the vibrant spectacle around you. The lanterns cast a warm, inviting glow, while the distant strains of traditional music filled the air. Your conversation flowed effortlessly, touching on everything from local customs to the challenges you had each faced on your respective missions.

As the night deepened, the festival's vibrant energy seemed to surge, an electric current that pulsed through the heart of the Flower Capital. The lanterns lining the streets emitted a soft, golden glow, weaving an enchanting spell that enveloped the surroundings. After enjoying a mesmerizing traditional dance performance and marveling at the dexterity of street performers, you indulged in the sweet delight of a candied apple. It was in the midst of this delightful moment that your attention was drawn to a spectacle that transcended the ordinary – people launching paper lanterns into the night sky.

"Look over there, Captain!" you exclaimed, directing Law's gaze toward the ascending lanterns, a scene that painted the backdrop of the moonlit landscape. Just as he was about to utter a question, a playful smile curved his lips. Your curiosity was piqued, your eyebrow quirking in response. "What?"

With a gentle gesture, Law used your own finger to point at his cheek, the mischievous smile refusing to fade. "Got a bit of caramel there."

You felt a blush warm your cheeks as you instinctively lifted the hem of your kimono to rectify the sugary mishap. However, a practical hesitation stilled your hand in mid-air. The tea house would surely reprimand any stain on their attire. Almost as if sensing your dilemma, Law stepped in with characteristic grace for a doctor like him. "Here, let me do it."

You nodded, a tad taken aback by his swift assistance. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he wiped away the caramel with his finger, leaving a tingling warmth in its wake. Though you flinched slightly from the unexpected contact, Law seemed unperturbed, his focus solely on the task at hand, like the pro he was. The proximity allowed you to catch a faint, intriguing blend of his distinctive scent, a musky and herbal aroma that stirred a comforting familiarity. You nearly cringed when you felt how giddy it made you feel. A feeling that definitely transcended the boundaries of your roles as captain and crewmate.

"There, all done," Law murmured, his voice a soothing undertone that seemed to reverberate through the air. As he was just on the way to restore the distance between you, your gazes met for a fleeting second, a silent exchange where his unwavering yellow gaze met your own. With your best effort your tried to control your urges to look at his strong features, including his full lustrous lips. Just when you failed miserably, your eyes hungrily flashing down, a sudden burst of sound forced your attention skyward, ignorant of his gaze definitely not missing your reaction.

The night erupted into a dazzling spectacle of color and light, fireworks painting the heavens with vivid strokes of red, blue, and gold. The crowd around you gasped and cheered in unison, their collective awe echoing through the air as they started looking for a better spot to view the firework.

Caught in the radiant shower of lights, you felt a sense of enchantment take hold, not able to move a tad, for this was your first time experiencing a firework. The colors reflected in your eyes, mirroring the effervescent spirit of the festival itself. Beside you, Law's gaze wasn´t drawn skyward however, his usually impassive demeanor softened by the sheer wonder of the display on your face, alight by the kindling flames in the sky.

"Say, y/n-ya, is this your first firework?" Law's voice broke through your reverie, drawing your attention momentarily as you nodded, still entranced by the display at hand. He smiled faintly, before grabbing you carefully around your shoulder, to port you away from the masses,

“Room!”

You let out a surprised noise, as Law´s Room switched you out with a few stones of the close-by riverbed you were standing in front of now. You usually wouldn´t have missed the lingering hesitation of your captain, a fraction of a moment too long, before he withdrew his arm, but you were way to mesmerized with the many fireworks ablaze in the night sky.

"You know, Captain, you´re very kind." you remarked, your words carried on the wind, still entranced by the luminous spectacle. A quick, soft reply escaped his lips, laced with an unspoken gratitude. "Don't mention it." His words were followed by a muttered addendum, revealing a hint of vulnerability. "Besides, I wouldn't do this for just anyone." Your laughter bubbled forth, a grin painting your features as Law's cheeks tinged a deeper shade of pink in response. Leaning slightly against him, your shoulders brushed.

"And here I thought our captain was always this chivalrous" you joked, catching Law off-guard, his embarrassment evident. Chuckling softly, you reassured him, your attention drifting back to the night sky. "I'm only teasing. I really don´t mind. Truth be told, I'm thoroughly enjoying this. My only regret is that it's passing by so quickly." With a contemplative look, you glanced downward, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, the gentle night breeze weaving through your locks.

Your heart soared triumphantly as Law's resonant baritone voice echoed your unspoken desire, his words falling like a melody upon your ears. “It doesn´t have to, y/n-ya.” As you looked back up to him, you met his serene gaze, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Are you sure, captain?”

He sighed defeated, before crossing the last of distance between you two, cupping your cheecks with his hands. “Here, let me show you.” Carefully he planted his lips on yours. You were quick to answer his call, hands rested atop his haori, you met his lips in a slow rhythm, while the display of fireworks reached its climax.

Up close to your captain, you could once again smell his cologne, blending beautifully with the warmth rising between the two of you. You felt Law's hands slowly starting to explore your body, tracing its contours with his fingertips, sending shivers down your spine.

Breaking your kiss only to catch a breath, Law whispered softly to you, "Perhaps we should continue this elsewhere." You agreed with a mischievous raise of your eyebrows. "Polar Tang?" Law gave you a horrified expression, already envisioning the worst-case scenario of Shachi, Penguin, and Bepo stumbling upon the two of you mid-coitus. "Are you out of your mind?!" You playfully stuck your tongue out at him. "Just kidding. Let's go to my place at the tea shop."

"Are you sure? We wouldn't want to compromise your cover," Law raised an eyebrow. "There's always outside..." "The tea shop it is."

You gestured for Law to approach the bedding, your back turned to his tall frame. "Would you mind assisting me with this?" you asked, referring to the complex Wano clothing that was proving difficult to remove without some help. "As much as Wano's attire is beautiful, it’s a pain in the ass to get out of without an extra hand. Really nothing compared to our boiler suits.”

Law couldn't help but smirk at your remark. He swiftly discarded his haori, hat and sword, his skilled hands moving to unfasten the sash's ribbon. "Think you got me convinced" he quipped, a playful tone in his voice. "Feels like unwrapping a present." You gave Law a look over shoulder, watching as he expertly unraveled the intricate bindings of the kimono. With his task completed, the fabric now hung loosely around your shoulders, its long hem cascading. Law met your gaze and shared a tender kiss, his scrawny goatee tingling your chin, before gently sliding the fabric down your shoulder.

Softly peppering kisses along your shoulder blade, his slender tattooed fingers pulling the cotton fabric away from your body with a tantalizing slowness. You turned to face him, clad only in your underwear, playfully nibbling on your lower lip as a silent request for entrance to his mouth. He willingly granted you permission, his submission deepening as your hands slid into the opening of his kimono, trailing along his chest. The loose white sash around his waist unraveled in a single swift motion, unveiling your captain's tanned skin adorned with intricate tattoos. As you traced your fingertips over the dark lines, a shiver of anticipation coursed through Law's body, a reaction he couldn't suppress.

Taking advantage of the moment, you slipped your tongue into his mouth, engaging in a languid and passionate dance. Your lead was embraced wholeheartedly by Law as your tongues intertwined. It was surprising to witness how effortlessly Law, the famed Surgeon of Death and former Samurai of the Sea, surrendered to the sensations, heightening your attraction to him even more.

Straddling your raven-haired captain, his partially undone kimono cascading around his slender, muscular physique, exposing his nearly bare form, you momentarily parted from the kiss. Your lips and tongue embarked on a tantalizing exploration of his body, leaving a trail of fervent kisses in their wake. Starting from his neck, your journey traced a path down toward his nipples, lavishing each one with devoted attention, coaxing them into hardness. The sensations prompted a groan to escape Law's lips, his fingers clutching the bedding beneath him as he fought to muffle the rising tide of moans. Simultaneously, one hand sought refuge above his mouth to stifle his own sounds of pleasure. Your keen perception didn't overlook the telltale twitch of his cock between his legs, a testament to the effect your actions were having on him. "God damn, y/n-ya, slow down, will ya? I'm not gonna dissolve into thin air anytime soon." You looked up at him with a teasing grin, saluting him with a wink. "Ay, ay, captain."

And call me Law, will ya? It makes me feel weird hearing it in a setting like this," you chuckled, giving him a peck on the lips. "Alright, alright. Though, I can always call you 'Doctor' if you're more into that?" You grinned when he averted your gaze, clearly embarrassed by your dirty talk. “M-Maybe another time.” He stifled, his hands searching again for more contact with your skin. “Cute. But if this shouldn´t be a one-time thing, you got some convincing to do.” you winked. On your call Law claimed your lips in a heated kiss, his hands ghosting over every curve of your body, pressing his hips against your own to create more friction between you. A moan escaped your lips, when he slid his hand around your back, releasing you of your bra and starting to knead the subtle flesh of one of your breasts with his calloused hand.

As you pressed yourselves harder onto Laws clothed cock, he let out another groan, his lips meeting you once more, before he finally wetted his long fingers with his mouth and dipped them inside your panties. A low stifle erupted his tattooed chest when he found the wet spot that formed there. “Guess I´m not the only one excited.” he proclaimed, wetting his lips in the process. As he entered you with two fingers, you cried out in pleasure. You had guessed it with Ikkaku one way to drunk evening, but now you finally had hand on prove that his fine motor skills definitely translated outside of the op.

“Fuck, Law.” You cried out as he slowly scissored you open, his thumb dragging menacingly above your swollen clit. The feeling of being filled by his long fingers was ravishing, and the fact that they were tattooed, only turned you on more. Additionally, Law hungrily sucking at your tits like a starved man, didn´t help the whole ordeal.

You bitt your thumb, to suppress a loud cry from the pleasure that build with rapid speed in your core. When you had teased your captain, that he needed to do some convincing first, you wouldn´t have thought he took it so seriously, but maybe you had calculated his enchantment with you on a wrong scale from the beginning. With each calculated stroke from Law, the sensation inside you grew stronger until finally, you screamed out in ecstasy, your first release of the night crashing down on you. Dazed out from your orgasm, you were too late to realize Law cleaning your release from his fingers sloppily with his tongue.

“What are you doing?!” you cried out exhausted, trying to swipe his hand from his face. “Relax. Just savoring my treat. You´re as sweet as I´d imagined.” He grinned at you, flashing you his pearly white teeth. “You´re a nasty one Trafalgar. How long have you been imagining this anyway?” you mewled, discarding of your soaked panties before tending to his own confinement.

He gave you a shrug before pulling you in for another kiss, his tongue searching longingly for your own. You grimaced, tasting yourselves on his lips. “Honestly, y´a don´t wanna know.”

And honestly, it should´ve give you the ick to hear that from your supervisor and captain but at the same time, but at the moment you couldn´t think of anything hotter.

When you first joined the Heart Pirates, after Ikkaku had found you in cold blood nearly offing two burglars with a shorty after they tried to rob an elderly couple, her promises of a warm bed, delicious food, a bear as a navigator, and the captain being a bombshell weren't exaggerated at all. But with all professionalism, you wouldn't agree to that out in the open. Except maybe if you had one or two shots too many.

Back in the present, you smiled inwardly at the chance you took and everything it had led up to, this shared moment of intimacy with none other than your captain included.

As you released Law cocks out of his imprisonment you couldn´t help but tease his stiff rod with a quick swipe of your thumb, earning yourselves a deep groan from the man in question. The tan cock sprang free with much vigor, a bit of pre-cum having already assembled at the dark pink slit. Experimentally you gave him a few lazy strokes, before Law signaled you to hoist yourself above him, so he could enter you. You cocked an eyebrow, a bit surprised that a doctor like him didn´t seem to care much for protection. He seemed to know exactly what you were thinking about, as he gave your hip a reassuring squeeze. "Don't worry, I'm infertile," he said, looking at you with a casual expression, causing your eyes to widen in surprise at how nonchalantly he addressed the topic. "What? It's no big deal. Just a result of a hereditary disease."

You gulped, feeling a bit unsure of how to react to this fact, but then decided to drop the topic for now. After all, Law was the doctor and likely had more knowledge of his own insides than anyone would ever want – well, except for the Surgeon of Death himself, that is.Formularbeginn

Holding yourselves steady with your hand on his broad shoulders, you slowly sank yourselves down on his cock, a shiver running down your spine as you felt him protrude your wet insides. Groans escaped you both as sheeted himself inside you, the skin-on-skin contact making your core starting to coil once more.

When you had finally accommodated to Law´s grith you started to move, lazily dragging your hips up and down, fingers digging into his tan muscles. Your captain reacted with much enthusiasm, his grip on your hands not only steading you in your motion but giving him the needed point of gravity to meet your motions with his own hip thrusts. No sooner than later the room was filled with the rhythmical slapping of sweaty skin and a salve of both of your moans, relishing in each other’s ecstasy.

Just when you had sunken down once more on Laws length he suddenly snaked his hands firmly around you, locating you on your back and him atop of you, the last fabric of his black kimono falling down onto the ground, revealing the full glory of his tattooed body. You racked your nails over his back from the pleasure the newly found angle brought you, while Law pounded your weeping cunt. Spurred on, you hooked your legs around his hips nearly drilling the poor man to the hilt inside you.

“y/n-ya, don´t do that or….” Law groaned out stopping mid-sentence. “Or what?” you asked teasingly, giving one of his nipples a slow pull. “Fuck.” You had your answer, when you felt Law rot one last time against you, painting your insides with his cum as he emptied himself inside you. Feeling the sudden hot splashes of his seed inside you made you contract like crazy, milking him dry of his last drop.

As he slid out of you, he kissed you on the forehead, slowly draping your bedding over both of you and nestled himself into the comfy covers of your futon with you in his arms. As you came down from your own high you suddenly registered that despite his affirmation, Law had cum inside you.

“Say didn´t you-“ .” Law muffled in your hair, clearly tired from your escapade. “I said I´m infertile, not that I can´t cum y/n-ya. Read a book for once”.

"I think I'll pass," you retorted, rolling your eyes in a playful manner before snuggling into Law's embrace. He slowly ran his fingers through your hair as he asked in a low baritone voice, "Are you alright? Need anything?" You shook your head wearily, stifling a yawn with your hand. "Just a good night's sleep. Rest can wait till t´morrow."

"Same here," he replied, his grasp tightening around you.

Just before sleep embraced both of you, you whispered gently into his ear, "Oh, and by the way, you passed with flying colors." Instantly, a subtle smile adorned Law's usually impassive countenance as slumber claimed him. As you drifted off into a tranquil sleep, a final utterance lingered in your ears.

"Glad to hear that."

#writing #my stuff #one piece #op #trafalgar d law #trafalgar d. water law #trafalgar d water law #trafalgar law x reader #shachi #penguin #bepo #ikakku #jean bart #heart pirates #one piece x reader

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siriusleee · 6 months

Text

shot through with gold

“I smashed the whole house to bits,” Johnny keeps going, turning to put the milk in the refrigerator. “Had to get Simon over here to help me put it back together. It was his idea by the way. To get the mug fixed. He said you’d be mad if it was gone when you came home.”

tags: coming back home, implied torture, capture, smut, riding, reader is afab, mentions of medical procedures, mentions of blood word count: 7.7k author's note: This was a commission by the best and brightest @gazs-blue-hat. If you'd like to commission a fic, visit my ko-fi for more information. Also, I refuse to disgrace the good country of Scotland by attempting to do the full Scottish accent. Readers call sign is Sparrow, but it's only used once.

The room is heavy with dust; small puffs cloud around Johnny’s boots as he pads across the plush carpet. The summer’s oppressive heat makes the walls sweat - you’d be worrying about the mold forming in the drywall if you could see it. But Johnny doesn’t think of the way his handprints smudge on the paint you spent weeks agonizing over or the way your perfume lingers in the still air even after all this time.

His singular mission - to grab a few shirts he needs and leave - is the only thought he allows himself to think about, hands combing through the dressers and eyes trained downward, away from all the pictures hanging on the wall. He avoids your side of the dresser, avoids the lace that still peaks out from your top drawer.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, Johnny ignores it as he pulls the shirts he came to look for out of the dresser drawer, tucking them beneath his arm. He follows his tracks in the dust back out, eyes cast down at the carpet. The whole trip takes less than 10 minutes; he doesn’t let himself look up until he’s slamming the passenger door of Simon’s truck shut behind him.

“Got everything?” Simon asks, shifting the truck into drive.

Johnny sits ramrod straight in the seat, eyes avoiding Simon’s as he buckles in.

“Yeah, got everything.”

Your fingers trace over the marks you’d carved into the soft stone wall. You’d tried to keep a tally mark of days, but time slipped by in odd increments within your cell. Some days you’d watch the sunrise from the cracks in the ceiling and after just a blink, the inky blackness of night would be seeping in. Sometimes the sun hung in the sky for months before finally falling to the full moon. No matter how hard you tried to decode the pattern, the moment you had it everything would reset.

The guards were in on it; they had to be. They’d bring your meals at odd times - sometimes you’d still be full from the moldy slop they shoved in between the cell bars, spilling it out onto the floor like you’re an animal in a cage, and sometimes you’d be so hungry that you could barely crawl to eat.

It was supposed to be someone else - you were pulled for guard duty after another soldier slogged off and broke his foot doing something stupid while training. You’d finally been pulled to work with Johnny, three days away from being a full transfer to the 141 when your C.O. had appeared at the door of your bunk, new orders in hand.

A simple guard duty: get the guy to where he was supposed to be going, hand him off, and fly home. Your transfer could wait an extra forty-eight hours. But your plane was shot down somewhere over the middle of nowhere - you had told your C.O. that flying that low was a risk, but the desert was empty and the plane was old. They’d been making the flight for weeks, ferrying men back and forth with no hiccups. Your flight should have been no different.

It should have been someone else.

You couldn’t remember what had hit your small passenger plane: but the ground was David, and you were Goliath. You’d hit the ground beside the pilot’s head, his mouth formed in a soundless scream, and after a quick flash of black, had woken up to a bucket of water being poured across your face.

Whatever language your captives screamed at you, you didn’t know it. And if they knew any of the ones you screamed back at them: Spanish, Arabic, German, they didn’t let you in on it. You couldn’t figure out what they wanted until they’d ripped the Union Flag from the breast of your vest, a quick picture on a Polaroid camera snapped above you before you realized what they wanted.

Blood dribbled down your chin when you laughed at them: the government didn’t even pay for soldiers who got captured at war. What would they pay for your half-broken body to get shipped back in a wooden box? A simple mistake that could be written off as a plane malfunction.

The anger had come first, feet and fists slamming into the men when they appeared at the cell doors. Nails ripped from their beds when you tried to claw at the seams in the walls. It had cost you a few teeth and a pound of flesh. And then, when you were tired of the endless beatings and anger that went nowhere, you begged them to kill you, to do something to end the torment. By the marks on the wall, it took months before you first asked to be killed, and only weeks later for that to end, each request met with silence and a sneer. Now you lay in the corner, waiting for the few moments when they’d let you out to see the sun glinting off of the mountain ranges, the clouds threatening to storm in the distance.

Those quick trips seemed to come with less frequency as time slipped by.

You trace the tattoo on your thigh; they’d cut through it once after you kicked one of them in the chest, his ribs caving beneath your feet, but even beneath the dried viscera and matted dirt that covered your skin, you could still see Johnny’s name there.

You wonder if he’s picked a gravestone for you yet.

The two of you had talked about it, once. It was the nature of your jobs - to be prepared for everything that could come your way. Your wills were done: 75% to Johnny, 15% to your sister’s kids, and the rest to a local charity. Johnny wrote in that you were to get 100% of everything he owned, and you had chided him about it.

“What about your mom? Your sisters?” You had asked across the steam from your cup of coffee. Johnny had shrugged, dropping the black pen onto the table with finality.

“Already taken care of, birdie.”

After that had come the talk of headstones and burial plots. Of missing bodies and cremation. You had told Johnny that whatever he thought you’d like, to pick out. You weren’t picky about it.

You wonder if the military let him put his last name on the stone.

A decidedly male voice shouts from around the corner, and you pull back into the stone wall. Seconds later, fetid food falls through the bars. The man shouts at you, pointing at the food on the ground. Lazily, you turn your head towards him, watching the way he sneers at you through the bars.

They must be getting angry then. No ransom came through after all these months.

You bare your teeth at him.

You’d rip his throat out if you had the strength to do so anymore.

Johnny’s fingers don’t shake like they used to when he buckles the strap of his helmet, the night vision goggles weighing him down. He’s tired - exhausted. The entire convey smells of cigarettes and sweat. Heavy men in heavy gear press around him; across from him Gaz’s eyes shine terribly bright in the darkness. They press in on Johnny, forcing him back into his seat heavily.

Price’s voice is loud in his comms, intermingling with the sounds of the Marines and the whir of the mechanics beneath his feet. Johnny can’t make out the details over the sound of the truck rumbling beneath him.

“Steady Soap?”

Gaz knows - Johnny doesn’t know how Gaz can do this kind of job with the way he fucking oozes empathy. Or sympathy. Johnny could never remember which one was which, he always had to ask you which one to use. Gaz had been the only one who’d asked him if he was alright; Simon had lingered at the edges of rooms Johnny was in to keep an eye on him, and Price tried to give him an extended leave. Johnny had refused.

But Gaz had been waiting until Johnny was sitting outside of some bar a group of Seals had taken them to - a celebration for a job well done months after you were gone, after Johnny's failed attempt to find you.

“You good?” Gaz had asked, fingers twirling a cigarette he would never light.

“O’course.”

It had made Johnny feel like shit to lie to Gaz, and the same feeling washes over him as Gaz’s eyes linger on Johnny.

The warm summer air washes over them; sweat is starting to coat his lower back, his fatigues keeping him too warm. The smell of the desert, of warmed sand keeps him grounded, reminds him of where he is - what he’s doing here.

In the glint of the moonlight, the mountaintops shine at him.

The first few missions had been difficult: he’d fought like hell to try to search for you, fuck the regulations. He’d resign if it meant finding you. The rest of the fucking government didn’t care: no one on the plane was as important as anyone else, not to the officials anyway. Johnny had done just that, his resignation had landed heavily on Price’s desk, only to land in the trashcan a moment later.

Gaz volunteered to follow Johnny, but Price had cut that off quickly. It was to be Johnny and Simon only. They had five days, a week at most before they had to be back home.

The farthest they got was the plane wreckage, a little burnt-out village miles away, and sheep that stared at them from the sides of the mountains. But he couldn’t find a trace of you or a singular person who even recognized the photo of you he kept tucked inside his gear. Even after Simon had disobeyed Price’s orders to return home now after weeks had passed. They didn’t find anything.

Johnny knew that’s why Price had volunteered the 141 for this mission - a small-time terrorist cell hiding out in a country they didn’t belong to, a small promise of the bodies of missing soldiers hidden somewhere.

It was something.

The guards are panicking; the dirt walls shake around you. You can’t guess what it could be: American pilots doing a blind bombing, Russians pretending to send help only to rain down hell on the perceived innocent. Maybe God’s here to level the land and flood it. Try again. Do something different this time.

He could start with your cell, you think, scraping at the dirt on your leg. Underneath the sun-starved skin is paler than it should be. If you ever leave, you think, the first thing you’re going to do is eat a fucking steak in the sunshine. The bones that refused to set correctly ache beneath your bruised flesh.

The sound of gunfire pierces the inescapable silence. Your captors yell, screams punctuating between the bursts of firepower. Good, maybe they’ll tear each other apart and leave you here to die in peace.

Maybe it was a poker game gone extremely wrong. Someone asked to strip when they should have been ponying up the cash.

Smoke pops in the hallway outside, you don’t run from the white creeping in on you, just pull the rags that were your shirt over your mouth to try and keep breathing. It overtakes your cell; you watch as the smoke creeps through the cracks in the ceiling.

The sounds of war flood the small cell - the taste of blood and gunpowder in the air around you. You can taste the iron when you breathe in. It coats your tongue. You run your teeth across the chipped and broken enamel, mixing the taste of other’s blood with your own.

Someone shouts so close this time you can almost make out the words - American accent thick and heavy in your ears - and it stirs something inside of you. You try to navigate the cell through the smoke, rolling painfully off of the pallets your captors had so kindly turned into a bed for you. Crawling across the excreta and mud you try to make a sound, but you haven’t spoken in months.

Your throat is raw, and the sounds that come from you are barely human. You’ll be surprised the men even hear you, let alone notice you there on the ground. You try to pull yourself up at the bars, but the fracture in your ankle that healed up wrong weeks ago keeps you on your knees.

“Hey-” you finally croak out loud enough for one of the men to cast his eyes down at you. “Please.”

He’s so familiar, the softness in his eyes tugging at something familiar inside of you, the sharpness of his shoulders calling to you. You pull yourself up, leaning heavily on the bars and the one ankle that doesn’t scream at you, hands slipping through the bars to try to reach towards him.

His gun drops, swinging loosely on its strap as he steps towards you. His fatigues are filthy, and his nose wrinkles beneath the cloth mask covering his face. You know you smell terrible, and you want to apologize for it, but you can’t make the words come. He looks so tired as he steps towards you, hands reaching out to grip the bars between the two of you.

“Sparrow?”

“Johnny?”

It takes days for you to make it home: IVs from field medics who barely know what they’re doing, anti-viral meds, shots, stitches. They don’t even let you take a real shower until you’ve landed at a base you barely recognize. It’s a painful process, a female nurse wiping at you gently, but still peeling away layers of skin with each pass of the washcloth, your sobs muffled by the shower.

Johnny waits for you on the fringes of all the people that press around you, poking you, prodding you painfully until finally, you find yourself slammed into a British hospital bed.

Johnny comes in the moment they let him, hands held behind his back in a mock parade rest. You barely recognize him, his mohawk almost completely grown out and bags under his eyes. You know you don’t look much better; you’d caught sight of yourself in a mirror before they’d forced you into bed. Ruined was the only word to describe what you saw. Too thin, too broken. Too torn apart to be stitched back together. At least not without all the types of therapy a military doctor listed out to you: hydro, occupational, physical, mental.

Neither of you know what to say, so you start with the last thing the doctor told you.

“They’re going to rebreak my ankle tomorrow,” your voice is still thin, full of isolation. You’d tested it out on everyone who’d been in to work on you, but it didn’t sound right at all. Johnny shuffles nervously where he stands, and then rushes forward to sit in the chair beside your bed. He’s moving wrong, you think, like a wind-up doll. Too slow and then all at once, too fast.

“Why?”

“I healed up wrong.”

Johnny’s hands play with the edge of the blanket that dangles off of the bed, eyes trained on the fabric. He’s not going to look at you. At the ruin you’ve become. You press yourself down harder into the thin mattress, hands tucked beneath your thighs to keep them still.

“Is it going to hurt?”

You can’t help but smile at his question, your toes twitching beneath the blanket that feels so out of place across you. How many months had they had you? A year? No one had told you yet.

“They said I’d be fucked up on medicine. But probably, yeah."

Johnny’s hands aren’t still against the blanket, instead reaching out towards you. The movement startles you, and you jerk to the opposite side, nearly pulling your IVs out. Johnny pulls his hands back, crossing them across his chest.

“When you -” his voice breaks, just a moment before he put it back together, eyes finally meeting yours, “when you come home I’ll bring the bedroom downstairs so that you don’t have to walk far.”

You have the nagging suspicion that he changed what he was going to say at the last moment.

"Are you going to sleep on the couch with me?" You try to tease, but your voice falls flat, unpracticed. But it still makes Johnny smile, sharp incisors digging into his chapped lips.

"I'll sleep wherever you tell me."

The two of you are surrounded by the sounds of the hospital: the beeps of the heart rate monitors, the sounds of the nurses' quiet conversation outside of your room. You trace your hands across the blanket, grasping Johnny’s whenever your fingers collide with each other.

For a moment, neither of you move, just languish in the feeling of each other’s skin; you’re too busy tracing Johnny’s palm to notice him pushing himself closer to you until he kisses you, softly but with a tight undercurrent of desperation, his hand tightening almost painfully on yours.

The feeling of someone touching you so gently after weeks of rage and anger nearly stops your heart. The monitor goes crazy; Johnny pulls back, just the hint of a smile on his lips.

It takes four weeks for Johnny to get the go ahead to bring you home. Each day you were in the hospital he would come for a quick chat before work, bringing you breakfast he picked up. Every day after, he would collapse in the chair beside your bed, smelling of sweat and gunpowder.

The smell made you recoil when he tried to kiss you, and he didn't try again after that, even after you tried to stutter out a why. But the day the doctor tells Johnny that you can go home, you awaken to Johnny outside of the hospital room, arms crossed as he speaks to the head doctor - Johnny looks more serious than you’ve ever seen him off the battlefield.

Everyone rotates around you as if you’re not there, packing the room up, pulling your IVs out, fingers prodding and poking you until a nurse aide wheels a wheelchair into the room for you.

”Ready?” She asks, locking the brakes. She looks at you from across the room, and you know what she wants. Starting the day after they rebroke your bones, they made you get up and start walking, and you push yourself off of the bed, walkable cast heavy against the tile floor.

Johnny’s in the room in a second, catching sight of you whenever he sees you stumbling over your cast across the room. The aide lets him push her out of the way, his hands gripping the wheelchair as you lower yourself down.

“I can walk out, you know.” You grumble at Johnny as he tosses a heavy folder into your lap.

“Hospital procedure, birdie.”

Simon’s truck is waiting for the two of you in the parking lot, Simon in the driver's seat. He throws a glance at you as Johnny helps you clamber into the backseat, crowded around by grocery bags.

“Hello, Luv.”

“Hello, Simon. Thank you for the ride.”

Simon opens his mouth to speak, black hospital mask sliding up, but he’s cut off by Johnny clambering into the passenger seat.

You watch Johnny from the backseat, foot propped up beside you. His hair has grown out too long, the Mohawk nearly disappeared and his beard has started to grow in. In all the years you’ve known him, you’ve never seen him anything other than clean-shaven; even in the field, he'll butcher himself with a knife before he lets it grow in.

He’s thinner than he should be, too. You wonder if he’d been eating like he was supposed to.

The drive home is disorientating, Simon taking turns too sharply, too quick for your still queasy stomach. By the time Johnny helps you climb down from the truck, dropping your hands quickly when both of your feet are on the ground.

The house is clean, too clean for Johnny to have been here alone. Like he can sense you'd skepticism, Johnny speaks from ahead of you.

“I’ve hired a cleaner,” Johnny says, holding the door open for you. “So don’t worry about anything.”

It’s odd to be back home; you trace your fingers across the knick-knacks you’d collected throughout the years, the furniture you’ve spent years picking out. You have memories of sitting here with Johnny, memories of Simon and Gaz laughing from the kitchen. But now all you feel is lost, a bottle floating in a foreign ocean.

You wander into the kitchen, fingers trailing against the wall - there are no dirty dishes in the sink, no food in the cabinets; Johnny wasn’t living here.

The only dish you recognize is sitting on the counter, you pick it up, feeling the unfamiliar weight in your hand.

“It’s called Kintsugi.”

The Japanese word rolls heavily off of Johnny’s tongue, your fingers pause tracing the golden lines that cut through the mug. It was your favorite, a gift from when you and Johnny had first met. The two of you met at a diner, out with mutual friends. You’d thought it was cute, the name of the diner printed across the front in vintage lettering. Johnny had swiped it for you, hiding it beneath his jacket until the two of you parted ways at your doorstep.

“What happened to it?”

“I broke it,” he admits, dropping the grocery bags onto the counter. Your fingernail can’t find any snag in the glaze, any sign that the mug has never had the golden lines cutting through it.

Johnny busies himself with unloading the bag, speaking without looking at you as he confesses.

“After you were taken, I spent weeks searching for you until Price forced me to come home. I was angry, and I smashed it.”

You can feel the frown sketched onto your face; you don’t look at Johnny as you set the mug down on the counter.

You lean against the counter and watch Johnny busy himself with the groceries.

“He was right,” you admit, feeling silly over the sadness that fills you over the broken cup, “but maybe that’s something Simon has a lot of experience with broken things ya’know.”

You and Johnny orbit each other for weeks: he’s there every day until you begin to question if he’s gotten himself fired to stay home with you. He drives you everywhere, and if he can’t, Simon waits for you just out past the front gate, no doubt on Johnny’s orders.

“I had a lot of time off,” he says one day, elbow-deep in the laundry that he dumped between the two of you, eyes cast on the television. “Never had a reason to take it before.”

Your hands smooth the wrinkles out of one of Johnny’s shirts, fingers picking at the loose string. Today had been talk therapy, recommended by the SAS doctors. They were strict about all the requirements you had to meet if you ever wanted to go back, and laying on a shrink’s couch for two hours a week was one of them.

The graying doctor had asked you if you had spoken to Johnny about the anger that still wells up in you, the dreams you have of tearing your captives to pieces with your hands, the internal self-flagellation you went through every night when you thought about the career you’d worked so hard for, and have now lost.

You had spent the rest of the day thinking about what he said, even when it meant not paying attention to the medical doctor’s order when they were cutting your cast off, but Johnny took in every word.

You almost say something then, tossing Johnny’s shirt onto his pile, but the wrong words come out.

“You need a haircut.”

“Yeah?” Johnny’s hands still around a pair of your shorts, you feel him watching you in his peripheral vision. “You want to cut it?”

Of course, you did; you spend more moments than not thinking about how his hair must feel like long if it’s still soft. But every time the two of you tried to touch each other, the other pulled away.

So when Johnny takes your hand, and pulls you up the stairs, you let him - hand heavy and warm in your own.

Johnny lowers himself onto the closed toilet seat; you feel unsteady as you approach him, clippers in hand, and you’re not sure if it’s from the closeness or the weight of your cast being removed.

“Are you sure you trust me to do this?” You ask again; since you’d come home your fingers had been a kind of clumsy they’d never been before.

“What’s the worst that can happen?” Johnny keeps his eyes trained on you, fingers tapping against the tight denim stretched across his jeans.

“I can scalp you bald,” you admit, switching the clippers on, “and then you’d look like a Q-Ball for eight weeks.”

“I’ll be the best damn Q-Ball anyone’s ever seen,” Johnny says, beard twitching as he smirks at you. If he notices the way your fingers tremble when you take his jaw in your hand, he doesn’t say anything.

His eyes close at the feeling of the clippers cutting through his hair, no doubt the feeling of the weight being removed was comfortable for him.

“You didn’t do this while I was - while I was gone?”

Your therapist says you shouldn’t shy away from calling your kidnapping what it was, but you still can’t form the words in front of Johnny.

He hums at your words, never opening his eyes as he speaks.

“I don’t let anyone else touch my hair, birdie.”

“What about your beard?”

Johnny snorts, eyes meeting yours as you maneuver his head to the side.

“You don’t like it?”

You like the way he feels against your skin, you want to tell him. But you can’t make the words form, can’t spit them out. Johnny watches you chew on them for a moment before he lets out a sigh. His hair is scattered on the floor around the two of you, more than you’d thought he’d had.

You swap the guards to shorten his mohawk, pressing yourself in between Johnny’s knees so that you can reach the nape of his neck.

His hands wrap around your thighs, light and warm against the skin that peeks out beneath the shorts you hadn’t taken off since you’d left your cast removal this morning.

Your skin is on fire at his touch, you try to ignore it as you clean up his neck; Johnny buries his face in your shirt, breath warm against your stomach. His fingers trace light patterns on your thigh and it takes every ounce of willpower to keep the clippers from straying.

His fingers trace the scar that covers his name, and you jump back like you’ve been shocked. Your back hits the wall, knocking the decorative towels you’d spent days choosing to the floor. Johnny’s hands linger in the air between the two of you as you try to catch your breath.

“Sorry,” you pant out with a heavy swallow.

Johnny pushes himself up, eyes watching you like you’re a wild animal ready to run.

He reaches out and brushes some of his fallen hair from your shoulders, electrifying your skin again. His touch is hesitant as he traces up your shoulder, fingers cupping the back of your neck.

He’s fire as he presses himself against you, lips brushing over yours just quick enough to light something up inside of you before pulling away with an apology. He loosens the clippers from your hands and shoos you out with a promise he’ll clean the hair up himself.

A storm rages outside, threatening to cut the power at any moment. You watch it throw around tree limbs and leaves through the front window. Behind you, the television casts soft shadows on the walls.

“Still pouring out there?” Johnny asks from his spot on the couch. Your answer is the curtain falling back into place. You pad back to your spot beside Johnny; he holds the blanket up for you to slip underneath.

His bare leg rubs against yours, but his hands stay firmly in his lap. He hadn’t tried to touch you since that day in the bathroom - even when he dropped you off at therapy, you’d wait for him to stretch across and kiss you, but he’d just send you off with a wave.

You knew it was partially your fault: you couldn’t get the words out to explain how much you wanted him to touch you, how sorry you were for every jerk away. Every time you tried to tell him how much you wanted him, the words curled into your throat and refused to budge. You had even asked earlier for him to take a shower with you, to no avail.

The movie - some family flick Johnny picked because it didn’t have any violence, you know - cast shadows across Johnny’s face. His stubble is starting to come in again; you reach out and trace your finger across the five o’clock shadow creeping onto his jawline.

Johnny doesn’t take his eyes away from the television screen, but he leans his face into your touch. Your fingers trace upwards, lacing through the Mohawk you’d trimmed just two weeks ago. Johnny nearly purrs when you tug on his hair, pulling him down so that he’s lying across your lap.

You have to take it slow, you know or you and Johnny both might break apart. So you just settle beneath him, fingers tracing patterns onto his scalp, eyes trained on the television, but not really watching.

“I don’t think I’m going to go back,” you whisper, voice nearly drowned out by the storm outside. Johnny rolls, doing his best not to dig painfully into your thigh to look up at you.

“To work?”

You nod, still refusing to look at him.

“I talked about it with the therapist today; I just - I think it would be best if I just cashed in my retirement. I’ve got a lot saved up: hazard pay and all that. The corporal offered me a job as a trainer. So I could still be around."

Johnny’s hand reaches up to grab your wrist, forcing you to look at him. You can’t read the expression on his face, and you don’t like that. He’s always your open book. You try to keep your heart rate steady at the feeling of him tracing patterns on your wrist.

“I’m sorry, birdie.”

And you know he’s not just apologizing for your ruined career, for the nearly year you’d spent locked away in some disgusting cell, for the still broken teeth in your mouth, or the screws that hold most of you together now. He’s still apologizing for not being able to find you earlier, to be there months earlier.

“It’s not your fault Johnny - I should have told them no. I should have been smart enough to just tell my commanding that I couldn’t do it. I should have-“

Hot tears start to fall; Johnny pushes himself up, fingers brushing them away gently. When you don’t shy away from his touch, he pulls you into his lap, tucking your head beneath his chin, and pulling you so tight you think you might break beneath his touch. And you would let yourself shatter beneath him, if it meant he could put you back together, shot through with gold.

Johnny lets you cry on his shoulder until the fabric of his shirt is soaking wet; after a while, the smell of him, the softness of the way he caresses your back,and the feeling of his jean-clad thigh between your own stirs something else inside of you. You need something else, something more desperate, something to push away the feelings of failure. Of the fear that still lingers in you of heights, and darkness, and men who smell of sweat and gunpowder.

So when you kiss him, softly, Johnny doesn’t push you away like he can feel how much you need him to touch you. Even as he lifts you up, your legs wrapping around his waist, you don’t break the kiss. It stays superficial, and soft, neither of you breaking apart or deepening it. You expect him to carry you to the spare bed he brought downstairs for you, but instead, he cradles you up the stairs, hands gripping your thighs so tight you know there will be a thumb-shaped bruise there tomorrow.

Johnny doesn’t stumble as he carries you.

In the bedroom the two of you shared before you were lost, Johnny collapses on the bed, his smell enveloping you, hands never leaving you. He buries his nose in the soft skin of your neck, breathing in the smell of you.

“Are you here with me birdie?”

Johnny’s voice is muffled on your skin, his hands pausing at the hem of your shirt.

“I’m here Johnny.”

You rest your hands on his biceps and feel the way his heart is in your own chest. His weight presses down around you, the mattress sinking down beneath the two of you. The wind rolls in through the window, gooseflesh erupting on your skin where Johnny isn’t touching.

Johnny’s hands don’t move from the hem of your shirt until you slide your own down to his wrists, a bravery you hadn’t felt in weeks taking over you.

“Please, Johnny.”

Johnny shifts, knees spreading your own apart, but he still doesn’t touch your bare skin until you tug on his wrists, trying to slide them underneath your shirt, instead, he traces your arms - the area you know he thinks is safe.

The feeling of his calloused hands on your soft skin makes you shiver; Johnny presses a kiss to your pulse point. You know he can feel the way your heartbeat picks up quickly, and he bites down on the sensitive skin lightly. You can’t help the gasp that escapes you, the way you buck your hips upward into his.

“Birdie.” It’s a warning and a promise rolled into one, and it makes you press your knees together, trying to slow yourself down.

You let your own hands start exploring Johnny. Once, you’d had his skin memorized - every scar and freckle committed to your own memory. But there are new scars there you’ve never seen before, new wrinkles at the corner of his eyes he didn’t have before.

It’s like the first time again, both of you exploring each other slowly. Johnny pauses every time you make a noise, eyes searching your face to make sure you’re alright. You push him away just long enough to pull his shirt off of him, hands instantly reaching out to pull him back down. His own hands slide your shorts down until you can kick them across the room.

Johnny kisses you, full of the same desperation he’d had that day at the hospital. Your teeth click together as the two of you suddenly move frantically, hands grasping at each other. Johnny shakes as you run your nails down his back, pushing until he realizes what you want.

Johnny rolls, hands still wrapped around your waist until you’re on top of him. The thin material of your panties is already wet; you can feel it when you grind down on him. The rough material of his blue jeans has enough friction to send lighting bolts through you.

“Is that what you want birdie?” Johnny’s voice is low and rough in his throat; his hands rest lightly on your hips as you grind down. Your hands reach back to rest on his thighs, more leverage for you to move.

You can’t answer him, already biting down on the moans that start to build in the back of your throat. Johnny’s grip tights as you speed up; you can feel his erection pressing tightly against his zipper as you grind faster.

You feel yourself start to tremble, hands moving to brace yourself against Johnny’s chest. He wraps one hand around your wrist, the other still at your waist; you can’t look away from the hungry glint in his eye.

Outside the storm lashes, the cool air rolling in across you and Johnny.

“Let it out,” he whispers, voice ragged and panting. He’s bucking his own hips in time with your grinding; he’s holding back - you know he doesn’t want to scare you, so you loosen the knot inside of you, moaning loud enough that a blush starts to creep up your chest. At the sound, Johnny bucks up harder.

You can’t help the way you come undone, nails digging into Johnny’s chest, leaving half moons on the sensitive skin. Johnny lets you ride him until the waves of your orgasm finish rolling over you, his hands not leaving you until you finally still, thighs shaking on each side of him. You can feel your drenched underwear, feel yourself soaking into his blue jeans.

Johnny is so hard beneath you, a red flush across his chest. Outside the storm rages harder, and the lights flicker momentarily. Johnny pushes himself up onto one elbow, the hand that has refused to move up your shirt sliding up just an inch. His fingers play with the edge of your underwear, the lace snagging on his callouses.

“Why don’t you want to touch me?” You can barely hear yourself over the rain lashing against the window; Johnny’s eyebrows knit together, and he pushes himself up until he’s sitting up, your legs wrapping around his waist to keep from falling backward.

“I want to touch you,” he tries to reassure you, hands tracing patterns across the back of your shirt. But you shrug his hands off, catching his wrists in your hands before he can fully withdraw away.

“You won’t touch me beneath my shirt,” you slide his hands down to the bare skin of your thighs, moving them until the hem of your shirt falls over his fingertips. “You wouldn’t take a shower with me.”

Johnny chews on his lips, they’re too chapped, you think. The silence stretches in the sound of the storm, and the flickering lights. Before Johnny can speak lightning and thunder crash outside, and the house goes dark - the sound of the electricity powering down cutting him off. Neither of you moves in the sudden blackness.

“I’m not broken, Johnny.” You don’t want to sound so pathetic, but you do.

“I know you’re not, hen.”

“Then why am I having to beg, Johnny?”

Johnny’s hand slips up so that he’s holding your hips beneath your shirt.

“I’m not going to hurt you too.”

It’s a tough confession for him to make, you know. He’d done his best not to talk about the whole ordeal, he never asked what you went through. This was his way of keeping you away from it.

You roll your hips across his again, and his breath catches in his throat.

“Please Johnny; you’re not going to hurt me.”

You don’t know if it’s the whine in your voice or the way you trace your fingers across the hard plane of his chest, or if Johnny is just as tired of holding back as you - but he rolls you over, gentle and quick until his chest his pressed against yours, his mouth finding the sensitive skin at the base of your neck.

You’re horribly out of practice, fumbling with the buttons on his jeans, getting stuck when Johnny pulls your shirt over your head, but he doesn’t let his lips leave you; your teeth clip together as Johnny deepens the kiss he refuses to let end until your gasping for breath beneath him.

It’s electric in the best and worst ways - Johnny’s calloused fingers tracing patterns on your stomach, kneading the soft flesh of your breasts, fingers teasing the edge of your underwear, pushing them further down each time.

The current running through you makes it difficult to breathe; you can’t even warn Johnny, can’t beg him to slow down what you were just begging him to speed up. But there has never been anyone who’s known you the same way Johnny has, and when his hands slow you know he can feel that it’s too much. Just for a moment.

“Still with me?”

“Still here.”

Johnny’s hands don’t speed up, but he doesn’t slow either - pressing open-mouth kisses down your neck, between your breasts, across the planes of your stomach until he finally stops at the edge of your underwear. He darts his tongue out to lick the sensitive skin peeking out above the hem, and the feeling makes you gasp out, hips pressing harder into the mattress. His fingertips brush just over the wetness you’ve soaked through and you grind your teeth together, painfully.

“Too much?”

Yes.

Too much for you at this moment; you’re not sure if your body will hold together if Johnny even tries to eat you out, tries to stretch you with his fingers, you can hardly keep together at the feeling of him touching you anywhere after so many months of nothing but dirt, and maggots, and feverish longing for-

You didn’t notice Johnny crawling back up your body until he presses a soft kiss on your temple, fingers wiping away your hair that’s plastered with sweat there.

Johnny’s whispering in your ear: how much he missed you, how he had thought about you every day, how he’d tried to scorch the earth to look for you; he pulls you until you’re back on top of him. You can feel how hard he is, how wet you are as you grind down against the hard planes of his lower stomach, searching for him.

Johnny’s hands squeeze at your hips, shifting the both of you until you feel the tip of him catch against you; a shudder rolls through you both, but Johnny doesn’t move. Every muscle in his body is pulled taunt, pulled against fucking into you at a frenetic pace. You recognize the set of his jaw, the way his hands wrap around your forearms. He’s letting you set the pace, letting you control him.

You wait for just a heartbeat before pressing down onto him; your vision whites out from the almost uncomfortable stretch of him as you sink down slowly. You can’t remember the last time the two of you were here, the last time the two of you fucked. Johnny’s nails dig into the underside of your forearm, yours into his chest until you finally reach the hilt.

You hold there for a moment, feeling the way he fills you up - so much so that you don’t think there’s room for anything else besides Johnny - there never has been. You can’t even think between the feeling of Johnny filling you up and the feeling of not trying to cum so fast. Finally, when your heartbeat slows incrementally, you rock yourself against him, slowly, using his chest as leverage.

Beneath you Johnny is coming undone; he’s biting his lip so hard you think he might draw blood, so you trace your fingertips across his bottom lip. His lips part beneath your touch, and he takes your pointer finger into his mouth, tongue swirling around it.

The feeling makes your hips move faster, stuttering against him. Johnny moans, muffled around your finger. The sound is horribly erotic in the darkness, and it spurs something inside of you to move your hips faster, rougher against Johnny. But he doesn’t move beneath you, still holding himself back. The sound of skin on skin, of how wet you are for him drown out the storm.

Johnny’s hands are everywhere: in your hair, cupping the supple flesh of your ass, pinching and rolling your nipples between his thick fingers; one hand sneaks across the flesh of your hip, dipping between the two of you to circle your clit. The feeling makes you crumple against him; Johnny takes the opportunity to roll you over, pressing you into the mattress.

Johnny presses one of your knees up, hooking it over his elbow so that he can fuck into you, still gentle even when he’s deeper than you think he’s ever been before, his other hand still circling your clit, slowly enough to keep you from falling apart, but fast enough to bring you to the edge.

His pace grows rougher; you claw at him, drawing red welts across his skin, but Johnny doesn’t slow down. You keep your eyes closed tightly, back arched to try and get him in deeper, to get more.

“Look at me.”

Johnny’s voice is rough, a gentle command you have to follow. His eyes never leave yours, even when his pace increases, the finger on your clit still rubbing tight circles until-

Until you’re breaking apart, shattering beneath him. Your orgasm makes you arch, back nearly leaving the mattress. Johnny’s hands move to cup your face, pulling himself down until he can kiss you as you ride through your orgasm, gasping in his own mouth. Your nails draw thick red welts across his back, but Johnny doesn’t stop pounding into you, your moans drowned out by the way he kisses you.

Not long after, Johnny’s pace starts to stutter, his lips never leaving yours until he plunges in deeper than he had before, and you can feel his warm release spill out inside of you.

Even when he’s completely spent, Johnny doesn’t pull out of you, instead fucking into you once, twice, three more times until you know you can’t take anymore, hands pressing on his chest to push him away.

Johnny’s fingers smooth your twitching thighs as he pulls away. In the darkness, you can just see his outline as he shifts between your legs, but he doesn’t move from there.

He caresses you until you are finally still and your panting finally slows. His fingers trace across the cracks you can still feel, stitching you back together, shot through with gold.

“Still here?”

“Still here.”

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