Synopsis: in which Toji is visited by the ghost of his dead wife, the one he had let go in the first place
Warnings: angst angst angst, can be read as a standalone but there's a part 1, major character death, f!reader, lots of swearing, themes of grief, alcoholism, reference to suicide, some description of bodily injury but nothing graphic, not proofread
Word Count: 4.6k
What Am I Now?
“You look homeless, Toj. Can you shave, please?”
“Fuck off.”
You sigh. “Hey, now. That’s rude.”
If someone had told Toji that his wife would hang around after her death, he’d have shot them right between their eyes. Dying was not on the cards for you, it was what he kept telling himself. Somehow, the thought of you ever being cold and unresponsive never crossed his mind. You and death just didn’t go hand in hand. It was one of those things that didn’t even sound right. Tragedy wouldn’t find him again, right?
Lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice, right?
He wouldn’t lose his wife again. Right?
Ah, but of course, all of that was just wishful thinking, not logic. After all, Toji Fushiguro never had the best luck, and he certainly was never favoured by the universe, maybe by the Heavens, but everyone knows who’s really calling the shots round here.
The argument, the drinks, the flashing lights, the turned-over car — he tried to forget it all. To move on like he had before. One would think a man like Toji, permanently shrouded in death and grief, would’ve been used to it by then, but it hit the same, maybe even worse, because that time…that time was his fault. So he buried himself in even more alcohol, attempted to follow you wherever you skipped off to, shut his one and only friend out when he stopped him, and continued living as he did before you, albeit reluctantly and complaining the whole way.
It wasn’t easy, but then again, nothing about his life had ever been.
Eventually, he got into a rhythm, a routine: wake up, clock in, kill a bastard or two, bag the cash, drink, eat, drink and drink again, then pass out somewhere in his apartment or on the streets. Simple.
Until it wasn’t.
“Toji, can you eat something other than ramen?” you ask, pestering him from across the dining table. “Eat something green once in a while. Seriously, you’re going to be made of instant noodles at this point.”
Yeah, you came back.
As an annoying, nagging ghost on your first death anniversary. You just popped up, making a face of disgust at the state he’d left his apartment in. He damn near had a heart attack. At first he thought he was hallucinating — that happens after a drink too many — though when your voice reached his ears, he knew it was something else entirely. Naturally, he lunged straight for you, arms reaching out to cradle your body, to lay kisses upon your lips and inhale your scent.
None of that happened.
Because you aren’t back, not really.
Since then, he’s been pretending you don’t exist. You’re just a figment of his imagination, or some cruel joke by the universe. Well, he won’t play into it. Not when that same universe took you from him in the first place.
“Oh, okay, sure, keep acting like I’m not here, asshole. While you’re at it, go take a shower, you reek of beer.”
Toji slurps on his noodles extra loud.
His days continue like that — you yap and yap, and he ignores every single word. It’s easy considering all you ever say are complaints: he drinks too much, sleeps too often, doesn’t go out enough, doesn’t eat healthily or regularly, and whatever else. Constant and incessant, you drive him mad with your nagging and the exasperating fact that you follow him everywhere — to the bedroom, kitchen, living room, bathroom, and to the damn liquor store.
There’s nowhere on this planet he could go to get away from you, and he’s tried.
“When was the last time you saw Shiu?” you wonder. “You never go anywhere or get any texts.”
No way in hell is he answering that question. He can’t get into it. How can he explain that the bastard meddled in his plans? That somehow he wasn’t quick enough to do something about your accident but was right on time when he grabbed a gun and aimed it at his own head?
After that, all he could recall from that night were the landing of fists, the trickling of blood, and something about how you’d never want that, ‘not like this,’ or some equally bullshit thing.
Groaning, you wave a hand in front of his face. “Hello? Come on, hon. Go see him. Don’t you miss your best buddy?”
Who the hell told you that was his best buddy?
Sure, he didn’t have others, but he could, if he wanted to. That hardly makes that bastard deserving of the title of ‘the best.’ Regardless, he’s not going anywhere near him. Who even knows where the son of a bitch is?
But he should have known you wouldn’t give up.
Once again, you follow him everywhere, this time with a mission — standing by as he pisses, hovering when he sleeps, yammering when he’s on the job, ranting whilst he smokes or chugs a beer, and pleading even when he’s trying to take a shit.
“Please, Toji? This isn’t healthy,” you moan. “You’re cooped up here. And you don’t talk to anyone. This is just like how I met you. Go out there. Say hi to Shiu. Get something to eat. Please? Please, baby?”
His eye twitches.
Hesitantly, he opens his mouth. The voice that comes out is unfamiliar, raspy and gravelly. He winces. “I-if, ahem, if I go, will you get the fuck out of the bathroom?”
You squeal in glee. “Yes! Yes, I promise. Thankyouthankyouthankyou!”
He hides the microsecond quirk of his scarred lips with a hand rubbing down his face and kicks the door shut as soon as you leave.
.
.
.
Being outside is weird.
Things have stayed the same in a lot of ways, but changed in so many others. The tables at the restaurant down the road are new, but the chairs are the same. They’ve swapped a few pictures on the walls, got a new bartender, but the manager’s still here. The speakers have moved, but the playlist’s still the same — shitty and cheesy.
Wearing the least stained clothes he could find, Toji shifts uncomfortably, the scratchy material of his sweater bothering him. He even brushed his hair, which had grown longer than he’d realised. His scraggly beard, though, remains untouched.
Everything irritates him — the noise, the increase in vegan items on the menu, the PDA of couples, the bright lights, and worst of all, the sight of that same suit worn by the man he’d once cried in the arms of like some fucking baby.
“How you been doing, Fushiguro?”
He grunts. “Fine. You?”
Shiu nods, drawing idle shapes into the condensation on his glass. “Good. Was surprised you called. Thought you disappeared or died…” He clears his throat. “Or something.”
The man looks mostly the same — slicked-back hair, tailored suit, polished oxfords, sly smile. He hadn’t changed his number. That surprised Toji, although not as much as the fact that he’d answered on the first ring.
Despite Toji’s attempt to hide the call from you, you still noticed the pink on his ears and the awkward clearing of his throat when he asked if Shiu wanted to hang out. Good thing the bastard didn’t push or crack a joke about it; Toji would’ve hung up the second some wise-ass comment came out of his mouth.
“God, you look like shit.”
With a huff, he responds, “Still better looking than you, that’s for sure.”
Shiu chuckles, eyes trailing the passing girls. “Lemme know when you’re ready to stop cosplaying Gandalf and I’ll hook you up with my barber. Free of charge.”
“Take him up on it, Toji! Pleaseeee.”
At the restaurant, you sit beside Shiu, opposite Toji, making silly faces to grab his attention, and he has to fight the urge to roll his eyes or drown himself in more alcohol. Instead, he steers the conversation away from anything that might lead back to you.
Picking at his fries, feeling no real hunger, Toji asks, “How’s the market looking these days?”
That sparks something in Shiu. “You looking to do some work for me? I’ll find you the highest-paying bounties. You know I’m the best handler in town.”
Soon the heavy tension dissolves, the drinks flow, and the banter follows. They talk about sports and cars and new guys on the job — empty things, small talk they can hide behind. Meanwhile, you’re quiet, just watching.
It doesn’t hit him until later, how easy it feels to be okay, to let himself get carried away. Catching up is good. Talking is good. Food that isn’t microwaved is good. Really good. He scarfs his plate down, and another order after that, shrugging off Shiu’s impressed whistle.
Like this, it’s almost too easy to pretend nothing went wrong a year ago, that there isn’t still a permanent fracture in his life, and in Shiu’s. Every so often, when the suited man glances at a certain corner or when a familiar song plays, he grimaces, remembering too. Toji takes a swig of beer, and so does Shiu — two men, same scene, different stories.
“Hey,” you speak up once Shiu excuses himself to the toilet. Toji doesn’t look up, but he’s listening. That’s all he can do anyway. “Why’s he ignoring me? Did I do something?”
Toji stills.
Briefly, he thinks he heard you wrong or that you misspoke. You don’t correct yourself.
When he finally dares to look, his eyes fixes on you, unmoving. You’re smiling, confused but waiting, head tilted slightly. A large lump lodges itself in his throat. You look just as beautiful as the day he lost you, and just as broken and beat up.
You didn’t come back from wherever you were. You never left. You’re frozen in time.
“You…” His pint trembles under his grip. “You don’t know, do you?”
Laughing nervously, you ask, “Know what?”
“What happened to you.”
The words strike something inside. Mouth opening and closing, you struggle for something to say. The plates and glass shake, rattling against the wood only for a second. You go quiet, gaze drifting to the distance, a frown softening your face. His hand habitually twitch forward.
Before he can press, Shiu returns, smirking and offering him a smoke. “Let’s get outta here.”
Toji leaves you there — a lone figure, unseen and overlooked. The picture looks all kinds of wrong, but he can’t do a damn thing about it.
You don’t follow him home that night.
.
.
.
“Wake up, already. God, are you just gonna sleep the day away?”
Toji grumbles, forcing his bleary eyes open. “Quit yammering.”
You roll your eyes. “I will when you get up and clean up around here. It’s a pigsty.”
Not even he can deny that. The place had gone to shit — empty bottles and takeaway wrappers everywhere. Dirty socks lying around, not paying rent. Trash piled high. Even fruit flies for company. Curtains drawn shut, pictures faced down, TV always buzzing with something grim on the news. You point it all out: the dust on every surface, the mould growing in mugs, the stale stench punching the senses.
Neither of you glance at the corner where your clothes still hang neatly beside his, untouched.
“Leave me alone,” he grouches.
“Oh, come on! I thought you’d be in better spirits after seeing Shiu. Why don’t you ask him about that barber? Maybe see him again in a few days? Doesn’t that sound nice?”
Toji throws an arm over his eyes. “I’m not a child. I don’t need you setting me up on playdates.”
“You always say that,” you hum. “Every time I tell you to hang out with him. God, you used to drag your feet, but you’d have a great time. And don’t deny it.”
It’s true. He used to prefer your company over anyone else’s. When did that change? When did he start being so eager to leave you, to hang out at some dingy bar instead of curling up with a blanket and you beside him?
Why hadn’t he realised that every time the door closed behind him, he was pushing you further and further away, until you ended up somewhere he couldn’t follow?
A headache starts to build at his temples.
With a laugh, you say, “If you don’t get up soon, I’ll start singing…” That gets him up fast. A heavy sigh leaves his lips. He pushes his hair back, mutters something under his breath, and stretches, shirt riding up his torso. You whistle. “Hot damn.”
He snorts. “It’s too early to be flirting with me, wo—”
He cuts himself off. Fuck. He’d gotten carried away.
You waking him up, teasing him, riling him up — it’s all a taste of the normalcy he used to have, that domestic bliss he woke up thankful for every day except on the one that mattered. For a second, it’s easy to get lost in it. Dangerous, even. It threatens to undo everything he’s tried to bury.
Tense, jaw flexing, he throws out, “What will it take for you to go, huh? When will it be enough?”
“Go? Where would I go? Toji, what’s going on with you? You know I’d never leave you.”
His scoff cuts through the air, sharp and hollow. “Is this some Hallmark bullshit? Something about needing to see me do better? Clean myself up or some shit?” He doesn’t wait for your response before he’s moving, snatching clothes off the bed, throwing them into the basket, bottles clanging as he gathers them. “Is this what you want?”
“Toji, I— what are you doing? Be careful.”
Eyes closed, he rips open the curtains, cursing at the sudden heat and sunbeams that touch his skin. In the light, his destruction becomes glaringly mocking.
How far he’d fallen.
When did your home become his rotting hole?
Drawers slam open, trash shoved into bins. It’s chaos. A comical sight — a hulking man sweeping the floor aggressively in just his boxers and measuring detergent with expert precision. Just like before, your nagging goes ignored.
For a man, there’s no greater motivation than spite. He’s punishing himself, punishing you by cleaning up. It’s so stupid, so ridiculous, so utterly him that you can do nothing but watch, stepping out of the way when he nears you to pick something up.
Stomping around, the whole day is spent cleaning up — the empty takeaway boxes and plastic are swept away, dust wiped clean, plates washed and clothes fresh and folded.
A whole year of shit left untouched had piled up. He hadn’t realised how bad it’d gotten. Every time he picked something up, there’d be another thing to throw and then another and another. It never seemed to end.
And his back and knees were paying for his sloven sins.
Groaning and moaning, he got into a rhythm of being a homemaker, all while he continued to pretend you weren’t there.
When he’s done, well past midnight and way too sore, he falls onto the sofa with a heavy grunt, no bottles clinking around with his shuffles.
In truth, he expected to feel a wave of satisfaction, a sense of clarity, a lightness in his chest. In lieu of any of that bullshit, he feels nothing but emptiness. It takes form in a cavernous hole right where his heart used to beat. One second of self-reflection is all it takes for his regret, that bitter old companion of his, to materialise.
Why the fuck did he do that?
Why did he fall for your shit?
Why, fucking why, did he wash the clothes that kept your scent, cups that had your lipstick stain, tissues you used, and everything that was proof you lived here with him?
“Doesn’t that feel better?” Your sickly sweet voice breaches the hushed air.
How could he forget you aren’t the woman he held close every night? The woman he has on his phone screen? The one that patched his wounds up, that told him off for getting hurt, that’d kiss them to heal faster?
You’re not his girl. You’re a fragment that won’t let go. A fragment that’s missing your whole, wherever you are.
“Just fuck off,” he huffs, chest puffing.
Suddenly his long-forgotten splitting headache returns, a sharp ringing paired with it. He’d gotten carried away; the sting of the bleach he’d been so generous with left an irritating tang on his tongue. All the washing had rendered his fingers pruny and dry, and the cleanliness of his apartment was creating an itch on his skin. “Fuck.”
And where the hell is his ring?
“Jeez, can you stop being so rude to your wife?”
Jaw clenching, he snaps, “My wife’s dead.”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, he wishes he could take them back. Silence, all too familiar to you both now, falls across the room. It’s thick, suffocating, and unforgiving.
Moments pass, the tick, tick, tick of the clock whirring in the air. Even before he married you, he vowed never to use his past like a weapon — and yet he just did. Dug it deep and twisted, as if it wasn’t enough that you’re already long gone, because of him. Still, he can’t rein back the deep anger festering in his chest, the one that pleads to be unleashed, to be confronted.
Misting in front of him, you stand with an expression of complete and utter devastation. He looks away. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“I,” he begins, then stops. “Fuck. Forget it. I’ve done what you wanted, you can go.”
“Where the fuck am I going?”
On his feet, he quickly scans the nice, polished living room. Where the hell is his damn ring?
There’s nothing on the coffee table except a remote and a lavender incense he’d dusted off from the pantry. Not a hint of anything metallic on the TV stand or the window sill. Maybe it dropped between the cracks of the sofa. He checks each crevice once, twice, and a third time for good luck. Not there either.
Impatiently, you snap, “I asked a question!”
In the back of his mind, deep in that darkness, he’s acutely aware that the panic coursing through his body and rendering his vision blurry is a symptom of something else entirely. Perhaps guilt or shame, both of which he’s long been acquainted with — but not quite like this, not when he’s being forced to face the ghost of his past, and not figuratively.
“For fuck’s sakes, why won’t you look at me?”
Toji breathes through his nose. Rolling his shoulders back, he fights the urge to wave you away, to smother himself in alcohol and forget he’d ever tried to be something he wasn’t, something he hadn’t been in a long time. But your voice…it’s grating…demanding…
His headache throbs.
“I’m trying to help, Toji.”
The words hit wrong in his ears.
“Help? You want to fucking help?” He scoffs, shaky hand combing through his hair, shoving the overgrown locks away from his face. The cause of his downfall, the root of all his misery, serving itself up to right the wrongs it caused. How laughable. Utterly laughable. “Then fuck off back into the afterlife or wherever the fuck you went. You have no damn business lingering here, trying to fix things, fix me like I’m some toy.”
Sighing, you reach for him out of instinct. “Stop talking nonsense.”
He jerks away. “Don’t. Don’t fucking touch me.”
“Why?” You ask, hand reaching again, insistent despite the steps he’s taking further and further from you. “Why won’t you look at me? Why won’t you let me touch you? Why do you avoid me?”
“Because you’re not here!” Toji bellows.
Vein popping, he shoves a hand forward. It shoots right through you, yet you stumble back as though it made contact nonetheless. That only urges him on, eyes darkening, a madness consuming the green of his irises.
“You’re dead. I can’t fucking touch you because you’re not real. What’s fucking hard to get, huh? Have you even looked in the mirror? Can you fucking do that? Well, let me spell it out for you — there are cuts all over your face, blood dripping down your clothes, shit, ma,” he exhales, “I barely recognised you.”
He’s not screaming now, but it’s all the same, like he’s yelling daggers at you. Each syllable cuts deep, burrowing inside and festering. “No one but me can even see you. Didn’t you figure that out at the restaurant? You fucking died in a car crash, chasing after me.” He laughs. “I’m a worthless piece of shit bastard, and you never had the smarts to work that out. And ‘cause of that, you’re dead. Have been a long time now, doll. Is that not clear? Are you gonna keep pretending? Keep lying to yourself? Acting like you’re not a fucking ghost?”
Step by step, he gets closer, jabbing you with his words until you’re cowering beneath his wrathful gaze. “Toji, y-you’re scaring me.”
Your own words are deflected by the sheer torment restraining his muscles. This entire farce is driving him insane. It’s like he’s talking to a brick wall, desperate to be heard, to be left alone. He’s tired of being a joke to the universe. It’s tortured him enough. It’s wrung him through too much. It took and took until there’s nothing left to take. No more hope to wake, no piece of his heart left to shatter. You took it all with you.
“Well, don’t,” he whispers, breath blowing right through you. Not a single hair is rustled. “You ain’t that good of an actress.”
Disbelieving, you shake your head. “Toji, this again? I t-told you, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Just look at me, baby. You’ll see I’m your wife. Always. See?”
“You don’t look nothing like my girl,” he scoffs. “You’re just her walking corpse.”
You gasp, stumbling back.
The mirror on the wall catches your attention, and when you look — really look — you see it. The glass shards embedded in your skin, the gaping wounds refusing to close, the bloodshot eyes, and the ripped-up clothes. You see it.
The truth.
You really are dead and have been for a long time now.
Stuttering and stammering, you grasp for a lie to hold onto, reaching for him with wide, panicked eyes. You’re hyperventilating, shivering and shuddering, whimpering.
Things in the apartment begin to shake — picture frames, the TV, tables, cups, and plates. A quake runs through the rooms, vibrating through the floors and threatening to swipe his legs from under him.
A scream tears through your body. It’s haunting, deafening, and silencing. He flinches. The tremors intensify, growing more violent and volatile with every harrowing note that pierces the air. He falls back onto a wall.
In the middle of the chaos, you stand, blood-soaked and crying.
Toji steps forward, hand outstretched out of instinct. “Baby, shit. I’m sorry. I—”
“I’m dead,” you mutter, face crumpling. When your knees meet the wooden floor, the apartment falls into a stifling void, everything returning to its place and remaining so still he thinks, for a second, he dreamt it all. “I’m dead. Oh, god. I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m dead.”
His chest caves in, hands quivering. “No, forget what I said. Come here. I’m sorry. Alright? I’m sorry.”
“This isn’t right, Toji. This isn’t right.”
The truth is inescapable, undeniable, all-consuming: you were never meant to be here. Your presence on this plane is unnatural. It’s an abomination. Your selfish desire to cling onto something — someone — who had been desperate to move on warrants punishment, and you can’t outrun it. Not your fate, not the way that night was always supposed to end, and certainly not the last trickling of sand, that last stubborn granule.
Just one look at him and it’s all so clear — in your subconscious attempt to ease his suffering, you’ve only made it so much worse.
Tears trail down your cheeks, stained pink, and when your eyes meet his for the first time in forever, your features soften. For the briefest moment, he’s struck by how peaceful you look now — clean, whole, as precious as he’d always leave you in the mornings before work. Attempting a shaky smile, you murmur, voice tender, “You really should shave, Toj. I like you clean-shaven.”
He roars, body lurching forward to grab onto you, to sink his claws in the way he should have all those months ago.
But it’s too late.
You’re gone.
Leaving Toji collapsing to his knees, digging into the wood for the last remnants of you he can hold onto. Wetness coats his cheeks. It blurs his vision.
“I never learn,” he laughs, pulling at his hair. “I never fucking learn.”
The apartment is as you left it a year ago — clean, homely, and just as suffocatingly empty. Current running through the rooms, the air howls as if mocking, or maybe it’s gasping with him.
Toji doesn’t know how much time passes, only that it surely marches on, his only proof the drying of his tears and the fading of the scent of bleach.
There, as he lies on the floor, cheek pressed to the cold surface, he spots his ring, hidden under the sofa. It was there all along. Of course it was. When he slides it onto his finger, his eyes fall shut and stay like that. His body feels like lead, sinking lower and lower, and he fights not to stay afloat. He wouldn’t even know what to do at the surface.
Maybe he fell asleep there. Maybe he dragged himself to bed. Whatever the case, he wakes the next day with the curtains wide open, sunlight tickling his skin, and a picture of you facing up, angled perfectly so it’s the first thing he sees.
For the first time since, Toji feels an urge to visit your grave.
He should shower, put on that expensive shirt you bought him two Christmases ago, and stop by the flower shop on the way.
.
.
.
“Happy birthday, ma,” he says.
Your stone had some dried-up leaves on it, but a single swipe clears them away. Toji replaces the rotten bouquet with a fresh one — bright, colourful, made up of your favourite flowers. Along with it, he places a clumsily wrapped box on the grass. Only you and he knows what’s inside.
Sat beside your stone, your name engraved in a font he didn’t choose but doesn’t hate, he watches the trees rustle and people pass. The scene is soothing. “Great view, huh? Lucky you.”
Someday he’ll join you. If possible, he’ll ask to be placed beside you or better yet, with you. If not, he’ll pull some strings, dig up his own grave if he has to. You’d probably like that; you always did ask him to be more romantic.
“Not been doing great without you, doll.” Scarred lips quirking up, he speaks, “Sorry I took so long. You know me, always gotta be fashionably late.” He chuckles. “Ah, but I’m here now. Hope you don’t mind my company. Just be glad I actually showered for you. Even shaved so you can quit nagging. Was thinking of going to the barber’s. Got any recommendations for a haircut, gorgeous? No, I remember — no buzz cuts, right? Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about that. I know you like me pretty.”
It’s easy talking to you, always has been. You were patient, attentive, generous with your time and attention. Never judging, never interrupting, always just happy to hear his voice. He was like that too, though only with you. So he sits there, leaning against your stone, waiting until sunset to begin the story he’s eager to share.
I. Would. LOVE. NSFW head cannons for Elliot (SDV) if you have the time!! 💕💕💕 I just romanced him for the first time and adore him.
MDNI 18+
thank you sm for the request!! I hope you like it!! loooove Elliott but only romanced him for the first time recently too so hopefully I got a good enough grasp on him!!! (´ ω `♡)
word count: 0.7k
all fandom masterlist | sdv masterlist
Definitely a super ‘old-fashioned’ romantic type
He likes to light candles and scatter rose petals whenever he wants to make love to you
He never calls it sex or fucking, it’s ‘making love’ or ‘carnal pleasure’ or a myriad of other flowery euphemisms he comes up with
I imagine he often pours you a drink beforehand, wine or champagne (some nice homemade juice if you don’t drink alcohol), enough to make you feel nice and loose but never enough to impair your consent
Will always take time to admire your appearance, even while inside you, waxing lyrical about your beauty
Such a rambler! He is constantly talking to you during sex, praising you, admiring your beauty, telling how good you feel around him, how good you taste
(I feel like he would sometimes say something so poetic that he’d want to stop and quickly go write it down, but after you got annoyed with him the first time he did it, he decides pleasing you is more important than his writing)
Loves to tuck your hair behind your ear or push it from your face.
“Eyes on me, darling, show me all the pleasure you’re feeling,”
He’d totally be a missionary guy, but then I feel he’d also be up to try out some very out there positions if he comes across them in his reading
Finds you irresistible, always admiring and touching
So! Many! Erotic poems and letters! Like so many… seriously…
He would definitely send you a normal love letter and include an obscene line right at the end to mess with you
“All in all, I am looking forward to the upcoming Egg Festival! I cannot wait to bury myself between your immaculate thighs once more and feast until the sun rises in the east, your pleasure is my sole reason for being, the ultimate balm to my weary soul. Write back as soon as you can, my dear, I am dying to know how you have been!”
You are the muse for all of his works, he has mostly been writing erotic romance since the two of you began dating
If he’s trying to figure out how to write a scene, he will just get you to re-enact it with him… and then once again because he forgot that he was meant to be making mental notes the first time
He’s very passionate, often sweeping you off your feet with romantic gestures, suddenly overtaken with a ravenous need for you which may lead you to secluded corners or behind trees in the forest
Although he prefers to set up a romantic atmosphere, these 'rendezvous' are something he craves from time to time
Some nights he has you sit between his legs, his fingers buried inside you as he reads an erotic novel aloud over your shoulder, matching the movement of his fingers to the action in the novel
Definitely has such a sexy deep voice he puts on when he reads to you
Lots and lots of kissing! on your lips and butterfly kisses all over your body
Definitely loves it when you run your hands through his hair
Whispers sweet nothings to you in public
“I can’t help but remember how divine you looked beneath me last night,”
“I do so love it when you bite your lip, my darling,”
Would definitely love to see you in luxurious clothing or lingerie
A big fan of perfumes, always notices the moment you try a new one
A lovely scent on your skin could easily be enough to arouse him
He is all about beauty and sensuality and the experience of it all
The smells, the tastes, the sounds, the sights!
Definitely would love to listen to soft music while you make love
Or the sounds of the rain or the ocean while you are safely indoors and warm in each other’s embrace
Would enjoy tracing your body with a feather, caressing the curves and plains reverently
So much hyperbole and melodrama! You are a goddess, he would move the earth for you, no one has ever been so alluring as you! But he completely means every word
- With Harvey, you’d think there’d be many stolen moments in his office at the clinic, but no. Never. Absolutely sacred grounds. However, Harvey realized the importance of a healthy work/life balance long ago. On the weekend, early in the morning, when the saloon was empty, you’d sit in the heated pool with him.
The warm water was a second skin, warm and fuzzy in the early morning chill. This was the balance. The mourning sun had yet to crest the mountains, and in this pearly, quiet hour, he was entirely yours.
You floated in front of him, your back against his chest, his arms a loose anchor around your middle. The only sounds were the lap of water against the pool's edge and the early birds outside. You tilted your head back, resting against his collarbone. He hummed, a low, contented sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours. His fingers stilled their motions, then splayed wide, pressing you just a little closer. He wasn’t a man of many words, but here, the silence wasn’t empty. It was full. It was the weight of his chin on your shoulder, the gentle pressure of thumbs drawing slow circles on your hips.
His lips found the sensitive spot just below your ear, not with hunger but with a heartwarming familiarity. A kiss as soft as the mist. Your eyes fluttered closed, and his hands began to move again, not in circles, but in a slow, deliberate exploration toward your thighs.
He turned you gently in the water until you were facing him. Droplets clung to his eyelashes and the silver strands at his temples. At the clinic, his gaze was diagnostic, assessing. Here, it was simply adoring. He cradled your face with the hand not on your thigh, his thumb stroking your cheekbones, before his mouth found yours in a deep, unhurried kiss. It tasted of coffee and clean, chlorinated water. The world outside this heated pool didn’t exist.
His index finger traced the edge of your bathing suit bottoms, his touch a silent question in the hushed water. You answered with a slight, almost imperceptible nod against his lips. His hand slipped beneath the fabric, immediately finding the soft skin near your clit. a jolt that was somehow deeply soothing.
A soft, shuddering sigh escaped you, swallowed by his mouth. He made an approving sound in response, his thumb finding a flow, a circling rhythm that made your knees go weak. He broke the kiss to rest his forehead against yours, reveling in the soft surrender in your eyes and the blush painting your face and neck. His gaze then lowered to your slightly parted lips.
In the steaming spa, he whispered a string of words that made you want to throw your head back and pout. An ultimatum, “Be quiet or I stop.”
The words, whispered against your lips with a heat that rivaled the water, sent a shiver of pure, desperate contradiction through you. A reflexive sound threatened to bubble up, a direct response to the exquisite torture of his circling thumb, but you choked it back, biting your own lip.
A slow, knowing smile touched his lips. He saw the struggle, the way your breath hitched and your eyes fluttered shut again in a mix of frustration and overwhelming pleasure. His thumb never ceased its rhythm, a steady, maddening metronome counting down the seconds until you came.
“Good job, honey,” he breathed, the words a puff of approval that ghosted against your cheek. His other hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your wet hair to hold you steady as the waves began to crest.
- Shane was louder than you. His groans are deep, guttural, vibrating you to the very core. He’d mutter filthy praise in your ear, a crashing wave of “you can take it, babe,” “you feel so good,” and “taking me so well.” It wasn’t often you needed to be quiet with him, but when the mood was right, the drinks were flowing, and the saloon lights had dimmed, Shane would take you by the hand and lead you towards the back.
The floorboards in the storage room always creaked the same way, a familiar complaint under your combined weight. He’d kick the door shut with his boot, the click of the latch a definitive end to the world outside. In the dear dark, smelling of aged wood and dusty kegs, his hands were on your with a deliberate heavy heat.
His mouth found yours, swallowing each other’s sounds while you both worked fervently to undress one another. He’d maneuver you against the stack of grain sacks, the rough burlap a stark contrast to the maddening heat of his skin under his shirt. When he entered you, it was with a single, sure thrust that stole the air from your lungs. He muffled his groan, a low, wrecked thing against the curve of your neck.
“Shhh, princess,” he’d whisper, the command a paradox as his hips began a rhythm that made silence impossible.
He’d bury his face deeper into your neck, his stubble a sweet friction against your skin. The world would shrink to this: The scent of him, of sweat and beer, the creak of the floor, the hot, solid weight of him pinning you against the storage.
“You’re so damn perfect,” His voice was thick and ragged next to your ear. His thrusts were brutal, the perfect cadence that made a mockery of his own command to be quiet.
“Shane,” you gasped, a broken plea that was more air than sound.
He understood, his hand slid from your hips towards the sweet, slick spot between your thighs, his touch suddenly gentle as his thrust turned deliberate, deep, and devastatingly slow. “I know, baby. I know.” His lips brushed against your neck, a sock of tenderness in the silent frenzy.
- Elliott spent most of his days writing, watching the waves, or in the library. The library, somehow, became a place to explore your wildest desires. In the far back corner, away from anyone and everything, you sat on Elliott's lap. The longer flow of your skirt hid the truth.
He was sheathed inside you, buried to the absolute hilt in a way that was both devastating in its completeness, a claim that left no part of you untouched. It was maddening in its stillness; the need to move, to rock against him, was a frantic bird beating its wings against your ribs.
He held a book before you, his chin resting on your shoulders with a coolness your brain couldn’t comprehend. However, you could feel the faint tremor in his thighs beneath you, the rigid control in the arm wrapped around your waist, holding him flush against you. His breath was warm and only slightly uneven against your neck.
Outside your corner, the world continued. The soft shush of the doors, the distant thud of a book being reshelved, the muffled footsteps of the librarian— each sound was a spark on the skin, a reminder of the exquisite thrill.
He shifted, the smallest, most deliberate flex of his hips, and you had to bite your lip to trap the gasp that rose in your throat. Your eyes, wide and desperate, met him over your shoulder. In the dim library light, his gaze was a stormy sea, full of a quiet, desperate hunger that mirrored your own.
“Keep reading.”
The command was a low thrum, vibrating through the point where his lips nearly met your skin. The words were a blur of black on creamy paper.
Tied around the neck of the bottle was a paper label that read the words “drink me,” you read, or tried to. The sentence fragmented in your mind. Instead, his name was a silent scream in your head. Elliott Elliott Elliott.
You felt the shape of the next rods form on your tongue. “Eat me,” you tried, as he shifted his hops once more. A subtle pulse, a deep caress that made the muscles of your thighs and stomach clench. A shaky breath escaped you, the only sound you dared to make.
His arm tightened around your waist, a silent plea for composure, or perhaps a mirror of his own fraying control. You could feel the steady beat of his heart against your back, a rhythm that contradicted the calm of his breathing.
The words “drink me,” and “eat me” from the absurd fairy tale swam in your vision, their meanings twisting, becoming something urgent in the charged air.
“Eat me,” you tried again, a whisper that made the air cackle.
The rigid control in his body fractured. His breath hitched, and his hand let the book fall close with a soft, definitive thud on the table.
The pretense was over. So, his lips found the sensitive skin beneath your ear, not in a kiss, but a desperate open-mouthed press of heat. “You are,” he breathed, the words thick with need, “undoing me.”
Context: Okubo has officially had enough of Kanoh asking him about the whereabouts of this martial artist called "Zetton".
I gave a try to the DanDaDan anime on Netflix and really enjoyed the art style and humor!
The meme template:
(When I saw this scene I immediately got the idea of Okubo being so annoyed trying to prove to Kanoh with a Ultraman comic book that Zetton isn't real, so right then I went to draw it.) :D
blakekathryn
origamiaround
