#he just never comes back after they go to the river like they don't let him say goodbye in the movie at all KRHF

[fflewddur-feanorion]

maglor and eonwe in iowa. why? I don't know.

Maglor cranes his neck to look up at the sky. The clouds are purple and yellow, like a bad bruise that’s just begun to heal. Thunder booms overhead, rattling the windows on the porch.

He steps back toward the door. Nods decisively. “This is a good one.”

“There is nothing good about it,” Eonwë huffs. He’s standing with one hand on the doorknob, every muscle in his body pulled as taut as a bowstring. Ready to bolt inside at the slightest provocation. (He has not relocated to the basement, Maglor notices. After following every one of the rules to the letter for five Ages, this is the time Eonwë chooses not to listen?) “The storm… it is dangerous! You could be killed!”

Maglor raises an eyebrow wearily. When he speaks, his voice carries over the thunder just a bit more than it should. “Remind me again why you’re here?”

“To… to kill you. Or persuade you to return to Valinor.” Eonwë shivers. For some reason, he’s wearing one of Maglor’s tank tops. It’s far too small. Basically a crop top on him. (Maglor admits that it’s not a bad look, but Eonwë is going to get a cold and then he’ll be even more insufferable.)

“Ta-da,” Maglor drawls. “If I get struck by lightning– which I won’t– you can go home. I’m sure all of Valinor will be ecstatic.”

“Are you always this self-destructive?” Eonwë asks.

Maglor laughs. Bitterly. “You still have that armor? I could put it on. Wave my arms in the air and tell Manwë to go fuck himself. Really take it to the next level.”

“Shut up!” Eonwë’s eyes flash. “You don’t know what you are saying! If they hear us–”

The rain picks up. At this point, it’s less of a thunderstorm and more of a river flowing vertically. Maglor does the math in his head: there’s still no tornadoes in sight, and he is very, very hungry. “All right,” he says, pushing past Eonwë to open the door. “You win. I’ll make some dinner, and then–”

As if on cue, the lights go out. The clock on the microwave flickers and disappears.

“Christ alive,” says Maglor. “I just bought milk. What have I done to deserve this?”

“I assume that is a rhetorical question,” says Eonwë.

****

It’s been fourteen hours since Eonwë– Herald of the Valar, Manwë’s golden boy, and royal pain in the ass– arrived on Maglor’s doorstep. In his immaculate silver armor, he’d looked laughably out of place standing among the dusty folding chairs. “Greetings, Makalaurë, son of Fëanor,” he’d intoned in a voice like the crashing of waves. “I bring a message from the Valar.”

To Maglor, this situation presented a number of red flags:

Nine thousand years on this accursed earth have made Maglor wary of people who are clearly dangerous but want you to believe otherwise. That armor has never been worn in a fight.

He doesn’t trust the Valar.

He doesn’t trust Eonwë, specifically.

Back in the Second Age, Maglor would have attacked Eonwë with any weapons he had on hand (teeth and nails included) and almost certainly gotten himself killed. By the Fourth Age, he’d have simply walked away, having tired himself out with millennia of bad decisions. But now…

Well. Maglor isn’t going to slam the door in his face. If he doesn’t let Eonwë in, his neighbors will come out to investigate, and Maglor doesn’t want to inflict Eonwë on them quite yet.

He stretches out on the couch, running through the checklist in his mind. There's no electricity or internet, but he’s found two flashlights. He’ll talk to the neighbors and check for downed power lines once the rain stops. All he can do now is wait. (And also drink ridiculous quantities of milk before it spoils.)

Maglor feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He whips his head around and sees Eonwë standing behind him, motionless as a statue. (He would make a beautiful statue. Even in a human disguise, there's something unearthly about him. Something that draws your attention in like a moth to a flame.)

“Fuck’s sake,” Maglor groans, mashing his face into the couch cushions. “Can you be unsettling somewhere else, please?”

“We could go back to Valinor.”

“I said no.” Maglor pushes himself to a seated position to glare at his companion. “Why are you still wearing a tank top? It’s, like, forty degrees.”

“I have no idea what any of that means,” Eonwë says quietly. He’s still shivering. His shoulders are hunched forward, and he looks on the verge of tears. (Why is he crying? He’s not the one with a price on his head.) “It was much warmer this morning, and I didn’t want to go through your things. I... I am sorry.”

And that makes absolutely zero sense, but… “Ugh, fine,” Maglor sighs. “C’mon. Let’s find you something that fits. We'll figure things out in the morning."

#tolkien #silmarillion #is this maglor/eonwe? you decide! #modern au

[spiritofjustice]

COWARDS

COWARDS

#Psy's no punctuation posts #grapes of wrath tag #they took out all the anti-capitalism what tha fuck #i noticed this instantly. i knew they'd be too scared to include all the anti-capitalism lol #also i noticed this and thought i was crazy or just missed it cause i'm playing Black 2 but NOAH DISAPPEARS WITH NO EXPLANATION #he just never comes back after they go to the river like they don't let him say goodbye in the movie at all KRHF #they do so many characters in this film dirty #like i get it. imo Grapes of Wrath is a book that is Too Much Book to be made into a good movie #like some books cannot be condensed into a film it doesn't work #Grapes of Wrath has a HUGE fucking cast. how the fuck were they gonna juggle the 13 fucking characters #so i don't blame the movie for that. it was inevitable. but damn it sucks seeing basically all of my faves relegated to bg roles #Al... Connie... Rosa... Noah............. John....... #shit hurtss i love the Joads n Connie so much :[

[puppy-steve]

i keep thinking about that one bachelor au post so here's my take on it (i've never watched the bachelor or bachelorette so bear with me)

the bachelor au where steve's the bachelor and eddie is a contestant, but not because he actually wants to be, he's just in it for the paycheck. robin is also a contestant but only because her parents sent in her application without her knowing and she isn't out to them yet.

they both think that steve is overrated and definitely over hyped. typical rich kid with enough money to buy people's love, yada yada.

until they both start going on dates with him and then realize that it isn't exactly true. yes, he's rich, but he's also kind and funny and actually genuine once you get past the mask he puts on for everybody. eventually, eddie and robin find themselves looking forward to their dates.

only robin doesn't want to date him. he's slowly moving his way up the ranks to becoming her best friend, sure, but this is still tv. she's still expected to kiss him and confess her feelings for him. and when the time comes for her to do that, she can't.

they're in venice. steve is leaning in and robin is very aware of the cameras filming them. the back of her neck goes cold and her stomach churns and suddenly she's running in the opposite direction. her italian is passable so she ends up getting a taxi back to the hotel production put them in.

she locks herself in her en suite and presses her forehead against the cold porcelain. she doesn't know how long she sits there until her phone buzzes and she checks the notification. the nausea rises up her throat again. she forgot she gave steve her number.

there's a knock on her room door and another text.

r u ok? can i come in?

robin debates it but figures she owes him and explanation. she lets him in and they sit on the bathroom floor. robin tells him why she's on the show in the first place, about how she didn't know her parents signed her up until she got the phone call from the casting director. tells him that even if she gets kicked off, she can still use the money for her student loans.

she stares at the water in the toilet bowl when she comes out to him.

steve is quiet, processing, before he laughs. he's not laughing at her, he promises, but "robin. you're on a show with more than a handful of other queers, you know that, right? i'm bisexual."

and yeah, robin knew that, but it's different when you're not into the guy you're supposed to be romancing at all.

steve reassures her that it's okay, and that he still hopes they can be friends and keep in touch after the show ends.

robin would like that.

she apologizes to the production crew the next day and they're understanding and steve and robin get a re-do of their date. it's much more genuine this time, filled with laughs and digs as they eat gelato along the river and people watch and gossip.

it's the best robin's ever been on.

eddie, on the other hand. he's absolutely head over heels for steve, which is surprising even for him. he's trailer park trash, he's got absolutely nothing on steve harrington. not the name, not the money.

hell, the very first day, he insulted the guy's food choices right to his face without knowing it.

eddie wants the earth to give way underneath him and swallow him whole.

he plays it up on their first date, all fake niceties and empty smiles, until steve tells him point blank, "the guy that said the buffet was shit that first night? i want to get to know him."

eddie's flabbergasted.

steve opens up about all the fake people in his life, the ones who just take advantage of them and use him for their own gains. the ones who don't even bother to get to know the real him. the one that likes to play guitar and hang out with the gaggle of teenagers that follow him around all the time for some unknown reason.

he tells eddie about what he wants to do with his life, not what someone else has planned for him and eddie falls deeper and deeper.

this time, when steve leans in for a kiss, eddie doesn't shy away. their lips press together and it's the best goddamn kiss either one of them have ever had.

the show has a deadline, of course, and steve can't just spend all his time with eddie and robin. there are other contestants. robin knows her rose is strictly platonic and steve has already called her multiple times freaking out about his growing crush on eddie. she knows eddie has this in the bag.

the final night comes and the contestants have dwindled. there's only a small group of them left: eddie, robin, and another guy and girl they didn't bother learning the names of.

when steve chooses eddie after a moment of dramatic silence that kind of puts his own dm dramatics to shame, eddie doesn't hesitate to jump in steve's arms, wrap his legs around his waist, and plant a sloppy one on him right in front of the cameras.

#cj talks #something something steve goes on a tv show to find romance and ends up finding his romantic and platonic soulmates #steddie #steddie fic #cj writes #i liked being your schmuck #platonic stobin #the three muskequeers

[golden1u5t]

jj’s confession | s.r x fem!reader

ꨄ requested: anonymous

ꨄ genre: angst

ꨄ summary: the aftermath of jj’s fuck up 

the second the team got back to the office, you ran to spencer and pulled him into a hug. spencer hadn't been expecting you to be at the office when they got back from the case. you pulled back and cupped his face, your eyes scanned his face to make sure he wasn't bruised up or anything.

"i was worried about you." you mumbled, you continued to check him out until you noticed how unfocused he was. you tried to shove it off as him responding to the effects of the case but when you followed his gaze and looked over your shoulder, you knew that wasn't the case. even though jj was with will, she had her eyes focused on spencer.

you had known about spencer's old crush on jj and you'd accepted it and moved on, he'd told you that you had nothing to worry about when it came to their friendship and since you trusted him, you believed him. you took a step back and let your hand fall down to your sides, you looked back at spencer and cleared your throat.

spencer finally looked at you for the first time since he'd walked through the door, you figured it was because ji's attention was directed somewhere else. when spencer's eyes met yours, you could tell something had happened between them while they were gone. his eyes were filled with guilt as he stared at you, he knew he was going to have to tell you about it but he wasn't prepared for your reaction. so he reached for your hand, you let him take it.

"i'm tired, we should get going." he attempted at giving you a genuine smile but it never reached his eyes, you stayed silent as you watched his eyes dart over to her for a brief moment before turning back to you. "we can get takeout for dinner, your favorite place."

you pulled your hand from his and let it fall back to your side. you weren't that much of a crier but god, you sure felt like you could cry a river as you watched your relationship start to crumble right in front of you. "no, i think- i think you should tell me now what happened between you two.” 

"can we just- can we not? not right now, im tired."

"no, i need to know now if im going to be leaving here by myself tonight." spencer sighed before pulling you away from everyone else and into a more secluded area.

"when we're being held hostage, the unsub made us- he made ji tell a secret she'd never told anyone before." he ran his hand through his hair before stuffing his hands in his pockets. "she told me that she loved me but i'm not-"

"do you love her back?" you bit the inside of your cheek, spencer's silence was like a stab to the heart. tears welled in your eyes and a sudden wave of anger washed over you, he didn't even have the decency to look you in the eye. "god, spencer, fucking answer me!"

he couldn't, his words were lodged in his throat. spencer hated seeing you break down in front of him, he hated knowing that he'd put you in such a vulnerable position when he knows how much you hate being vulnerable.

"i don't know! i don't- i don't know what i feel for her. i don't even know if she was being honest or just making it up, plus, she's married and-and she has kids." you scoffed and shook your head, you took a step back and put your hand out when he tried to reach out for you. "y/n, please."

"me or her?" spencer just stared at you, once again not being able to answer you. "; think i should go, call me if and when you figure this out."

you turned around and headed for the door, you didn't miss the way jj looked at you as you passed. you thought spencer would at least come after you, explain that he didn't need to think about it and that he loved you, but he didn't.

#golden1u5t #myrarants #criminal minds fandom #spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fandom #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid angst #sub spencer reid #soft dom spencer reid #dom spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!reader angst

[vsnyarbll]

A Targaryen prince is a heavy burden pt2

atpiahb masterlist, part1, part2, part3, part4, part5

main masterlist

pairing: Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader, platonic!Aegon II Targaryen x reader

words: 6.050

summary: Three weeks after y/n gave birth.

warnings: explicit language, mentions of cheating, angst, patriarchy, love triangle (kind of?)

a/n: English is not my native language. / I tried to write it taking into account everyone's wishes. Also, before I wrote this chapter, I wanted y/n to be with Aegon, but everything can change. / Helaena and Aegon are not married. / Laenor is still alive, but Laena is dead. / The age of the characters is not the same as in House of the Dragon. (according to the age differences between them) Prince Aemond is 25, Prince Luke is 20, and Prince Viserys is 13. y/n is in her 20s.

“What did you name your son?" Aegon asked, looking over y/n's shoulder at the baby in her arms.

"Your mother insisted that I name him Aemon."

There was an expression of disbelief on his face. "You didn't."

"I didn't. My son's name is Maelor."

Aegon looked at the baby with a sparkle in his eyes. He was tiny and looked like her mother, except for the characteristic features of the Valyrians.

y/n smiled, noticing Aegon's admiring gaze on the baby. "Would you like to hold him?"

Aegon's eyes widened slightly. "I've never held a baby before."

"It's simple. I'll tell you what to do."

"All right, then." Aegon was afraid of hurting him. But y/n's trust in him gives him confidence.

He came nervously to the edge of the chair. He slid his arm under the baby and held him, carefully cradling him against his chest.

"You need to support his head from underneath." y/n got up from her chair and stood beside him.

"Like this." She took Aegon's left hand and placed it under her son's head. She didn't take her hand away for a while to let Aegon get used to it. When he got comfortable with the baby, he breathed a sigh of relief and leaned back in the chair. Seeing that Aegon was getting used to the situation, y/nv returned to her chair.

"He's beautiful, y/n," he said with a smile. "He looks a lot like you. I feel like I'm looking at a silver-gold-haired version of you."

The smile on y/n's face widened. Aegon unwittingly began to rock Maelor.

"Is he still forcing you to bed with him?" he asked in a low voice.

y/n's smile froze on her face. She pulled her gaze away from Aegon. "He never did anything like that," she said, her voice even lower than Aegon's. Aemond had asked for it once, but it hadn't happened, and it had never come up again.

"You don't have to be afraid of him, y/n." He carefully placed the baby in one arm, reached his free hand to y/n, and took her arm. "Let's run away together. I'll take care of your son as if he were my own. You can tell everyone that I am his real father. Or, if you want to hide your identity, we can start a new life from scratch."

y/n turned her gaze back to him, she couldn't accept it.

She was her father's only child, and if she disappeared, her husband would inherit everything, and he would bring that Rivers witch to the castle and marry her.

y/n couldn't let any of that happen.

"I can't let Aemond be happy."

"But just because of that, you won't be happy either."

y/n looked Aegon straight in the eye. "I will only be happy when he is writhing in pain."

Aegon turned his gaze to the child in his arms to avert his eyes.

y/n hadn't realized how fast time had passed. Aemond had gone to a meeting of his father's council. The council meeting must have been over or almost over.

y/n stood up in a hurry. "Aegon, you must go. Aemond will be here soon."

“I am not afraid of him.”

“Please. I want at least one day of peace.”

Aegon thought for a moment but decided to do as she said. "All right."

He stood up and handed Maelor to his mother. "I'll see you later."

She took Maelor in her arms and hugged him tightly. "Goodbye, Aegon."

xxx

y/n put her son to bed and sat next to him. She tried to enjoy her solitude in the room.

There was no Aemond, no Aegon. She just sat by herself, not worrying about anything for a while.

It had been a week since Aemond had returned to the castle.

No further conversation had passed between them. They just said good mornings and good nights to each other. y/n was not complaining. She couldn't bear to see his face, let alone chat with him.

The door to the room opened. Aemond walked in and closed it quietly, thinking that Maelor might be asleep.

y/n watched him silently. Aemond left his books on the table as he went to her side.

"Your parents have reached the castle. They want to see you."

y/n's face lit up, and she stood up quickly. "Let me get changed, and we'll go to them."

Aemond nodded and sat down where y/n had just sat.

He leaned toward Maelor and saw that he was awake, his big eyes scanning the ceiling. He smiled when he saw Aemond's face.

Aemond carefully picked him up. He wrapped his arms around his tiny body and leaned against the headboard. He's been spending his time like this every day for a week.

He looked up and looked at his wife.

She had called her maid, and with her help, she was wearing a dress in the colors of her own house.

He loved her.

His devotion to Alys Rivers was not love. There were things Aemond was afraid to say.

y/n's maid put a simple braid in her hair.

She picked some jewelry from the table, put it on, and walked towards Aemond. He was on his feet and heading for the door when y/n stopped him.

"I will carry my son.”

"We're going together anyway. Does it matter who carries our son?"

"Yes, it does. Can I take my son?"

Aemond sighed and held Maelor out to her.

Together they left their chambers and started walking down the corridor.

y/n's parents were waiting for them in the garden.

She held Maelor tighter as she quickened her steps.

Aemond walked silently beside her. He wanted to ask her how her day had been, but he didn't. They were still on bad terms and Aemond knew very well who was at fault.

When they went to the garden, they saw y/n's family with the King and the Queen.

y/n and Aemond bowed to them and went to the Lord and his wife.

"My beautiful daughter," said her mother. And then she took her grandson in her arms.

y/n hugged her father tightly after giving her son to her mother. "Father, I miss you so much," she said, smiling as she left his arms.

"Ah, what is the name of this handsome little boy?" said her mother smiling as she looked at her grandson.

"My lady, we haven't decided on a nam-" y/n interrupted Aemond. "Maelor. That's his name."

Aemond turned to y/n in surprise. But she did not return his gaze.

"I thought his name would be Aemon," the Queen said. "After his father."

"I have considered your suggestion, my Queen. But I think Maelor is a better name."

The Queen turned to Aemond with questioning eyes.

"What does Prince Aemond think about this?" the Queen asked.

"I-"

"I don't think it matters what he thinks. Prince Aemond wasn't the one who carried him for nine months and was in labor for hours. He wasn't even in the castle the day he was born. Why should he have any right to name my son?"

y/n's father turned to Aemond. "Did Prince Aemond have something more important to do than the birth of his son?"

Queen Alicent spoke without letting anyone else. "The birth came earlier than the maesters said it would. None of us knew she would give birth that day."

This time y/n's mother turned to her. "Why was Prince Aemond too far away to return when summoned, leaving his pregnant wife?"

Queen Alicent took a deep breath. "The prince had other business that demanded his attention."

"My husband was busy while I was giving birth to y/n. But he came right after he found out I was in labor."

The Queen looked at Aemond out of the corner of her eye.

"I understand what you mean, but-"

"My queen, I understand what you mean. We did not sell our daughter to you. You know how wealthy my house is and how important I am to the crown. When you came to us and insisted that we marry our children off, we thought it was only fitting that she should marry a prince. Lord Lannister has offered us many deals, but we knew that honor comes first. And we did not doubt that you raised your son with it," said y/n’s father.

The queen had nothing more to say.

The king came and put his hand on his son's shoulder. "My Lord, I am sure you are tired from the journey. Would you like to come in and have dinner?"

The Lord looked at his wife and nodded. "If you don't mind, we will spend some time with our daughter and grandson. We will join you in a moment."

The king and queen smiled and nodded. They turned and made their way to the castle, but Aemond did not move.

The Lord looked at the prince and smiled falsely. "My prince, we prefer to be alone."

"But-" Aemond said, and the King turned and interrupted his son. "Come, Aemond, let us give this beautiful family some private time."

Aemond looked at y/n and her father. He didn't want to go but obeyed the king.

When they were out of sight, the Lady handed her grandson to her husband and hugged y/n tightly.

"My daughter," she said. The Lady kissed her daughter on each cheek as they parted.

Her mother's eyes were full, but y/n was smiling.

For the first time in a long time, she felt so happy. Her family was here, with her.

"We heard everything. I'm sorry." her voice trembled as she spoke.

"It's okay, mother." then she turned to her father. "But I need something from you."

"Sure, whatever you need."

"You know about Aemond," she said and averted her eyes.

Her father just nodded. He regretted marrying his daughter off to the one-eyed prince. And her broken state only added to his regret.

"I am your only child. Leave me all your inheritance so I can beg the king to end my marriage to Aemond. If he asks High Septon to do so, he will surely end our marriage. The two of us will move in with you, into my home. Your inheritance will pass to me and from me to Maelor. My son is of the blood of old Valyria and will be a dragon rider. And more importantly, he is of our blood."

His father sighed. "My daughter, I want you to be happy more than anything. But the king will never agree to end your marriage. If your marriage ends, all alliances and treaties between our house and the kingdom will end, and no one in the king's council will agree to do that."

y/n felt her happiness fill with despair. "But the king is a good man. He would understand."

"He might be. But you cannot ask the king to do such a thing."

"I can at least take my chances-"

"y/n, I cannot break the centuries-old traditions of our land. Don't ever ask me to do this again."

y/n felt her breath catch. "But-“

“The other lords will never accept your leadership. As much as I love you and want your happiness, I must also think of the future of our house."

y/n's expression hardened. She was angry that her father had destroyed her chance of salvation.

She took Maelor in her arms. "There's a dinner in honor of your arrival at the castle. We'd better not keep the King waiting."

Her father sighed. He wanted to give her everything she wanted. But no matter how influential a man he was, there were things he couldn't afford.

Together they went inside the dining room.

y/n's mother never left her side.

As soon as they were in the dining room, the King stood up happily. "Welcome again.”

At the king's words, everyone recognized the Lord and his family entering the hall. And those sitting in the chairs stood up because the King was standing.

Princess Rhaenyra and her family had also come to the castle for the birth of her nephew.

Her sons stood together next to their mother. Prince Viserys, son of Princess Rhaenyra, was excited to see the baby.

As y/n and her family walked to the table, one of her maids came to her and took Prince Maelor from her.

The lord and the Lady sat in chairs next to the King and Queen, and y/n sat with her husband. On the other side of her sat prince Luke.

Aemond tensed as he realized that the Prince Luke was sitting so close to him.

y/n liked Aemond's nervousness. She knew about the fight that had taken place between them years ago and that neither of them liked the other.

She leaned toward Luke. "My prince, your lapel pin is beautiful."

Luke looked around as if he didn't believe y/n was talking to him. He looked at her with big eyes. "Me? Oh… yes. Yes, thank you, my Lady. It represents my dragon."

y/n giggled slightly. "I love dragons. When I was little, I read stories about your ancestors, and dragons were my favorite part."

Luke felt his face warm. y/n was beautiful. He was too shy to admit it, but she was.

Even Prince Daemon had laughed the first time he saw her and said he couldn't believe his one-eyed nephew had married her.

"My dragon may not be the largest, but I can introduce you to him if you'd like. We can even fly together."

y/n smiled. "I certainly would."

"If my wife is going to ride a dragon, Vhagar is the only dragon she's going to ride," Aemond said, cocking his head and glaring at Luke.

"My prince, why are you being rude to your nephew? If you wanted to introduce me to Vhagar, you could have done it any day in two years. Besides, I prefer a more willing rider."

Aemond's gaze hardened. "He's an inexperienced dragon rider. You don't know if he can control his dragon. It wouldn't be right for your safety."

y/n looked at her husband with a smile. "If I remember correctly, his dragon egg cracked to him. I'm sure the bond between them is strong."

Luke chuckled. "It certainly is, my Lady. I'm surprised you know so much about dragons."

"After all, my son will be a dragon rider one day. I try to learn as much as I can."

"That's very wise. If you would like someone to accompany your son on his first experience with his dragon, I would love to help. When I was five years old, it was a different feeling to communicate with my dragon for the first time. I don't think anyone who hasn't experienced it would know."

y/n smiled again. "That is very kind of you, my Prince. My son is lucky indeed. Prince Daemon came to my chambers yesterday and said he would like to give Maelor sword lessons when he grows up. I think it is a wonderful offer. After all, he is the best swordsman in the seven kingdoms."

Aemond clenched his fist under the table.

He wanted to pick a fight, to vent his anger, but he could not disrespect his mother.

He bit the inside of his cheek to calm himself.

"Did you ever think to consult me before deciding on my son's education, y/n?" Aemond asked angrily.

y/n turned back to Aemond, her smile widening as she saw him getting angry. "No, I didn't."

Aemond was about to say something when the servants began to disturb the food. He had to stop whatever he was going to say.

Not much else happened during the meal. Except that Princess Rhaenyra complimented y/n on her beauty. y/n thanked her. And she said she hoped her son would look like her when he grew up. Everyone at the table laughed except Aemond and the Queen.

After dinner, as everyone continued to drink wine and eat dessert, the King asked the servants to bring his grandson.

y/n's maid immediately brought Maelor into the dining room and gave him to the King.

The King kissed his grandson's head and gave it to his daughter, Princess Rhaenyra, who was waiting by his side.

Princess Rhaenyra took her nephew and went to her sons. Jace, Viserys, and Luke were sitting next to each other.

Rhaenyra looked at y/n for confirmation when her son Viserys insisted on holding the baby. y/n nodded.

Princess carefully handed him to her son.

Jace looked at his cousin with a smile. "What's his name?"

"Maelor," y/n said.

The King's smile grew. "Maelor Targaryen, a name fit for a great lord."

"It certainly is, my King," y/n's father said.

Princess Rhaenyra turned toward y/n. "What a responsibility for a child so young."

The princess loved y/n very much. They had written to each other often for two years. She was one of the most outraged when she heard what her brother had done. "He is just like you. I'm sure he will fulfill his duty without cheating.”

y/n nodded. "He has my father's blood in his veins. I'm sure he will be an honorable man like him."

y/n's mother was proud of her daughter's courage.

The queen wanted to answer her outburst. But she couldn't do it in front of the King. Everyone knew how important it was for her family to be allied with the kingdom.

Aemond, on the other hand, wanted to crawl under the table and hide from everyone. He was embarrassed and annoyed that everyone had been teasing him all day.

Prince Viserys looked at his cousin's face. "He looks a lot like uncle Aegon," he said.

In fact, he looked exactly like his mother, except for his golden-silver hair and beautiful violet eyes. Viserys was too young to be aware of what was happening in the room and did not try to imply anything.

y/n put her hand on the table and leaned toward the brothers. "He really looks like Prince Aegon."

There was a great silence in the dining room.

Aegon was staring at y/n with his mouth open.

Aemond was on the verge of attacking someone.

"After all, he is his uncle. Of course, they can look alike."

Everyone let go of the breath they were holding.

The queen fidgeted uneasily in her seat.

"I suppose." y/n said.

Aemond slammed his hand on the table and stood up, but his mother gestured for him to stop.

"Let's leave the princes and ladies alone to spend some time,” she said. ”And we'll have tea in the King's chambers if you like, my Lord."

“Of course, your grace.”

Aemond squeezed the edge of the table hard, not understanding what his mother was trying to do.

The King, Queen, y/n’s parents, princess Rhaenyra, Lord Laenor, and Prince Daemon rose from the table.

The queen came to her son. "May I speak to you?"

Aemond looked at his wife next to him, but she was not looking at him. Then he nodded and left the room with his mother.

Baela and Rhaena came up to y/n. "If you are bored with the wine at the castle, we have brought some good wine. We are thinking of drinking it in my room if you want to join." Baela said.

y/n looked at the twins and smiled. "I'd love to,"

y/n told her maid to take Maelor to his wet-nurse and left the dining room with the twins.

They went into Baela's room.

The room was empty except for the bed, the armchairs, and Baela's suitcase.

Baela had told her maid not to unpack her belongings as it was unclear how many days they would be at the castle.

She pointed to one of the armchairs. "Have a seat."

As y/n settled into the armchair, Baela took the mentioned bottle of wine out of her suitcase.

There were several glasses on the low table between the armchairs. Baela filled them and handed one to y/n.

She took a few sips and realized that the wine was indeed different. It burned her tongue and throat slightly, but it was more flavorful than the wines at the Red Keep.

"Do you like it, my Lady?"

"I like it very much, but please don't call me that. You can call me by my first name."

"All right then. You need to call us by our names too."

y/n smiled and nodded.

The three of them talked and laughed for a while.

y/n almost choked on her wine when Baela told her a rumor about one of the ladies who lived in the castle.

Then they talked about some of their favorite painters.

Rhaena made a mental note to send y/n a painting as a gift on her name day.

Then, there was a short silence between them.

Baela glanced at Rhaena and then turned to y/n. "There is something we want to talk to you about."

y/n looked at the girl with curious eyes. "What is it?" 'Please not about Aemond.'

"It's about Prince Aemond."

Oh.

y/n's expression instantly hardened. "I guess you know."

"Yes. But we didn't bring it up to bother you," Rhaena said.

Baela got up and sat next to her, and took her hand. "I have people I know and trust in the Riverlands. Especially in Harrenhal, you know, thanks to my husband."

y/n put her wine glass down on the table.

'She knows some people in Harrenhal because of Jace.'

"They said Alys is not pregnant with Aemond's child."

Rhaena continued. "She had a Dornish lover. Aemond hadn't been to see Alys for five months, and the maesters said the baby was three months old. They said Aemond didn't say anything when he saw she was pregnant. After Aemond left, she ran away with her other lover."

y/n couldn't believe what she was hearing. Baela could read it in her expression. "I know it's hard to believe, but four people told us this separately."

"Who knows?"

"Probably everyone. And those who don't know will soon learn."

y/n nodded. "I'd like to go to my chambers if you'll excuse me."

Baela stood up and gave way to the girl. "Of course."

They said good night to each other, and y/n left the room.

As soon as she stepped into the hallway, she knew where she was going.

She went to Aegon's room and went straight in without knocking.

Aegon jumped slightly from where he stood and turned quickly toward her.

"y/n?"

When she saw Aegon, the tears she had been holding back all the way came to her eyes. "That witch had another lover and was pregnant with his child. She ran off with him a week ago."

Aegon walked toward her in astonishment. "Unbelievable."

"I couldn't believe it either when I first heard it. But it explains Aemond's cold and sullen demeanor." y/n smiled at her own words, her eyes still full. "I mean, colder and more sullen than usual."

Aegon smiled too, but he was worried about her. "Aren't you sorry?"

"Because Alys Rivers left Aemond for a Dornish?" she asked and tried to smile, but a tear fell from her left eye and landed on her chin

Aegon took a step toward her, but she stopped him. "It happens all the time these days. Don't worry."

He clenched his jaw. "Don't worry? Are you out of your mind?!"

y/n was startled by the loudness of his voice.

Aegon's stern expression softened instantly. He cursed himself and Aemond inside. "I'm sorry."

y/n shook her head. "It's not your fault. I guess lack of sleep made me sensitive to the sounds around me."

Aegon clenched his fist and walked past her.

He was about to open the door when y/n ran after him and grabbed his arm. "Where are you going?"

Aegon turned toward her, fire in his eyes. "If I don't kill him tonight, I won't sleep well."

He was about to take his arm away from her and leave the room when y/n's sobs stopped him.

"Aegon.” She sobbed. “Stay with me.”

Aegon turned back to her and put his hands on her arms. He never knew what to say in these situations. "Can I hug you?"

y/n nodded in agreement.

Aegon immediately wrapped his arms around her waist. y/n put her arms around his back. Aegon kept whispering into her hair that everything would be all right.

y/n felt Aegon kiss her head, but she wasn't sure.

She had stopped crying because of the feeling of relaxing.

"My maid is in there cleaning my bath." Aegon was worried at the idea of her seeing them like this.

y/n smiled as an idea struck her. She raised her voice high enough for the maid to hear. "Aemond can't get hard whenever we have intercourse. Do you have the same problem? It could be a family thing."

Aegon was at a loss for words. "I think it was a fluke that I got pregnant. I'm not sure about this. Can you tell me if it's right or wrong?"

Aegon swallowed and waited for her next move. "Does having a small dick affect getting someone pregnant? If so, I don't think Maelor will have a sibling soon."

Aegon's emotions fluctuated between surprise and admiration.

He grabbed her by the arm and hurried her out of the room. He didn't want the maid to see her disheveled state.

They went to a space in the hallway. "y/n!" He said and laughed.

y/n smiled. Butterflies fluttered in Aegon's stomach at the sight of her.

"What you said will certainly undermine Aemond. But it may also be to your detriment. People won't think it is right for you to speak such things to your husband's brother."

"Fuck people," she said and added. "They won't talk about me when they're busy talking about Aemond."

Aegon leaned toward y/n as he laughed.

y/n had recovered a little.

And then, instantly, the question that had occupied her mind for days and that she had avoided knowing the answer came back to her.

The feeling of being stabbed in the back filled her again.

She kept telling herself that if he knew it, he would have said so. But there was nothing the queen knew that her children didn't know. And it was unlikely that the prince of the realm would not know about something that even the maids in the castle whispered in the corridors.

She just kept lying to herself to keep from losing him.

She took a step away from Aegon. "How long have you known?"

Aegon averted his eyes.

"You were the only one in the castle who knew that I don't exist only to bear children.” She balled her hand into a fist to suppress her anger. “I thought you were my friend.”

"Maybe you don't realize it, but I don't have many friends either."

"So we're friends because we have no other choice."

"No, I didn't mean it like that." Aegon looked at her and thought about what he wanted to say. I love you. I can't keep from my tongue what my heart knows. I sleep every night thinking about you and wake up every morning thinking about you. "Only we can understand each other."

"And yet you chose not to come to me as you learned."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know what to do. It was hard to choose between my brother and my-" He looked at the ceiling. "My friend."

"If I had a sister, and you were married to her, and if she was cheating on you, I would have come to you the moment I found out. My parents would have been mad at her and made her never see her lover again. That's how we in honorable families deal with such situations."

Aegon bowed his head. "We have never been an honorable family. Pride, perhaps."

"Did you all think that would make your actions forgivable?"

"No." he paused. "Maybe."

"There is no other family that could not handle being Targaryen like the Targaryens."

Aegon grinned. "Can you imagine what would have happened to Westeros if we had all been great warriors and leaders? There is a reason why the gods have made most of us lazy and stupid."

y/n stared at Aegon. "I've never seen a stupid Targaryen except you and your siblings. I think it's a family trait. Your Hightower side, perhaps?"

"It’s likely," he said and smiled.

y/n didn't smile. "I don't know when I can forgive you."

Aegon nodded. "So you will, one day."

y/n turned away. "Don't push your luck too hard."

"I give it a day!" Aegon said as he watched her walk away.

He wondered if the stones on the ground hurt her because if they did, he would pick up each one with his hands.

He was ready to lay down his life for her. But he still had to watch his stupid little brother's back.

After all, blood ran thicker than water.

Aegon cursed himself once more as he tried to console himself inwardly.

y/n was always talking about what a dishonorable family they were, but here Aegon, going through his days without even kissing his brother's wife once.

He had not been to a brothel in two years and had not been with a woman in months.

He felt as devoted to her as his mother had been to the gods.

Aegon's was even more difficult.

The harder it is, the thicker the bond. That's what his mother told him whenever he refused to come to worship with her.

He hoped she was right.

xxx

y/n went to her room. She didn't want to go there. She didn't want to face Aemond.

But she had nowhere else to go.

She walked to the large closet in the room and took a silk nightgown from it. The nightgown was cream-colored, and the fabric was thin enough to chill her at night.

She liked being cold.

I should have married a Stark and gone north, she thought.

She craved wine. She didn't want to think about what she was going through. If she did, she'd keep beating herself up for nothing.

After filling her wine glass, she picked up a random book from the table where the wine decanter had been.

She took the glass and the book and went to bed. She lay down, careful not to spill the wine.

It was one of the history books Aemond had always loved to read.

When she opened the first page, a piece of paper fell out.

When she picked it up and examined it, her hands shook with surprise, and she had to put her wine on the coffee table next to the bed.

y/n's picture was on the paper. She knew it was Aemond's drawing by the softness of the lines.

It was unexpected. Was Aemond in love with her? If so, why was he acting this way toward her? He was always cold around her and acted like he didn't want to be there.

When she turned the picture over, she saw a date. It was about six months after they had been married.

Either Aemond was trying to play with y/n’s mind, or there was something that she couldn't understand.

She had seen Aemond draw before, but it was usually of trees and flowers and how he saw King's Landing as he flew with his dragon.

She placed the picture back into the book.

As she took it to the table, the door knocked.

She walked to the door, sighing.

She opened the door and saw Aemond's long golden-silver hair.

He smelled strongly of wine.

"y/n, my wife."

"Are you drunk?" she asked.

"No, I'm not."

Aemond was definitely drunk. But his movements and the way he spoke still looked partly the same. He still had that serious look on his face that he always had. Of course, y/n thought.

"My son, our son. Is he really Aegon's?"

"I don't know, Aemond. We have no way of knowing whose child he is."

y/n straightened her posture. "And it doesn't matter if he is your son or not. No one cares if you have heirs. The only thing that matters to Maelor is my blood. And it is definitely my blood that flows in his veins. He is my heir, and that is all that matters."

Aemond cocked his head to the right. "I do not care as long as he is yours."

y/n tried to close the door. "If you have nothing to say, I'll see you in the morning.

"Do you want to end our marriage?" he said, the seriousness in his eye giving way to sadness.

"Did you hear us in the garden?"

"I did."

"I thought you went in with the king and queen."

"No, I went in after a while."

"And now you're spying on me, Aemond, another dishonor."

Aemond leaned his arm against the door and leaned toward y/n.

"Why don't you want us to stay married?"

"Why?" y/n laughed. "The answer to your question is right in front of your eyes. You cheated on me. And then you decided to come to the castle whenever you felt like it. I'd never been to the Red Keep until the day we got married, Aemond. I had no friends, no one to take my side."

"I don't want her anymore."

"Aemond! You can't go to her even if you want to! I know how she cheated on you. Isn't that ironic?"

"y/n, I always wanted you. I was the one who asked my mother to marry us."

"I know, Aemond. For my inheritance."

"No, no. You-" Aemond struggled to get his words together. "I swear I never loved her." he swallowed and closed his eye tightly. "There are other things." He rubbed his temples. "Other things."

He opened his eye. Under his heavy gaze, y/n was startled.

Even after two years, his gaze still melted her.

"I want to be with you."

"I don't want to."

"Why? Please." He sounded desperate and in pain. “Please.”

"We're only going to stay married to fulfill our duties, Aemond. Do what you want. I don't care. Because I'll do what I want."

Aemond looked confused. He jumped to another topic as if he had not heard her. "Some men from my father's council want me to be the King."

"Aemond! I don't give a shit!"

"You'll be my queen." He paused. "My everything."

y/n looked Aemond straight in the eye.

"Aegon will be the King."

Aemond's face hardened. "Are we still going to talk about him?" No one wants him on the throne."

y/n laughed. Aemond looked at her in surprise. "Is that what all the fuss was about? Is that why you insisted on a son?"

"A son of yours."

y/n laughed again. "Oh, Aemond." She stood up on her tiptoes and approached his face. "I will bear Aegon dozens of sons if he wishes. For our king. If he wills it, that is how I will fulfill my duty to the realm."

Aemond laughed. "Dozens of bastards."

"Oh, you think I would bear our sons out of wedlock."

y/n pressed her finger against Aemond's torso. "When he becomes the King, he will annul your marriage and mine, and then I will marry him.”

Aemond squeezed his hand on the doorjamb tighter. "You are not a maiden."

"I'm not." she brought her hand to his cheek and stroked it with her thumb. "I assure you, he's aware of it.”

Aemond's gaze dropped to her lips.

The one-eyed prince was poisonous.

One of the moments that made him want his wife more was when she hinted that she was cheating on him.

He felt like his blood was boiling, his veins bursting.

He could hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

He was angry, and he was heartbroken. But at the same time, he was burning with desire.

He leaned his face toward her. "He can't fuck you the way I fuck you."

y/n moved her face closer to Aemond's face. Their noses almost touched. "Lucky me, then.” Her breath hit Aemond's face.

Aemond laughed. The hardness in his pants was becoming uncomfortable.

He tilted his head to the right and leaned toward y/n to kiss her, but she pulled back.

"Good night, Aemond."

She closed the door in his face, leaving Aemond no chance to say anything.

She leaned against the door and took a deep breath. y/n hated him.

But also, she couldn't stop the ache between her thighs.

She was just as poisonous as he was.

next chapter

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[peachsukii]

Tidal Wave

『♡』 pro-hero fem!reader x pro-hero bakugo ♡ katsuki bakugo masterlist ♡ summary: a horrible accident occurs while reader is on patrol for the night. when she's released, she runs to bakugo's apartment for support tags & warnings: loss of parent, failed rescue, trauma, angst, emotional comfort, fluff a/n: in my head, katsuki would be a very supportive BF who would comfort you after a bad day in any way he could, especially when it comes to losing people on the job. it's never easy and heroes need care, too!! ꒰ Ao3 version | word count; 1,454 ꒱

Getting ready to head out for a short night shift, you text Bakugo to let him know you're safe. He's always worried whenever they schedule you super late, especially by yourself.

[you] i'm heading in now, want me to text you when i'm home? might be late [kat] yes, don't care. if i'm up or not, i'll at least know you got home safe [you] okay, love you [kat] love you too

───

Time of death; 12:05AM.

The rain pelted against the neoprene material of your hero suit as you stood with the paramedics.

“Y/H/N?” One of them called to you. “We need your report on the incident.” She waited beside you with a clipboard, her paperwork growing damp with each raindrop.

─── A normal late night patrol, you’d been walking a dimly lit street on your route when a small child came running up to you, latching on to your leg. She couldn’t have been more than 8 years old.

“Excuse me! Miss hero!” She sniveled as she buried her face against your thigh, clutching your suit in her tiny palms. She was shaking like a leaf - covered in, what you presume, is mud.

You slouch over, a gentle hand on her head. “What’s wrong, little one?” She looks up at you, her eyes the color of sapphires.

“My mommy is in trouble! I tried to help her, but…please miss hero, come with me!”

Her dainty fingers grab your hand and pull you in the direction she came from. A few minutes down the road, you see an older woman on the riverbank. She’s face down, it’s hard to see without direct light what exactly happened. You’re jogging over to her with the little girl by your side.

“Sweetie, can you tell me what happened?” You ask the child.

She wipes a dribble of snot on the back of her hand. “Mommy and I were walking over there,” she points to the nearby bridge. “And she fell over into the water!”

”You’re very brave to come find help,” you praise, giving her a pat on the back. “Let’s get your mommy away from the water while I call my friends to help.”

While waiting for the rescue crew to arrive, you cautiously move the mother further away from the edge of the river. Suddenly, she begins to seize, catching you off guard. She’s gasping for air, flailing her arms around with tears pricking the corner of her eyes. You roll her on her side, rubbing her back as you see the lights of the sirens coming over the bridge.

Come on, come on, get here faster!

The ambulance pulls up on the pathway and 3 paramedics dispatched from all sides. They’re running up to you, yelling, “Clear the way!” You take the little girl’s hand and guide her up the riverbank to the ambulance.

“She’s been poisoned! Grab the siphon kit, stat!”

As chaos is brewing all around, rain begins to patter against the grass outside. You’re wiping mud off of the little girl’s face as you hear, “We’re losing her!”

You place your hands softly over her ears, turning to the paramedics as they’re attempting to revive her mother.

Please, no...

"Is my mommy going to be okay?" the little girl asks sheepishly. You can't answer her, you just nod your head and smile the best you can. You have to keep a brave face for her.

Then, you hear the dreaded noise.

* Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep *

Your heart drops, sinking into your stomach as you squeeze your eyes shut. Everyone in the vicinity is holding their breaths collectively. The paramedic with the respiratory machine wearily gets to her feet.

"Mark the time of death as 12:05AM."

───

You’re on autopilot, shoving your emotions deep down as you recall the events of the night to the paramedic for her report. You can't emote right now, you have to pull it together until you can leave.

"The child will be brought into protective custody until we find a relative. Thank you for your service, Y/H/N. You're free to go - we'll take it from here."

Before leaving the scene, you take one last glance over to the small girl. She's under a blanket in the back of the ambulance, staring blankly into space.

It breaks your heart.

───

You're sprinting, faster than your legs can carry you, through the downpour as you approach Bakugo's apartment complex. What time even was it? Last you checked, almost 12:30AM. He's gonna be pissed when you wake him up.

You needed him, now more than ever.

You round the corner of the third floor and skid to a stop at his door, soaking wet, leaving a puddle onto the hallway floor. You can hardly breathe as you knock, praying he's either still awake or won't be frustrated.

Fuck, I should have just called.

To your surprise, Bakugo answers the door after only two knocks. His expression shifts violently from annoyed to worried when he sees you standing there, immediately pulling you inside and shutting the door.

"What the fuck happened Y/N?!" he asked, more so demanded.

You can't hold it together anymore - you crumble into his arms, sobbing hysterically. His t-shirt absorbs the waterfall of tears you're crying, inconsolable against his chest as he's supporting your weight.

He runs his hand through your bangs, brushing the wet strands away from your face.

"Shh, hey, it's alright," he whispers, stroking your wet hair. "Any louder and you're gonna get me a noise complaint."

You let go, realizing that you've made a mess of his entryway and his t-shirt. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't -"

"Y'don't have to explain shit. Now let me get you out of that before you catch a cold."

Bakugo spins you around, tugging at the zipper of your hero suit harshly. The skin-tight bodysuit under the rest of your gear loosens, letting him slip his hands inside and peeling it off of your cool skin. You didn't realize how cold you were until this moment, shivering beneath his touch. Your suit crumples onto the floor, along with the rest of your accessories, leaving you in your underwear.

He tenderly grabs your shoulders, pushing you toward the bathroom. Little droplets of water fall from your damp hair as he's leading you down the hallway.

Before you know it, steams is rolling out of the shower as Bakugo is stripping himself down to get in with you. He soothes you as he takes the rest of your clothes off, guiding you into the shower with him. He puts you under the water first, rinsing your body with the hot water to warm you back up.

As the water cascades around the two of you, he's stroking your back, eliciting the remainder of your emotions to come pouring out. A quiet sob escapes you as you try to explain yourself.

"I...I couldn't save her," you start to say, hiccupping between your words. "Her daughter was...she was just a kid...I couldn't help her mother."

Bakugo kisses your forehead. "I'm sorry, baby. I figured that was the case." He continues to wash your hair and body, peppering you with kisses and letting you cry out the feeling. He knows all too well how you feel - the first time you lose someone you're protecting on patrol hurts a fuck ton, no matter the circumstance. It never gets easier.

Once you're all cleaned up, he steps out of the shower first to grab towels. He hands you one as he exits the bathroom, muttering just a sec under his breath. Not more than a minute later, Bakugo returns with a handful of his clothes for you.

"Arms up, buttercup," he playfully sings as he throws the t-shirt over your head, ruffling it at the hem to get it to fit over your physique. He kneels to the floor, a pair of his boxers stretched out for you to step into. You oblige as he yanks them up your legs and comfortably settles them on your hips.

You shuffle your feet in place, slightly embarrassed. "I'm sorry for making such a mess, Kat. I didn't know what else to do in the moment."

He cups your cheek in his hand. "Idiot, y'don't need an excuse to come to me. You should know that by now."

Bakugo takes your hand in his, leading you out of the bathroom and into his bedroom. He tucks you under the covers first and settles in behind you, immediately wrapping his arms around your midsection.

"I'll wash your suit for you tomorrow," he says hushed, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. "I love you, baby."

"I love you too, Kats. Thank you."

Just a quick little blurb 'cause I wanted to write Katsuki being sweet without hesitation. :)

Divider by : @/saradika

#bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki #bakugou x reader #bakugo angst #bakugo x you #katsuki bakugo x reader #pro hero bakugou #pro hero bakugo x reader #bakugo fluff #bakugo x y/n #katsuki bakugo #my hero academia #bakugo katsuki #dynamight #bnha #mha #bnha shorts #☆.rei writes

[gemini-sensei]

@sensei-venus

Shy!Eli and Shy!Best-Friend!Reader who fuck behind the scenes and keep it a secret from Demetri. They don't want him to get weird about it or make him feel like a third wheel, failing to realize demetri knows they've had dumb little crushes on each other for literal years. He just doesn't realize they fuck now, thinking they're both too shy to ever admit their feeling for one another.

Until one day Demetri comes over to Eli's place spur of the moment because he's excited about something and just had to come shownit to Eli in person. He lets himself in and the house is quiet. Just for a moment he thinks bo one is home and then he hears a cry of "Oh Eli!" Well now he just has to investigate.

Despite the tone of voice, he really doesn't expect much. So when he comes to Eli's bedroom and peeks into the ightky ajar door, he's shocked to see his two best friends going at it like it's their last day on earth.

Eli's on top, fucking into Reader roughly while her thick thighs are in his hands. He's holding them on his hips, her pudgy fat spilling over his fingers and he squeezes them hard just to make her moan louder. She's on her back, ass slightly lifted off of the mattress, and her whole body is being rocked. Her tits are bouncing and each thrust into her makes her soft belly jiggle. Demetri can't see it, but he can hear her cunt and how wet it is; how it squelches with each hard thrust into it. Her toes are curling and she's crying out Eli's name like a chant.

Demetri can't move. He knows he shouldn't be watching through a crack in the door, but a fire has lit in his belly at the sight of his best friends fucking. Before he knows what he's doing, he has his shirt rolled up and bit between his teeth and his dick in his hands. He's gagged himself so he stays quiet, not wanting to interrupt their obviously passionate romp.

And if finding them in such a compromising position wasn't shocking enough, what eli says next certainly through demetri for a loop.

"I'm gonna a fill you up!" he whines.

And Demetri's whole gunt clenches. His cock throbs. Surely they're not doing it raw? His two best friends aren't that stupid, are they? But he can't hardly give it serious thought as he jerks off to their moans and the way they shake the bed. It's a lingering thought in his mind that they're having such risky sex when up until that moment no one knew what they were doing.

It isn't until they're screaming with pleasure as they come does Demetri get an answer to his question. After rutting into her hard and grunting, Eli finishes and pulled out. His cock is covered in their mixed arousal and shortly after he withdraws from her cunt, a river of thick creamy cum leaks from her twitchy hole.

The sight makes Demetri's cock throb and he bites into his short harder. He hardly has time to process it all before he watches Reader turn over, get on her knees and lay on her chest, then spread herself for open for Eli as another glob of his cum escapes her cunt and clings to her fat swollen clit.

"Please... please, Eli, I need you," she begs so sweetly. Her cheek is pressed into the sheets and she looks so pretty. So irresistible. "I need you so much."

Eli only nods, pumping his cock to keep it from going soft. Then he's getting behind her and sliding in, balls deep with little effort. He grabs her hips and leans over and starts humping into her fast and hard. Her groans and whines about how tight she is and how he's gonna make sure she's full of his cum. He spouts utter filth that Demetri has never heard him say before, talking about how pretty and hot she looks overflowing with his cum and taking it all so well. She whimpers and lays there's, at his mercy as he all but jackhammers his cock into her.

Demetri is painfully aware of how close he is, and comes before its over. He catches what he can in one hand. However, it's a lot and threatens go spill over. He doesn't know what to so and doesn't want to get caught by his friends, so he shoves himself back into his pants and continues to come in his jeans. It's wet and hot and sticky, and it has him shuddering as he can do nothing but know he's messing in his pants for his two best friends. Heavy ropes fill the crotch of his pants and spill down his pant leg, but he keeps his eyes on Eli and Reader while they fuck like bunnies - cute, shy, secretly filthy bunnies.

When it's over, Demetri leaves for home. Bjt when he gets there and is in the comfort and privacy of his own bedroom, he's hardly out of his cum soaked jeans before he's jacking off again. To his own shock and horror, he's imagining himself fucking Reader on his big fat cock, making her squeal and moan and cry out, as she may or may not be fat and plump with his best friend's baby in her belly...

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[yeyinde]

WILLOW TREE MARCH

John Price x Reader | Fae!AU

"They'll give you gifts," your gran says, shaking her head. "Things from their realm. Little trinkets and gems—" geodes, sapphires and diamonds, raw gold and coral; "—and you must never accept them," a whittled deer made of sequoia under your pillow; crow bones buried in the garden."Because if you do, if you do, they'll never let you go."  "Why?" You asked, blinking at her.  "Because it's a courting ritual, and to accept means… well," her mouth twists in wry disdain. "Just don't." 

—WARNINGS: 18+ | SMUT fae shenanigans, mythological nonsense; unsafe sex, smut in random places, slight exhibition kink if you squint; Dom-ish Price, soft Price, pining Price; fae trickery (dubious consent on account of the trickery but not really); unreliable narrator; ahhhhhh, body horror (??????????) —TAGS: Fluff, AU, mythology —WORD COUNT: 8,5k —Based on this ask

There's a thick forest at the edge of your town. It curves along the coastline, breaching the yawning maw of the inlet—the last safe haven before the open ocean—and can be found almost nowhere else in the entire world. A unique ecosystem comprising vaguely familiar flora and fauna. Brown and Black bears. Wolves. Sitka-black-tailed deer. Ravens. The waters that crest through the forest are full of salmon, steelhead, and river otters. On the coast of the inlet, you can find whales, sea lions, seals, orcas, and porpoises swimming offshore. 

It's protected, in large part, by its sheer vastitude. Spanning a massive chunk of your home, it stretches far north with curling fingers cutting through the granite of the crumbling coast, and as deep south as its knobby knees can reach. 

From above, it looks like a child curled on its side, knees tucked to its chest. It's this pose alone that makes others revere it as some sacred being, slumbering mindlessly until the day it cracks open its eyes, and awakens to the new world. A child god made of conifers, red cedar, spruce, fir, pine, birch, and hemlock. Mossy caves of granite and limestone. Thick colonies of moss, liverworts, plume moss, and common haircap. 

The forest is linked to your town only by a small strip of land that juts out from a raging ravine with currents too dangerous, too deadly, to try and traverse. An archipelago all on its own, untouched by greedy, human, hands because of its placement. 

It's insulated by the vast ocean on its front, and a series of insidious looking mountains ready to swallow wandering mountaineers whole if they get too close to the sleeping child. Protected and safe by anyone who might try to harm it. 

You used to dream about the forest. A nightmare dredged up about whispers and calls. Lured close to the edge of the river where a man would hand you his heart—sap-stained, and charred; a brittle piece of Bristlecone pine that felt fragile and worn—and told you to come back for him. To wait for him. 

You'd wake in a cold sweat each time, heart pounding so fast that it almost felt like you were dying.

(Maybe you were. Maybe you did.)

You don't know if you believe the stories told about people wandering into the gaping chasm of the forest and never coming out. It's not uncommon for people to get lost, after all. But it feels distinct and archaic. Old. Something about the way the wind howls sounds different from the other woodlands scattered around your home. 

It sounds like a beckoning call. A mother calling their child home for dinner. Come to me, the Chinook bellows. Come home now, dear. 

You never venture too close. You know all too well what happens to children who do.

His name is—was now, you suppose—Kyle, but no one called him that. To everyone in town, he was simply known as Gaz. 

Newcomers to the isolated archipelago are a rarity—so much so that news of the new family's arrival sent waves through the community, making Gaz an instant star overnight, all without him even setting foot on the shores. 

None of that mattered, though. He fit in with an ease that seems almost preternatural when you think about it, as if he was meant to be there. And maybe he was. Maybe the soft rolling valleys were destined to be his home where flowers bloomed in the spring, and Arctic tern trilled from the branches. 

Gaz was unique, different. 

He picked dandelions with the same intensity that picked fights with the bullies in the neighbouring town, the ones who tried to pick on the smaller kids in the community. 

With his fists always covered in dandelion oil and bruises, face caught between a grimace and a grin, like he was never sure if he wanted to spit at their feet or tell a joke, he stood against the onslaught with an anger that seemed to crackle in the air like fireworks. Ready for battle. Thirsty for blood. 

His anger never waned even when he turned back to the group, eyes cresting in satisfaction, and body trembling with adrenaline, and you could scent the rage in his smile, hear it in the soft words he muttered to the kids, telling them everything would be alright. 

Gaz was everyone's friend. The person you told your deepest secrets to, the one you planned adventures with. He was a rock—always armed with snappy jokes to make you smile, and advice when you needed it. 

He was everyone's friend—yours especially—but you can't remember if anyone was his best friend. He was polite. Distant. 

It started in the summer. His hands were always cold, and he kept them shoved deep in his pockets, clenched tight around the latchkey his parents gave him. 

He started to seem almost liquid then. Temporal. You'd reach for him, brushing your hands against his arms or shoulders just to assure yourself that he was really there.

You noticed that his eyes would list sideways, head tilted, slanting toward the forest. It looked to you as if he was listening to something. To some unheard noise or call that only he could hear. 

When you asked about it, he'd always blink, surprised, as if you'd woken him up from a dream quite suddenly. Then, he'd smile, and shake his head. 

"Don't worry about it," he'd say, shrugging. "Just the wind."

He'd bend down and pick a dandelion for you, holding it out between pudgy fingers with a grin that seemed to mimic the cresting moon. 

"For you."

He picked them for three springs before he, too, became another victim of the endless forest. Another empty tomb in the overcrowded graveyard.

Missing, they said, but not forgotten. 

You think about him often. 

(Even more so when you, too, begin to hear your name echoing through the forest.)

Beware the woods, your grandma says. Especially when it calls your name. 

(You never understood why something that sounds so comforting, so sweet, could ever be dangerous. It sounds like an old friend calling you over to play. 

"Never go," she snaps, her hands lashing out to grip your arms tight. You feel her knobby fingers digging into your bones. "Never listen, and stay away—"

"You're hurting me, gran—"

Her rheumy eyes burn into yours. "Stay away—!"

(You wisely never speak about the whispers in your head, keeping them to yourself. A secret just for you.)

You leave town when you're old enough, when the hisses in your head grow too loud to ignore, and it feels as though they're scratching at your skull. 

(Clawing at the walls.)

"Crazy weather, eh?" The first mate mutters nervously, eyes tilted upward as the sky darkens into an angry grey. "Came outta nowhere." 

You leave, and you don't look back. 

(But oh, how the forest screams.)

She calls you back several years later with a phone call. Your gran has passed. 

You think you should mourn, but it's been so long since you thought of home, that you don't remember what she looks like anymore. The sound of her voice is a whisper in your head—the cadence gone, the tone flat. 

But you don't cry, and you don't grieve—she's been dead for a long time now, after all. Ever since your mum went missing all those years ago, she's always seemed more of a ghost than a person. Living as if her body hadn't realised her heart was long dead. 

You go back only because you think your mum would have wanted you to. 

(And pretend it isn't because the silence in your head is suffocating. Without the whispers, it feels as if you're missing something. A part of yourself forever lost in the forest.

You wonder if anyone has found it by now.)

Nothing has changed since you turned your back on the town that raised you, the forest that stole from you. 

It's the same buildings. The same market. The same roads. The same houses. 

The people, too, seem largely unchanged by the years that have passed. 

The friends from your childhood who stayed meet you at the graveyard, eyes filled with sympathy as they ask how you're doing. 

She'll be missed, they lie sweetly to you. Everyone loved her. 

She was a hermit, you want to scream. A woman driven mad by ghosts and fairytales and terror. 

You nod, instead, and let them lead you around the town on a grand tour as if anything about this beautiful, haunting place had changed since you ran away. 

It gets easier to force a smile when they ask if you're okay. 

"Fine," you murmur and wonder if your voice even carries over the whispers. "Just—yeah. Fine."

North of the town is where the river separating the lonely forest carves a path, not at all dissimilar to an idyllic trough, through bedrock and sand, and flows into the sea. 

The estuary is dangerous in high tide when the rapid ascent of water on the sandy shores hides the rip current that is known to form when the two bodies of water meet. 

It's a dangerous place to get caught in. 

This beach was impressed upon you as deadly from a young age, almost in equal—if not greater—measure than the rapacious forest across the river. You know the dangers of standing on the slippery bedrock. 

But as the sun glows a burnt orange in the distance, and the endless ocean before you darkens into an almost unfathomable black, you can't help but find the view from the cliff's edge to be the most mesmerising thing you've ever seen. 

It looks like a painting. A brush stroke of tigers eye in the centre of the cresting sun that gradually fades out into xanthous, and rings of hazy peach; the light of diminishing star smears coruscating rings of persimmons into the indigo water. The gradual fade into gradients as the waves lap closer to the shore is reminiscent of liquid sapphire and smelting amethyst. 

The picturesque view is more befitting of a pastel postcard, an ethereal pastiche of the Ninth Wave—a moment of life imitating art, or—perhaps—the same view Ivan Aivazovsky stumbled upon when he set out to render the haunting beauty of the ocean in oil. 

The cresting waves arch into curled petals of white before setting upon the sloping beach with frenzy. It's the roar of those hungry waves that seem to, if only for a moment, drown out everything in your head. 

There are no whispers. No songs. No screams. Vengeful hissing can't climb to a higher decibel than the frothing waters slamming against jagged bedrock. 

All is quiet—except the sea. 

You lean into it. The closer you get to that precipice, the quieter everything in your head goes. Sounded sucked into the vacuum of the ocean. The endless song of the sea. 

Another step. Another. 

For a moment, you're free. 

The forest doesn't scream for you. Your grandmother doesn't dig her teeth into your gyri, hands clawing at the space behind your eyes. You don't think of her, or your mother, or Gaz, or anyone else unfortunate enough to get consumed by this damnable place where fairy tales split the seams apart, and merge with reality. 

It's peaceful. 

You take another step—

A hand curls over your shoulder, tugging you back. 

Anger pools, thick and acidic, on your tongue, but the flash of your ire, your vexation, is dashed by the sound the waves make when it slams into the spot you were just standing. 

It slashes across the concrete as the stranger pulls you into his broad chest, heat nearly liquifying your spine. 

He sucks in a breath. You feel his chest expand with it. When he breathes out, you taste gunpowder on your tongue. 

"Gotta be more careful n'that, love." 

You've had near-misses before. Flirted with the reaper. Ripped yourself from the jowls of death himself. 

This isn't anything new.

And yet—

Your eyes drag up, meeting flat black boring down at you. His hood is pulled over his forehead, casting shadows down to his jaw. 

"You—"

Your teeth sink into your tongue. Emotions lash through you like the flick of a bullwhip, shredding your skin until it's raw and oozing. The tail pulls away whenever you try to wrap your fingers around one of them—relief: you're not dead; embarrassment: how could you be so stupid; shame: saved by a stranger; and—

Visceral terror. Panic. 

It bludgeons its fist down your throat, barbed knuckles clawing at the soft tissue of your esophagus until you taste blood on your tongue. 

Panic tastes of ozone and leaks, thick and warm like molasse, down your throat. 

"Hey," he murmurs, and the sound of his voice, his low timbre, is porous, calcined. The rough scratch scours through the haze of fear threading through your sternum. "C'mon on, now. Gotta breathe, yeah?" 

It's his hands on your shoulder—hotter than grenade fire—and the thick scent of musk, of stale smoke and kerosene sweat, that break through the gossamer of your acrid panic. He spins you around to face him, eyes fixed on your face. 

"That's it," he says, soft, soothing. "Keep breathin'. You ain't dead yet." 

You come to yourself in pieces. The world bleeds with startling clarity around the blurred edges. Home, you think. Maybe.

Once upon a time. 

You blink. Blink again. 

The hand still on you—heavier, you find, than an anvil—lifts, his thumb brushing over the curve of your jaw, swiping over the sweat-stained skin.

You can't see his eyes through the shadows cast over his face. A stranger. You've never seen him before. 

They didn't say anyone new moved to town. 

"Who are you—?"

"You don't know?" 

And then his hand is gone, taking all the heat in your body with him. 

It lifts to his vest, thick fingers, gloved in yellow, curling over the butt of his cigar. 

You must make a face. A grimace. A whisper of bemusement. Whatever it is, it makes his lips twitch under the shorn burnt umber of his beard. 

"I'd share," he mutters, teething sinking into the hilt as he pats himself down for a lighter. "But I ain't got the time."

"Shouldn't be smoking in a provincial park, anyway." 

The words are dragged out of you. Numbed, gritty. 

It makes him snort. "Maybe—;" he cups his hand around the end, thumb striking the ignition of the lighter. He inhales, and the red circle at the tip illuminates the cerulean blue tucked away into the folds of his hood. The plume of smoke curls over him like a shroud. "But I doubt a cigar is gonna bring the whole forest down, mm? 'sides, we all have our vices, don't we?"

With that, he leaves you standing in the tendrils of smoke that billow out from his caustic mouth. No goodbye. No name. Nothing except the hum of his touch buzzing through your veins. 

Your head is numb. Thoughts congealing into hardened clay. 

Yeah, you think sluggishly, eyes dropping to the drenched pavement where the ocean narrowly missed you. Swallowed you whole. We do. 

(Yours is bad decisions that reek of napalm. 

Men who scour your hands raw when you touch their coarse surface.)

You find him again in some desolate pub on the fringes of town a few days later. It looks like it's one strong gust of wind away from blowing down. Dilapidated. Rusted from the harsh salt of the ocean to the north. 

He lifts his head when you slide into the empty chair on the left, but says nothing about your unexpected company. 

Instead, his lips curl over the cigar sawed between his teeth. A grin, you think. 

You wonder if he was expecting you. 

(Wonder, then, with a touch of something warm gnarling in your belly, if you surprised him.)

The barkeep wanders past, brows lifting at you in question. 

"Um, a vodka soda—"

The man, Price you learned from the locals with a great of digging, snorts. 

"Ain't got none of that here, love. Two scotches. Neat." He leans over, thick fingers grasping the middle of the cigar, an inch away from the bristles on his upper lip, and pulls it away, ashing it in the tray in front of him. "And a bottle of spring water." 

"Scotch?" You echo, leaning your elbow on the sticky counter. He reeks of smoke. Sweat. Blood. Gunpowder. You veer closer, soaking in the astringent tang of him. Everyone on this island smells of daffodils and cotton; clean and neat and innocent. He reeks of danger. Everything inside of you screams to stay away. "I don't drink scotch."

The cigar burns in the tray. He pulls back, shifting in the chair. His elbow rests on the counter, the other arm is slung over the back of his seat. The picture of appeasement, of a satiated tiger eying a little mouse sniffing past it. There's no immediate danger, and his posture is relaxed. Open. But his eyes—

Price turns to you, then. His legs are spread, knees notched apart, taking up more space than you offer him. A looming presence. Dominating. Confident. He's not doing it on purpose, you don't think, he's just—

Big. 

His legs are too long. Thighs are too thick. 

Something gnarls behind your ribs when you take in his bare face. It's different, smaller, without the bulky black hood thrown low on his brow. His hands bare, leaving him in only casual clothes that stretch taut around his broad body. 

The beanie on his head, pulled low on his forehead, makes him look roguish, rough. The picturesque presentation of a bad boy down to the pelt-brown leather Levi jacket stretched taut around his broad shoulders. 

He looks older, somehow, without the tenebrous of night shading him in dark indigo. Aged like a fine whisky. All burnt umber and ivory. 

The charcoal colouring brightens the heavy blue of his eyes—crushed bluebonnets and powdered graphite; a black hole centre—and the frame of his brown lashes dusting over his clean cheeks makes something pool in your lower belly. 

(You wonder if he'd taste of whisky sour.)

"Well," he murmurs, brow lifting. It makes the skin on his forehead crinkle. He has laugh lines cresting around the corners of his eyes. They stand out to you, now. Void of the shadows you're used to. "You do when I'm paying."

The scotch, the cigar, the dingy pub that reeks of stale cigarettes and is perfumed in a dusting of nicotine that films every surface coalesces into incipient vice. 

His hand moves from where it's loosely curled around his glass, and rests, heavy and warm, on your thigh. 

When he leans in, you taste calcine on his breath. 

The acrid tang is a balm to the blisters in your raw esophagus. You meet him in the middle, smaller hands curling over the wool lapels of his jacket, tugging him into you. 

"Never thanked you for saving me," you murmur, his beard grazing your lips. A tickle. A brush. 

Price sucks in a deep breath, eyes liquifying into an intense azure. "No need to thank me, love. As much as I love the ocean, you don't belong there, do you? No," he adds, decisively. Sure. "You belong on land. The earth. You're wild, like the forest, aren't you?"

It's an out. An escape. An option to flee from the cosm that folds around you like a nebulous cloud. 

You could take it. Back up, away. Walk out of this dingy pub on the wrong side of town, and forget the man who reeks of nicotine, smoke; who leaves ashes behind on your skin when he touches you. 

The only one who stares at you from the unfathomable black of his eyes, lashes shrouded in tenebrous, and makes you falter. Makes your heart lurch, jumping to sit at the bottom of your throat.

You should pull away. Stay away from the man who leaks ethanol and nitroglycerine. From the man who smells of acrid smoke. Gunfire. 

You should. 

But your fingers tighten in the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer. Closer. 

The bridge of his nose is warm when it presses against your own. 

His eyes spark, wildfires. A blazing forest. 

"You said something about vices." His chest rumbles in response to your hushed words. 

"So I did." 

Smoke singes your nose when you brush your lips over his. Warm. Chapped. Dry. You taste ash. Humus. The bitter tang of dandelion oil. 

"Got some time tonight?" 

"Thought you said I shouldn't be smoking."

"We're not in a park, near flammable trees," your hand falls to his chest. His heart thuds beneath your palm. Thick, full. Your eyes lift to his, lidded and heavy. You gaze at him from under your lashes, coy. Demure. You wonder if he can see how eager you are beneath the sly cut of your lids. "Are we, Price?"

The use of his name makes his lips quirk. A small, secretive thing that you can't read. 

"No, we're not." His hand slides down, curling over your knee. "Don't know what you're gettin' into, love." 

"Oh, no?" You taunt, breathless. Even through all your layers, you still feel his searing heat on your skin. His eyes drop when your tongue lashes out, wetting your lower lip. "And what's that?" 

A frisson shudders over his face. Lashes fluttering. He leans forward, resting the rim of his beanie on your forehead. 

When his eyes slide open, all you see is arsenic white pooled around Prussian blue. "More than you could ever dream of." 

Your trembling fingers curl into the lapels of his jacket. For leverage, maybe; or to hide the quiver in your joints from his widening eyes. 

And so, you kiss him. 

A messy punch to the mouth with your sun-blistered lips. 

His mouth parts, wry curls flutter when he inhales sharply. And then—

He devours you. 

It's messy. More sealed lips glueing together than it ever could be considered a proper kiss, but it feels more like a homecoming than stepping off the boat, and you tuck that inside your pounding chest. 

(The whispers in your head seem to sing when his lips touch yours.)

You taste bark on your tongue when it slips over his. Loam. Moss. Something earthy and rich. His beard scratches your chin, your lips, but you pull him closer, hungry for more—for the taste of wilderness on his tongue, for the respite from the whispers, the screams. Like the ocean, he, too, is a vacuum, swallowing everything whole until just you remain, stripped down to nothing but sensation and want. Bare, raw. 

Your teeth ache when you pull away, fingers curling into the coarse hair along his chin. The whips of his wry curls scratch your palm. 

You never want to let go. 

Price's eyes are noctilucent clouds; a storm over a rainforest. He'll ruin you. Devour. Destroy. Take, and take, and take until there is nothing left. 

Your lips tremble when you speak, words tremulous with your desire, your eagerness, when they slip past your bruised mouth. 

"I can think of a few that are better than smoking." 

Price shudders. 

"Where did you go?" Your friend asks, eyes swinging from the cards spread out in front of him—the Idiot, Solitaire—to you. They burn into the side of your face, the same place Price touched with bare knuckles, and said you belong to the forest, don't you? "Missed dinner."

You ate Doro Wat in a small shop after Price fucked you stupid in the dingy bathroom of the pub, face scraping against the waterlogged wallpaper that chipped with each brutal thrust of his hips. 

Like that, hmm? Can barely take me, love, but you're so fuckin' greedy for it, ain't you? 

You're sure the barkeep heard your moans as they bounced off the jaundiced walls. 

(You still hear him hissing in your ear. Still feel him splitting you apart.)

You try not to shiver. 

"Ate already," you shrug, bundling your sleep clothes tight in your trembling hands. When you stand, his eyes follow you. "So. Um—"

"You okay?" 

"Yeah," you say, shifting on the balls of your feet. "I've—" You think of his eyes, gyre white, and wonder if this is what it feels like to get swallowed by the sea. "I've never been better."

"Good," he says, smiling. "I worry about you, you know?"

You nod. "Yeah," you say. "Me, too."

You break apart in the shower, falling into pieces as you make yourself finish, thinking about nothing but the phantom stretch of his cock seated deep inside of you, the taste of his come pooling on your tongue.

It balms the residual burn in your esophagus, and you know, then, when you throb, still wanting his touch on your skin, that you've always been terrible at telling yourself no. 

It can't happen. It can't.  

There's a strange magnetism about him—an uncanny sense of mystery and familiarity sutured together. 

It feels a little bit like staring at the looming maw, the event horizon, of a black hole. Unfathomable black. No way out. 

There's something that feels a bit like forewarning inside your chest when he brushes against you, and presses his lips on the skin behind your ear—a secret place only he knows, where only his fingerprints have ever been. You feel his touch even when he's gone. Haunted by the memory of his rough hands and rasping tenor. 

Running would make sense, you think, watching the ferries come and go. You have enough money for a ticket, and you've yet to even unpack your bag. 

You don't know who he is, but you've given him everything. All of it. There's nothing left inside of you to hand over, but he keeps looking at you as if he's waiting for more. 

"Waiting for a ride?" 

You glance back at the operator with a divot between your brow and cotton inside your ears. 

You want to say yes, but you shake your head instead. 

"No." I can't leave. "Just enjoying the view."

You find birch branches stripped of leaves, juniper berries, maple leaves, spindles of dogwood, bushels of fir, and bouquets of bog rosemary, northern bluebell, fireweed, and wintergreen on your doorstep each morning, laid gently against the old welcome mat. 

You should toss them out, and throw them away. How does he know where you live, anyway? It would make the most sense; be the wisest decision. 

Instead, you tuck them inside your notebook, pressing them against the pages where they'll be safe. 

(You try not to think too much about why they never die.)

It happens again. And again. Again—

It becomes a ritual for the few months you're back in town. The leaves, twigs, petals, pines, and seeds all show up at your door each morning and come nightfall, you're drawn to him like a moth to a flame. 

He finds the nastiest looking pub in the city, and you find him there after dark. 

He sits, smokes a cigar. Orders two scotches, and a bottle of spring water. Teaches you how to drink it properly—none of that sugary cocktail shite; just pure whisky, love, as it should be—and lets you puff on the damp end of his cigar, eyes gleaming in the soft yellow light above as he takes in the way your lips curl over the wet tip.

He stares at you like he's indulging you. 

Like he knows. 

And maybe, he does. 

Maybe he sees the way your jaw works, tongue lashing over the tip just to chase his taste. The heat in your cheeks, your eyes, as you gaze at him, open and raw and wanting. The way you list toward him. Eager for it. For him. His touch, his smell. 

He must, you think, but he's a right bastard. 

He doesn't give it until the end of the evening, when everyone has gone home. When it's just you and him and the barkeep that glowers at you something ugly when you stand on shaky legs, and whisper you're going to the washroom. 

Your fingers curl over the chipped porcelain, back arched as you stare at the face in the mirror. 

You can't remember if it's you. 

Whisky has polluted your synapses. The thick scent of smoke, the tobacco from the cigar, has congealed into resin over that little bundle of axons and nerves that control your impulse, logic. 

Stupid. 

You stare at the thing in the mirror, and wonder if the basal want on your face was so apparent to him as it is to you. If he saw the dark gleam of hunger, greed, impatience, swimming in your ink-smudged depths. 

The door rattles. Clicks. 

The squeak of the hinges is the only warning you get before Price is there, liquified in the doorway and clouded in smoke. 

His hand curls over the worn, peeling frame. Eyes dance with the same hunger, same want, as the ones that flicker across the surface of the mirror. 

"Couldn't wait for me, eh, love?" He breathes, his chest expands with his exhale. Scenting you, you think. You wonder if he can smell the slick pooling in your panties. The desperation brimming in your veins. "Wanted it that bad, huh?"

He moves. A mountain of a man now filling up the entirety of your gaze until all you see is him. 

You used to want to climb mountains. In training, they always warned of summit fever. Of that little part of your head that just wanted it to be over, to reach the very top of the precipice. Impatient, it couldn't wait. It made you spring up, and climb higher and higher before you were ready, prepared. 

You think of it now when your hands lift, curling over his broad shoulders. 

("Summit fever will get you killed," they say.)

"Just shut up and fuck me, Price." 

His eyes flash. "Greedy little thing, aren't you?"

You are. Painfully so. 

It etches in your ribs like a sickness, festering in your mouldering bones. Rotting you from the inside out. 

A crutch in the searing heat of skin, sweat, and sin. The feeling of him taking you apart, breaking you down into atoms and molecules that bubble in the lining of your head becomes so commonplace, so often forget who you are when you're pushed up against a wall, being filled to the brim by him.

He leaves madness behind when he goes, and the world that divides fantasy from reality begins to crack, to splinter. 

You hear his voice in your head late at night when the wind blows through the window, carrying the scent of the forest.

"Come home," he rasps in your ear. 

The scratch of his beard seems to scrape against the little thread keeping you tied down to reality. It's frayed and worn by his hands. You wonder when he'll sink his teeth in the silk, and snap the line. Untethering you from your binds.

Come home to me. Come back to where you belong—

Price takes you out to dinner three months after this—whatever it is—starts. After your house becomes more of a garden, writ with the wild remnants of the forest, after each passing day. Full of bushes, and branches. Twigs and precious gems. He gives you raw gold, and open geodes full of amethyst, and sapphire. Canopy leaves, and bark from the trees. 

He leaves a whittled deer made from the red wood of a giant sequoia, and the likeness of the little fawn makes you believe that one day, it'll come to life in your living room.

(You leave a dish of water near the doorway—just in case—and wonder if you're becoming just as mad as your gran.)

He shows up at your doorstep, the bleached antlers of a great pronghorn in his hands. It's decorated with vines and moss weaved over the ivory in intricate braids and knots that you can't even begin to unravel. You marvel at the gift as he tells you he's taking you out for dinner. 

There is no discussion. He doesn't ask, he just—

Does. 

"Found a spot," he says, arms crossed over his broad chest. The cable-knit sweater pulls, stretched taut over his bulk. "Think you'd like it."

You don't know what to say. The antlers feel heavier in your hands, and warm to the touch. You try not to shiver when you set it down beside the little fawn.

"Oh," you say, but know you've never turned him down yet. It's all—

So much. 

Your home is slowly becoming one with nature, with vines growing on the walls in great blooms of wisteria and lilac; the old floor boards under your feet shudder and creak as little saplings sprout through the cracks. You wake up at night and taste earth in your throat, feel the grass beneath your fingers. The breeze in your hair. The call of an arctic tern. 

You dream of running through the forest. Of being chased. You breathe and feel the little seeds inside of your lungs start to take root. Soon you'll bloom with dandelions.

"Okay," you say, and wonder if the madness rummaging around your head will turn into a beautiful sequoia in the end. "Let's go."

The tavern is busy on a weeknight, crowded with a swell of mainlanders who'd ventured out for a camping trip over the long weekend. 

You sit with your back straight, and listen to him talk about a hike he wants to take with you in the morning. Through the woods, he says, and you don't ask which one. You know. You know. 

(It's time. It's time.)

There are alarm bells ringing in your head, but they're drowned out by the crooning whispers. 

But the line is only frayed and worn, and despite the lure in his voice, the itch in your head to say yes, you hesitate. Falter. 

The woods are dangerous. 

You don't want to go. 

He seems to sense it. His brows knot together. 

"You want to, don't you?" 

You fiddle with your napkin and try not to meet his arsenic stare. "It's… dangerous."

"I'll keep you safe."

"It's probably time for me to leave, anyway." 

The air in the room turns frigid all at once. You think you can see white plumes of condensation when you shakily breathe out, teeth chattering. 

"Price—"

"Didn't wanna do this, love," he says, voice hushed. Barely a whisper. His eyes are lavascapes. "But you ain't givin' me much of a choice, are you?"

"What—?"

The words die on your tongue when movement flashes in the corner of your eye. A man weaves, liquid, through the mindless crowd, cutting a path like the parting red sea. 

His eyes are honeycombs. In his hand, he holds a limp dandelion. 

It takes you a moment to make out the strange man who looms in the background. A splash of colour among sfumato. 

It's Gaz.

The childish swell of his cheeks has sunken into angled, sharp bone. Slender fingers twirl the flower around, around, around—

It's hypnotic. You stare, horrified and awed—a strange amalgam of emotions that slip down your spine: worry, elation, panic, comfort—as his pink lips part into an easy, familiar grin. The cresting sun breaching the horizon. Eyes slanting in playful derision. 

He looks like he's torn between telling a joke and spitting vitriol. Making you laugh, and then making you cry. 

It buzzes in the air, electrified fingers dancing down your spine, and then just as quickly as the boy who disappeared reemerges into the land of the living, into this bastardised reality, he gives one last sharp, fanged grin, a mordant wink, and then he's gone.

He slips through the door, and without hesitating, you give chase. 

Price says nothing when you go. Or maybe he does, but you can't hear anything except the rustling of leaves in your head. 

Gaz, it whispers. Gaz, Gaz, Gaz.

(It's time for the lost little boy to come home.)

The rocks sit in a zigzag pattern through the frothing waters, a deceptive bridge that connects the valley to the coast. You feel the tremulous rattle of the water slicing against the hollow cavern beneath your feet. A ledge chiselled from the blunt erosion of the rapid currents below. One day, they say, the granite shelf will give and a massive hole filled with howling water will fill it. 

Try not to be the idiot standing on the ledge. 

You feel the power of the currents even on the peat-covered edge. 

The water in front of you is deceptive. A calm, rolling surface at the shoreline almost seems to beckon you inside. Come take a dip in the cool waters. Grow fins and gills and chase the river otters through the currents. Feast on the wily salmon, and see if your feet can touch the sandy streambed. 

But the river's fatality is nearly assured. No one has survived a dip in these waters that act as a serrated knife, carving chasms and channels through the granite below. The currents will rip into you, pulling you until your body is crushed against the wall, or into an unsearchable cave. 

One slip, you think. Just one. 

But—

The man in the bar flickers through your mind. His honeycomb eyes, fanged grin. Ethereal in his beauty like a painting of a god in oil and raw canvas. Carved likeness of a Stygian prince. 

It was Kyle. It was Gaz. You know it. Know it deep within your bones, your marrow.

Taking the first step to the jutting slate that peaks just a few precious inches from the raging waters is easier, then, when you think of the boy who plucked a dandelion from the earth, and tucked it behind your ear. It makes the risk less daunting when it's for him. 

For his parents who sunk into themselves, into the crater his absence left behind. A deep depression into the earth that swallowed them whole.

They moved last year after laying down a bouquet of flowers at the mouth of the forest. 

You toe your shoes off, leaving them at the embankment, and then you leap. The perch is slick with waterlogged moss, slimy. It wobbles under you, but you catch yourself, stabilising. Steady. You huff. One down, four more to go. 

Up close, they look so far apart. A chasm between each rock. An endless abyss that will rip you into pieces. 

Still. Still. You have to find him. Have to. 

You step, toes sliding in the algae. The rock beneath is stained green. It wobbles again when you bring your other foot down on top of it. The loud clack of rock scraping against rock is heard, unmuffled by the roaring water that tugs on the stone. You feel the push against your feet. 

Two more. Two more. 

You take another step, and then—

You fall—

The world drips into focus, a steady trickle of cognisance that paints the world in shades of greens and browns. An eagle soars above the canopy, their shadow swooping through the thick tangle of conifers reaching to the heavens.

The bed of moss beneath you is damp—lush with dew and softer than your mattress at home. You sink into the ground when you breathe, caught in an embrace. The vines curl over your wrists, your ankles, as if refusing to let go. 

It should scare you—and maybe it does—but there's something against your head, fingers digging into your temples, and you feel nothing except a warm serenity leaking in. Thought spool into liquid gold, threads that weave together in a knotted clump. Indistinguishable from each other, and unreachable when they slip deeper into the honeyed-thick fog that curls around your mind. A temper from logic, from fear. Anything that isn't pure, artificial comfort is filtered through and cast aside. 

You don't know why you're here. 

One moment, you felt the coils of the raging currents sinking its claws into your flesh, pulling you under the deep waters, and then—

Heat on your face. The sun's desperate attempt to filter through the corded canopy and touch the forest floor. The shrill call of an eagle on the prowl. The tender caress of the moss below cushions your body. 

You should be underwater. Pressed tight against the side of the rocks until you were swept downstream and spat out in the inlet, waterlogged and dead. 

You draw humid air into your lungs until it swells against your ribcage. The steady thud of your heart tells you that somehow, somehow, you're alive. An empty brag—thud, thud; thud, thud—that seems to call out to the birds in the emergent layer, the ones nestled in their branches as they watch your feeble attempt to reconcile how you survived. 

It's strange, you think, but the soporific warmth coursing through your veins does not let you panic. 

You are—

"Foolish." 

The warmth turns molten. You try to sit up, but the vines tighten around your limbs. If you weren't so vulnerable, you think it would almost feel like a hug. 

The soft crunch of the moss tells you the voice—the man—is moving forward, toward you. You want to scream, but your tongue is thick, and your mouth is numb. 

"What you did there was stupid," he says, and the forest around you seems to come alive in his anger. Pulsing. The branches sway and the leaves rattle without any wind. The trees bend down, coming inward. You hear the scream of a fox in the distance. The chuff of an agitated brown bear. 

Primordial signs tell you to run.

But you're trapped. 

Price steps closer, falling to his knees beside you. You can see him now, and suddenly you wish you'd been swallowed by the waves. 

His face is writ with anger, brows tightening together in displeasure. 

He seems imbued with the forest. One with the lush green that swells around you. Burnt umber and icy blue. Ethereal, unnatural. Something in your hindbrain tells you to run from that man that looks as if he could swallow you whole.

"Tryin' t'die on me, hmm?" 

His hand lifts, and you feel his warm knuckles graze your temple. Soft, gentle, despite the ire in his eyes, and the irritation clenched in his jaw. 

"Gonna hav'ta try harder than that, love." 

You weren't trying very hard at all, you think, dazed, dizzy. You weren't trying at all. 

"You're mine," his eyes flash, and you feel the press of gravity against your skin, pulling you down to the soft earth. Your fingers twitch. The fog inside your head clears. 

Blinking up at him, you catch the scattering supernovae echoing in the corners of his eyes; galaxies of pine and cedar, humus and tussock. They bloom from the black hole in the centre, surrounded by sapphire blue. He's not human, you think, but it doesn't surprise you because you already knew. Have known, really—ever since you asked around for his name and watched the same strange fog seep into their eyes as they struggled to remember a man they claimed to know. 

Ever since you found bushels of figs on your doorstep. 

A crown of pine needles and crow feathers. 

Price leans over you, brows knotted together like the gnarled, weaving trunk of a Great Basin Bristlecone Pine. 

There's a forest fire in his eyes. "You're mine, aren't you?" 

You think about the trinkets left on your doorstep. The whispers, the screams. 

"Did you ever give me a choice?" 

The tension in his brow snaps taut. Agony frissons through the spaced canyons; whet from ire and slick from sorrow. He bends down, and shakes his head. 

"I've always given you a choice," his words are smouldering logs, crackling with his pain. "I've always told you to go, but you couldn't stay away, could you?"

Price takes you on the mossy forest floor, fingers digging into the peat as you sink, down, down, down—

His hand under your head, cradling the back of your skull, keeps you from getting swallowed by the grass knoll that breathes and trill against your spine. 

Fire licks in the crevasses of his eyes, molten desperation you can't ignore. He rages above you, quivering in the fading glow of the sunset struggling to slip through the canopy. No longer a man but a myth. He hangs over you with his canines bared, and flashes of anger and sorrow scorch the path his teeth leave behind on your skin. 

You're becoming unmoored. Each touch, and brush; each sweep of his tongue soothing the indents of his razor-sharp teeth all seem to loosen the ties that thread through your soul, anchoring you to the world that stands in full bloom before you. 

The forest shudders with his frantic pace; each piston of his hips leaks his fervent anguish and makes the trees croon, and creak as they bow their foliage in sorrow. His pain lashes through their roots, and rent the air in two. A fox mourns his loss in the distance. A wolf yowls in agony. His brethren lifting their muzzle to the sleepy moon, and howling out the melody of their despair. 

It's too much, too much, and you fall into pieces in his hands, shivering beneath him as the woods around you tremble and quake. It's a mesmerising dance. 

He finishes with a grunt that makes the world shudder anew, spending himself as deep inside of you as he can, as if he could overwrite your empty spaces with himself. Fill you to the brim until you are bursting with him, with life. Tulips for your eyes. Furze for veins. Moss for hair. Peat soil for blood. 

When he speaks, the world falls silent. 

"You don't know it yet, but you will. You've always been mine. Always belonged to the forest, to the earth. To me."

Despite his words, he lets you go. 

And you run, run, run—

Your toes dig into the wet soil near the stream. The desperate catapult across the ravine halted at the very last moment, leaving you winded and shaking. Hands clenched into tight balls by your side. Quivering with fear, with the adrenaline rush still roaring in your veins. 

You don't know what you're doing. 

The whispers in your head go silent. 

The absence of sound makes you mourn, and you think about his agony. The pain when he took you, the resignation when he let you go. 

You think of him, and you know. 

I've always told you to go, but you couldn't stay away, could you?

You scent napalm in the air, cloying despite the acrid burn that scalds your lungs when you breathe in deep, holding it there. 

You think of the chest inside your closet. The pieces of yourself you left behind. The way he fits you like a puzzle, like he was made for you. Designed with your rough edges in mind. Softening your hard lines; scouring your gritty surface it was smooth and shiny like fire Opal and precious gems. 

Ever since you felt his hand on your shoulder, you haven't been able to let go. 

(You don't even think you ever really tried.)

Come to me, the forest says, honey in your ears. It sounds like the rapid beat of a million birds' wings, ready to take flight. Pulsing and alive and full of wonder, childish glee. 

The earth blooms in your chest. You feel the soft, tender caress of the leaves against your skin, the moss sinking between your toes. Clinging to your flesh, desperate to get inside, and take refuge in your heart. Come home to us.

Your grandmother warned you to stay out of the forest, that it was dangerous. Deadly. Wrong. But how can it ever harm you when it touches you so sweetly? 

The branches curl around your ankles as you walk, leading you, guiding you, to the place where you belong. The forest opens around you, spreads apart and makes room for you to pass, touching you as you go, taking little pieces of you. Strands of your hair, the salt from your tears. Pieces of clothes. Parts of your soul. 

You pluck your heart out of your chest, and leave it beneath a gnarled sequoia. She will protect it forever. 

Moss grows inside of the empty space. A tern makes a nest inside of it, filling it with a bed of pine needles, and twigs from the junipers. You feel a mouse make a home in your rib cage, burrowing between your bones. You place your hand over your side, and feel her nuzzle against your palm. 

"You're safe now," you say. "We're almost home."

It's Gaz who greets you with a crown made of sugi. When he cups your face, you feel raging rivers and streams in his palms, and now that you are home. 

"Missed you, dandelion," he breathes, and his voice turns into a Chinook that crests over the mountains. "But there's someone who wants to see you."

His hands slide down to your wrists, and you feel the sun grazing your skin when he spins you around, around, around—

"Now," he leans down, pressing his lips to the shell of your ear. You hear the Falcons nesting in his chest, and smell pine in his breath. "He's been an impatient bastard, you know? Just moping about ever since you left—"

A scoff. You lift your head and feel the swell of the earth beneath your feet. Dizzying. Wanting. 

He waits for you in the thicket, eyes made of sapphire and stone. When he breathes, the forest swells with his breath, and you taste loam when you swallow. 

"A sorry sap, thinkin' you were runnin' away, and all. But you won't, will you?" Gaz pushes you forward, and his laughter rings in your ears. "Not anymore."

Price meets you in the middle, his eyes sparkling embers. A baptism in fire. You feel the heat on your skin, and shiver. 

You used to be afraid of forest fires, but you know, now, that sometimes trees need to burn before they can truly grow. 

Lodgepole roots bud under his skin, rippling veins across a ravine. He rests his hand against your cheek, thumb brushing the dawn redwood needles that bloom under your skin. 

"Welcome home."

"They'll give you gifts," your gran says, shaking her head. "Things from their realm. Little trinkets and gems—" geodes, sapphires and diamonds, raw gold and coral; "—and you must never accept them," a whittled deer made of sequoia under your pillow; crow bones buried in the garden."Because if you do, if you do, they'll never let you go." 

"Why?" You asked, blinking at her. 

"Because it's a courting ritual, and to accept means… well," her mouth twists in wry disdain. "Just don't." 

You don't tell her that you already have. You don't mention the sticks and precious stones that always ended up on your windowsill. The whispers of the forest calling your name. 

You nod sagely instead, fingers tightening around the sap stained heart chiselled from Bristlecone Pine. The charred ends are warm in your palm. You feel it pulse. 

Will you accept this? My heart? Will you keep it safe for me? 

"I will."

This was meant to be light and fluffy and smutty but now it's. This. And um. Oops. I hope you enjoyed it!

JOHN PRICE MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION PART THREE OF COD X MYTHOLOGY ⁞ SOAP ● DRAGON PRICE

#captain john price #captain john price x reader #john price #john price x you #john price x reader #captain price x reader #captain price x you #fae price #cod x mythology #bhhhhhhhh #ive been in halifax for the last week and it's been kinda rainy and weird and this was born

[saekkas]

"is there an invisible cookie monster nearby? is that why you're staring at nothing?"

gojo satoru is known as many things; the strongest, the teacher with a sweet tooth, the white-haired bastard that's just a little crazy.

you think the term 'petulant child' should have been coined just for him.

the man in question says nothing in return. his eyes are set in a glare, his mouth pressed into a thin line, and he is simply staring at what, you assume to be, thin air.

even after swiveling your head, you can't exactly tell what thing has disgraced his whole lineage enough for him to be looking at it like that.

"i don't think even einstein is genius enough to understand the inner workings of your mind, satoru."

"that's because einstein wasn't special enough to see curses," he grumbles, eyes still fixated on that mysterious spot while his lips stretch into a frown. "lucky him. he'd turn crazy if he could."

"just like you?" you snort, and even with those dark tinted glasses on his head, you can feel him rolling his eyes.

the silence that comes after is comically deafening and if you hadn't known your goofy and overdramatic boyfriend for as long as you have, you'd think he was mad.

though, his pouty lips and puppy eyes could never be intimidating even if he insists they are.

there's nothing but pure and utter spite when he suddenly snatches the water bottle in your hand. "you've been spending too much time with suguru."

he crushes the plastic as if he's been holding a grudge before flinging it to god-knows-where, only to take your hand a moment after.

"satoru!" you gape at the water that's now puddling around his feet. your eyes are wide, and your tone incredulous as you stare at the white-haired menace, "what is wrong with you?"

jujutsu school may not be a stranger to rain and puddles, but principle yaga would 100% be suspicious of the mini river your lover has created in the middle of the dorms.

"what is wrong with you?" he shoots back, the tone of his words mimicking that of a whine. he frowns, a sour expression turned ridiculously pretty by his handsome features.

"no games, satoru. i will literally-"

"you have two hands!"

"of course, i have two hands. were you expecting me to suddenly have six?"

"that's not what i meant," gojo all but whines, long white lashes fluttering close behind his shades before they reopen, showing the sparkling blue underneath. "you could've held the water bottle in your other hand! you didn't have to let go of mine."

you decide then and there that children are not your forte. specifically, those with white hair, blue eyes, and over 190cm tall.

"really?"

there's a smile on your face, even when your tone is completely accusing. and just like that, every single doubt clears from your mind when he swoops down, lifting you into his arms with a boyish grin.

"gojo satoru!" you laugh, your hands moving to wrap around his shoulders on instinct. every guard and defense lowered when it came to him. "i am still mad at you."

"yeah?" he asks with a lovestruck grin on his lips before he nuzzles his face into your neck.

you're not sure what he means to do, but when he starts to trail kisses down your neck whilst walking in the direction of your room, you get a pretty good idea. "let me make it up to you, pretty."

#jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jujutsu kaisen fluff #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru imagine #gojo x reader #gojo imagine #gojo satoru fluff #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen headcanons #gojo fluff #jjk x reader

[madwomansapologist]

i love everybody because i love you

Meet Kind!Druid!Tav | More Weirdos | AO3

synopsis: It doesn't matter what their first impressions of you were, they certainly did not expect you to be so important in their lifes. And as the days passes, each one of your companions need to understand a simple fact: they love you. They all love you.

warnings: a sequel to that (you don't need to read if you don't want to). song "strawberry blond". companions (lae'zel, halsin) x druid!tav. background cast (alfira, mirkon, scratch, owlbear, shadowheart, astarion, wyll, mizora, karlach, minthara). lae'zel love language is pressing a dagger against your throat. i accidentaly made her somewhat a stalker?? there is a high chance minthara doesn't sound like her because i killed her like two onversations in. if you discover which animated character is my biggest inspiration for this tav i will give you a reward.

In a harsh world, people are supossed to shield themselfs from even the possibility of danger. Is the only rational response to the ambiguity of chaos. What those who crave to survive must learn, what those who deserve to survive must do.

You get stronger, so you won't feel pain. Because to feel pain is to remind your soul that one day your body will perish. To get stronger is to forget about the eventual end. Is to get protected from death itself, even if as just a concept.

When not even death can catch you, you're free. When you have nothing to love, nothing to care about, you are free. That's real strength. To be invulnerable. To have nothing to lose, no one close enough to ever hurt you.

Lae'zel lost the count on how many times you bleed. How many times you fell. Burned, drowned, exhausted in pain. Arrows crossed your chest, swords cut your legs, calloused hands stopped you from breathing.

You're somewhat good at hiding it. How much things can hurt you. When someone disrespect one of your companions, when people blame you for their fates, when you did everything you could and it wasn't enough. It hurts you in a different, worst way. She can see it on your face.

Maybe you could've earned a good end, if the world worked in a different way. A peaceful life, one fit for those who don't aspire greatness. But Lae'zel knew it was only a matter of time until the tadpole took control. She felt it on herself. Saw it on you.

No one would save her, no one would save any of you, but perhaps Lae'zel could. It was an merciful act. To end you first. You failed as a leader, but you tried. Then she'll go to the others, knowing she's brave enough to kill herself after.

She thought you had surrendered yourself to her. That you had come to the same conclusion. A wise druid, after all. Then Lae'zel felt. The cold thread against the base of her neck. A dagger she didn't saw coming.

"Step back," you ordered, voice unaffected. Lae'zel never heard you like that before. She had a dagger against your throat, but you spoke as if you rule the entire world.

"Chk, you think that tiny blade of yours will stop me from free..."

"What I think doesn't matter, but what I know does." Your eyes burned her skin. "You're stronger, I'm faster. I propose you a bet. If you kill me, go on with your plan. If I kill you, that's it. I won't kill them. I won't kill myself. Even if I can, even if I must. You would've died for nothing, forever ignorant if it was the right thing to do."

Lae'zel saw you barefoot at the Emerald Grove, applauding Alfira as she sang. Crossing the river by jumping from stone to stone, talking to Mirkon as if he wasn't a kid but a dear friend. How many times did Lae'zel found a bed shaped of you on the grass right next to where Scratch and Owlbear slept?

A sacreed deer, whose even blood is ever so sweet, howled like an wolf.

Would you turn into a mindflayer out of... stubbornness? Would you let the rest of your beloved party turn into something utterly disgusting, putting in danger all those people you swore to protect, just to prove a point?

Maybe you would. Maybe you wouldn't.

No one died that night.

You intrigued Lae'zel. Before you were her supposedly defenseless prey, and now you are the object of her curiosity. Lae'zel didn't understand you. And she craved to.

So she kept a close eye on you.

You bleed. All the fucking time. You bleed, and you wept. But everytime someone crushed you down, you rose up. For every tear that fall from your eyes, you made sure to smile. You survive, and you keep on doing it.

Strength and weakness merged in the warrior's mind. She knew what strength is, she can smell weakness from afar. Lae'zel was taught everything she was supossed to know.

But you were never the one to fit in old impervious notions.

Lae'zel saw you end a hyena's suffering without flinching, and you trying to hold on the wind when you were about to fall. She heard you helping a bird decorate its nest, and the breaking of a skull of someone brave enough to maim Shadowheart when she was near you.

You yelled at Astarion as he tried to stop you from helping gnomes. Helped Wyll with herbs for his pain after Mizora's trick. Helped Gale with dinner, putting a smile to the usually frowed wizard's face. Gave Karlach her first hug in years.

She saw your every movement. Lae'zel heard you laughing, saw you dancing, watched as you helped your new friends. Sometimes it felt as if you made white lines so she could follow you. So Lae'zel could see you being good, nice, decent. Being you in a way that showed her that no, you would've never let your companions turn into mindflayers. You were bluffing, and she fell for it.

At some point, it started to ache. Anytime you laugh at some tiefling's story, something inside Lae'zel burned. At night, she could picture your smile on her eyelids. When you call her name during battle, yelling instructions that somewhat always end in victory. When you look at her.

She can still see that fire. That same flame that stopped her from killing you right then and there. But diluted, controlled. And still, just as able of burning her entire soul. You have a fire contained within your gaze, and Lae'zel doesn't mind getting burned.

Maybe you're not that weak. And maybe she's not that strong.

She's not watching you anymore. Observing your every move so she can understand your mind. Not a prey, not a walking question mark. Lae'zel is purelly admiring.

For some, you came as a tempest. Slowly, without announce your intentions, your way of being embraced them.

A few flinched, scared of what that meant about them. That by admitting you're good despite it all means they could be good too. Some welcomed it, scared of what that meant about the world. If you're good despite everything that happened, then others could be too. Others chose not to.

But you stroke Halsin as a thunderstorm, just as quickly and fiercly. In such a dark time, you were a lighthouse. A shining light that blind at first, but embraces and comforts.

The grove was in danger, his life could end at any given moment, a goblin camp separated him from the world he worked so hard to protect. But your party helped him, and it gave Halsin the right amount of hope.

You asked him to stay behind, and he did so. Halsin wouldn't be able to control himself, and you didn't need all that attention. He was hopeful, not an idiot. But when Halsin heard screams from the room beside... Knowing that Minthara was there, Halsin couldn't help himself.

A wizard focused on the goblins. As he held them in place, a cleric made sure to end them. But at the other side of the room, the only other druid he saw in weeks had a dagger deep on her chest.

Minthara had you on your knees, her nails digging on the skin of your chin. A burning tiefling didn't knew a way to react that wouldn't end within that same blade slicing your throat. She waited for an order, an instruction of any kind, and Minthara realized that you were leading the rebels.

"Is that your leader?" Minthara looked at the tiefling. Her eyes were numb, bored even, but her grin was sharp. She forced to blade deeper. "A weak druid, barely able of helding a sword? Are you that desperate?"

You should've cried. You should've beg for mercy. You should've do anything, instead of laughing. Minthara glared at you, sure that you were reduced to a crazy, desperate animal. But when you bit her hand, blood staining your chin, you were more of a beast.

Minthara stumbled, and you pulled the blade she left on your shoulder. Blood ran down your side, but that didn't stopped you from rising up. Halsin don't think anything would've.

"Maybe you're right," you hissed. With her dagger on your left hand, you took your sword from the ground. "I'm not a fighter. I wasn't educate to control the Weave. I can't heal a thing. When I can't do something, I find someone that can. Without their help, I would be dead by now."

Halsin came here to act. To help, protect, kill. But all he could do, just like everyone else in that room, was to watch you. To look at your beaming smile, to see the blood on your teath, not even trying not to get blind by it.

"Why would anyone follow someone that professes to be so weak?" She looked at the wizard, a dead goblin at his feet, her brain thinking of all the ways she could defeat your party. "What can you do that give you the right to rule them?"

Your smile seemed to grow wider. "I can beat the shit out of you."

And beat the shit out of Minthara you did.

With a first impression like that, ain't no mistery why Halsin couldn't do anything but to stay with your party. But to go on with you, deafeting the Shadowcurse and exploring Baldur's Gate. But to see you shine, feel your warmth, and let it pull a string on his heart.

At the end, it didn't matter how it started. It didn't matter how much they fought the thought back. If they lied to themselfs, made you a villain on their minds, welcomed you with open arms.

You have their hearts. Simply as it can be. You have their hearts.

if you enjoyed, please reblog! i promise it makes a difference ♡

BALDUR'S GATE 3 TAGLIST: @citrusbunnies

@ madwomansapologist.tumblr.

#madwomansapologist #lae'zel #lae'zel bg3 #lae'zel x tav #lae'zel x reader #lae'zel of k'liir #halsin #halsin x reader #halsin bg3 #halsin x tav #halsin baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 tav #bg3 x reader #bg3 x tav #bg3 x you #kind!druid!tav #oc: liliana wilde #tavrem

[missycolorful]

The scene with q!Forever and q!Philza at Global spawn in Pugatory is something that will always kinda sit in the back of my head. Because it truly, truly solidifies the strength in their dynamic, and neither of them will probably realize it lol. Hello, I'm here to be insane about q!philever, so buckle up

Like everyone else, q!Phil was dealing with a lot in Purgatory. He began to lose trust in close friends. He wasn't sure he'd even be able to save his children. While trying to uphold his morality and not kill except in self-defense, he was very much walking a fine, jittery line. All while trying to keep his team organized and motivated. Aside from kind of losing his mind like the others, there was no clear indication that Phil's composure was dangling by a loose thread.

But then he's allowed a moment of peace to exchange information with another team. It's just him and Forever. No kills planned, nothing. Just two people allowed to talk about the absurd situation they've been thrown into. A moment to really take everything in.

During the conversation, Forever doesn't hold judgement toward Phil or anyone else due to the event, even when he comments on Philza's kill on Rivers. Even when Phil tries to justify his actions, Forever doesn't hold it against him. It's hard to say exactly how important this is to what happens next, but I feel like it means something here.

It's when q!Forever says that once they leave Global Spawn, that they become "enemies" again, this is when q!Philza breaks. And I think this moment has been glossed over by many (I want more fan art, dammit >:T) cause it doesn't feel big on the surface. It's not like cc!Philza genuinely sounds heartbroken, his cries sound... a little exaggerated/dramatic, you know? What he cries about isn't anything groundbreaking, it's what many of them feel ("I don't want to be here." "I don't want to kill my friends."), even though Phil fans can sense a deeper meaning here. And after Forever briefly consoles Philza ("Everything is going to be good. This is what we need to go through."), Phil, like a flick of a switch, is right back to his composed, level-headed self. It was like that moment never even happened.

But it did, and it drives me crazy that he did it in front of Forever. cc!Phil made that conscious choice to have his character lose composure, his character that he and his fans knows is an emotionally constipated motherfucker. And the reason it drives me nuts is because how the fuck did we get here?

I can imagine this scenario with lots of characters, and it never plays out like this (i.e. with Tubbo, he'd likely just keep it all in. Et cetra.). I don't see him letting himself be this vulnerable around most others. Hell, before this, I never would've imagined he'd do this in front of Forever, either.

But the more I think about it, it kinda makes sense.

Phil and Forever's relationship is a funny one. Early on, Phil wouldn't trust Forever with a toothpick. He'd never be emotionally open with him. Forever even held a bit of animosity toward Philza after Phil'a final rejection. But that rocky start is honestly a huge part of why it is as strong as it is now. Cause, well, the strength of any relationship comes from accepting all parts of a person. Flaws and all.

Some characters hold Philza up on a pedestal (i.e. q!Missa). They don't really see his flaws. They don't think about his ugly sides. They just see a pillar of a man who is always willing to help, who can do anything and everything, who keeps composed and lighthearted and level-headed in any scenario. q!Forever was kinda like this, at one point.

But Forever realizes that isn't the case eventually. Because Phil's not great at dealing with emotional situations, and Forever learns that the hard way. Phil's not good at talking about feelings, he can be blunt and a bit harsh, because he's a pragmatic sort of guy. But it takes a softer, gentle approach to reject someone, and Phil wasn't ready for that. So, in retaliation to the hurt Phil caused him, Forever had a conflicted relationship with him. It didn't last long, but I digress. This brief shift in their relationship was for the better. By not placing him on this pedestal anymore, Forever began to see Philza in a different light. One that didn't cast Brunim in its shadow.

With Philza, Phil saw Forever at, arguably, his worst in the beginning. Obsessive, threatening, clutching onto a pipe dream with no regard for Phil's feelings. But over time, Phil got to see the much more real sides of Forever. When Tallulah lost her first life, when Forever made NINHO. He saw a passionate and intelligent side to this guy who was obsessed with him, and he respected that person. And with this recognition, he offered his trust to Forever, such as giving one of his presidential votes to Forever.

Both of their perspectives for the other changed throughout the first few months, and I believe they gained some level of appreciation between them because of that. They share this newfound respect and trust. And that is the core to their new relationship. Consistently, Forever and Phil have given each other open and mutual respect and trust. Never is either of these things taken for granted, abused, or manipulated in any way.

When Forever is hooked on the happy pills, he subconsciously seeks out Philza's help, which Phil offers with ease. Before Forever goes to the Nether, Phil expresses his worry and wants to help. But he doesn't push, because he respects Forever's agency, and trusts that Forever is doing what he thinks is best. (also during this scene, when Forever gave him access to the warpstone in that secret part of his base, only Forever and Richas had access to it beforehand, which feels like a big moment according to his fans, so! :D). So when Forever returns to the Nether, while he doesn't believe Fit and Pierre when they say they tried to save him, he absolutely, 100% believes in Philza.

Because he knows Philza by now, and Philza knows Forever. Maybe not on equal levels, but still. After merely a few months, they've slowly begun to understand each other a bit more. So I guess it's only natural that they'd be more open around each other.

I'd even argue that this isn't the first time Philza lets down his walls around Forever. It just didn't happen when Forever was awake.

I wouldn't say that Phil talking to Forever while he was in a coma is the same level of vulnerability as the scene in Purgatory. Because Phil wasn't totally direct with his feelings, he sort of deflected (the story, banging the pots and pans, calling him an idiot, etc). Hell, even when he is expresses how he feels, he's not entirely direct: "We just really care about you. We wanna see you come back. You're making us worry." Like, of course everyone cares, but to say this as we when it's just the two of you obviously feels like a moment of vulnerability but not wanting to admit to it. Cause, hey, under different circumstances, he absolutely would've committed to visiting Forever in the hospital every day. Still, his very open worry did give off a sense that his walls were crumbling.

So with all of this, if Philza can meet with someone alone in practical hell, and that someone, a person he openly trusts and cares about, can look him in the eye and say "I don't judge you" on the things he's has done, maybe that allowed the floodgates to open for a bit. Maybe once Forever said they'd be enemies outside those doors, the situation hit Phil like a truck, and he just couldn't keep it in anymore. And maybe knowing it was just the two of them, Phil knew he could be a person around Forever, not a leader or a mentor or a force to be reckoned with. And Phil really needs someone on equal footing with him like this. He needs someone he can feel safe around. So for him to find this in Forever, of all people, even if it's just for this moment, is extremely important to me.

The way their relationship has progressed, perhaps it would've been simply a matter of time for Philza to be open with Forever. I dunno when Phil will be quite so open around Forever again, but I do say when with a fair enough of certainty (or I could be wrong and I'm simply talking straight outta my ass but who knows). Because to have this moment with Forever was intentional, even if it feels like a blink and you miss moment. It may have been under a minute, it may not feel important to other viewers. BUT to me, it genuinely says so much about their relationship, how far they have come, and where they are now.

#qsmp #qsmp meta #sugarduo #philever #philza #forever #missy rambles #or none of it means anything and this never gets brought up or anything like that again and phil is mocking us for our dramatics🤷 #either way idc let me have fun i love these two so muchhhhhhhhh <3 #long post

[synthetickitsune]

can i please request how svt would make up with their s/o after an argument? if you can't write for all the members then i would like to ask for either 95 or 97 line. thank you so much in advance! <3

angst, my beloved <3 thank you for requesting this!

svt + making up after argument //gn!reader

S.Coups ❧ He hates fighting with you for many reasons. It gets too heated, and it’s too important, too close. And he doesn’t have any sort of authority to use as a leverage. Not that he usually does or uses it, but it helps ground him with fake confidence. He doesn’t have that luxury here. As a result, every argument with you shakes him to the core. Afterwards he trails after you, and it’s so annoying sometimes that it almost leads to another fight. But by then he’s too unsure about anything that isn’t his love for you to keep it up and he closes off. He won’t meet your eyes because he can’t have this right now, he’ll give you an easy victory that leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. This is not a battle, something to win or lose, but he doesn’t like the feeling all the same. He swears the pout on his lips isn’t on purpose. It certainly works in his favor, though. As annoying as his constant hovering is, seeing Seungcheol lose confidence in his own kitchen is the most heartbreaking thing. You motion for him to come closer and he comes into your arms easily. He grows more comfortable. He apologizes again, and so do you. It’s endearing, his curious glances any time he wants to follow you. He needs to know you’re okay, and this time you let him. It’s easier to talk things out in the buzz of going about your day. He listens to your rant about what really upset you as you wash the dishes, and he opens up about why he’s been so snappy with you lately while he folds the laundry. To keep the mood going, you keep cleaning and talking. There’s nothing like doing chores to remind you you’re in this together and to get the house in order. Maybe you should fight more often.

Jeonghan ❧ In the silence and invisible distance after, he knows what caused the rift. He doesn't like giving space when it already feels like there's too much of it between you and him, but he knows when it's necessary to take a step back. It might be a weakness or a strength but his emotions are his own responsibility that he alone takes care of. Jeonghan needs to sit down and analyze; put things into perspective and create a mental model and draw parallels. Complex understanding of a problem is what he excels at, after all. He sorts out the mess in his head, thinks about what hurt you and comes up with the best way to explain himself - not to make an excuse, but to show his intention and apologize. He tells himself how to navigate through this next time. The other half, what hurt him, he sorts out as well. He is understanding. He can't let what you don't mean or you're right about to get under his skin. He can set his ego aside for a while. When he approaches you, it’s difficult for you. It feels like you’re chasing after someone miles ahead. You also want to deal with your feelings so efficiently. Maybe it's just hard because you long for him so much after arguments. Because you know the fight wasn’t worth it. You talk and you listen and you apologize to each other. While his apology flows like a river, yours is more like a mountain stream, rushed and crashing against your mental blocks, hurdles in communication you can't get over. But he still listens and he nods, holds your hand and helps you get your point through. You know he understands without you speaking and you’re grateful. Even if it breaks your heart you can never truly meet him in the middle, Jeonghan always being one step ahead, doing much of the work for both of you.

Joshua ❧ It's all about timing. Arguments are rare, and so the way away from them is all the more tricky. It's hard to get Joshua riled up like this, enough for a fight to take place, and it just so happens that he lets his other little frustrations slip into the arguments. The aftermath is both of you on edge still long after apologies were said. You want to make up, he wants to make up, but if you try too early, you'll snap at each other all over again without meaning to. Leave it alone for too long and the hurt will deepen. From an onlooker’s perspective, you could be a pair of naughty students, exchanging notes during class and waiting for each other's reaction. Joshua keeps stealing glances at you, you try to glance at him. It's all to see if it's safe to approach the other already. In an ideal world, you'd always get it right and end the day over cups of warm drinks, talking about the problem, resolving it, coming up with suggestions what to do differently to avoid this happening again. But you're only people. So sometimes it’s snark met with sarcasm, riling each other up again instead - only this time, the venom slowly disappears and you push each other’s buttons on purpose. You like that he can meet your level of sass, he likes how clever your comebacks are, and vice versa. You don't notice how close you've inched to each other until your lips all but brush against his. It's a wake up call for both of you. Sometimes the conversation takes place over coffee at the table, sometimes it happens in the bed as you bask in the afterglow. Either way, your fingers are intertwined and your voices are soft. You make up with kisses just as tender.

Jun ❧ This is why he always carefully considers whether the issue at hand is worth arguing about. Oftentimes he rather backs out, gives in simply to avoid the fight - or more accurately, to avoid the fallout. It’s awkward. Even after everything’s been said and settled, there’s tension between the two of you that he’s unused to. He can’t come up to you and act like nothing happened. It’d feel too inappropriate, even if that’s what he’d love to do. There’s nothing else to say, though. Words are pointless if you know how he feels and he knows how you feel. Everything is settled - only the emotions linger. What he does is on the line between his usual kindness and a love language. A bowl of cut fruit, watching the episode of your show first, or him picking only the whole, unbroken chips to feed you. It's all for you, to show that he cares, if you're ready to accept that. It melts your heart even if you’re still wound up from the argument. You take the fork and stab the fruit, not him. You don't roll your eyes and stop yourself from getting annoyed that he wants to appease you. You open your mouth and you don't bite his fingers. But sometimes you wish he would just apologize. It's not like either of you was wrong. It was mostly just an exchange of opinions. But still, sometimes the simplest solution is the best one - you apologized too. It's three damned words. That's not gonna kill him. But then you see Jun cut the fruit with the star-shaped cutter, or he hums the opening of the show, or he chuckles at the one chip that kind of looks like a heart. You can only sigh and smile and let go of it all. This is who you picked. This is who you're gonna stick beside.

Hoshi ❧ He might not follow you around, but his eyes do. Soonyoung is long past the stage of being shy around you, but he reverts back to it after arguments. His eyes never leave your figure unless you look at him. It's pointless, he knows it's obvious he's staring. Yet he can't help it, a part of him is worried about you leaving if only for a second. And it's not fair. It's cheating because he looks so small and vulnerable, and you know he is - know that you are too. How could you ignore him? You sigh, half exasperated, half fond, as you close the distance between you and sit down next to him. He has the decency to look sheepish when you do. He's moving ridiculously slowly when his arms reach out to hug you to give you a chance to refuse, sometimes it makes you angry that he acts like you’re the only one whose emotions matter or like you’re gonna refuse his affection. As if you could live with the heartbroken expression he'd make if you pulled away. Not that you want to. He tucks you under his chin, cushioning your head on his chest. His arms are wrapped securely around you and the muscles on his legs flex with your every move, ready to use all his limbs to keep you trapped. You'd almost think you did try to run away and he only just caught you. He murmurs into your hair about how much he loves you, the dates, wildly unrealistic, he'd love to take you on. He promises you stars, moon, and the sun, he promises you forever. He'd do anything to keep you happy and laughing as you are now. You know he's as serious as he can be. What you also know is that the only way to shut him up now is with a kiss. So you do.

Wonwoo ❧ You're both trying too hard and that might also, eventually, become a problem. Trying too hard to be mindful of the other to the point you ignore your own needs and feelings is never a way. When the argument happens, it feels inevitable. It leaves you both feeling defeated. So you agree to give each other space before discussing things further. And you both think pretty much the same thing - what is the other thinking? You're circling back to where the problem started but with the result of that fresh in your minds, you don't make the same mistake. Somehow you end up in the same room, on the same bed, lying on your backs and staring at the ceiling as you talk. Telling each other what conclusions you came up with, what you think the other wanted to say and felt, you learn a lot about each other. Wonwoo takes advantage of the situation. He's opening up anyway, he’s already showing vulnerability, he might as well compensate for struggling with it otherwise. So he does. He uses the mellow atmosphere after an argument to show you his heart, to explain a little about how he thinks, gaining confidence with each of your reassuring nods and the way you really listen and care. You don’t judge and neither does he. He tells you all the things he wanted to say but didn’t before, throws in a tiny thing or two that he secretly loves about you. He lets you in, comforted enough by the safe bubble enveloping the two of you to do so. Each fight is a step forward to never fighting again, he said once. No matter who it is, being honest without holding back is hard and takes a lot of courage. With your hand in his and his knee bumping against yours, however, even conquering the world seems possible.

Woozi ❧ Arguments are never easy on Jihoon. It's enough that he has to deal with them at work - because really, the negotiations he's gotta do sometimes are nothing more than pointless fights. Therefore at home, he tries to be as efficient as possible dealing with any issues that come up. Partly because yes, he's tired, but for the most part because he knows how patient and tolerant you are towards him and he wants to give back. Which doesn't mean he doesn't snap occasionally and full on arguments don't happen, and then he's quick to apologize. You talk about it more, get over it, and then it's up to you and Jihoon to each decompress and process everything. You might busy yourself or leave to get some space, but he stays right where he is. He leans his head back on the couch and closes his eyes. He lets time wash over him as he thinks and takes in the silence, finally indulging in the absence of sound. When he's had his fill, though, he thinks about how it must seem to you for him to tell you that things are alright, and then he makes no effort to move or approach you. So he does so now. It feels awkward when he finds you - should he apologize again? Will you understand? Isn't it too late? You notice him hesitating and call him over. He relaxes seeing your smile, and he leans down to kiss the top of your head. He mumbles something that vaguely resembles a sorry. He asks what you've been doing, and he lets you get away with it if you pull him with you to show him or glue yourself to his side. He listens too intently and thinks hard about questions to ask to really mind any skinship you're doing even if he'd grumble any other time.

The8 ❧ His first step is always to assess the situation. He tries to feel out if it’s space or his presence that you want. Either way, it’s not far from the truth to say he approaches you as if you were a stray cat. Once it's safe to assume you'd welcome him being in the same room, he still keeps his wary distance. He lets you lead. But Minghao's also only a human and the tension where there should be peace upsets him more than the argument itself. He creeps towards you slowly, and at first it's only brushing his fingers against yours or bumping his leg with yours as he sits down next to you. Like a flowing water, he slowly envelops you without you noticing. Soon enough, his arms are around your waist and his head is on your shoulder, planting a gentle kiss to your skin, nuzzling into you, asking for forgiveness and reconciliation. He's not opposed to talking things out, he prefers it, actually, but only after everything is settled and you're okay and back to being partners, not angry lovers sharing a home. He likes to have his hands on you while you talk it out after some time. He brushes your hair back, his thumb caresses the back of your land and draws reassuring circles on your skin. It's as nice as it is distracting. After arguments, he always feels the need to reassure and be reassured. They leave a sense of unease inside him that unsettles him as much as the fact that he lost control and fought with you - it's inevitable, he knows, but he's a fighter and if the opponent is the human nature, so be it. There is no rock that can withstand the flow of a river, after all. But until then, he makes sure to hold you tighter and cling while he has an excuse.

Mingyu ❧ He really is a shadow of you and you have to bite your tongue to keep quiet. Sometimes it makes you snap at him, other times you've gotten over the argument and it's just cute. His hesitant steps and the second of questioning warmth as his hands hover over your waist before they make contact. His chin on your shoulder while he asks if there's anything he can help you with - anything he can do to make it right again. And sometimes you're still upset, and you want to tell him to go to hell, but how could you - with his voice so soft and low, so gentle, and his hands slowly encircling your waist until he's hugging you. He pulls you close and sways with you a little, he apologizes again, with a kiss to the top of your head. He really is willing to do anything - take on your share of chores, go over the argument again, anything but leaving you alone. And it's not fair because his puppy eyes and dejected look anytime you try to ignore him always wear you down in the end. He promises to do better, he whispers the words into your hair through a pout at being denied your gaze meeting his. He is well-aware of his shortcomings and where you were right, and where he was, and it means everything to him that you, too, understand and without promises, without empty excuses, you silently acknowledge what was said and work with it. The little steps forward are appreciated, he tries to take notice of them, and puffs out his chest with pride whenever you smile when you notice his own efforts. Making up with Mingyu is whining and pouting and clinging, but it's also understanding and making an effort to make sharing a home, sharing your lives, easier.

DK ❧ He’s shaking - his entire existence is. His hands are trembling, he’s taking shallow, shaky breaths, and his eyes keep darting all over your figure, trying to see if you will flinch away if he touches you now. It’s only been a couple of silent minutes since the argument; call him weak and clingy, but he can’t take it anymore. He calls your name quietly, pleading for you to look at him, and he can’t help the primal instinct to pull you close once you do. Seokmin holds you like you’ll slip through his fingers if he doesn’t, and he feels like he lets go of all the built up tension with the long exhale that slips past his lips once your arms wrap around him and hold him just as tight. He murmurs apologies, he stumbles over his words trying to explain, but after all the effort, he knows it pointless. You understand, and he understands too when you kiss his jaw and snuggle closer. After you part, he keeps babbling to keep the silence away. He hates it, he can’t stand it right now, but he stops talking so fast as soon as he sees you opening your mouth to say something too. He pays so much attention to you it almost feels overbearing, but you let him, because you analyze his every move too, trying to guess how he feels. Even if you talk things out, there’s this uneasiness that lingers and that makes him overcompensate for what happened, to prove that he’s worthy of you - he just kind of messed up. But that might lead to you feeling the same way, and it��s a downward spiral until it reaches a critical point where it hits you both how much this seems like farce, and you laugh, and you love each other nonetheless. You’re still smiling when you kiss.

Seungkwan ❧ He needs a good long time to cool down. At first, he hopes you know he didn't mean half the things he said. It's ridiculous, right? You know better than to trust him when he gets upset. As much as his pride and stubbornness hold him back though, his love for you eventually pushes him forward. Seungkwan approaches you and tries (and fails) to pretend like nothing happened. He tries to strike a conversation but he himself is too awkward - not to mention you, still hurt and shaken by the argument. You’re trying your best too, both of you miserably trying to get over the argument simply through relying on the strong foundation of your relationship alone. But when were you known for not holding grudges, a vice that you both share? He sighs and he takes your hands in his. A quick look into his eyes is enough to know he's dropping the charade. You drop it too and listen to him patiently explain his point of view. This time when he puts on a mask, it fits better. He tries to make it fun - he hates confrontation with you, and he finds reassurance in making you laugh. He holds your hand throughout and listens carefully when you speak, laughs when you insert jokes of your own. He finds it hard to let go of your hand. It's necessary sometimes but as soon as he can, he holds you again. Your hand in his, arm thrown around your shoulders, around your waist and pulling you close to himself. He makes you laugh in any way he can, he reminds you how much he loves you so there's no room for doubt in your mind about his feelings. He gets shy when you do the same, but it means more to him than he could ever explain.

Vernon ❧ At the end of the fight, both of you apologize. It's a habit at this point really, because it's what always happens. As justified as the reason for the argument might’ve been, nothing is as important as your relationship and nothing could ever warrant losing your temper at each other. Vernon asks if you're okay when you go through things again, calmly this time, and you know he means the two of you, and yeah, you've worked it out, things are alright again. And perhaps that's enough for him. He goes about the rest of his day as usual, though maybe his smiles are a little wider. You appreciate that and it's nice to fall into your routines, to return to normalcy of everyday life in your household. Then again, you can't help but wonder - is everything alright? Would he tell you if it wasn't? Maybe the way he closed the cupboard was a little louder than usual, maybe there's more to the tension in his shoulder than exhaustion from his morning workout. You call out his name and it's enough to alert him that something’s wrong. You explain, and he chuckles - you know he'd be more distant if something was bothering him, he reminds you. He told you he's fine, so he's fine - simple as that. He's warm and reassuring when he hugs you tightly and rocks you from side to side. You might even get a kiss. Just to make sure you have no doubts that he’s truly over the argument, he makes the time to spend some extra quality time with you. You tell him it’s not necessary, that his reassurance was enough, but you'll never say no if he wants to hold you. It’s nothing special, just a couple hours spent much like they would be on a day you’re both free. And that’s all you need, after all.

Dino ❧ He feels at loss after you fight. Apologizing and talking things through can only get him so far. The tension in the air lingers and he doesn't like it. His first impulse is to go buy flowers, maybe some sweets, but then he'd have to leave and that's out of the question right now. Part of him is irrationally afraid you'd take him leaving the wrong way and he'll do anything not to make things worse. He could tell you, ask if there’s anything you’re craving right now - and maybe that's not a bad idea at all. He brings it up to you and blushes a nice shade of red when you laugh. You end up coming with him, because the air is clearer outside, not as stifling. It's easier to remember the good times as you walk through the familiar neighborhood. Your hand finds his on instinct and he knows it made you as surprised as he was when he felt your touch. You don't pull away though. In the shop, he lets you go to grab yourself some treats while he does the shopping for necessities. He finds you at the snack isle when he’s done and follows your requests, throws into the basket even the things you're hesitant about trying - you said things are okay between you, so it’s alright to have adventures again. But then you need to compensate for the snacks, so you pick up some of the fruits you've never tried, and maybe also the cereal... Needless to say this wasn't the cheapest grocery shopping but the fun and having the comfortable atmosphere between you back is well worth it in Chan's eyes. He doesn’t forget the flowers - even if he has to run to the shop again without you so it’s a surprise. As he closes the door, he smiles. You’ll be there when he returns, and you’re as eager for him to come back as he is.

#seventeen reactions #seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #seventeen x reader #seventeen fluff #svt fluff #svt scenarios #svt reactions #requested

[whalesforhands]

Hi!<33 hope your having a great day!<33 let me just say that I love your geto x reader x Gojo x Shoko stories! They're so funny and sweet! I just love how you write them and their dynamique with the reader! And once I started reading the series I couldn't stop imagining the trio finding out one day after she didn't attend class that poor reader is sick! 🥺 How wold they take of her? (I can't stop imagining Geto and Gojo arguing with eachother while Shoko snuggles with reader and feeds her soup 😂)

Anyway if you don't want to do this ask that's fine! ☺️ Lots of kisses and continue the good work! 💕 (If I mispelled something wrong sorry! English's not my first language)

in sickness and in health (geto x reader x gojo, shoko x reader)

this is totally not just me trying to tide you all over because the main series is taking a long time to write

masterlist

warnings: sick ppl are gross, wear masks, wash ur hands, celsius is used instead of Fahrenheit bcs i say so

You should’ve heeded your body’s warnings to you. Laying in your bed, thermometer sticking out of your mouth as the fever relief patch on your forehead sticks despite your sweat slick self.

Hearing the beeping, you eyes glazed over as you pulled the instrument out, saliva feeling repulsively thick as you stared at the thermometer screen, your breaths short and your pajamas feeling abnormally warm, sticky and gross.

39.4 °C.

You’re absolutely burning up. You shouldn’t have gone with that plan. You knew. You knew, yet you still did it anyway.

“Just get on!” His arm is waving at you from afar, his white button up billowing in the summer breeze.

“Come on, trust us!”

“Plus!” He smacks a smiling Suguru’s shoulder. “Suguru doesn’t skip leg day!”

You should’ve never trusted him. You and Shoko both. Not when he had all 4 of you squeeze onto that bicycle.

“WAHAHAHAH!” Gojo was hysterical as he laughed at your three river-soaked forms. Laughing merrily at his dry and perfectly put-together state from using Infinity to save himself.

“You all look terrible! AHAHAHAHA!” He’s pulling out his phone to snap a quick selfie shots. You’re helping Shoko, shifting a lock of her wet hair away from her face to reveal her grumpy expression.

“Come here.” She beckons you closer, a sweet smile, dripping with anger on her face as her hand moves to tuck your wet hair behind your ear.

Suguru grunts as he looks towards his significant other’s camera, eyes flittering to both you and Shoko sharing secrets as she cups a hand over your ear. You’re both fine. That’s a relief.

His eyes focus back on his still cackling boyfriend. His brown eyes darken with a thirst for payback. “Satoru~, help me out why don’tcha?” A chirp sweetened with an affectionate tone, a benevolent smile bestowed as he holds an amicable hand out, waiting to be helped up as he sits in the water, drenched to the very bone as his now translucent shirt begins to stick to his skin.

You hear Gojo snort in retort, waving off the black-haired sorcerer. “Ya think I’m gonna fall for that? Try harder, babe.” He’s very obviously eyeing the now more exposed Geto, before his eyes met yours. Prepared. Ready.

Shoko is done, her gaze surreptitiously meets Suguru’s own.

“Satoru…” Your watery eyes and helpless expression meets his, a tremble pairing your frowning lips and gem-like eyes shining with your feeble tears.

“Are you not going to help me…?”

Hook, line and sinker.

“L-look, it w-wasn’t on purpose,” He’s gulping as he starts to trek into the water, his shoes getting soaked. Infinity has been forgotten. “I only wanted to-!”

He’s tackled back by 3 weights, all landing on top of him as they start to laugh and splash water onto his still surprised form.

You’re nauseous, head on your far-too-warm pillow as you smile slightly at the memory. Okay. Maybe it was worth it. Just a little.

(You do feel a little better.)

You feel another wave of queasiness hit you once again, your hand over your mouth as you gag, yesterday’s dinner threatening to crawl up your oesophagus and cover your freshly changed sheets with bile.

Oh.

You’ll have to send Shoko a text. You hope she doesn’t mind being disturbed when class has only just begun 2 minutes ago…

——

Insistent knocks at your door wake you into consciousness, your eyes snapping open and trying to clear your cloudy sight.

“C-come in!” Your voice is rough, a consequence that occurred after throwing your guts out in the bathroom. Your stomach hurts, the acid eating at its inner lining as it growls for food.

You haven’t eaten. You probably smell bad. You look horrible.

“A-actually- P-Please don’t come-!” Too late. Your room’s been intruded by 3 individuals.

“Your favourite nurses are here to soothe you back to health!”

You internally groan at the boisterous loud voice. Shoko had told all of them.

——

You see a disgruntled Satoru, cheeks puffed up as he marches into your room with a just as displeased Shoko crossing her arms and pouting.

They’ve been kicked out of the kitchen by a fed up Suguru.

“What do you mean we can’t just buy her instant porridge from the convenience store? It’s instant!” Gojo waves a whisk around as he dons the frilly pink apron, head on Geto’s shoulder and leaning onto him.

Suguru wants to smack someone. He holds himself back as he washes the rice, despite the disturbance, sleeves pulled up to his elbows as he swirls the water within the pot.

It’s for you. It’s for you. It’s for you. It’s for-

“Because it’s not healthy-“ His anger becomes slow irritation as he feels a vein pop when he sees Shoko poking the sweet potato with a pair of scissors.

“Both of you.” His smile is menacing as his aura overtakes the room.

“Get out.”

That’s why both of them were here now, fluffing your pillow, wiping your head with a cold cloth.

“Do you want to change clothes?” You hear Shoko whisper, her voice lulling and pacifying your senses as Satoru does his one task of continuously dabbing your head with a warm cloth.

(He was making a mess of everything else. Shoko delegated him to cloth duty.)

You can only muster a nod. Your clothing is uncomfortable, and she must’ve noticed.

(“Gojo.” She smiles at him as she caresses your warm face. “Get out.”

“Again?!”)

——

She’s helping you out of your clothing, your front slumping into her shoulder as she undid the buttons of your pajamas, the washcloth dragging gently across your damp skin.

Your guilt is starting to kick in.

“I’m-“ Your voice is starting to die. “I’m sorry for being such…” You suck in a breath through your sick haze. It’s hard to breathe. “A burden.” You do. You’re so weak. So useless.

Getting this sick over a culmination of your own horrible habits. Not eating enough, not sleeping enough, not getting enough liquids in during the day… Not taking care of yourself.

You did this to yourself, yet they have to clean up after you. They, who had their lives put together, their own lives to live. Yet, they’re wasting time caring about you.

Do they think you’re doing this only for their attention too? You’re not surprised if they ar-

“Don’t be sorry for things that you’re not at fault for.” Her tone is dismissive but firm. “We’re here because we want to be. Stop being such a downer.”

A pat to your cheek despite the blunt words. A reality to your delusion.

She cares. They care. Deeply.

You could almost cry at her genuity. Scratch that, you already are.

You hide your face away into her shoulder, tears starting to gather.

“…thank you.”

(“It’s not fair that you had to kick me out to do that! I could’ve done it too!”

“Pervert.”)

——

“Aaa…” You’re opening your mouth just as Gojo flies another ‘aircraft’ into it.

(You’re embarrassed. He wouldn’t give it to you any other way. Or normally.)

“Good girl!” He’s ruffling your hair, grin stretched wide across his lips in pure elation as he feeds you.

“Just a few more bites then you can take your medicine!”

You swallow down the piping hot rice porridge that Satoru personally blew on to cool down, the lingering ginger and chives leaving a pleasant aftertaste in your mouth.

“Is… Did you get the syrup version…?” You stare, afraid as you see Suguru holding a tray with the familiar dark liquid and brand, coupled with a tall glass of water.

Satoru’s sunglasses suddenly glint. “Is someone scared of a little medicine?~”

——

Suguru presses the spoon against your trembling lips as you hesitantly part them, allowing the disgusting liquid to run down your throat as he immediately hands you the water.

Your face is grimacing in disgust, in pain and revulsion as you hold the water in your mouth, struggling to swallow down the vile substance.

(You eventually do when Suguru lightly places a hand on your shoulder, relaxing you.)

Applause reverberates throughout your room.

“Congrats!”

“Good job.”

“See? I knew you could do it.”

“…are you all making fun of me?”

masterlist

Notes:

Geto would’ve been the one feeding you, but he saw how dejected Gojo was at not really being able to ‘care’ for you other than being the errand boy sent out to buy the cold medicine.

You drank that medicine after you were promised crepe cake from that nearby bakery.

Shoko was the one who brought up that compromise.

The trio actually wanted to leave the lesson immediately after Shoko got your text. Yaga denied them, but he let them off early on purpose.

Yaga visited your dorm when all 4 of you were in it, coming in to check on you.

He hopes none of 3 get sick from spending so much time with you. Especially with how they basically fell asleep around your bed.

“Kids.” He mumbled, throwing blankets around all of them before he turned the lights off, gently shutting your door.

#geto x reader x gojo #jjk x reader #gojo satoru x reader #whalewrites #getou suguru x reader #dyf au #ieiri shoko x reader #satosugu x reader #jjk fluff

[kingdumkum]

WHERE THE RIVER MEETS THE SEA

this has been a long, long time coming. hopefully it’ll live up to the obscenely high expectations i’ve set. agree or disagree, please reblog/comment/send an anon with your thoughts--but make sure you read the RULES of interaction first.

summary: your date stood you up… again. Don’t worry, though, Baji will be there to pick up the pieces, like he always is. The only question… what will you do when you find out his secret? wc: 15k (we don't talk about it)

cw: virgin fem afab!reader x virgin!Baji, a lil itty bitty baby bit of blood, somewhat public (initially), bc why not, marking, creampie, Confessions galore, somewhat gendered pet names (princess, babe, sweetheart), actually gendered pet names (one handful of "good girl," "pretty girl," and "my girl"), subtle yandere themes but not to the extent a DC label is needed—correct me if I’m wrong though—be nice if I missed something, this is my first time :) way too many words but c’est la vie such is the way.

dedication: Storm, my friend, your support and advice has made me a better writer. Without you, this would probably still be sitting in my drafts, collecting dust and every hateful thought I’ve ever had about my writing. Thank you for being you and all of your aid in getting this to where it is. 💛

Your coffee’s cold when you give up. Well—second coffee, to be precise; the first you’d ordered after Tadashi said he was a few minutes away. That one had grown cold too, but the barista, taking pity, had given you a piping hot refill—for free.

It feels like an insult when she offers you a third.

An hour and a half has passed since Tadashi said he’d be there, and… well, you were still kinda hoping he might show up. But when the manager approaches with a tight-lipped smile, not-so-kindly pointing at their hours plastered ever so neatly on the glass door and indicating they’re just a few minutes to closing, your hope ebbs entirely.

The heat in your cheeks could’ve rewarmed your cup—but not one to cause a scene, you offer a tight-lip smile of your own and apologize. You don’t explain that you were waiting for someone; the pitying look in the barista’s eye as she mouths sorry and slides the unwanted third cup your way says they know.

You slip into the bathroom, wondering how in the world you could be so stupid— again. This was your third first date in three months… and the third time in three months that you’ve been stood up. 

It hurts more when you check your phone. Two new messages from Emma, asking how it’s going and if you want to grab dinner to dish; one from Draken, asking if you can bring back a vanilla frappe and a triple dark roast espresso with two pumps of caramel; one from Baji, saying he might be late to pick you up, but he’d be there, and could you get him an order of whatever you’re having?

Nothing from Tadashi.

You don’t respond, instead letting your phone rest against the mirror while you stare at your reflection and try, desperately, to convince yourself it isn’t your fault.

Everything had been going great—you thought. You thought he really liked you, that he was excited to get to know you, and that this one, this one for sure would show up. You made jokes that he found funny, you were just the right amount of flirty, and you knew—thought—hoped—the picture you’d sent of your outfit (a simple sundress that accentuated your best features and wedges that made your legs seem endless) was enticing enough that he’d want to see it in person.

But here you are. Crying in the bathroom of a cafe you’ll never be able to return to, wondering how you’re going to explain to your friends that you got stood up.

Again.

Your phone starts to buzz. With a deep breath, you wipe off your dripping mascara. You force yourself to smile at the hollow reflection staring back at you, then answer with an overly-cheerful, “what’s up?”

“Kenny’s worried.” Baji’s familiar drawl echos, making the space seem even smaller. “I said he was being too overprotective, but—well, you know how he is. Said it’s his duty or some shit to make sure you’re okay. He tried to come down here himself, wanted to meet the guy trying to woo you—can you believe that? He actually said woo—“

“What do you want?” you interrupt. Too harsh, you realize when Baji doesn’t answer. “It’s just—I’m kinda in the middle of something, you know?” 

Baji takes a moment, then forces a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, the little princess’s got a date, we know. God, they wouldn’t let it go. You should be thanking me, ya know, I’m the only reason they’re not all crashing—”

“Baji.”

The line falls quiet. Then, softly, “where are you, y/n?”

You frown and start searching for your mascara. “At the coffee shop. Why, where are you?”

Another pause. This one heavier. With the phone tucked to one ear, you slowly swipe the wand over your lashes. It’s clumpier than you usually like, but it’s better than nothing—

“I’m outside.”

Fuck.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he echoes. You mouth another fuck, heart plummeting, then start reapplying your mascara. More carefully, now that you’re out of time. “I, uh—I’ve been here. A while.”

“Oh… yeah?” you question, teeth starting to grind. “How long’s a while?”

Baji clears his throat. “Long enough. You gonna come out, or are ya gonna make me come in?”

Mascara gets tossed in your purse, gloss comes out. “You’re not exactly welcome in the ladies room, Baji.”

You can picture the dangerous curl in his smile when he replies, “not without an invitation, babe—why, you asking?”

Your laugh isn’t completely real, but not unnatural, either. You hover the gloss over your lips, and for a moment, you imagine what it’d be like. To sneak someone into the bathroom, kissing until your lips start to bruise, his hands playing with the hem of your dress, his lips marking your skin, his voice whispering your name…

You shake the thought away. There’s no point in getting your heart broken twice in one day.

“Three’s a bit of a crowd for a single stall,” you deflect. “Be out in a minute.”

Baji hums. Your gloss feels too thick, but you don’t take it off. You fluff your hair again, placing it the way you like, turning your necklace so the clasp faces the right way, lips smacking together once, twice, three times—

By the time you run out of things to do, you think you’re ready. You pick up your purse and give yourself a final once-over. Pretty, you think. Doesn’t look like you spent the last seven minutes sobbing in a public restroom.

When you exit, Baji’s still on the line, but he doesn’t hang up. You know, because the teasing, “well shit, babe, if I had known you’d worn that, I would’ve come two hours ago,” echoes; once from your phone, and the other from the man himself, standing right in front of you.

You laugh, and this one isn’t forced at all.

Baji’s smile gleams in the evening sun. A low wolf-whistle causes your face to warm pleasantly—the way it should have, when you met Tadashi. You take Baji’s extended hand, not flinching when his callouses rub against your soft palms. 

You’re used to their roughness. Much like the others, Baji’s always been a hands-on friend (and fighter), so over the years, you’ve gotten used to the various bumps, cuts, and jagged edges, to the extent that the only hands that’ve ever felt comfortable have been those rough ones, soft only for you. 

Baji spins you, over-exaggerating the way he checks you out. “Sweetheart, you’re going to stop traffic looking like that.”

“Oh, please,” you deny, but your smile hasn’t been this genuine all day. “Laying it on a little thick, Baj.”

“Only the realest truth for the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” is his sly reply, accompanied by a slyer wink. It’s his usual charm, but you’re oblivious to his sincerity, the way you always are. Baji pulls you into a tight hug and closes his eyes, and for a moment, he allows himself to pretend this was your intention all along; to wind up in his arms, with his compliments, by his side—the way it always seems to go after every failed date.

But you never say as much, and you always seem so genuinely excited for the next one that he’s never going to ask. Instead, he’ll take these moments. The ones where you turn to him for comfort, where he gets to hold you, your knight-in-shining-armor, and do all that he can to make everything better.

He’s so close that you almost miss his muffled whisper of, “fucking—stupid bastard. Doesn’t know what he’s missed.”

Your smile slips. Your thumb rubs against the back of his knuckles, familiarly cracked with scabs that never seem to heal. These are fresh, though; you can tell by how his hand darts to the back of his neck, preventing you from looking too closely. 

“Been up to no good?” you question with a raised brow.

“‘Course I have,” he responds easily, “you’ve been busy.”

Baji won’t meet your gaze. ‘If only you knew,’ he thinks—but he’ll never say it. Not that. Not to you. He shrugs off his black leather jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, fingertips lingering as he straightens the collar. His dark eyes flick to yours, a coy smirk almost hiding his guilt as he hopes beyond all hope you don’t see through him.

You almost do.

Not enough to call him out on it, though, so instead, you roll your eyes—but you can’t deny how this—him—is making everything better. He picks up the helmet he only brings when he’s driving you and puts it on for you, visor up so he can brush the hair out of your eyes. Baji offers a comforting smile, then juts his chin to his bike. “Wanna ride?”

The answer, of course, is yes; for him, it will always be yes.

Silently, you climb on and wrap your hands around him, chin tucking into his shoulder as if you were made to be there. He revs and pulls off, seamlessly weaving in and out of traffic. Your eyes close. The wind whips in your hair, and the familiar scent of nicotine, mint, and Baji’s crisp aftershave envelopes you. For a moment, you feel like everything’ll be okay. Your heart might hurt now, but after an evening with him, it’ll all be okay.

That’s the power of Keisuke Baji, though; the sense of embarking on your greatest adventure but feeling like being home, all at once.

It’s nearly sunset when he stops. Pulls up to the river, kicks the bike stand, then grabs your waist to lift you off the seat.

“I can do that,” you say, even as you let him lift you.

“More fun when I do,” he replies with an easy grin. Your feet hit the ground, but Baji keeps one hand around your waist. He takes off the helmet with the other and laughs when your hair flops out. Hurriedly you go to smooth it, but Baji catches your wrist after setting the helmet down. “You don’t have to do that. Not with me.”

He cages you between the bike and his hips with just a few inches of space—and suddenly, your heart starts to race. When did he get this close? How hadn’t you noticed the way his leg slid between yours? Why isn’t he taking his hand away? Why can’t you breathe?

Baji’s dark eyes dart between yours, then down to your lips, and for a second, for a split second, you think he’s about to kiss you—

“Not like anything can make it better now,” he smirks, and if it weren’t for how his fingers were locked in yours, you would’ve slapped him.

“Asshole.” 

Baji laughs, and you swear the moon shines a little brighter. You’re grateful that he turns to check out the area before he can see just how much of an impact his laugh has on you—though you don’t doubt that he knows. He’s Baji, after all, and you’re not blind (or deaf). He’s handsome, witty, flirty with anything that moves—and that laugh of his could bring even the tides to a standstill.

“Coast’s clear,” he says, looking back at you, a lazy smirk curling his features. It shouldn’t be a surprise, hardly any ever comes this far south of the city—but a few weeks ago, you’d accidentally stumbled upon a couple who were… not expecting company, to put it delicately, and ever since, Baji had been extra cautious to make sure it was just the two of you before getting settled.

He takes a few steps backwards, leading you to your spot; a grassy knoll that overlooks the river as it feeds into the darkened sea. The moon slowly rises over rolling waves while the sun, more a memory, sets over the river’s bend. It’s a secret, sacred place for the two of you, where heartache and daydreams don’t exist; only the moon, the tides, and each other.

Your stomach flips but you can’t tell why; this is exactly what happens every time you come here, from the way he helps you off the bike to how he stops you from picking at your appearance. The only difference is the way his hand is still wrapped in yours. 

You wonder if Tadashi’s would have been this warm. 

But Tadashi isn’t here—Baji is, and it’s Baji’s warm hands that always make things better. So you let him keep his hand in yours, even though you’re not sure you should, and you let him gently tug you along when you don’t move fast enough. Let him take his time in taking his jacket back, in spreading it on the grass before waiting for you to sit. You even let him settle next to you, instinctively leaning into the familiar comfort of his body and for a minute, you wonder how you ever could’ve wanted your day to end different.

Then Baji meets your gaze, smiles that sweet, genuinely kind half smile that he only shares with you, and you remember: Baji is your friend—and no matter how many heartaches he heals, that’s all he’ll ever be.

You can’t remember when things got so complicated.

When it was just you and Kenny, you’d sneak up to the roof of the brothel and watch the sun dip behind the buildings and talk about how one day, you’d get a house that was that color pink, and it’d be on the far side of Japan where you could watch the sunset from your porch and life would be good. The sunset was the only dream you’d ever need, and it would be good.

Then Mikey started coming. More often than not he’d fall asleep before the sun did, and on the days he didn’t—the roof felt too… small. The dreams, too… little. They evolved, from a porch where you could watch the sunset to a skyline that never sleeps.

Dreams change, and that’s okay… but a part of you aches for the time when the sunset felt like enough—when the family you had, the brothers you’d found and the friends you’d made—was enough. You still had the sunset, but rarely. More often than not, you were by yourself up there, or stuck to Kenny’s side somewhere out there, or brushing against Baji’s shoulder down here.

So these days, you prefer to watch the moon rise. There’s more comfort in a light to guide you through the night, rather than watching your dreams disappear with the day.

And you do, the way you do every time you’re stood up or don’t feel—enough. You sit beside Baji with the full moon crawling towards you, staring at the conjunction of the river and the sea, and focus on how you’re going to get through this.

Baji cut his hair since the last date—the last time you’d been stood up, you correct. Still long, but now only to the edge of his jaw, not mid-back like you were used to. The light is bright behind him, bringing out the warm undertones in his onyx hair. You can make out the scab on his cheek from a bar fight a few weeks ago; the scar on his nose from when Mikey split it the first time they fought; the tender bruise along his jaw that looks too new to have told you the story yet.

Instinctively, you reach for it… then chicken out, instead teasing the edge of his hair. You’re left wondering if an angel’s wings would be as soft.

Baji glances at you from the corner of his eye. “You don’t like it?”

“What? I didn’t say that.” Your hand falls back to your lap, eyes quick to follow. The light behind him is too bright—too blinding. Too much like a halo. It’s impossible to hide the truth from an angel, and you know you don’t have the right words to convey just how beautiful you find him. “Just… gonna take some getting used to. I don’t think you’ve ever had it this short.”

He scoffs. “Maybe at birth.”

The idea of baby Baji flashes through your mind; sweet, chubby cheeks, little fists flailing at the world. A tuft of hair, dark as his and long already, but when he opens his eyes, they’re yours—

“Why’d you cut it?” your voice is steadier than you expect. It does nothing to change your thoughts, especially when Baji’s slender fingers start pulling at grass, just the way a baby grasps what's in front of him.

He stares straight ahead, letting one hand splay by your lower back as he watches the green blades dance in the wind. “Figured it was time for a change.”

You hmm in acknowledgement, brain too traitorous to come up with anything other than, ‘I bet you were a cute baby’ or ‘you look handsome either way’ or, worst of all, ‘why would you ever want to change?’

He probably meant nothing by it. Baji’s as flexible as they come; sets his own hours at the shop, varies what time he wakes or goes to bed, never eats the same thing too many times in a row… there’s not much permanency in his life as it is, so it sticks with you that he still wants something different.

If he thinks you’re being weird, he doesn’t say so. He waits for you to speak, like always, and like always, you find yourself loving him a little more for it. Baji’s so—quick; to judge, to speak, to fight… but in these moments, when it’s the two of you and the moon and no one else, he’s not. He’s slow; slow to speak, slow to touch, slow to pull away…

Slow to make you wonder why you keep wasting time with boys who don’t deserve it when he might be enough.

The silence becomes too much; too easy to drown in. Too tempting to fill with all the wrong things.

“What happened to your jaw?” is the best you come up with.

It’s no surprise when he answers, “got into a fight,” but how he says it… how he immediately ducks his head and covers the darkening bruise with a broad palm, as if he’d forgotten all about it and wished you would, too… that makes you pause.

One tenet of your relationship is that you don’t lie to each other. There are often times you wish he would, like when Chifuyu teases him about the pretty girl at the pet shop who came back and asked for the number of the flirty hunk who sold her a dog collar and Baji admits she was pretty cute and he’ll take her to drinks tomorrow night, or when Kazutora reminds Baji that he promised to go on a double date with the twins they met clubbing so no, he can’t take a look at that leaky pipe in your bathroom—but you’d never say that. Not when he could, so easily, call you out for keeping your own.

So when he goes out of his way to not have to tell you the truth, you know better than to push.

“Did it hurt?”

Baji looks to you with a cocky smile. “You should see the other guy.” You snort. Baji knocks his shoulder into yours. “I’m good, really. Just… had some business, s’all.”

It’s supposed to be comforting, but it’s not. It only flares your curiosity… and honestly? Your annoyance. “I hadn’t realized a pet shop needed such security.”

Baji barks out a laugh. “I mean, you’ve seen how crazy some people get about their pets, ‘specially when they think Dr. Google is a better resource than Chifuyu’s degree… but nah, this was… off the books.” He catches your inquisitive gaze and offers a smile, but it’s more like a grimace in the lowlight. His hand creeps closer, fingers pressing into your back, and for a moment, you’re willing to let it go. He gently grazes the middle of your spine. “It’s done, alright? Finished. Won’t happen again.”

You know he’s lying because he holds you close, the way he only does when he thinks you’re about to leave.

But you don’t leave; you never leave. You just give him a withering glare you know he can’t see, then turn back to the ocean.

You hate this feeling. The one where the world becomes unsteady, and everything you’d been trying to keep buried since you were thirteen sneaks up on you. That horrid, awful, destructive fascination and jealousy and yearning that’s plagued you since Baji first bragged about stealing a kiss from the pretty girl that lived three floors above him and only gets worse every time he mentions someone new.

Going on dates was supposed to squash this. Meeting a nice guy, having a good time, and getting a kiss or two of your own was supposed to end this. This—obsession—you’ve had since the first time Baji said he hopes that one day, you meet the right guy and you accidentally thought, ‘maybe it’s you.’ Because at the end of the day, he’s the one who’s there. Not Tadashi, who couldn’t even be bothered to show up. Not Draken, who recently started putting Emma above all else (even you). It’s been Baji, your Baji, whose mere existence makes everything better, that’s been the last one standing.

You can’t ruin that. You can’t risk pushing away the only companion who still puts you first for something you’re positive you can find somewhere else.

At least, that’s what you have to tell yourself, as yet another date fails and Baji is here, again, picking up the pieces and making you feel more whole than when the day started.

The sky is nearly dark when you finally ask the question that’s been on your mind since the barista gave you that pity cup—the one that’s probably still sitting in the bathroom, the last witness to your heartbreak. Just as alone and unwanted as you. 

“What’s… wrong with me?”

Baji’s sharp. He alway has been, from the stern angle of his nose to the feral way his teeth carve like a predator’s. He watches everything—the road, the fighters, you—with a scrutiny that’s often clouded behind cheshire grins and snide quips.

But there’s nothing sharp about him tonight; only soft. Soft hands that gently grab your chin and force you to look at him. Soft breathes as he pulls you close. Soft words as he makes sure you hear him whisper, “nothing.” 

Baji’s eyes, dark and teeming with something you can’t place, move from one eye to the other; to the fingers on your cheek; to your tongue, wetting your lips. He leans in, forehead resting against yours as his hand slides back, gripping your hair like you're his lifeline and not the other way around, and you’re back to thinking okay, this is it, he’s going to kiss me, he’s finally going to kiss me—

But all he does is repeat, “absolutely—fuckin’ nothing, alright? And—‘n fuck whoever makes you feel otherwise,” before resuming his seat like nothing happened.

You let go of a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. It’s stale and hot and full of fury, your fury, and suddenly, you can’t take it anymore.

“Fuck you, Keisuke.”

“What?” Baji scrambles for your arm as you abruptly stand, too furious to even look at him. You rip away but don’t stop, trying to will the stupidness of—whatever this is—to go away, to release you so you can go back to feeling better and right and whole. “Wait—come on, I didn’t—what did I say? Did I do something? Where the hell are you going?”

“Forget it!” you snap. His every question—the fact he wants to make it right even though he’s the reason it hurts—just makes it worse. “Just—leave it alone, alright? It obviously doesn’t matter—” 

This time when he grabs your arm, he doesn’t let you leave. He pulls you in to him, nearly crashing you into his chest as he holds you in place.

“Damnit, y/n, what the hell? What did—why are you being like this?” For the first time tonight, he meets your eyes without falter. He tucks a hand under your chin, all but pries your eyes open himself to search for what you're hiding. You try shrugging out of his iron grip, but he’s too strong. “What did I do?”

“Nothing—” You’re horrified at the way your voice cracks. “Fucking—nothing, Baji, you did nothing—“

“Then why’re you so fucking mad, hunh? Why’re you acting like I’m the bad guy here?” His fingers tighten. It would’ve hurt, if you weren’t so angry. “I’m not the asshole who stood ya up—I’m not the one who’s been dickin’ everyone around, pretending like everything’s fine when I know, Draken knows—even fuckin’—Pah-chin—can tell that something’s wrong—“

“You’re calling me an asshole?” you gasp incredulously. “Are you fucking serious?” 

“Yes!” he retorts hotly—then, upon realizing how horribly angry you’re growing, quickly backtracks, “I mean—no! Actually, no, you know what, I did mean yeah, because guess what, princess? You are acting like an ass! You’ve got—all these people who wanna be here for you, I want to be here for you, and all you’re doing is getting mad at me for it—”

“What do you want me to say, Baji?” It’s useless, trying to get free, but that doesn’t stop you from trying. “That I’m—heartbroken—at being stood up—again? That I’m done with dating, that I’m giving up, that everyone fucking sucks but I must suck worse—”

“They don’t deserve you—”

“Like hell!” Your tone is scalding. It must burn him just as bad, because a single lapse in his grip lets you rip your arm away. “That’s the whole goddamn point of dating, jackass, to figure out who’s worth what—and all this has shown is that I’m not worth it, to anyone.” You slam your hands against his chest, tears stinging your lash line. If you weren’t so angry, you might not have missed how his face falters when you push him away. “And you just—sitting there, and—and holding me like that, and—and telling me that I’m not the problem when I’m the only common denominator—you’re such a fucking liar—”

“You think it’s any easier for me?” he’s quick to yell, frustration making him bare his teeth like fangs. Anyone else would’ve cowered—but you stand your ground. Place two hands on his chest and shove, hard, forcing him back as he continues, “you think it’s any easier to see you gettin’ your hopes up, to freak out over what to text, what to wear, what to do—all for those fuckin’ dickweeds? Hunh? Guys who can’t even—spell your name right, or remember what your favorite flower is, or fucking—show up? You think it’s any fucking easier seeing you so goddamn upset over someone who doesn’t even deserve to breathe the same air as you, let alone spend time with you–be with you? Because it’s not, sweetheart!”

The sweet pet name that usually makes your heart skip a beat only aggravates you further. Your hands go from shoving to slamming, open palms against the hard muscle of his chest—but he doesn’t even flinch. Just catches your wrists before you can do it again and stares, like you’ve started speaking in tongues. “Oh, poor Baji, must be hard, hunh, thinking no one’s good enough, thinking everyone’s so lucky as to have people throwing themselves at them left and right—but newsflash, Keisuke, not all of us are like you! Not all of us have the ability to pick whoever we want, some of us actually have to work at it—“

“Stop working on the wrong guys then!”

“You’ve never even met them, how would you know—“

“Because they let me stand in the way!”

The world stills. 

You can’t place why; why this feels like a sucker punch, why your heart is suddenly skipping beats–why you can’t tell if this hurts. Not until Baji’s grip tightens, then his eyes widen, and you have a sneaking suspicion you know where this is going—but still, you ask, “what?”

He doesn’t respond. He can’t.

He lets go of you, though every fiber in his being begs him to stay. He takes a step back, though his heart pleads for him to wrap you in his arms and hold you close and tell you the truth, about what he did, why he did it, why he can’t bring himself to regret it…

He has to turn his back to you, to stare at the waves crashing along the sand as he tries to process just how badly he’s fucked this up and if there’s any possibility for redemption. It’s too late to lie. Too late to try and salvage this.

He’s made his bed; it’s time to lie in it.

Baji sighs–or something close. Something choked, not quite a laugh but also not quite a sob. Something is stuck in him, and even with the ice in your veins, you piece it together. Somehow, this—the failed dates, the heartache, the loneliness—it's all his fault.

Still, you have to ask. “What the hell are you talking about?”

You try making the venom in your voice match that in your blood, but you can’t. Not when he looks so—defeated. He runs his hands through his hair, doing a miserable job of either pretending he can’t hear you or attempting to buy enough time to come up with a plausible lie—though you don’t need him to. Not when his actions say enough.

It’s your turn to reach for him. Your turn to grab his arm, to keep him in place. You want to hold on to your anger, but the way his hands are shaking makes it impossible.

You draw him close, voice gentle as you say his name. You reach for his cheek, keeping his hands still with one of yours, and you tilt his head; he lets you tilt his head so that he has no choice but to look at you. 

When your gazes meet, you wait.

“I had to,” he eventually says. His voice is steady, but his hands aren’t. His fingers wrap around your wrists tightly, as if he’s afraid you might try leaving—but your grip on him is equally tight. “They weren’t good for you. They were jerks, and they were only going to break your heart, and I couldn’t let that happen. Not to you. I had to—I had to.”

“Had to… what?” He doesn’t answer, not until you prompt, “had to what, Baji?”

“Don’t—” he breathes. “Don’t… call me that.” His eyes close, and he leans into the palm on his cheek. For a moment, you pretend that he’s memorizing the feel of you, as if he’s scared to lose you—but that can’t be it. Keisuke Baji isn’t afraid of anything.

You’re not sure what’s more painful: the knots in your stomach or the hope in your heart. “Tell me what you did,” you muster up. “Keisuke, tell me what you did.”

When his eyes finally open, all of his anger is gone. In its place is something you’ve rarely seen, and even rarer directed at you: desperation.

“I stopped them.”

For a moment, all you hear is your own heart… then the waves of truth come crashing down.

“I—I found them, and I swear on my life, on your life—I only meant to talk to them, to figure out if—if they had good intentions, if they were gonna treat you right—but they all sucked, y/n, they were awful—going on and on about how they were—how they wanted to—to fuck you, just to say they could—or they weren’t—serious about how they felt and I couldn’t—I couldn’t let them do that, I couldn’t let them hurt you like that, so I… I hurt them first. Not—not much, just enough so they’d—get the idea. Leave you alone. Stay away from my girl—”

He cuts himself off, and for a moment, you’re frozen. You don’t know what to do, what to think—is this real? Is he saying what you think he’s saying? Does he really mean it?

Baji’s voice cracks when he says your name.

“Y/n, listen—listen to me,” he pleads. His forehead presses against yours. Your cheeks grow wet, though you can’t tell if that’s because of you or him. “You are—the most amazing person in this whole freaking world. You get that? You’re—smart, and pretty, and so fucking funny and—and anyone who can’t see that is an idiot. And it fucking—kills me—that you’ve got it in your head that what these—stupid pricks think is the only thing that matters, because it’s not. It’s never mattered. The only thing—the only thing that has ever mattered… is you. Okay? You.”

Your throat closes. Your hands reach for his, catching only wrists as he cradles your face, trying to ground yourself in this moment. In all the things he says and all the things he doesn’t; in the silent, desperate dream that refused—refuses—to die, taking over you once more.

“I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not.” His lips are so close, they brush your nose. “I’d say I regret it, but I don’t, because— you deserve better. You deserve the world, if you want, or—or the moon and all the stars, and—and unless they’d get it for you, they don’t deserve you. Okay? None of them deserved you.”

You’re just a hair away from kissing him, from caving to the impulses you thought were dead and gone and hopeless all these years, and the worst possible sentence sinks out: “you’re an idiot, Kei.”

Then you lean forward and kiss him.

In an instant—you feel whole. You feel right, in a way you haven’t since you decided you never had a chance with him; in a way you’ve been searching for in the words of all the others who’d let you down, who’d broken your heart and always, always, always led you back to moonrise with Baji, back home—

Baji jolts. He pulls away and stares at you with a wild mixture of shock and confusion. His fingers ghost his lips, only to draw back as he stares at them, then at you, then back at them, like he can’t quite comprehend this hand is attached to his body—like you were. Like you want to be, like you thought he wanted to be, like you thought he was asking you to be—

Your heart plummets as he just—stands, no witty quip or teasing remark at the ready. No lines to read between; no phrasing to draw false confessions from; nothing other than the stillness of the night, and the pounding of your heart.

“Wait—” you shrink as you realize just how hoarse a single stolen kiss has left you. “I thought—please, Kei—”

A flicker of… something dances in his eyes, and then—he watches you. Studies you, with the same scrutiny he holds before a fight or when picking apart a bike to see what parts are broke and what can be saved.

“Say it again.”

It’s your turn to blink; your turn to have wide eyes and parted lips, to study him like you’re not sure how to fix it. “I don’t—“

“My name,” he says, and your heart starts to leap. “Say my name, sweetheart.”

“I say your name all the time, Keisuke.” You’re barely above a whisper. Barely above the fear that this time, he’ll break your heart and there’ll be no one to pick up the pieces because—you ruined this.

“Not like that,” he breathes. You forget how to. “Say it like it means something. Like—you don’t hate me. Like—”

“Kei,” you interrupt, hands coming to cradle his cheeks as you read between the lines, “I forgive y—”

He doesn’t even let the final word form before his lips are on yours. Hard, aggressively melding like he’s worried you might change your mind and wants to milk every second out of this as he can—but you reciprocate just as desperately. Keisuke’s hands wrap around you, one gripping the base of your neck and the other resting on the small of your back, pulling you impossibly close, as if he couldn’t get enough of you. His mouth opens, teasing your lips apart as you trade air, fingers digging into your soft skin like it’s the last thing he’ll ever touch.

You pull away first, and that’s only because your lungs are aching—not that you mind. The pain helps make this feel real. 

For once, Keisuke’s grin doesn’t seem mocking. He moves a hand to cradle your face, thumb rubbing against your cheek. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that, sweetheart.”

“Not as long as I have,” you admit with a breathy laugh. Your hands lock around his neck, fingers playing with his hair, and you realize you’re smiling.

You kissed. Keisuke kissed you, you kissed him—everything makes sense. Everything is right, and with the moon and tides as your witness, everything is good again.

“Can I…” Keisuke starts, eyes flicking to your lips in an unspoken question. You finish his sentence with a kiss.

“You can always kiss me, Kei,” you say. “You don’t even have to ask.”

There’s the grin you recognize; the scheming, teasing grin that always makes your stomach flip in a way you thought meant he’s up to no good, but now realize as a sign you’d fallen for him long ago. 

“Oh, yeah?” he questions, brushing his lips against yours. “Only here? Or can I kiss… here?” He moves to the corner of your lips, then to the hollow of your cheek as he continues, “and… here? And maybe…”

He trails off, and he trails down, letting his lips drag against your cheek while his hand keeps you firmly in place, lips going done to your chin, down the column of your throat and back up. Your breathy yes would be pathetic—if it ever made it out. All that escapes is a breathy groan of displeasure when he stops, teasing lips hovering just above your own. “What’s that, babe? Want me t’stop?”

“You’re such an asshole.”

Your hands tangle in his hair, lips melding as your make-out turns heated. He slides his tongue along the seam of your lips, silently asking you to open—and you do. His hands curl around you, bringing you closer until there’s no space left between you.

Something digs into your leg. Something hard and unmistakable, and it leaves you grinning deeper than Kei.

You break away, laughing at his whine of protest and briefly glance down. Keisuke follows your eyes and is quick to splutter a nervous chuckle, hands dropping as he tries to step away with a short apology—though the way you catch his belt loops stops him. “Shit—sorry, I didn’t—I just—it’s your fault, y’know—“

“Shut up,” you giggle and drag him back. Now, you kiss him; once, twice, then a third before trailing your lips along the sharp ridge of his cheekbone, along his temple, to his ear. “How about you take me home, Kei?”

Keisuke’s whiplash nearly hurts you. His eyes, big and brown and wide, stare like you’ve grown an extra head. His hands shakily splay against your back, as if he wants to keep you close but he’s not sure he’s allowed to. His voice wavers slightly when he asks, “but I thought… aren’t… I mean, isn’t this… what you wanted?”

Slowly, you nod. Even slower, you pointedly look at the space between you, bridged only by the tent of his black pants. You smile at the sweet way a blush covers his cheeks, and risk slowly trailing your hand along his belt until your fingertips are hovering over that stupid, shiny, obnoxiously big belt buckle you always tease him for.

“I want you, Keisuke, and I want you to take me home.”

He doesn’t need more encouragement. 

Keisuke’s kisses grow fiercer. He devours you, never once breaking contact as his hands slide to find firm purchase on the back of your thighs. With ease, he lifts you atop his bike, setting you in front of him and stepping between your spread legs. The hem of your dress slides up with his calloused palms, collecting in a bunch then pooling down to protect your modesty as he finds two handfuls of ass. He gives a squeeze, eliciting a delighted gasp from you, then pulls back with a toothy smile.

“Then have me, sweetheart. Always been yours, anyways.” 

Your stomach twists, the way it always does when he looks at you like that, and you like it. It makes sense, it feels right—and you don’t have to pretend to justify why it makes your panties wet.

“Gotta—gotta get home—“ you try saying, but Keisuke’s hands have a mind of their own. They’re the only reason you’re still upright as he starts kissing along your neck, carefully grazing his sharp teeth but never once digging in. Your arms lop around him, digging into his scalp and shoulders as he finds this one spot that makes you moan, and you almost curse him for what that smile has done to you.

“Fuckin’—insane—if you think I'ma make it,” he mumbles into your skin, and you think you finally understand how some people can climax from someone’s voice alone.

You laugh and intend to push him away and demand that he do, that you have to, that you need to, because this—isn’t like you, you’re not one to get hot and heavy like this, certainly not in public—

But you can’t think straight. Not when Keisuke’s hands are kneading your ass, pinching and releasing like he can’t decide if he wants to hold on forever or explore somewhere new. Not when his teeth nibble your neck, and you shudder at the unbelievably primal sensation running through you.

Not when the unmistakable hardness of Keisuke’s boner finds home between your thighs, and he starts bucking his hips. It’s subtle, and he doesn’t tease you for the pathetic way you start whimpering. He focuses on continuing to explore the expanse of your otherwise untouched skin, while all you can do is revel in the way your high starts building.

You’ve been kissed before, on the lips and neck and once a little lower, but no one’s ever done this to you; pressed against your collarbone. Moved your neckline aside to suck on the fat of your breast. Left a mark that’ll last longer than a minute. For a moment, you wonder if you should tell him he’s the first, but when the zipper of his pants starts catching your clit, the only thing you’re able to do is moan his name.

Loudly.

Breathy and passionate and different than before, and he pauses. Lifts his head from your collarbone, a thin tendril of salvia keeping his lips still attached to the sensitive skin you know will bruise. He lets one hand trail up your side and cup your face, staring like this might be the last time he ever sees you, all while his hips continue to rut against you.

“Say it again,” he breathes, thumb catching your bottom lip. “Just—just like that.”

“Kei,” you repeat, giggling at the way he brightens and starts kissing you, “we need to go home—now.” For good measure, you boldly let your fingers slide to the edge of his belt buckle, in case he needs some more convincing. His free hand darts to yours, but he doesn’t stop you. He laces his fingers in yours and guides you, letting you palm at his thick hard-on. He lets out a low groan and drops his head from your lips to rest at your chest, just above the collar of your dress. You card one hand through his hair, the other applying light pressure to the (you assume) very painful ache between his legs—and not at all because you know, if he kept bucking into your core the way he just was, the way he keeps doing against your palm—you wouldn’t be able to make it home, either. “Take—take me home, Kei—”

“Not—” he huffs. His grip on your ass tightens, but you can barely feel it. Not when Keisuke whines, low and needy, teeth coming out to nip at your breast, and all you can focus on is the ache between your own legs, getting even worse as his hips start moving faster, forcing the back of your hand against your cunt as you continue to palm him. His hips don’t stop; they push against you so fiercely, so desperately, that you cave, taking away your hand so there’s nothing between you but your clothes. 

You’re on the precipice in minutes; hands digging into his shoulders as you choke on a sob, pleading with him to go faster, to not stop, to keep making you feel good—and it’s made all the worse when he does, pressing his throbbing erection even harder against your soaked panties, all the while pleading into your skin, “can’t—can’t—fuck, baby, I can’t—y/n—“

You gasp when his teeth break skin.

Keisuke’s hips still. Warm air saturates your chest as he groans into it, and for a moment you’re frozen. Your whole body aches, and you want to scream at the cruel way your orgasm was stolen—but you’re too in shock that he got you there that fast, that easily. Something warm trickles down your cheeks, between your breasts—blood? saliva? tears?—he doesn’t move. You don’t move. You’re not even sure he’s breathing, until his shoulders heave and your skin is warmed once more. A slight burn starts to spread across your chest, and when you open your mouth to ask him why the hell he stopped—all that comes out is his name.

You say it softly, then a little louder, but it’s not until you grab his face and force him to look up that he speaks—but his eyes are fixed firmly on the reddening bite mark forming atop your breast.

“M’sorry…”

A mean part of you wants to tell him he owes you a lot more than sorry, but the way his lower lip disappears as he nervously chews on it has you choosing otherwise. “It’s okay,” you comfort instead, “it didn’t hurt that bad.”

Keisuke grimaces. “No, I—” 

He sighs, head dropping back to your chest. Both arms wrap around your waist, and he presses a light kiss to the place he’d just bitten; the only way he probably figures he can keep close without meeting your gaze. He mumbles something, but you only know because you feel his lips moving.

“Can’t hear you…” you try prompting, but it only makes him snuggle deeper. He sighs again, loud and warm and in a way you’re familiar with—the way that really means, I can’t believe I have to do this… “C’mon, Kei, don’t you want to take me home?”

“Ididntmakeit.”

You have never, ever, in your life ever seen Keisuke embarrassed. Not when he told you about needing Chifuyu to tutor him post-juvie; not when he failed his college entry exams; not even when you accidentally walked in on him showering (in hindsight, he was probably a little too comfortable with how long it might’ve taken you to leave).

This was the man who went skinny dipping for fun. He’ll order fruity drinks for his friends who are too embarrassed to do it themselves. His approach to a lost fight is to get a rematch, not pretend it didn’t exist, and even in mundane moments that have you at a loss for words, like mistaking someone’s name or forgetting a face, Kei’s always quick for a retort or defense or a smile that makes everything better.

Keisuke Baji doesn’t get embarrassed—but that’s the only word that fits. His cheeks are redder than you’ve ever seen, his breathing faster than his pulse. His eyes refuse to meet yours, and his fingers knead into clumsy, nervous patterns along the side of your thighs.

Then he takes a deep breath, and with one shaking hand, he slowly brings your palm to the crotch of his pants… that are now sticky.

Your eyes widen, and you’re almost too late to choke down a gasp. Kei’s eyes close, and he ducks his head in shame. “I didn’t—I mean, I haven’t—you're just—I’m so sorry—”

“Why?” It sounds curt, and you don’t intend it to. Better than laughing, you reason—although you will absolutely get him for this later… when it stops feeling like the most humiliating thing in the world.

Keisuke swallows. “I haven’t ever… you know.”

“What, cum early?” It’s cruel to tease, you know that, but you can’t stop the slight satisfaction that you—you—are able to bring a man like Keisuke Baji to his knees.

“No! I mean—no, I…” Kei looks out to the ocean, fingers still anxiously kneading into your thighs. The temperature drops, though you’re not sure if it actually does or you’re just feeling like it as you try to understand what’s happened, what’s happening—what you’re to do next. His jaw clenches and he tries to pull away from you, but you don’t let him. You wrap your legs around the backs of his thighs, keeping him in place.

“Kei…” you say softly. You don’t force him to look at you. Instead, you let your fingers trail up his abs, curling around his neck so you can rest your forehead against his temple and kiss his cheek. “I don’t care. Just means you gotta make it up to me—”

“I’ve never had sex before.”

You’re grateful he doesn’t look at you, because you’re not able to control the utter shock coloring your face. How is that possible? You’ve heard the whispers when you go out; you’ve seen the looks. At parties or bars or clubs, he’d find a pretty thing and disappear, and you assumed you knew what happened behind those closed doors—because why, why, why would you want to ask about that? 

The others didn’t dispel it, either; in fact, they’d constantly rip on him for his… gift, and Keisuke never fought back. He’d just smirk and wink and say, “it’s never disappointed,” and by the time you’d turned red, thinking about when you caught him in the shower and knew what they were saying was true, they’d moved on to taunting someone else.

So how the hell is it possible that Keisuke’s a virgin—and, more importantly, how didn’t you know?

You’re not sure how long it takes you to recover. If he were to ask, you’d say you were just waiting for him—because when you do speak, it’s only when Keisuke turns to you with narrowed eyes, an apprehensive blush clear on his face. 

“Wanna know a secret?” you ask, forcing a teasing lilt to your voice—though your stomach twists. This isn’t exactly the way you wanted to tell him, and for a flash, you think of how disappointed he might be to learn the truth. 

But when he meets your gaze, eyes wide and focused entirely on you, somewhere between hopeful and nervous, you know it’s for the best. Your smile is sweet, but not as sweet as your lips when you kiss the crinkle between his eyes. He immediately relaxes, hands stilling as he leans into you. “Neither have I.”

He straightens and pulls far enough away so he can examine you. For a minute, your confession hangs between the two of you, then Kei starts floundering, “but I thought… you said… but he… what about your ex?”

You shrug, your own cheeks starting to flush. “It never felt right.”

Keisuke blinks. His mouth parts, eyes darting between yours like he’s waiting for the gotcha!, but all he receives is the embarrassed way you can’t meet his gaze, feeling as if you’ve somehow let him down. You squirm, his warm hands still atop your thighs sending butterflies to your stomach, and shrug again. “I dunno, I just—didn’t think it was fair. Doing that with someone, when all I could think about…” you swallow, lips twisting as you debate whether or not to tell him the truth. 

He catches your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Think about what, sweetheart?”

The way he asks tells you he already knows; but like earlier, when you knew and had to hear it anyway, he needs you to say it, too.

So you take a steadying breath. You gently trail a finger down the side of his jaw, and you make yourself smile as you say, “you, Kei. It didn’t seem right if it wasn’t you.”

This time when he kisses you, it’s slow. He takes his time in tasting you, in savoring the moment. He lets you guide where his lips go, how his hands wander, and he waits for you to pull back before he suggests, “how about I take you home now?”

Your stomach flutters. Fingers knot at the base of his skull, and slowly, a smile spreads on your face. 

“I’d like that.”

He presses a chaste kiss to your temple. You can feel the joy in it, one that doesn’t fade for either of you as he unhooks your legs so you can properly straddle the bike, then tucks the helmet on you and pops on himself.

“Hold on,” he calls as he revs the engine, “might be goin’ a bit faster than usual.”

“Don’t worry,” you laugh, and even though you know he probably can’t hear you, you add, “I’m never letting go.”

You make it to Keisuke’s apartment in seven minutes flat—which, normally, would leave you terrified, given his place is twenty minutes from your spot, but you doubt that’s what’s got your heart racing. He barely gives you enough time to take the helmet off before his hands are back on you, easily scooping you up and carrying you up the stairs. You bump into a few walls, and the way you’ve got a loose grasp on his helmet sends it craning into his back just as often, but neither of you care. Between fits of giggles and cautious glances to make sure he’s not about to walk you through a glass door (or down a stairwell), you kiss like it’ll be the last time you ever get the chance to.

“Anyone home?” you mumble into his lips. He slams you against the front door of his shared three-bedroom apartment, using his hips to keep you up while he tries to find the lock by memory.

“Nope,” he replies, lips busy with your skin, fingers fumbling uselessly behind you. “Stupid—fucking lock—told Tora to leave it—never fuckin’ listens—”

“Relax,” you laugh, although that’s rich coming from you. Your legs tighten around him as you break free from his kiss, instead sucking along the column of his throat. Freeing his face is supposed to give him enough room to actually look for the lock, so the two of you can stop dry-humping in the hall and finally get the privacy you need—but like always, Keisuke does the unexpected.

He throws his head back and moans, giving you more access to leave a matching hickey—and you’re not strong enough to resist the temptation. A whine starts in his throat, from where you’re sucking on his pale skin. The keys clatter to the ground.

“Keisuke,” you scold—but before you can tease him for being in a rush, his lips are back on yours.

“Never gonna make it,” is his only defense.

“Gonna—gonna have to,” you reply, but every time you try pulling away or reach for the keys yourself, he grabs you. Wraps your wrists in his rough hands, pins them to the door beside your head, and leans so far forward that, even with your limp legs, he’s able to keep you up himself. “Kei—“

“So help me sweetheart,” he warns, hips rolling against yours with a sense of urgency only outmatched by his kiss, “if you keep saying my name like that, I swear to the gods I’m gonna fuck you right here.”

“So help me, sweetheart,” you shoot back, breathy and hot as you try to avoid the way his lips chase yours, “if you don’t get me inside right now, I might let you.”

He freezes. Pulls away from the delightful bruise he’d just been leaving below your ear and stares at you with a mixture of awe and utter delight. “Really?”

You swat the back of his head. “No, dumbass, open the fucking door.”

Keisuke’s lips, pink and bruising slightly, twist in a pretend pout as he squats. He keeps one thick palm under your thigh, keeping your leg wrapped around him as he snags his keys. “You’re such a fucking tease.”

“Says the guy who does—that,” you try scoffing, but you’re cut off with a moan when Kei stands and bounces you against his hips. His boner is back and harder than before, pressing into your core, the messy, wet mix of your drenched panties and his earlier cum making a lewd sound in the otherwise silent hallway. 

“Does… what, babe?” he teases. “C’mon, finish that sentence.” 

You don’t know how he finds the focus to actually find the lock this time, but you thank every deity in the world that he does—because it takes just a second, a single, solitary second for him to jimmy it in, slam the door open, and you’re finally alone.

The door frame rattles. Something falls, but you can’t tell if it’s the mirror you insisted he hang above the entry table you insisted he get or if it’s the rickety old coat rack Chifuyu said would ‘class up the joint’; all you know is that as soon as the key is in, Baji’s hands are back to cradling your thighs for support as he crosses the threshold. 

You reach for the door, but he catches it with his ankle and slams it shut, quickly spinning to pin you against it.

“Really—” you pant, “really got the place—to ourselves?”

“Mhm,” Keisuke confirms. He leans into you, palms rubbing along your thighs until they get to your knees, silently asking you to wrap tighter around him. You do, and the moment he feels your ankles cross at the small of his back, his hands move to your waist. “Told ‘em—needed space.”

“Oh?” you question, your hands reaching for the hem of his shirt and tug, tug, tugging—“And when’d you do that?”

He reaches behind his head and yanks his tee off, tossing it carelessly into the darkness of the apartment. You hadn’t even paused to turn on the lights.

“After I saw Tadashi.” You can tell he’s grinning, especially as you drag your nails along the chiseled plane of his abs. His hands slide up your torso, thumb rubbing your stomach through the thin cotton of your dress, grazing the underwire of your bra. “Told Tora this one wasn’t gonna work, either, ’n he said I should just tell ya the truth, 'cause he couldn’t watch me mope around all night again—”

“Mope?” you tease. Kei’s fingers dig in. “Kazutora accused you of moping?”

“Well—shut up!” he whines. “You try watching the person you’re in love with go out with guys who don’t deserve them and tell me you wouldn’t start moping either—y/n? Why… are you looking at me like that?”

Your eyes are wide. Your hands go limp, the helmet falling to the floor with a loud clatter. Your lips part to say… something, but you’re not sure what.

Keisuke’s told you he’s loves you a thousand times; the brief ‘kay love ya! before he hangs up; the gentle love you, see ya tomorrow whenever he’d bring you home; the drawn out gods I love you after you’ve surprised him with his favorite meal—but none like this.

None so… blatant. So unmistakable.

Kei stares at you curiously, as if he isn’t even aware of what he’s just said. He repeats your name, hands leaving your waist to catch your chin.

“You’re… in love with me?” 

Keisuke blinks.

For a moment, you think you must’ve misheard, he must’ve misspoke, you must have misunderstood—but a brilliant smile breaks his face, and he nuzzles his nose against yours. “‘Course I’m in love with you, sweetheart. I’ve been in love with you, and I ain’t ever gonna stop loving you—”

You kiss him.

The gentlest one yet. The way you always dreamed your first one would be; soft, sweet, lips pressing together while your hands held him close. Heartbeats synching. The world falling away as it’s just the two of you, in this moment, endless and forever.

There’s only one thing to say when you pause: “I love you too, Keisuke.”

Your teeth knock together as Keisuke can’t contain his smile, either. Hands move, one around the small of your back and the other under a single thigh. Your lips never part as he carries you to his room.

He sets you at the foot of his bed and stands above you. His chest heaves, bare and flushed with need. Your hands slip from his neck to his bed to keep yourself propped up, legs still wrapped tightly around his waist. Keisuke’s hands travel to your knees, and he just—stares.

He loves you. How could he not, with the way that pretty dress puddles on his mattress, exposing nearly all of your leg but hiding what he’s been waiting for his whole adult life? How could he not, with the way his spit makes your collar glistens in the moonlight, filtering in from behind those sheer curtains you insisted he get? How could he not love the way you say his name, reaching towards him, fingers catching on his belt buckle as you ask him if he’s ready?

“Not yet,” he whispers. The hoarseness of his voice, the way it’s dropped several octaves from merely seeing you on his bed, sends a jolt of electricity through you. You’re about to ask why, but the reverence in how he’s looking at you makes you not want to break this spell.

He trails his fingers along your calves. Gently, he unhooks your legs from his waist. His fingers shake as he struggles with the straps of your heels, but when you go to help, he catches your wrist. 

“No,” he repeats, “not yet.”

You keep quiet and merely watch as your best friend, the man of your dreams, takes his time in undressing you. One wedge, then the other, falling off your feet with a dull clank! on the carpet. Keisuke kisses your ankles, then starts kissing up your calves, then your knees, then your thighs—

The anticipation has you dripping. Your thighs instinctively clench when he gets to your hem, hands curling into fists by your sides. Your panties are uncomfortably glued to your cunt, sticky in a way you’ve never been before, and he’s not even lifted your dress to see yet.

Keisuke rests his chin atop your thigh. “Please,” he pleads—pleads—“Let me—baby, let me. I wanna taste you.”

Today is not the day you learn to refuse him.

Your muscles shake from anticipation as you slowly spread your legs, but that’s not enough for him. “Baby, no, I—I wanna hear you say it.” His voice is soft, shaky. A little hesitant, as if he’s not sure if this’ll ruin the moment but he knows he has to be sure—he has to hear you say it… if only to revel in the desperate way you say his name. 

“Keisuke, please… whatever you want, have it. Just—touch me, Kei, please, I need you—“

“Need you too, sweetheart,” he praises, running his lips along your thigh. “Gonna—gonna have you now, okay?”

His fingers still shake when he lifts your dress, exposing the black lace of your panties to him. At first glance, he can’t tell that they’re absolutely soaked—but that doesn’t stop the way you start to squirm in embarrassment as he just… stares. His thumbs dig into the fat of your hips, broad palms keeping your thighs spread and pinned to the bed.

It takes you a moment to realize he’s not breathing.

“Kei?”

He doesn’t look up. 

His grip gets tighter. His eyes narrow. Before you get the chance to ask him what’s wrong, he growls, “you wore these for him?”

You blink. That is not what you were expecting, but before you can defend with they’re my lucky pair, or I wanted to feel sexy, or it doesn’t matter, I’m here with you—Keisuke’s ripped them off.

You yelp when the fabric bites your skin, failing to wriggling away as Keisuke strips them off your ankle. “What the fuck—“

“I’ll get you a new pair,” he mutters. “Shit—I’ll get you a hundred pairs, but you get rid of every single set someone else has seen. Got it?”

Your lips purse. He’s being unreasonable, you think, and totally ridiculous… but no matter how much your brain tries to reason he’s out of line, your fluttering pussy doesn’t get the message. Your slick is evident now, exposed and iridescent in the moonlight, dripping down your hole and slowly saturating the sheets.

Usually, Keisuke wouldn’t let it go. Usually, he’d keep picking at it until you cave, or at least recognize you heard him—but usually, he’s not staring at your cunt. 

Right now, he can’t focus on anything but how desperate he is to be inside you.

“Yeah, think ya got it… fuck, babe… seems like you like it when I say shit like that, hunh?” 

You whimper slightly, having to bite your lip to keep it together. Slowly, he drags the tip of his finger from the sheet beneath you up along your wet folds. He barely touches you, but when he pulls his finger away, it’s covered in a layer of you. 

He brings it to his face with a cocky grin, watching how the pad shines in the moonlight. “You always this wet, or am I special?”

“Shut up,” you shoot back, preparing to bring up how special he found you earlier—only to immediately throw your head back and moan as Keisuke buries his face between your legs.

There is no preamble. There are no more teasing quips or pauses; Keisuke dives in like a man starved, and the only thing that can sate his appetite is you.

He starts with broad strokes, gathering as much of your slick as he can. He’s messy, messier than you, and soon there’s more of his spit than your wetness between your legs. His arms wrap around your thighs, keeping them pinned and spread on his shoulders as he continues to feast, thumbs spreading your lips open so he can truly devour you.

When Keisuke starts suckling on your clit, your fingers knot in his hair. You moan, loud and whiney and plead for him to keep going as your orgasm starts to boil—faster than before, more powerful too, with greater ease than you’ve ever managed to pull from yourself.

Keisuke brings a hand to your clit, quickly swiping the puffy bud with the pad of his thumb as he focuses his tongue on your fluttering hole. In and out, up and down, the warm muscle drives you insane. Your grip on his hair must hurt, but he says nothing; he focuses on making you feel as good as humanly possible, never once letting up, not even when you start to choke, “Kei—I’m—I’m gonna—“

“Cum for me, sweetheart,” he commands. “C’mon, pretty girl, make a mess on my face, wanna feel how you clench, wanna make ya cry—”

It sends you over the edge.

With a scream of his name, your back arches. Your thighs try closing around him but still, he doesn’t let up. He keeps pace, tongue-fucking you, lapping up all the juice that spills out as his thumb continues caressing your clit until you do start crying and you do have to plead, “no—no more, Kei, can’t—“

“Can,” he corrects—but he stops. His hand stills, moving so that the warmth of his palm covers that sensitive bundle of nerves, and only then does he stop lapping at your hole. He presses a gentle kiss to your sex, then to your inner thigh. “But I’ll be nice tonight, sweetheart. Only ‘cause I love you, though.”

You stare at the ceiling as you catch your breath. The paint is peeling in the corner. The glow-in-the-dark stars you helped him put up when he first moved in are dim. The walls are covered in motorcycle posters. A calendar set to the wrong month hangs above a salvaged desk, covered with various veterinary textbooks, barely legible notebooks, a handful of empty beer cans, and a handful of DVD cases, one of which you know is Dyslexia; How to Read When Even Your Brain Doesn’t Want You To. A neon sign advertising Margaritaville is unlit beside his closet. A pile of clothes that didn’t make it to the hamper rests beneath it.

 The room is so—Keisuke , you feel at peace, even as your limbs turn to jelly.

Your heart is racing faster than if you’d just run a marathon. “Thought—thought you said you hadn’t—“ you try panting, but it’s too much effort, too soon. You end up collapsing back on the bed, head swimming with euphoria.

“Said I hadn’t had sex,” Keisuke corrects as he stands, your limp thighs falling to the either side of his waist, “not that I’ve never eaten pussy.” He scoffs, as if that should’ve been obvious. “I’m not an idiot, babe. I respect women enough to know where the clit is.”

A little laugh escapes you. The fan motor is the only other sound. It’s cool, your nipples perk beneath your bra, but you’re still hot. Still hyper aware that Keisuke is just a few inches away, watching your bare cunt flutter and beg him for more.

Keisuke does love you. You know he does, because he gives you time to catch your breathe before he starts up again, only pressing soft kisses to the inside of your legs and quiet offerings of, “so fuckin’ pretty” and “can’t believe you’re here” and, your favorite, the only one you respond to: “so in love with you.” 

“I love you too, Kei.”

He runs his hands along your sides, slowly taking more and more of your dress up with it until the entire thing is resting by your neck. He makes quick work of your bra, not even needing you to sit up as he unhooks it and lifts the cups away.

He says nothing; just stares at your naked body with the same adoration and awe he held when taking off your shoes.

“You’re—so beautiful,” he whispers. “Y’know that? So—so fuckin’ beautiful.”

He bends down and takes a pert nipple in his mouth. You whine, hate yourself for doing so, then whine again as his free hand starts tweaking your other nipple. He runs his tongue over every inch of your chest, making sure you’re covered with his spit and hands, traversing as much of you as he can.

When he gets to your face, he smiles. “You’re mine, yeah? All mine?”

Your fingers run over his jaw, over the bruise that’s barely discernible in the moonlight. No one’s touched you like him; no one’s even kissed you like him, either, and you’re not sure if it’s the “Keisuke” of it all making you feel like this, or if this is how it’s supposed to have felt all along. 

The answer comes easily.

“Yeah,” you agree with a smile of your own, “yeah, m’all yours, Keisuke. Pretty sure I always have been.”

“Always, hunh?” He holds you gently now; a stark contrast to the hungry way he’d just devoured you. “That mean you’ve always loved me, too?”

Your breathy yes is lost in a gasp when his hand slides between your legs. Gently, he prods a single thick finger into your virgin hole, shallowly dipping in and out. “Never had someone else in here, hunh? M’gonna be your first?”

“Y-yes,” you repeat, voice cracking. Your eyes flutter close as he keeps fingering you. You’d had fingers in there before, but none like this. Your own couldn’t compare, two of yours barely able to stretch the way one of his does… and he’s not even going all the way. Not even knuckle deep as he explores only the shallows, letting you adjust.

Your face scrunches when he adds a second.

“This okay?” he asks. You look at him, hand wrapping around his neck as you bring his forehead down to meet yours.

You nod, then remember what he said earlier, how you could feel his cock jumping when you were sweet and needy for him. “Yeah, Keisuke. Yes—yes, I want this. I want you.”

He cups your face and trails soft kisses from corner to corner, breaking apart only to lift your dress and bra over your head. They’re carelessly thrown to the floor, you have half a mind to scold him that it’ll wrinkle—but when he goes back to your cunt, two fingers halfway in, all you’re able to say is the harsh inhale of his name.

They’re shallow, never pushing in deep enough to hurt, slowly stretching your rim to its max. He goes a little deeper, then starts scissoring them, and it becomes nearly impossible to believe he hasn’t done this before.

“No—no way you’re a virgin,” you hiss when Keisuke’s lips travel to your breast. He alternates between sucking hickeys and kneading them while staring at the way your cunt sucks him in, never stopping his ministrations.

Keisuke lets out a short scoff and shifts. “You literally made me cum my pants like a teenager.”

“Then how—“

“I told ya, babe, I respect women,” is his only reply. The only one he’s willing to give, at least, because he starts paying more attention to your tits than what questions are spilling his way.

You feel like you’ve got to be ready when he adds a third, and you say as much—only for Keisuke to meet your gaze with a cocky grin. “Trust me, sweetheart. You’re gonna thank me for this.” 

It can’t be much longer until he deems you ready, but it feels like forever, even if he keeps you distracted from the slight burn between your legs by playing with your breasts, sucking on your throat, praising you.

“Taking m’fingers so well, pretty thing. You’re such a good girl f’me, can’t believe you made me wait this long…”

“You didn’t tell me either,” you scold. He curls his fingers mid-way through your sentence, rubbing against a sensitive spot you’ve never been able to find on your own. You keen his name, hand snapping down to catch his forearm. He pauses.

“Too much?”

Slowly, you shake your head, eyes watering. “Please, Kei, I—I want you to fuck me.”

Keisuke presses a chaste kiss to your forehead. “Never could say no to you, sweetheart.”

If you could think clearly, you’d start listing all the times he has denied you, starting with just a few seconds ago—but him withdrawing his fingers leaves you feeling too empty to do much but pout.

When he pulls away, you chase after him, only for him to shake his head with a fond grin. “How am I supposed to fuck you if you won’t let me take my pants off?”

With hot cheeks, your lips twist. “You were the one who wanted to fuck on your bike, and then in the hall—what, were you planning on stripping naked then, too?”

You’re rewarded with a very rare, very endearing blush. He sits back on his knees and rubs his neck, eyes dropping from yours—then his lip curls in a smirk. “With how wet you got, seems like you wanted me to. What—you like the idea of that? Getting fucked in public? Don’t worry, sweetheart, maybe we’ll try that one day…” He laughs at the way you squirm, but he’s not wrong; your cunt clenches at the thought.

“You’re such a dick.” Your hands reach for his belt, fumbling slightly as you try to undo it. Keisuke’s hands take over, getting rid of the black leather in seconds.

“Your dick,” he corrects, hands back on you, gently laying you back against his pillows, trailing over your now completely naked body, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. You roll your eyes but say nothing, heart in your throat, pussy pulsing in anticipation.

He straightens, taking in the display in front of him. Taking in you.

You sit up slightly, chewing your lower lip. He’s beautiful, but even more so in the moonlight. It illuminates his pale skin, almost making him glow in the darkness of the rest of his room. Obsidian hair falls in a straight sheet around his flushed cheeks, his lower lip caught between his teeth. Violet and red marks adorn his neck and chest. His abs flex when he watches the way your eyes trail down; down the inlet between them, down the stern jut of his prominent v-line, over the faint trail of dark hair that disappears into the band of his jeans.

His fingers—the ones just inside you—hover on the button. They’re covered in your slick, resting just above a bulge that looks absolutely delicious, one that you know he can’t wait to bury inside you—but still, he hesitates.

“I love you, Keisuke,” you say. He smiles. It’s the only further confirmation he needs before he’s pushing off the bed and pulling down his jeans and underwear in one go.

The others have lied about a lot—like Baji’s lack of virginity—but the size of Keisuke is not one of them.

Your jaw drops as you push to your knees, staring at Keisuke’s cock like it’s the first you’ve ever seen. It’s not, and technically speaking, it’s not even the first time you’ve seen his—but that time in the shower, when it was hanging heavily between his legs and you only caught a glimpse… apparently, that was him soft.

Keisuke hard is more impressive than any porn you’ve seen. So heavy that it can barely support its own weight, even with all the blood rushing through it, and so wide around even Keisuke, with his broad palms and lanky fingers, doesn’t dwarf it. 

A thick bead of pre slips out the tip, trailing along the bulging vein that disappears under Keisuke’s hand as he starts to stroke it.

“This… is where the others tapped out,” he says slowly, taking in the way you watch. “I mean—not that I’m thinking about them—but I just—“

“You’re big.”

Keisuke chokes on a laugh. “So I’ve heard. Pretty virgin like you wouldn’t know any better though, would you?”

You give him a withering glare. “I’ve sucked dick before, asshole. You’re big.”

Keisuke’s jaw clenches. “Yeah? Go on, then. Show me how you’ve sucked dick.”

Later, you’ll tease him for how jealous he got, and later, you’ll revel in the possessive way he determines to erase every other touch from your memory—but now, you obediently crawl towards him, one of your smaller hands overlapping his, and you take control.

You press a soft kiss to his flushed tip. It’s larger than your lips, his pre a salty gloss as you kiss again and again—Keisuke grips your hair. “Suck.”

It’s as much a plea as it is a command, one you can’t ignore. You take him,—just the tip—in your mouth, tongue swirling over his warm head as your hand replaces his on the rest of his dick. Your fingers barely touch, and no matter how you adjust, how you lay your palm or spread your fingers… there’s still at least an inch of him exposed.

He hisses, nearly drowning out the lewd, wet sound your pussy makes as it clenches around nothing.

“This—turning you on?” he says, as if his cock isn’t twitching obscenely against your tongue. “Fuckin—sucking on a big cock making you wet?”

You let go with a wet pop! and bat your eyelashes at him. You know exactly what you’re doing when you say, “No, Kei. I’m this wet ‘cause of you.”

With a groan, Keisuke pulls your head back to his dick and thrusts in, sliding as far as you’ll let him before you start to gag. “That’s—that’s it, sweetheart, get it nice and wet.”

He holds you there for a moment, waiting until you tap on his thigh before sliding out. Your eyes are teary, saliva dripping down the corner of your mouth. Deftly, you twist your wrist while catching your breath. His fingers go from knotting in your hair to petting the back of your head.

“You keep doing that, I’m gonna bust,” he warns, but his fond smile gives him away.

You merely smile. “Telling me you’ve never had your cock sucked, Kei?” 

His lip curls in a snarl, which disappears with a groan when you take him in your throat once more. Slowly, lips pursing around him, tongue flicking along the sensitive underside of his cockhead as you try going as far as you can. Your jaw is already starting to ache, but you’re determined to prove yourself.

“Not—like this,” he moans, pushing your head a little further down. Your lips split in a smile, and you raise your hand to start fondling his balls—a trick that’s always gotten you success before—but before you make contact, Keisuke is sliding out and grabbing your jaw. He’s breathing heavily, pupils blown out with lust. He stares at your lips then leans forward, not flinching at the taste of himself on you.

“Wanna fuck you now,” he mumbles. You wrap your arms around his neck and start to lean back, nodding.

“Want you to fuck me too,” you agree. One of Keisuke’s muscular thighs slides between your legs, easing them apart. He keeps kissing you, letting you fall softly against his pillows while he keeps stroking his member, slick with your spit.

He taps the tip of his cock against your clit. You hiss in surprise, eyes closing shut at the sudden sensation of pleasure that rushes through you. “Let me know if it hurts,” he says quietly. He grips his cock right beneath the head, guiding it through your slick folds, getting as much of your fluids on him as he can. 

He’s torn between needing to see the way you suck him in, and the need to squeeze his eyes shut. The sight of you alone, legs spread on either side, pussy gushing because of him, covering in marks because of him, mewling his name as you beg him to fuck you—it’s almost enough for him to cum on the spot. 

Faintly, honks echo from the street below. It’s amazing that in this instant, as your world is about to change forever and for the better, everyone else is going about their business like nothing’s happening. They’re catching a late-dinner with their partner; walking home from a late-night meeting that could’ve been an email; swinging by the grocer’s to pick up snacks and drinks to share with their friends… The whole world is continuing on, just beyond that window, but for you and Keisuke… it’s as if time’s stopped. 

The world is only real for the two of you.

He bends down to kiss you, making sure to pour every ounce of love and care he has into this one. You respond just as sweetly, reveling in the power of this moment, this one decision that will irrevocably tie you together forever, the way you were always meant to be.

He loves you, you love him, and there’s nothing else that matters.

“Ready?” he asks. You nod, then echo, “ready,” and he puts it in; just the tip, spearing past your tight hole. The two of you let out a synchronous gasp.

It’s even more than three of his fingers; warm, too, and thick, softer but also harder and full—you’re so, so, so full as he slowly edges in. It hurts—it feels good—it burns—you need more—

“Baby,” Keisuke pants. He’s let go of his cock, letting just the first inch or so rest comfortably within your walls. You feel him twitch, feel how tight his fingers dig into the sheets on either side of you so he doesn’t add more bruises to your ever-growing collection. “Baby, talk to me. Tell me—are you—are you okay?”

You whimper slightly when he sinks a little further. Eyes scrunching, your fingers digging into his thighs as you try to even your breath. “It—it’s so—“ you try saying, but it’s like you can feel him in your stomach, the pressure tightening all the way up your throat and cutting you off.

“So—good,” Keisuke gasps. He does the best he can, really, but you—you’re so—warm, and wet, and inviting—the place you’re joined might be the best thing he’s ever felt–ever seen. He slides a little further, presses a kiss to wherever he can reach as he waits until your chest stops heaving as horribly. He tries telling you he loves you, he really tries telling you how amazing you are, how perfect you are, how good you feel—but all that comes out are choked, half-sentences that fade into groans.

Tears prick at your lash line by the time he’s securely sheathed in you. Your fingers dig into his back, trying to pull him flush to your chest and bury his head in your neck so he can’t see. You know how he’ll feel; he’ll pull out and say he’s sorry, that he never meant to hurt you and it’s not worth it and he won’t try again–and that’s not what you want. You just need some time to adjust, that’s all. 

You never realized how empty you were.

Keisuke lifts up from the crook of your neck when the first tear slides against his cheek. “M’sorry,” he breathes, kissing one eye, then the other, licking the tear tracks and kissing you again. “M’sorry, I don’t wanna hurt—“ His arms shake on either side of you. The urge to start shifting his hips is sinful, but he doesn’t. He can’t, not until you're okay, not until you tell him it’s okay.

“It’s—okay,” you breathe. Your face says otherwise, but really… it’s okay. You play with the hair at the nape of his neck, offering him a little smile as you shift your hips ever-so-slightly against his. “I’m—I’m okay, baby, really. Just—just go slow.”

Keisuke kisses you. Slowly, deeply, spreading your lips with his as he gently pulls out and slides back in, heeding your directive to go slow. It hurts, it still hurts, is it supposed to hurt like this—but right when you’re about to give up, right when you’re about to tell him it's too much and maybe you should stop… it starts to feel good.

Not just full, but satisfying, bumping against the back of your messy cunt with every stroke. The ridge of his cockhead catches your insides in a way that makes your toes curl, and before long, your legs are wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer.

“Gods—fuck, Kei, fuck—“ you hiss, burying your head in his shoulder, biting his collarbone to keep yourself from screaming. “Just—there, like that, don’t—fuck—“

“Thought you said you were a virgin,” he hisses. Your broken pleas of, I am, I am, I am—go unrecognized as he slowly picks up speed. “Virgin pussy—heh—always feel this—fuckin’ good?”

You moan, loud and unreserved, nails digging into the muscle of his shoulders. Your stomach burns. Your pussy clenches, but for the first time, there’s finally something to hold on to, finally something to fill you up—you’ve never been so full, never felt so good. The coil tightens in your stomach, made all the more tense by the fact there’s something inside— “Gonna— gonna cum, Kei, don’t—don’t stop, please—“

“Yeah, sweetheart? You gonna—gonna cum for me? Go on, cum f’me. Cum on my cock, baby, show me what we’ve been—been waitin’ for—“

You cry when your orgasm finally washes over you.

You’ve never climaxed this powerfully before, to the point that you’ve felt like—this. The world is empty besides the two of you. Bells ring in your ear as you struggle to keep your eyes open, your whole body floating. You feel everything and nothing; like you’re weightless but have never been so heavy in your life.

You gasp for air, fingers digging into Keisuke’s shoulders as his hips stutter a few more times then still. His moans into your ear as his own orgasms consumes him, painting your insides white, shooting so much it drips out of your spent pussy and starts to puddle between you.

He stays there for a moment. Lets his lips trace lazy patterns beneath your ear, still half-hard inside you, one hand gripping the back of your neck and the other holding your breast. Even though you’re spent, your hands delicately trail up and down his spine. Your breathing is heavy and your smile bright and you think you could stay right here forever.

The plastic stars one his ceiling smile down at you, and you imagine the ones outside are doing the same. ‘About time!’ they seem to say. After all these years, about time. There’s a shrill whistle of bus brakes, screeching to a halt; a muffled shout from one pedestrian to another. The fan creaks slightly, the cool air washing over you and helping calm the raging fire on your skin. The clock on Keisuke’s lopsided nightstand, made even with a stack of textbooks he never got to put to use, beeps at midnight: the end of one day, the start of forever.

Kei takes a deep breath and slides off, hissing as his sensitive cock is exposed to the cool air of his bedroom. He lays on his back, taking a hand and placing it over his eyes as he tries to calm his racing heart.

Your legs are sticky. They’re already getting sore. Your hips ache, your spine stretches, your chest burns—but you relish it. Kei’s breathing evens beside you. 

Glancing, you check if he’s asleep—but with the way his forearm covers his eyes, you can’t tell. He looks even more like an angel now. Light, from a city just waking up, creeps past the curtains, illuminating slivers of his pale and flushed skin. He looks–relaxed. Content, even with the blush still coloring his high cheeks bones. His lips are parted, shallow gasps of air being sucked through them, but the longer you look, the more it looks like they’re curling in a smile.

His chest rises and falls steadily, and just when you start to think he might actually be asleep, the hand beneath your neck starts playing with your hair.

“Think it’s—always this good?” he asks breathlessly, pulling you in a little closer.

You pretend to think. He tilts his head, cracking an eye to look down at you curiously. You smile. “I don’t know. Think we better try again—y’know, just to be sure.”

Kei barks out a laugh and pulls you to his chest, looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. And right now, with the gentle light filtering through his open window, sweaty and smiling and with his cum dripping from between your legs to make a mess of his thigh, you are.

You play with the edges of his hair, sprawled lazily across his sweaty forehead. With a soft smile, he reaches for your fingers and pulls them to his lips. “Do you actually like it? My haircut, I mean. Pretty sure you liked the other stuff.”

You answer with a laugh, pressing a kiss to where the edges fall. “I love it.”

He grins and rolls over, pinning you to the mattress. The short locks make a curtain, hiding the two of you from anything but each other. “Good. Did it f’you.”

“For me?”

He hums and buries his face in your neck, delicately kissing the bruising skin. “Noticed your type. None of them had long hair, ’n I thought…”

With a pealing laugh, you grab his cheeks and bring his face to yours, smothering him with kisses. “Keisuke, you are such an idiot.”

He pretends to frown, but kisses you all the same. “Weren’t calling me that when I was making you scream earlier.”

“Kei,” you say, forcing him back so you can really meet his eyes, “short hair, long hair. No hair. The only kind of guy I’ve ever truly wanted has been you.”

Keisuke blinks. Short, thick lashes bat against those endlessly high cheekbones of his, and then he smiles. He lowers his lips to yours once more and gifts you a kiss; deep, slow. A kiss that’s been years in the making, that says all that your words have and then some.

“I love you,” he says, and you barely have time to say the same before he’s kissing you, hardening cock easily gliding back through your sticky folds, and you go for round two.

So... happy adventuring :) thank you for reading! if you made it this far… pls reblog, drop a comment, or leave an ask if you enjoyed!! I worked really, really hard on this, and it would mean the absolute world to me that, if y’all enjoyed it, you told me why. if you hated it, tell me why. if i made you cry or scream or fall in love or fierce fiercely full of disappointed rage, tell me why!! i won’t bite (unless you ask)!

hopefully the next adventure gets even better. thanks for reading!

#baji #keisuke baji x reader #baji x reader #baji smut #keisuke baji smut #baji x reader smut #tokyo revengers smut #tokyo revengers x reader #keisuke baji x reader smut #tokyo rev smut

[roxygen22]

First Day of School

"My Little Cocoa Bean" Series

A/N: Reader inserts are minimal in this one. Reader stayed home with Baby Charlotte (aka Charlie) so Willy and Ben/Bean could have some 1:1 time before his first day of school.

☆☆☆☆☆

"Are you excited about your first day of school, Bean?" Willy asked as he walked through the park with his son. He took the day off to spend some quality time with the boy before he started kindergarten the next day.

Ben was slow to respond and fell behind Willy's pace. He stopped and looked back at the small boy. "Bean?"

Ben looked up at Willy, worry clearly etched in his features. He knelt down and rubbed Ben's arm in reassurance. Willy had anticipated some reticence since Ben had never spent a full day away from you or him.

"Papa," he said in a small voice. "Were you nervous on your first day of school?" The boy's lip trembled.

Willy carded a hand through Ben's curly hair, then rested it on his cheek. "Well, Bean, I didn't get to go to school. But, I have had other firsts. And yes, I was nervous every time."

"Like when?" Ben implored as if he could not imagine his papa being scared of anything.

Willy stood and paused to think. "Like my first day as a sailor. I lived on a boat as a child, sure, but that was on a calm river, not the open ocean. I remember standing on the dock staring up at the huge ship, knowing my life was about to change. I hadn't even climbed on board and I was already seasick just thinking about it." They started slowly ambling down the path again. "But, I did it anyway. After some time, I became a tip-top sailor, like I had been doing it all of my life, and got to see places that most people only dream of."

By that point, the pair had wandered to the base of their favorite hill in the park. Willy could see that Ben was still lost in thought. He needed to lighten the mood somehow.

"Hey, Bean?" he asked to get the boy's attention. Ben looked up solemnly. "Race ya!" Willy shouted gleefully and took off running up the hill. Temporarily stunned, Ben stared at him with wide eyes before chasing after him in a fit of giggles.

Winded, they lay in the grass at the summit to catch their breath and watch the clouds lazily drift by. The two took turns pointing out shapes of animals. After a bit, Willy continued his earlier lecture.

"It's perfectly normal to feel those nervous butterflies in your tummy on the eve of change."

"But I don't want anything to change," Ben lamented. "I won't get to play with Mamma and Charlie. I won't get to help you make new chocolate or candies."

"I know it will be different, but you can still come to the factory or shop after school or on the weekends. Your mother and Charlie will still be eager to play with you when you get home. I bet you'll even make new friends to play with at school. You'll find a new normal. Besides, life would be boring if nothing ever changed."

They turned their heads to look at each other. Willy booped him on the nose with his index finger and smiled. "You probably wouldn't be here if I hadn't gotten on that boat."

"Huh?"

"Well, seafaring allowed me to gather lots of exotic ingredients to make magical concoctions that set my chocolate apart from the rest. Without my shop, I wouldn't have met your mother, and we wouldn't have you, my little cocoa bean. And I'll let you in on a little secret," Willy lowered his voice to a whisper at the end. "I was nervous when I found out about you."

"You were?" Ben pushed himself up on his elbows to look down at Willy's face.

"Mmhmm. You made me a papa, Bean. I had never been a father, nor did I have one growing up. I'm learning how to be one every day. It's been my grandest adventure yet."

Ben smiled, then fell onto his back once more to watch the clouds float by.

"Papa?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm glad you did it anyway. Got on the boat, I mean, even though you were scared."

"Me, too, Bean. Me, too." Willy sighed contentedly.

A few beats passed.

"Papa?"

"Can we go get ice cream?"

Willy chuckled. "Ice cream sounds like the best idea ever."

☆☆☆☆☆

-next day-

You, Charlotte, and Willy walked Ben to school. Ben was bouncy and talkative, asking questions about your memories of your own first day of classes. The boy grew quieter, though, as the building came into view. He shrank behind Willy's leg as more parents and children gathered at the fence, waiting for the school to open.

Willy offered him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, then dropped to one knee to make eye contact. "Don't be shy. It's alright if you feel a little trepidation."

"But do it anyway," Ben parroted from the conversation the day before.

Willy smiled and wrapped the boy in a hug, "That's right, Bean. Do it anyway."

Ben then gave you and Charlotte hugs and kisses, gathered his bag, and started toward the door. He stopped at the bottom step to turn back and wave at you all. Willy blew a kiss and waved as you grabbed Charlotte's chubby little hand to help her wave back. Tears came to your eyes when you saw Ben turn back to the door, pull his shoulders back and head up with confidence, and walk inside.

Still so small, yet so big, so fast, you thought to yourself. You looked to Willy as he wiped fat tears from his cheeks with his silk scarf. He barely maintained his composure until Ben was out of sight.

"I'm going to miss having him around during the day," Willy said with a sniffle.

"As will I, love. As will I," you replied softly.

Charlotte broke the melancholy with a coo. Willy chuckled and reached out to pluck her from her perch on your hip. "You, missy, aren't allowed to grow up that fast, understood?"

::raspberry::

"I'm glad we're in agreement."

☆☆☆☆☆

Masterlist

#wonka #willy wonka #willy wonka and the chocolate factory #wonka 2023 #timothée chalamet #wonka movie #timmy!wonka #willy wonka x reader #timothee chalamet x reader #timothée chalamet x reader #timothee chalamet fanfiction #timothee chalamet #timothee chalamet x you #timothee fanfic #timothee!wonka #timothee x reader #wonka x reader #dad willy wonka #willy wonka x you #wonka x you #papa willy wonka #papa!wonka #papa wonka #dad wonka #established relationship #female reader #mom reader #drabble #tooth rotting fluff #fluff

[scoops-stevie-archive]

i keep thinking about that one bachelor au post so here's my take on it (i've never watched the bachelor or bachelorette so bear with me)

the bachelor au where steve's the bachelor and eddie is a contestant, but not because he actually wants to be, he's just in it for the paycheck. robin is also a contestant but only because her parents sent in her application without her knowing and she isn't out to them yet.

they both think that steve is overrated and definitely over hyped. typical rich kid with enough money to buy people's love, yada yada.

until they both start going on dates with them and then realize that it isn't exactly true. yes, he's rich, but he's also kind and funny and actually genuine once you get past the mask he puts on for everybody. eventually, eddie and robin find themselves looking forward to their dates.

only robin doesn't want to date him. he's slowly moving his way up the ranks to becoming her best friend, sure, but this is still tv. she's still expected to kiss him and confess her feelings for him. and when the time comes for her to do that, she can't.

they're in venice. steve is leaning in and robin is very aware of the cameras filming them. the back of her neck goes cold and her stomach churns and suddenly she's running in the opposite direction. her italian is passable so she ends up getting a taxi back to the hotel production put them in.

she locks herself in her en suite and presses her forehead against the cold porcelain. she doesn't know how long she sits there until her phone buzzes and she checks the notification. the nausea rises up her throat again. she forgot she gave steve her number.

there's a knock on her room door and another text.

r u ok? can i come in?

robin debates it but figures she owes him and explanation. she lets him in and they sit on the bathroom floor. robin tells him why she's on the show in the first place, about how she didn't know her parents signed her up until she got the phone call from the casting director. tells him that even if she gets kicked off, she can still use the money for her student loans.

she stares at the water in the toilet bowl when she comes out to him.

steve is quiet, processing, before he laughs. he's not laughing at her, he promises, but "robin. you're on a show with more than a handful of other queers, you know that, right? i'm bisexual."

and yeah, robin knew that, but it's different when you're not into the guy you're supposed to be romancing at all.

steve reassures her that it's okay, and that he still hopes they can be friends and keep in touch after the show ends.

robin would like that.

she apologizes to the production crew the next day and they're understanding and steve and robin get a re-do of their date. it's much more genuine this time, filled with laughs and digs as they eat gelato along the river and people watch and gossip.

it's the best robin's ever been on.

eddie, on the other hand. he's absolutely head over heels for steve, which is surprising even for him. he's trailer park trash, he's got absolutely nothing on steve harrington. not the name, not the money.

hell, the very first day, he insulted the guy's food choices right to his face without knowing it.

eddie wants the earth to give way underneath him and swallow him whole.

he plays it up on their first date, all fake niceties and empty smiles, until steve tells him point blank, "the guy that said the buffet was shit that first night? i want to get to know him."

eddie's flabbergasted.

steve opens up about all the fake people in his life, the ones who just take advantage of them and use him for their own gains. the ones who don't even bother to get to know the real him. the one that likes to play guitar and hang out with the gaggle of teenagers that follow him around all the time for some unknown reason.

he tells eddie about what he wants to do with his life, not what someone else has planned for him and eddie falls deeper and deeper.

this time, when steve leans in for a kiss, eddie doesn't shy away. their lips press together and it's the best goddamn kiss either one of them have ever had.

the show has a deadline, of course, and steve can't just spend all his time with eddie and robin. there are other contestants. robin knows her rose is strictly platonic and steve has already called her multiple times freaking out about his growing crush on eddie. she knows eddie has this in the bag.

the final night comes and the contestants have dwindled. there's only a small group of them left: eddie, robin, and another guy and girl they didn't bother learning the names of.

when steve chooses eddie after a moment of dramatic silence that kind of puts his own dm dramatics to shame, eddie doesn't hesitate to jump in steve's arms, wrap his legs around his waist, and plant a sloppy one on him right in front of the cameras.

#steddie #steddie ficlet #platonic stobin #the three muskequeers #something something steve going on a tv show to find romance and ending up finding both his romantic and platonic soulmates #cj talks #prompts