What would a day in the office look like as L’s non-detective girlfriend?
Well, I think during the Kira case you would barely be in the office especially when Light joins the team.
However, after L considers all the pros and cons of you coming in to visit or just to hangout. He concludes that Light would have more to lose if you just randomly dropped dead after coming in contact with him.
So from then on L would be a bit more lenient on you coming in, but don’t count on it being frequent. On the rare occasions that you are there, it would simply be to keep L company on a slow day (because you missed him).
But for the sake of a fluffy plot let’s say this is when Light loses his memories.
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You stand in front of the door of the investigation room, strawberry shortcake from the bakery near your apartment in hand as you always walk in with something for your dear boyfriend. You knock on the door and Matsuda answers,
“Ahh Y/N !! , Long time no see” he exclaimed, moving back so that you could come in.
You smile up at him returning the greeting, then you scan the room until you see a familiar tuft of black messy hair looking up at the monitors in front of him. Walking down the room you greet everybody else suddenly aware of the way they all paused as soon as you walked in, however, they all mumble a greeting back.
“Hello Love”, L says looking up at you briefly making note of the cake you carried. You place the cake down then grab an extra chair and wheel it over next to him, sitting down.
Looking over the monitors in front of him you ask “How’s it going?” Giving him a quick peck on the cheek and slightly leaning on his shoulder to get a better look.
“I’ve been reviewing security footage and old case reports” he mumbles eyes on the screens, thumb on his lips.
“Mm Ok” you reply briefly already opening the cake and grabbing a fork, you cut a small piece of it making sure to also get a small piece of strawberry with it. Then moving your hand under the fork you raise it to his face
“Ahhh” you say smiling at the silliness of what you were doing. L turns his head looking down at the fork, “Ahh” he said flatly. You bring the fork into his mouth he bites down humming, you then pull away.
“Good?” You ask already going in for your first bite and then passing him a fork.
“Yes, very good. Thank you” he takes the fork and takes another bite. You smile softly at him as you two continue to eat the cake together in comfortable silence as he keeps working.
This was normal for the two of you, especially in the office where L wasn’t as comfortable talking about many things in fear of giving too much information and just general privacy that he values a lot.
But sitting in silence is not entirely out of the ordinary in your relationship since you both preferred quiet intimacy and simply being around each other was enough.
After you both finish eating you take the two forks and place them inside the plastic packaging where the cake once was and set it to the side.
Looking back in the direction of your boyfriend you move your chair a bit closer to his and lay your head on his shoulder without a word, as not to disturb him. Pulling out your Nintendo DS from your purse, you play your games quietly.
He doesn’t react simply letting you be and continuing his work, enjoying your presence silently.
The rest of the room is in a bit of shock, still not quite used to seeing ‘Ryuzaki’ in such a domestic way. But you two don’t notice, well Atleast not intentionally. both too in your own worlds to care.
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Ngl not too thought out but hey I don’t write fanfics soo 🤷🏽♀️
HI I SAW YOUR POST ABOUT L LAWLIET X HYPERFEM READER WHOS SMART LIKE HIM PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE DO IT IM ON MY KNEES AND IM BEGING YOU PLEASE
Sorry but I'm frothing at the mouth at this idea lmao. Btw I read your fics for Jinshi and Gyomei with his wife and loved them both! I'm legit in love with your writing. Thanks in advance if you do this and if not, totally fine, have a good day and remember to drink water!
a/n: i didn't know ppl would be frothing at the mouth for this idea, this is like the fifth message in my inbox about it😭 tysm everyone for all the love and excitement on this little obsession of mine! i hope you have fun reading this one (it's def not proofread well) <3 reqs r still open for other fandoms and death note btw! also anon ty for all the love it means a lot to me that you enjoyed my other work <333 i hope you have a lovely day!
୨ৎ contains: reader is portrayed as someone who enjoys hyperfeminine style and characteristics, and as a genius detective similar to L (really embracing my INTJ mbti archetype with this one😔); childhood friends to sweethearts; L is clingy as hell and a perv; not really opposite attracts trope but it's like loser-boy!obsessed!genius x angel-girl who has her shit together; nsfw themes of masturbation, penetrative sex, oral, cockwarming, noncon hidden cams (not like camgirl but he hides cameras in ur rooms, ifykyk), & he also has a things for your tits and ur body (reader's midsize bc idk about u but i'm always catering my writing to me and other not-so-skinny-but-in-between-plus-size hotties); btw potential spoilers for death note anime/manga bc even though it's been out forever ik some ppl are still going through it
l lawliet/ryuzaki x hyperfem!genius detective!midsize!f!reader - she's always been his fixation
L Lawliet—Ryuzaki to his colleagues, Ryu and other less formidable nicknames to you—was a peculiar man. Anyone could tell just by looking at him that he was either brilliant, a freak, or a brilliant freak. At Wammy's, when he was still being fleshed into the notorious brainiac he was at present, he was evidently isolated. He not only preferred to be alone but to be enriched by himself because that was the only person who made sense to him, who made him feel understood—his own ego and id.
Well, himself and you.
You were this pink, soft, kind bundle of everything L wanted out of a partner—and he realized that at a remarkably young because of you, and was reminded of how you qualified to be in his circle quite frequently because of how you were just... you. Girlish, lovely, compassionate, an overthinker. Always carrying around some stuffed animal and bombarding him to take a break from encyclopedias in order to join your murder mystery tea party (it was always a trick, the murderer was either you or him every single time). While he was hoarding toys and reading in corners and hiding in the quiet parts of the courtyard, you were right beside him.
And then you grew into a full-fledged woman, still as adorned in femininity and princess-ish attributes, and you saw all the strange things he did at seventeen, all his struggles, the whole past it took for him to become the man he was—and you never strayed from his side.
To be honest, you were in the same boat as him because you didn't find any of the other kids appealing, and no toys or games stimulated you the way those things would the average child. You two were both extraordinary, so in recognition of that you stuck together. Watari, while assisting L in grooming his skills, did the same for you, and at the ages other young adults were earning degrees, growing their family, starting their lives, you and L were renowned consultants for some of the most eccentric, gory, and complicated crimes.
Neither of you wanted to admit it but through your closely shared childhood and aversion to being away from each other for too long, you perhaps had accidentally nurtured an unhealthy codependent relationship and a bad case of separation anxiety—but as stated, neither of you wanted to say that aloud.
L especially didn't want to admit to you that he had grown almost obsessive over you. He loved you, he very much did, yet he never explicitly told you that he inexplicably thought of himself as your romantic counterpart. He was under the impression it was stated in the air, unspoken and solid. Any time someone flirted with you, showed the slightest interest into anything besides platonic or professional relation, he was there, demanding some tedious, extreme task, demoting them, doing something to get rid of this stranger who thought they could stake a claim in you...
Used to his habits, you hardly paid him mind. It was cute to you, really, how protective it was. It didn't become clear that he believed himself to be your automatic boyfriend until he acted oddly about the news that you had a date once.
At times, you worked cases separately and usually traveled a lot (much to L's displeasure), so when you had time to be stuck at the hip again, you babbled about everything you could think of, and he sat at his desk, twiddling his toes, eating an exotic sweet, half working and half listening—calm, collected, until—
"A date?" he'd asked. "What do you mean a date? A fake one, you must mean—because why do you need to go out on a date? Is it to get information for your case?"
"No?" You laughed, a strand of hair looped around your manicured nails. An open file sat in your lap for your light reading pleasure. "It's with a guy I met at a coffee shop. He asked for my number and called me pretty, so—"
"Cancel it," L had demanded without missing a beat, eyes back on his too-bright computer screen already.
"Excuse me?"
"I asked for your number at one point. I tell you you're pretty all the time. I can take you on a date. Statistically, I'm the most suitable man you know. I meet the criteria you most likely have for a suitor, so I'll take you out if you really want to spend your time like that. Watari can find a restaurant and show somewhere."
You'd shook your head with a sigh, then cancelled your date within the next hour. And you were glad to, because part of you was definitely secretly hoping he would turn a tad possessive and give you some kind of lead on what he thought of your evolved relationship.
When the Kira case emerged, L evidently called your number off his speed dial, not caring whatever the charges were to his bill, if you were in or out of the country, what damn case you were working—he wanted you in Japan on the next available flight ASAP. Not only did he want you close to him because a figureless serial murderer was remotely killing people somehow and the stakes were too high to risk you, he wanted you by his side because he knew he needed an ace up his sleeve to narrow down his suspect list and the parameters of the case—and you were the perfect trick.
Pretty in your mini dresses and heels, glasses perched on the bridge of your nose, a roster of numerous solved freak cases looming with you, you took L's base of operation by storm. His colleagues and subordinates definitely had a thing for you—not only were they glad to have a woman around, they had a gorgeous piece of eye candy watching over their shoulders as they tried to catch a mass murderer with a suspected god complex.
The one problem—L kept you stuck on his arm. He was a jealous guy, and it was dangerous everywhere, he couldn't let you go off on your own. So at every turn of events and change in the case, he had you by him. While surveilling the Yagami household, you were sat in the floor by his chair, reading or watching the cameras. When he attended university for two seconds to make contact with Light, you waited in his car, entertained by Watari's stories or card games. He kept your legal name locked out, your sensitive information unreachable, your existence totally sealed off from Kira and protected by his obsessed loving hand.
Additionally, when the Task Force building went into the full effective living situation with Misa and Light, L had you planted right in his room. And when you learned you'd be staying with him, you couldn't help but prod him about it.
"Ryu?" You'd leaned over his shoulder as he, of course, stared at a computer and the papers on his desk for the thirteenth hour of the day. Empty cans and plates littered with crumbs sat around the room—you were accustomed to how messy (and akin to a loser college boy...) he could be, but you still scrunched up some at the state of your surroundings.
Tapping your heel against the floor as you waited for him to reply—he always took a moment, you knew to be patient—you snaked your arms over his chair and hugged his head, your jewelry clinking softly. "Ryuzaki..."
When your breasts pressed against the back of his head he instinctually leaned back and let out a comfortable sigh. He was shameless, resting his head on your chest without hesitation. "What is it?"
"Tell me," you said, "if this facility can house sixty plus people... why am I rooming with you?"
He hummed, biting his thumbnail, eyes never moving off the screens. "Safety reasons. You know. And because of conflictions with the suspect list."
You smirked slightly, one hand rubbing his chest absently. "Do you need to survey me constantly like you do Light? Do you think I'm Kira?"
"God no. And you don't think I'm Kira obviously. Do I really have to explain why I put you in the same room as me?"
"Yes, if you're going to keep not cleaning up after yourself."
He paused, eyes half-lidded. Then said, "I'll have a cleaning service come by every weekend."
"Twice a week, Monday and Friday," you said. "And... the cameras in every nook and cranny? In the bathroom?"
"I need eyes everywhere constantly."
"In our bathroom and bedroom, though? What if I need to take a shower or change?"
"You and I will be the only ones to review our room's footage."
"You and I?"
He smirked slightly then. "Yes. Me and you."
There was a sexual element to your relationship with L that was undeniable. He didn't care to ogle at you in public. When you found the time to dawdle around with Misa or indulge in a hobby, he was usually around, gawking at just how gorgeous you were. He frequently sat by your make-up-and-glitter-littered vanity and watched you get ready, calculated how long you would take and predicted what cutesy outfit you'd wear (and what underwear you'd chosen). Besides how he enjoyed your appearance and his obvious half sapiosexual, half lovesick fixation with you, the sexual element shone through in the more explicit instances that eventually occurred between you two.
On countless nights, he beckoned you over, out of bed or away from analysis, and simply felt you up.
Of course he gave you this sad, begging that guilt-tripped asked you if it was all right to touch you, and each time you saw his tired, mopey face staring up at you from his chair you gave up in. You allowed him to sit you in his lap and squeeze your plush sides, for him to leave love-bites on the fat of your biceps and thighs and neck, for him to hum and kiss against the soft, round angle of your chin, all while he murmured praises and worship to you that nobody would expect from the Ryuzaki.
"I needed this so much, darling, you have no idea. Oh God, thank you so much. I'm sorry if you can feel how hard I am, you're just so beautiful and perfect... I can't help myself. Will you let me touch you more?"
Then, after he convinced you to lift your skirt or dress, or to slip out of your pants, he'd rub your clit while quietly begging you to just let him be inside of you—and when you agreed to cockhold him at his desk at night, he was too late resisting the soft moan that escaped his lips.
And for being a big fat virgin, he was a good fuck to you. He didn't look into nude mags or watch porn—typically, when he needed to masturbate he'd pull out a photo of you (you asleep in his favorite pink nightie of yours) and take care of himself in the bathroom. If he was feeling sly, he might steal a pair of your lacey panties with the little ribbons on it and jerk off, then leave them in your laundry hamper. He wasn't sure if you ever noticed those extra stains on your underwear.
After you two ventured into the world of being skin-to-skin and L actually slipping in and out, in and out, in and out of you, he was a goner. He begged you for quickies during any downtime, tried to get you to sneak away when nothing interesting was happening, was down for you every single night, ready to eat you out.
He especially loved when you let him simply look and touch. Usually when you were tired or didn't want to move, he'd get your permission, undress you while kissing down your entire body and then just grope and grab. Gently of course, though sometimes roughly—at which you whined and tried to push his stubborn paws away. Your hips, tits, ass, throat, thighs. He loved your body and couldn't help but want to explore it.
Your breasts were his favorite. He was a boob man through and through. Maybe it was due to his dire sweet tooth or his oral fixation, but he was over the moon when you let him simply lick and nip at your chest, or let him rest on your bare tits so that he could suckle on you whenever he felt like it.
You were indeed the perfect partner for him, willing to put up with his habits and perverted self and love him through all of the stakes you were put through—and he would forever cherish you for that.
l lawliet x fem!reader
sick and tired of L's abysmal sleep schedule, you get creative in persuading him to rest.
cw: nsfw (18+), smut, oral sex (m receiving)
a/n: wrote this for one of my besties <3
“Hey, you.”
L doesn’t need to look away from his computer screen to know the way you’re standing. A pout on your face, an arm outsretched into an accusatory point. His smooth, lilted voice responds as his fingers continue clacking across his keyboard.
“Me?”
“Mhm,” you say. You stomp a little closer to his desk. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Hmmm. Based on your tone... too late for me to still be working?” he deadpans.
“Yeah. Way too late! It’s two in the morning, buddy,” you huff.
“At least the sun isn’t up yet,” he says.
“You’re lucky the sun isn’t up yet or you’d really be in trouble.”
You close the rest of the distance between the two of you, ending up behind his chair. Your hands each land on one of his shoulders. You carefully massage the stiff muscles there.
“You have to come to bed,” you continue, a little less firm and a little more pleading.
A soft sigh falls from his lips. “I know you want that. But I have to work.”
“You do not!” He winces as you squeeze his shoulders particularly hard. “The case is at a point with no leads. One solid night of rest won’t bring everything crashing down," you say.
“The case having no leads is why I need to work on it. Do you think they just pop up out of thin air?” he asks, tilting his head back to look up at you.
“You can find them just as easily during hours with sunlight. If you keep depriving yourself of sleep, you’ll just get sloppy and you might miss an important clue entirely!” you argue.
The clicks of the keyboard stop for a moment. One of his thin hands comes up to rest on top of yours. His fingertips rub little soothing stripes on your hand.
“As much as I appreaciate your concern, I really don’t need you to set a bedtime for me,” he says.
Your frown deepens as you sense your points aren’t landing with him.
“Ellieeeeeee,” you whine, using the silly nickname you’d taken to calling him over the course of your relationship. Normally you only use it while joking around. But maybe it’ll be useful in trying to soften him up too.
You spin his chair in your direction slightly and shift around to stand in front of him.
“Yes?” he says, calm as ever.
You glare at him for a moment before tugging one foot off his seat and then the other. His new position allows you to slip into his lap.
“Why do you hate me?” you ask and slump your head over onto his shoulder.
“Where did you get that idea?” he asks. One of his arms loops around your waist while his other hand comes to rub your thigh.
“Why can’t you let me take care of you? You’re gonna make yourself sick. You don’t eat right. You never sleep enough. You don’t do anything but work, work, work, work-”
“I talk to you,” he interjects.
“Not enough.” You pout.
A moment of silence passes over the room. You sigh quietly. You don’t understand why you do this to yourself. Why you try to make him change when you don’t even think he’s capable of that. Probably cause you love him or whatever.
“Can I at least sit here with you for a little while?” you ask quietly.
He looks down at your face and then his lap, as if weighing the option of having you here against sitting in his usual position. After a little pause, he nods.
“Of course you can stay,” he says.
He scoots his chair back towards the desk, putting only one of his hands back on his keyboard. The other stays on the small of your back.
The two of you sit there for a while. He works on whatever string of murders he’s been called in to solve this month, and you stare at the wall. You lazily swing your foot back and forth. Although you seem content, you haven’t given up on your plan to make him rest.
Your mind runs over possible solutions. Slipping something into his drink would be wrong. He only ever eats sugar, so it’s not like he’ll get drowsy from any of the snacks he likes. You don’t even know anything else that makes him tired. You almost always fall asleep before him if he does come to bed at night. The only time it’s the other way around is-
And that’s when you have it.
The only times L knocks out before you is after he cums. After that moment of blissful release, he goes boneless, and in the comfort of your arms, that translates to falling asleep in mere minutes. You aren’t sure if it will work at his desk, but it’s worth a shot.
Your lips press against his throat once, twice, and then three times. You kiss his jaw and his cheek and his temple. He tilts his head away from you slightly, but your mouth follows.
“What are you doing?” he asks, his hand on the computer still moving.
“Nothing,” you say. You rub his chest and plant a few more kisses on his skin.
“You’re trying to tempt me,” he answers for you.
“Nuh uh.”
“You are.”
“Am not! Gosh, why do you have to be so suspicious about everything? Not everyone has an ulterior motive, mr. detective.”
“Maybe not everyone, but you certainly do,” he says, a faint smile playing at his lips. “You act like I don’t know you. Like I’m not used to your little games by now.”
You give him an unamused look. Of course, he’s right. But you’re fed up with him thinking he’s right.
Instead of proceeding with this back-and-forth, you slide off his lap and down to your knees between his own. Your hands take the spots on his thighs. You look up at him from beneath the desk.
L’s eyes are always wide, but you think you see them grow a little larger as he takes in what you want.
“What brought this on?” he asks, reaching down to stroke your head.
“Isn’t being close to you enough?” you say.
He stares at you. The room is dark, but you can still see the color rising to his face, the light pink dusting his cheeks and nose.
“I guess it is…” he says.
“I know it is. Being near you, watching you be all focused and stuff… thinking about how you should be in bed focused on me...”
You lean your head against his thigh. Your fingers snake up to his waist and find the button on his jeans. You pop it open, letting the feeling of the fabric going limp linger for a few moments before you tug it down.
Your mouth waters as soon as his cock comes into view. It’s long and heavy, resting against one of his thighs. You can’t wrap your fingers around it fast enough.
His breath hitches, and his head tilts back. He does nothing to stop you. The clicking on the keyboard finally stops. You see in your peripheral vision that his arm goes lax.
“Suddenly you don’t need to work that bad, hm?” you say. Despite your narrowed eyes, your hand starts to stroke him gently.
A stained hum vibrates in his throat. He grits his teeth before choking out an answer.
“A short break won’t hurt.”
“You’re such a liar,” you huff.
“It’s not a lie. You’re quite efficient at this. It usually takes you around 11 minutes to make me finish. Much faster than the eight hours you want me to sleep.”
You just blink at that little statistic he laid on you.
“Whatever. You’re gonna sleep for nine hours after I’m done with you.”
You tighten your grip ever so slightly and bring his cock closer. Your tongue pokes out to lick at the tip. You start with soft little swipes on the silky head. Just the way he knows you like.
His foot taps beside your leg. He keeps his composure for the most part though and shakes his head.
“Doubtful. I’ll be just fine. You on the other hand, your jaw will probably be aching for the rest of the night,” he teases.
“As if,” you scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m more than used to you by now.”
You can hear the playful quality of his exhale, but you stop him from saying anything else by popping his tip between your lips. You hadn’t been lying. You were more than used to him, and with being used to him, came knowing exactly what he likes.
Your tongue glides all around the plump head. You lave at his slit while keeping your grip on the base firm. He groans, the sound vibrating from his sternum upward.. His legs tense up on either side of you.
You reward the display by sucking him a little deeper. This is just build up, a precursor to his favorite part, and you both know it. You stroke along his prominent veins with your plush muscle as your saliva coats his skin, dripping down past your lips a little.
Then, all in one go, you take most of his cock down your throat. You hold yourself there for a moment before coming up just as quick and then going down once more. He jerks in his chair, his body unsure of what to do with the sudden onslaught of sensation.
“Fuck,” he hisses, whiteknuckling the armrests on his chair.
You continue with the fast, warm suction of your mouth, speeding along as if you’re in a hurry to make him cum. He whimpers above you. It’s hard not to get a little worked up yourself when you hear his pretty sounds.
After a few more bobs of your head, you pull off. His dick shimmers with your spit in the low light. A thin strand of the fluid hangs from your lips.
You continue stroking him while you look up to see if his face is fully flush yet. To your dismay, it’s not. He’s still as pale as he was before. But his eyes are becoming more lidded which pleases you.
“It’s possible you might beat your normal time tonight,” he says, his voice lower.
You laugh softly at that and plant a little kiss on his tip. “Probably cause you’re so tired. Sleep deprivation can’t be good for your stamina,” you say smugly. Now that you hold the advantage, you can’t help rubbing it in a little.
But he only tsks at you. “The opposite is true really. If I was actually sleep deprived, I wouldn’t be able to get hard at all. Erectile function is greatly impacted by-”
He’s cut off by one of his own moans as you slide his cock back down your throat. His hips buck this time, so you know he’s getting closer.
You increase your efforts. Your mouth moves quickly and with as much precision as you can muster. Your hand drops to cup his balls.
He pants, and the noises flowing from his lips grow more strained, more full of need. He’s trying to choke out words, but all he can get out are pathetic, broken fragments of whines. You don’t help him out any. You don’t stop or slow down in the slightest.
Finally, he manages a “I’m gonna cum.”
It’s not like you can verbally urge him along since your mouth is otherwise occupied. All you can do is keep dragging your tongue along his shaft, keep bobbing your head in quick, fluid motions. He moans once more before you feel the final spasm in his hips.
Then the taste of his release hits your tongue. He spurts ropes of sticky white into the back of your throat. You swallow it down and keep your mouth around him as he throbs against your tongue. He shudders lightly, the waves of euphoria work their way through him.
When he’s finally done, when you can feel he’s going soft, you pull off of him. You wipe your lips with the heel of your palm and then look up at him.
A smile slowly spreads across your face.
He’s slumped back in his chair, that pink color more intense across his cheeks. His eyelids look heavier, like they want to close. His chest rises and falls, slowly and evenly as he catches his breath again.
You rise to your feet and lean down to press a quick kiss to his cheek.
“You still feel like working?” you ask playfully.
His dark eyes shift to you. “You really don’t play fair.”
“That’s cause you like being dirty,” you say.
With that, your fingers grasp his wrist and tug him upwards with you. He gets to his feet, leaning on you as you guide him over to the luxurious hotel bed to knock out in your loving arms for at least the next eight hours.
celebrating kara’s 23rd birthday off-world, you’re stuck bar-hopping on planets from galaxies you’ve never heard of. you’re trying to pretend everything’s fine, but you think you’ve ruined your friendship forever.
author’s note. angst with a happy ending! wlw, yearning, mutual pinning, miscommunication (i love a good miscommunication, but only if it gets resolved, and fortunately it does!) it has been a hot minute since i have written wlw pls bear with me. also huge thank u to anon for this request from the celly <3
kara zor-el x fem!reader, 3.9k words (rookie numbers, i know)
You probably should’ve started making your leave an hour ago. Maybe then, the music blaring through the bar wouldn’t have settled into the beginnings of a migraine, one that had slowly crawled from the right side of your head to the left. Maybe you would’ve still been in that perfect sweet spot of tipsy by the time you made it back to the ship—just drunk enough to collapse into bed and let sleep find you the second your head hit the pillow.
You frown, already yearning for exactly that.
Then, like someone dropped an ice cube down the back of your shirt, you stiffen.
You probably shouldn’t be pouting.
Not when you’re supposed to be celebrating Kara’s birthday.
She’d only asked one thing of you: come with her.
That was it. Tag along on one of her birthday escapades across whatever red sun planet had caught her attention this time. One week, she’d promised. Seven days of questionable bars, stranger food, and whatever trouble Kara inevitably managed to find. Then she’d fly you back to Earth, stay a couple of days—maybe three, if you were lucky—and disappear into space all over again.
You’d hesitated.
Not because you hated parties. You actually loved them. You loved bar hopping and clubbing with Kendra in Metropolis when you could.
It’s just that it had been a while since the two of you had spent time together.
And it wasn’t that you hadn’t missed her.
You had!
It’s just that things between you had become... complicated.
Not in the dramatic, world-ending sort of complicated. More in the you kissed your best friend in the Justice Gang’s training room, she kissed you back, and then left Earth the very next day without so much as a goodbye, sort of complicated.
Which, admittedly, felt a little world-ending at the time. And it left the two of you somewhere strange. Not quite friends. Definitely not whatever came after friends. But not nothing either.
Neither of you brought it up.
Mostly because Kara was never on Earth long enough to have the conversation.
She came back when Clark needed an extra pair of hands or when she missed Krypto and wanted to see him or when she wanted more of those Asian candies she liked. Then she’d disappear again before you ever found the nerve to ask what the kiss had meant.
Which was fine. Totally fine.
You didn't want to talk about it anyway.
And Kara clearly didn’t either.
It wasn’t like your stomach tightened every time she wandered into your orbit.
Or that your pulse skipped whenever she absentmindedly grabbed your shoulders to move you aside so she could squeeze past you in the cramped hallway of her ship.
Or that you’d caught yourself wondering, more than once, if she’d forgotten the kiss entirely.
Because that would be ridiculous. Right?
So everything was fine.
“—Doesn’t sound fine.”
Clark Kent, everybody. Delivering the million-dollar observation through a video call that’s cutting in and out every other sentence.
The signal wasn’t exactly built for conversations from several solar systems away. Mister Terrific was still ironing out the kinks in whatever intergalactic communication miracle he’d shoved into your phone, but naturally, Clark’s giant Kryptonian computer inside the Fortress of Solitude had the better connection.
Figures.
“You should tell Kara how you feel.”
Your migraine pulses a little harder behind your eyes.
“Clark,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. The bitter aftertaste of whatever alien liquor Kara had insisted you try still clings to your tongue. You reach for your glass—or at least this planet’s approximation of water—and take a long drink. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Oh, come on.”
His voice crackles beneath the music, every other word swallowed by static. You squint down at the tiny holographic image hovering above your phone. It’s mostly a blur of blue and red pixels with Clark’s face occasionally being visible.
“It can’t be that bad,” He continues. “You’re just overthinking it.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“I did the same thing with Lois!”
“No, you didn’t.”
“We had slightly different circumstances, I believe.”
“Very different.”
“The principle is still the same!” Clark insists. “You tell her how you feel. It’s just like ripping a Band-Aid.”
You snort, “You don’t even know what that feels like.”
He pauses, scratching his jaw, “…No. Not really.”
You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. You always found everything a little funnier when you drank.
Clark smiles. “But I understand the metaphor. It’s a good metaphor.”
Krypto was probably curled up on the bed back in Kara’s ship by now, blissfully unaware of loud music, questionable drinks, and unsolicited relationship advice from Superman of all people.
You’d never thought you’d be jealous of a dog.
“So,” Clark says after a burst of static, “where is Kara, anyway?”
“Um,” You glance over your shoulder toward the packed dance floor.
The room swims for a second, just enough to remind you you’d definitely crossed the line from pleasantly tipsy into maybe you should’ve stopped two drinks ago. Your eyes skim over a sea of unfamiliar faces in search of bright blonde hair.
“I actually don’t know. She went to get another dri—”
Suddenly, the music changes. Gone is the slow, warbling alien jazz that’s been humming through the bar all evening. A familiar guitar riff crashes through the speakers instead, something you recognize from Earth.
You whip your head toward the DJ booth. Or maybe it’s a jukebox. You honestly can’t tell, and you don’t find either. You find Kara first.
She’s halfway across the room, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Her sunglasses have slipped halfway down her nose, barely hanging on as she points excitedly toward the speakers before throwing both hands into the air.
Then she spots you.
She barrels toward you, and people have to jump out of her way. One unfortunate alien isn’t fast enough and loses half their drink when Kara clips their shoulder. She doesn’t even notice, or maybe doesn’t even care.
“There you are! My favourite person on this stupid planet!”
She reaches the booth in record time, nearly tripping over her own boots before catching herself against the edge of the table.
Then, without so much as asking, she plucks your phone straight out of your hand.
“Who’re talkin’ to?”
She squints at the tiny hologram.
“…Oh.”
“Hi, Kara!” Clark says cheerfully. “I’ve been trying to reach you all week.”
“I know.”
She slides into the booth beside you with a dramatic sigh, shoulder bumping yours hard enough to make you sway.
“…Oh. I just wanted to call and tell you happy birthday.”
“Thanks, man.”
She pushes her glasses back onto the top of her head before looking sideways at you. Then, making absolutely sure Clark can’t see her, she mouths: What a loser.
You bite back a smile.
“Be nice.”
She rolls her eyes so dramatically you’re surprised they don’t get stuck.
“Okay, if that’s all. Thanks, Clark. Bye.”
“Wait, I actually wanted to ask—”
“Bye.”
She ends the call before he can finish and drops your phone back into your hand.
“He can’t leave us alone for one second.”
“He was checking on us.”
You slip your phone back into your pocket.
Kara only shrugs. Her attention drifts almost immediately, latching onto the glass sitting in front of you. “What’s this?” Before you can answer, she plucks it from the table and takes a long drink.
You open your mouth anyway. “It’s water.”
She slowly lowers the glass. “What the hell? What’d you get water for?”
“I was thirsty.”
She stares at the glass for another second before setting it down with a loud thunk. “Gross.”
You let out a laugh that’s closer to a breath, leaning your head on your fist. The pounding has subsided now, and you wonder if it’s because of the change of music or just because Kara is close to you again.
You look away, your smile fading. You’re trying your best to find the words to explain this feeling, to be honest with Kara, and finally to bite the bullet, but it all turns into a puddle of melted letters and colours. It’d be a lie if you said it wasn’t slowly killing you on the inside. She’s all you’ve been thinking about for weeks, running laps in your brain, tangling her fingers with your heartstrings.
A sharp jab at your cheek makes you blink.
You glance at Kara, who’s already looking at you.
“Not having fun?” she asks, and you think this is the most serious she’s been in the last forty-eight hours.
You can feel your brows furrowing together. Have you been that obvious? You try to spring an answer as fast as you can, but the drinks you’ve had a couple hours ago have made your tongue heavy. Especially with the way she’s looking at you, with the way she’s leaning closer to hear whatever answer you’ll give her over the loud bass of the music.
Instead, you stare at her eyes, those sad, angry blue eyes and watch how they soften around you; how they get wider, like she really wants to see you.
“I’m just…” You finally hear the words come from your lips. Lips. Your lips are so dry. You swipe your tongue over them. Your mouth is so dry. Your eyelids are so heavy. Kara’s hair is so bright. Distracted, you find an answer. “Tired.”
“You’re tired?” Kara says, amused. She’s smiling at you, that stupid grin she has with teeth, all bite. “How could you be tired? We’ve barely been here four hours.”
You groan when Kara reaches for your shoulders, as if you shake it out of you. It works, you think. A little bit. You can tell from the way the dark blue clouds have parted from your head, and she’s all red suns and teasing smiles and red roses with thorns.
She tries to pull you to stand.
“Wanna get out of here?”
This planet was strange, and honestly a little disorientating. Beautiful, in a way, but strange enough that you couldn’t quite tell if the world was actually bending around you or if that was just the alien alcohol still in your system
Maybe it was the sky.
It had been purple when the sun was out, but now the darkness had settled into a deep, almost murky green, the colour bleeding into shades you couldn't quite name. Stars burned through it in strange clusters, brighter and closer than they ever looked from home.
The moment you step outside the dingy bar, the late-night breeze catches your hair and sends it floating above your head.
Finally.
A relieved sigh escapes you before you can stop it. You stretch your arms over your head, breathing in the cool, clean air as if you'd been underwater for the last six hours.
Kara stumbles out the door behind you. But she doesn’t trip like she would’ve if you were on yesterday’s planet. This planet had a strange gravity, lighter here than it was on Earth, making every step feel like you were walking half a second behind yourself.
She smiles as she walks past you, running her hands over your floating hair.
You follow.
Your steps are uneven, and you aren’t entirely sure whether that’s the alcohol or the planet. Every time your feet leave the ground, you feel weightless, like you could keep going and forget to come back down.
You find yourself sneaking glances at Kara. Her sunglasses are back over her eyes despite it being the dead of night, and she keeps looking down at her boots. You frown; you want to make a joke but can’t find anything to say.
You try not to look at her again. But every few seconds, you catch her looking at you.
And every time you turn your head, she looks away.
You tell yourself you’re imagining it.
Eventually, the ship comes into view. You’re only a few metres away now. You can see the soft orange glow of the little bed light through the tiny windows, warm and familiar against the strange colours of the planet. Home.
Or at least what’s been your home for the last few days, somewhere you can sleep.
Kara’s stopped walking. You only take another step before you notice she’s not beside you anymore. You turn just in time to watch her drop to the ground, her knees bucking, and she collapses.
You startle at first, thinking she’s hurt or that the drinks have gotten the best of her. It wouldn’t have been the first time this week you’d have to haul her over your shoulder and make the rest of the trip for the two of you.
But before you can start to panic, she’s groaning dramatically, sinking further into the grass and rolling to her back.
You stare at her. “Kara.”
“I’m soo tired.” She complains.
“You’re tired?”
“Just give me a second. I need this.”
You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop the smile growing on her face as you wait.
Eventually, she holds both hands out toward you.
“Okay. I’m good. Help me up.”
You step closer and take her hands. The wind suddenly shifts, blowing downward this time, and your hair falls across your face. Her fingers close around yours immediately. And you barely have the chance to blink before she’s pulling you down.
“Kara—!”
You lose your balance and fall, landing squarely on top of her. The air is knocked out of your lungs as your chests collide. You can feel Kara’s shaking as she laughs under you. Your hands are planted on either side of her, her arms caught beneath you. Your face is inches from hers when you shift, and you can feel her warm breath against your cheek.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
Kara only grins, and there's not an ounce of guilt in her expression. She reaches up and pushes her sunglasses into her head. She lets the ends of your hair tickle her cheeks.
“I don’t wanna go back yet,” Kara tilts her chin at you, and you jerk back so her nose doesn’t brush with yours. You pretend you don’t see her noticing. “Stay here with me a bit?”
Her voice is quieter when she asks, and it makes something inside of you melt a little bit. There’s something behind her eyes that makes your stomach twist because you can’t name it. You want to find the name for it so badly it makes you sick.
So you roll off her and lie into the grass beside her.
And for a while, you both say nothing.
The grass is cool beneath your back.
Above you, the sky stretches endlessly, dark green and violet and littered with stars. Some are white. Some are blue. A few burn almost pink against the darkness.
You wonder if any of them have names.
You wonder if Kara knows them.
You wonder how many worlds she’s looked up at the sky from.
“Do you ever think about it?”
Kara’s voice pulls you out of your head. It's soft, you realize, an earnest tone she only ever keeps devoted with you. You turn your head to look at her; she’s already looking at you again.
“What?”
Her blonde hair fans around her head against the grass, catching the strange light from the sky until it looks almost silver at the edges.
She looks at you like you’re stupid.
“Our kiss.”
You flinch and look away. Not that you meant to, but you felt the heat crawling up your chest, neck and face. You didn’t want her to see you.
Your fingers curl into the grass below you. You can feel it again; her lips against yours; that faint memory; the softest encounter; the most gentle brush of skin. You remember the taste of her. Sweet lychee.
Kara had always loved those fruits and candies from East Asia, always coming back to Metropolis with bags of tropical flavours for everyone in the Justice Gang.
You try not to think of it. Instead, you’re trying to find constellations in the sky, if there even were any in this solar system. You can feel your heart beating rapidly in your chest; you worry it’ll burst from your ribs and jump into her hands.
“I don’t know.”
You swallow. In your head, you’ve played out this conversation thousands of times; admittedly, you imagined it happening when you were both sober, sitting down preferably. In a nice cafe in Metropolis, maybe. Somewhere bright enough for you to see her face in the sunlight and crowded enough that if she let you down you could slip away easily. Or maybe after a mission when she’s patching you up with a strange gentleness she’d never admit to having.
“I think about it often.”
Your head snaps toward her so quickly you nearly give yourself whiplash. But really it’s your eyes squinting and her blurry image in your view. She’s not looking at you anymore; she’s looking at the sky, and her eyes catch the shining stars.
“It’s funny,” Kara continues, “because Kendra told me friends kiss sometimes on Earth without it meaning anything. Like at sleepovers and stuff,” she says, and her mouth quirks in a faint smile.
You wonder briefly if Kara’s ever even had a sleepover before. You turn to her fully.
“But it’s different on Krypton. I mean, I didn’t have many friends my age there. But I knew kissing was something intimate. I remember mom and dad, and sometimes I’ve seen them kiss. And it wasn’t just to kiss each other; it was like…” she gestures vaguely at the air, and the sound of her jacket rustling soothes you. “So much more than just lips pressing together. It’s like a moment when two people share that same breath. So when you kissed me I just… I don’t know.”
“Oh.”
You never know what to say when Kara talks about Krypton. In those rare times she does, at least. But you notice there’s always this different look in her eye. Something distant. She never really looks at you when she talks about her home, always past and through you, at something you could never follow or begin to understand.
Tears burn in your eyes.
You reach for her blindly before you can think better of it. Your fingers find her pinky, a soft brush of warm skin. Kara’s head turns, eyes dropping to look at your hooked fingers, then back up at your face. She looks… sad.
Sure, Kara’s always had this sadness about her, an inner turmoil you’ve learnt about early on and still can’t find a way to understand. But this is different.
And an awful feeling sinks in your chest. It’s because of you.
“Did it… did it feel that way to you?”
“Don’t stress about it,” Kara snorts, but there’s no real humour to it, nor that sarcasm you’re oh so familiar with. “You didn’t know.”
You watch it happen before your eyes, the way she’s starting to shut you out. Walls rebuilding themselves before you, as if you haven’t spent the last few years trying to climb them.
She pulls her hand away from yours and presses both fists against her eyes.
Your stomach drops.
Was she crying?
“Kara.” You sit up. “Did it mean something to you?”
“Yeah,” She says quietly, dropping her hands from her face. Her eyes are wet, and she sits up next to you. Kara shrugs as if it’s not a big deal when she sees you look at her with a similar sadness. She drapes her arms over her knees, muttering, “It’s not like it matters.”
“Of course it does.”
That feeling of your heart jumping out of your chest returns when she looks at you again.
“It meant everything to me.”
She blinks at you. “…you’re serious? Because it’s not funny if you’re fucking with me.”
“I mean, I-I wouldn’t have kissed you in the first place if I wasn’t like into you or anythin—”
“You’re into me?” She asks flatly.
You narrow your eyes a bit. You’re at a loss with where to go further now, losing your words again. You’d thought it’d been obvious; your feelings have been spilling all over the place since the moment Kara put you on her ship.
“Well, yeah,” you say. “And don’t listen to Kendra about the friends kissing thing. It’s totally as big of a deal on Earth as it is on Krypton. At least it is to me. I don’t know what she’s getting up to at her sleepovers. But I also do find kissing… uhm… intimate.”
When you look at her again, you can see she’s grinning at you. Your heart swoops a little bit, knowing she’s about to say something crass by the glint in her eye. You always loved being on the receiving end of her taunts.
“I’ve always thought you were pretty hot,” Kara says.
You exhale a snort. “Charming.”
She rolls her eyes and takes your jaw in her hand gently. Now you’re certain, surely, that your heart can’t possibly beat any harder than it is right now. And Kara’s most definitely, surely, got the strings wrapped around her fingers. Her hands are so cold, and your cheeks are blazing. And her eyes are so blue, like bright glacier blue, and your head is spinning. You blink, and she’s closer. Blink again, and her breath twirls within yours.
You think you might explode if she doesn’t kiss you in the next second. Your pulse is a strange, sluggish-rushed beat on your neck, and she presses her pinky against it. You nearly squeal from excitement.
“Are you fucking with me, Kara?” You say, breathless, when she leans closer to your mouth just to swerve the last second and press her nose to the other side of your jaw.
The hand on the side of your face shifts when she laughs. You feel her thumb running across your cheekbones. You sigh, your eyes fluttering closed when she presses a shy kiss to the side of your neck. Her lips are chapped and dry, and it tickles a little.
Kara pulls away and looks at you, and your free hands find themselves tangled with hers against your hip. You squirm, squeezing her hand and leaning in to make the first move, but she shifts back just to look at the pout you make.
You draw closer. She softens her breath, but you still feel it on your mouth. She licks her lips. And you can tell she doesn’t do it on purpose, but it’s still unfair.
She turns and touches her lips to the edge of your mouth. Just a graze. Your vision blurs from the tiniest contact. You breathe a little too hard, or wheeze, and feel your spine tremble. That’s all it takes. “Please,” you whisper. Your eyes roll to hers. “Are you ever going to kiss—”
The “me” is smothered because she’s finally kissing you. You move to hold her tight, afraid that she could float away despite there being a red sun. Not that it matters; Kara’s holding you just as tightly, and she raises your linked hands to shake hers out of yours. Her newly freed hand touches your shoulder, then squeezes, pressing gently to push you back.
You’re suddenly anchored to the grass. You feel your heartbeat thrum and your stomach twist, but it’s good. No. Good doesn’t do it justice. Her lips are now smooth and soft, and the bite of her nails on your face feels just right. You’d love to see the little crescent moons later.
She breathes into your mouth, hums all quiet and adorable, and smiles while you kiss her silly.
❥ Dick Grayson likes to make you cum because you're adorable when you do ── .✦ ⊹ ࣪ ˖
꒰ written quickly & for fun◞ lightly proofread◞ MDNI◞ wc 800 ✦ cw: piv◞ no protection mentioned ꒱
୨୧ admittedly, he was a bit of a nervous wreck when you finally let him in. there had been so much tension between the two of you for months (much to the eyerolling and teasing from your friends), but it hit a boiling point after you had invited him over for a late night wine and paint session. just the two of you
the bed frame creaks underneath each rock of his hips, his damp hair stuck to his forehead, beads of sweat racing like bullets down his flushed cheeks. your mewling and heavy pants fills his ears like his favorite melody as he watches your face screw up in pure hedonism underneath him. your soaked, lacey, baby blue panties are held hostage between his clenched teeth while he cages your head between his down-turned palms pressed into the sheets
"i'm cummin', i-i'm cumm-mm-mm," you babble quietly with drool trickling out of the corner of your mouth. you turn your head to the side, attempting to bury it in the pillow your head is propped up on ノ
he reaches up to pull the fabric out of his mouth and says "yeah? you gonna be good 'n cum for me? you're gonna be so so sooo good for me, baby? hm?"
"yes fuck yes yes yes," you hiss with desperation breathlessly, and he takes that as his cue to sink deeper, slowly, into your wet heat. you still for a moment. both of you do. he lets out a deep groan, his body buckling as you writhe beneath him, your eyes rolling so hard you can almost damn near see your brain. he leans up to push your knees to your chest, adjusting comfortably inside of you as you pulse and clench around his length. your hands shoot up and your nails dig into his shoulders as he begins to grind, rolling his hips painfully slow. he throws his head back, moaning and gripping onto your legs for support
you feel the pressure blooming in sporadic waves and you begin to wiggle erratically, pure little giggles escaping between breathy moans and swears. one of his hands strokes the plush of your hip as he grinds into you faster, a sloppy grin stretching across his face. "come on, angelface," he rasps, "gimme some more of those adorable sounds while i fuck the shit out of you." he peppers kisses allll over your face — not a single bit of surface left un-affectioned. "you're so pretty, baby, i'm losing my fucking mind, i can't believe i get to make you cum like this, you have no idea how long, baby, please cum please cum please pretty baby —"
his stern dirty-talk dissolves into heady whines as you tighten around him
"i can't take it 'nymore, 's toom - 's too muh —"
"fuck. fuck —" he adjusts your bodies so that you're flush up against each other, your leg hooked over his waist, arms linked around his neck, your foreheads and breaths touching and intermingling. he catches your chin between his thumb and knuckle of his pointer finger, firmly swiping away at the trail of spit. "look at me. look at me when you cum. don't stop. remember who made you fuckin' cum like this"
"dick .... nn —" you feel absolutely weightless as your body gives in, hands and feet clenching almost painfully as his thrusts become more shallow with his release that follows shortly after. you feel his fingertips delicately trailing up and down the middle of your stomach, and you can't help but giggle and shake your head
"hm?" he coos, exhaling quite laboriously from his nostrils as he tilts his head and guides a lock of hair out of your face. "no? no what, goofball?"
he doesn't quite get an answer, just your head snuggling up into the crook under his chin as you come down from your orgasm after a while. the room falls silent, and he starts to pull away to start the aftercare
"no —" you fuss, snatching him back towards you while another drunken giggle bubbles out of you
he laughs, his blissful smile pressing dimples into the brackets of his lips. "alright, alright. little while longer. just 'cause you're so fucking cute right now. then i'm gonna clean you up, wait 'til the room stops spinning like this and prepare for round two because i just gotta make you giggle like that again"
you shush him then mumble something that sounds like "not cute" or "cuddle me". something like that, he supposes
after he makes you take a couple of sips of cool water, you feel the tips of his fingers lightly rake over your scalp as he holds you close in your soft bed, sheets long abandoned on the hardwood floor. you close your eyes momentarily, letting your breath regulate as you absentmindedly trace loops onto his heaving, muscular back
lying on your side, your nude back is pressed against dicks hard chest, his legs intertwined with your limp limbs. his hands dig into the small fat of your hip as he thrust into you. his pace is harsh and fast, causing you to cry from pleasure.
your face is buried into dicks pillows as tears roll down your already wet face. your hands grip onto his dark blue bedsheets tightly for comfort as he pounds into your tight cunt.
slowing his movements, dick moves his hand from your hip to your chin, slowly lifting your chin to tilt your head just right for him to stare. “you’re crying.” he whispers, his blue eyes locked onto yours, he couldn’t help but stare. you were so pretty when you cry. leaning in, he sticks his tongue out, tracing your tears back up to your cheek. “i’m sorry about that, sweetheart.”
he lets go of your chin. your head falling back onto the pillow as his hand is back tightly on your hip. “you can take it though,” he thrust his hips hard against you. his large hand squeezing onto your hip in appreciation. “yeah?”
you nod, your tears rolling down again, one after another. you couldn’t help it. this felt so good. the way dick keeps rolling his hips. his voice whispering in your ear. it was too good. “so good.” you whimper out.
“yeah?” you don’t need to see dick to see his cocky smile. he was smug. “i’m making you feel good?”
he already knew the answer to his question, but you dumbly nod, eager to please him. he hums, squeezing your hip again, sliding out.
“dick.” you choke out, ready to start your complaints.
“be patient.” dick chides, harshly thrusting his cock back into your wet cunt. causing your whole body to jolt. “i always take care of ya,”
“no need to get all whiny on me, baby.” he picks up the pace, moving however he sees fit. moving closer, whispering his next words. “you’re so greedy. we should work on that.”
he could do whatever he wanted to you as long as he didn’t stop.
“i know, baby. just a few more inches.” dick coos softly into your ear, his large hand clamping onto your hip as he slowly inches his cock into you.
“you said just the tip.” you practically whine out, still tired from dick waking you up and turning you onto your side.
“i know,” he grunts, filling you up with his cock, his hips stammering a bit. you just felt too good. “i’m a liar, huh?”
whimpering out softly. dicks cock hitting just right. leaving you speechless, all you can do is nod as your hands grip onto his sheets.
“i’m sorry, baby.” you can feel the amused smirk on dick’s lips. you knew your boyfriend was anything but sorry. he was having the time of his life.
“i just couldn’t help myself,” he slowly slides out of you. his hand gently grips your shoulder and pushes you to lie on your back. you blink up at him slowly as you feel dick grip your hips, and gently thrust back into you.
“you’re too gorgeous.” he whispers, keeping his pace slow, his hands wrapping around your waist. nestling himself into you. “fuck.”
sitting up, he pulls your hips up to his, arching your back perfectly as he continues to move inside you faster.
“you just feel so perfect, squeezing me just right.” he holds your hips harder, lifting your back off his bed, thrusting his cock in you sharply.
closing your eyes shut, you let your body go lax, letting dick do whatever he wants in this moment, putting all your trust into him.
“open your eyes, baby.” dick starts to slow down his pace, a silent warning that he’ll stop if you don’t listen. “let me see those pretty eyes.”
you instantly cave in, opening your eyes. you couldn’t let him stop, not when he was making you feel amazing.
“there she is.” he smiles, leaning down to peck your lips. pulling away, dick continues to move his hips slowly, just to mess with you. his favorite thing to do was to tease and taunt you, how long did it take to mess with you until you whined or complained? he liked riling you up.
“dick, faster—“ you grumble, breathing heavily as you stare up at dick, watching as a smile forms on his lips again. “that’s not how you ask me for things.”
“dick, can you move faster, please?” you ask, hoping your asshole of a boyfriend actually listens.
“hmm, there we go,” he moves faster, pulling you in closer to him. leaning back down, “that’s all you had to do.” his whispers against your shoulder gently before taking a bite.
gasping from shock, your hands grip onto his sheets harder, your cunt squeezing against his dick. your legs shaking as the pressure continues to build up. the feeling of dicks tongue swirling around the bite; trying to soothe the aching feeling was hot. you physically felt hot, it made butterflies swirl around in your stomach.
“go ahead, baby, let go.” dick groans out, his teeth letting go of your shoulder as he buries his face against your neck, moving as fast as he could to make sure you got off. “i’m right behind you.”
dick sinks his teeth in again, taking a small bite of your skin in the crook of your neck. getting another whimper out of you, your body stiffens, and tears spill out as you cum for dick. he releases your throat from his mouth, his lips pressing kisses against your bitten skin as he whimpers and grunts.“just five more minutes, baby. then we’re finished.”
he moves faster, it’s a little sloppy, a sign that he’s so close too. with in a few more pumps, you feel dick come inside you with a harsh breath, his blue eyes staring into yours with adoration.
a/n: i’m on a dick grayson high!!! i need to gnaw on him!!
• {content} dick only respond to you calling him baby
The apartment was quiet for a Sunday afternoon, save for the rhythmic humming of the washing machine and the faint scent of fresh linen.
You were currently knee-deep in folding the endless mountain of laundry on the bed. You grabbed the next item from the basket, held it up, and instantly stopped, staring at it in absolute disbelief.
It was a pair of Dick’s favorite boxers—or at least, what used to be boxers. At this point, the fabric was so worn down it was almost translucent, and there were two distinct, gaping holes near the seam. They were hanging on by a single thread and sheer willpower.
"Dick, are you serious?" you called out toward the living room, where your boyfriend was currently stretched across the rug doing his afternoon mobility routine. "Dick, come look at these!"
No answer. Not even a rustle of his sweatpants.
"Dick?" you said, a little louder, peeking your head around the bedroom door.
He was flowing smoothly from a deep hamstring stretch into a cobra pose, looking entirely serene and completely oblivious to your existence.
You blinked. You knew for a fact he wasn't deaf—the man had peak-human Bat-family hearing and could spot a footstep on a roof three blocks away. You opened your mouth to yell his name again, but then the realization hit you.
You had called him 'Dick.'
In the three years you’d been together, you almost never called him by his actual name. He was "babe," "baby," "honey," or, on particularly chaotic mornings, "sweetheart." Calling him Dick was practically a foreign language to his subconscious.
A mischievous grin spread across your face. You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms.
"Richard?"
Silence. He shifted into a shoulder bridge.
"Grayson?"
He sighed softly, deepening the stretch, completely locked into his own world.
"Officer Grayson?"
Nothing.
You took a slow breath, held up the shredded boxers like evidence in a court trial, and dropped your voice to its usual fond, affectionate tone.
"Hey, baby?"
Dick’s head snapped up instantly. His bright blue eyes locked onto yours, a warm, easy smile instantly spreading across his face.
"Yeah, sweetcheeks? What's up?" he asked, popping off the floor with effortless agility and strolling toward the bedroom. He leaned into your space, instantly tilting his chin down for a kiss.
You held up the holy pair of boxers right between your faces like a shield, staring at him with an amused, disbelieving look. "Are you serious right now?"
Dick paused mid-lean, blinking at the ruined fabric, then up at you like a confused puppy. "What?"
"First of all, these are going in the trash. Second of all, I just called your name four times."
"No, you didn't," he said smoothly, sliding his arms around your waist anyway. "I would've heard you."
"I said Dick."
He flinched subtly, screwing up his nose as if the word tasted weird. "See? Hearing it now, it doesn't even sound like a real word. Who is he? Sounds like a stranger. I don't know him."
"It is literally your legal name!" You laughed, reaching up to tap his cheek.
Dick gently caught your wrist, tugging you a little closer until your chest was resting against his.
"My name," he corrected softly, his voice dropping into that low, warm register he saved just for you, "is baby. Or babe. I also accept 'hey handsome' if you're feeling fancy."
"You're ridiculous," you murmured, though you couldn't stop the smile tugging at your lips.
"I'm a man conditioned by love," he declared heroically, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. "If you start calling me Dick, I'm going to assume I'm in trouble, or that Bruce is standing right behind me. Neither of those options are good for my heart."
"So if I need to save you from a falling building, I just have to yell 'Look out, babe!'?"
"Precisely," Dick grinned, kissing your cheek before eyeing the ruined boxers in your hand. "And for the record, those are vintage. They're aerated. It's tactical."
"They're going in the trash, baby."
"Fair enough," he sighed dramatically, wrapping his arms around you tighter.
꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ . Light with a reader that he actually likes.
It’s so obvious how truly toxic Light is, and I really wouldn't want to be with someone like him. I lowkey cringe at the fact that I even wrote this. Oh yeah, I wrote this at 11 p.m. half-awake—you can tell I’m losing my sanity… I guess we are putting this in the Yandere category and also female reader. I made us popular… I’m so serious, I was bored when I wrote this."
────୨ৎ────
It is hard for me to imagine Light Yagami as capable of loving someone. It is really really hard, like we all know the truth….and I don’t think he will ever be able to but but for the sake of the title…we’ll just have to...go…
Pre-Kira Light, entirely unbeknownst to you, already liked you first.
Because you were insanely popular at the academy and charming, he noticed your presence everywhere in the hallways during the first semester.
He found himself completely intrested by how charismatic you were and you weren’t really dumb per say, you were intelligent and capable with witty conversations, you even were in the debate team.
You were incredibly known at the academy you had guys and even a few girls confessing to you.
To your face, he would act casual, but nah, he was also one of the people that liked you and gushed about you. Not that part though, Light would never.
He would always linger just a few seconds longer whenever he caught a whiff of your sweet perfume or noticed your presence.
He always staged "accidental" bumps in the crowded corridors just to hear you gasp a soft, "Oh, I’m so sorry!" so he could offer a polite, smile. And tell you it’s problem and walk away unable to control his smirk (he can’t control his face right that is canon)
And you also had a massive crush on him since day one. You thought he was the most handsome guy at the school and perfect by how he is the top one student you also knew he was well liked by others. He was the ideal type of guy.
In truth he was the reason why you turned down many other suitors.
Light’s massive ego usually makes him detest people who aren't on his level, but you were the exception , even if you were smart, he didn’t think you were still on his level—but thats okay!
He found it incredibly endearing how hard you worked to stay in the top ten just to make your parents proud, even if you pouted and whined over how difficult classes are and which you’d go over and ask for him for help, as an excuse to talk to him, he kinda figured that you liked him and that completely fed his ego, but he can’t laugh yet…he’ll have to wait.
He’ll casually comply and act like he is done with you, but he’ll explain it to you one by one for your head to remember.
Your popularity actually fed his ego—he loved watching a massive crowd of girls and guys swoon over you, knowing your eyes were only fixed on him.
He actually preferred that you were bit naive and sweet, he definitely spends time fantasizing domestic life with you ( I just have a gut feeling he is into that shit).
He fantasized about coming home from a long, stressful day as the cheif detective police at the National Police Agency to a warm home .
He pictured you, running to the front door to greet him with a bright smile and a kiss on the cheek.
A simple life was what he wanted away from the dark cruel injustice world that he is exposed too.
Because you were a bit naive,(he is the only one who thinks you are dumb, you aren’t but to him you are). he knew he could perfectly shelter you, protect you, and keep you entirely safe under his wing forever. He just loved the idea of being the sole provider..(I’m genuinely laughing at myself what the heck I’am writing.)
When you first visited his house, his mom and Sayu instantly fell in love with you, yeah he settled that you were his ideal type, you were sweet, kind, dumb but not too dumb and you weren’t whiny and always needy.
Hearing you giggle with Sayu and help his mom with dinner, made Light even dream more 100%
His sister practically found you cool and cling to you dragging you to talk about her crush Hideke Ryuga.
His mother also liked how polite and caring you are, his father didn’t say much but approved and patted lightly telling him to “appreciate you.”
The thing is he still hadn’t make a move yet, though it was really obvious that he liked you.
Even though you two aren't officially dating yet, Light is actively working on it.
He acts like you two are IN a relationship.
Whenever you casually mention a guy or a girl that you find cute, he gets insanely, quietly jealous.
His jaw will tighten, and his posture will go completely rigid, and he will immediately bring that person's entire worth down
"They aren’t good for you, he hangs out with bad influencial people ," he'll say smoothly, tapping his pencil against your textbook. "And their focus is entirely lacking in life-they won’t provide for you and They are a complete waste of your time."
He’ll also shift your attention right back to him by using distractions.
The exact moment you start talking about someone else, he will reach over and pop a piece of strawberry directly into your mouth—the ones his mom specifically sliced for you two.
He will casually lean over your shoulder, his chest practically pressing against your back, pretending to look at your math notes just to break your train of thought with his physical presence.
And guide your hand to help you usolve an equation you failed to solve for the test and wanted to know to score better for the retake of it.
Whenever you compliment his intelligence or his looks, Light gets literally high off of it.
It’s pretty known, this guy is egoistic, and your praise feeds his massive ego so intensely that he can barely control his smirk.
Your validation makes him intoxicated to him; hearing a girl he immensely likes tell him he's flawless makes his superiority complex absolutely bombastic.
Because he is so deeply infatuated, he drops that no pda act and lets you cling to him, to make it known to everyone that you liked him.
Normally, Light despises public displays of affection but he’ll genuinely hold your hand walk with you and even flirt with you in front of people, waving it around their faces that you liked him and not them.
It gets worse when you go out for “hangouts”, which is just a date and seeing people look at you, by his side makes people wish that was them by your side.
He will stand completely still in the crowded courtyard, letting you wrap your arms around his side or lean heavily against his shoulder when the both of you are sitting down together.
He lets the entire student body see how close you two are, it just makes them incredibly jealous hearing you smile and feed him food, they wish they were the ones in Light’s place.
He constantly runs "loyalty tests" on you during your study breaks.
He will purposely leave his phone face up on the desk, or mention a beautiful girl from another class who tried to hand him a letter, just to watch your reaction.
Or he’ll ask you about people that confessed to you—yeah they just can’t stop on liking you. (Cause you are THE Y/N)
The moment you pout or look upset, his internal satisfaction peaks, and he will immediately soothe you by patting your head “I’m just teasing you.”
Despite his growing obsession, Light was still completely, profoundly bored with the rest of the world.
But he was never bored of you; he was genuinely, deeply in love with the absolute power he held over your heart.
so we already know he is very toxic imagine but when he got that death note book, boi you are 100x cooked.
his sick logic reaches a dangerous conclusion. He is going to build a spotless, perfect utopia specifically for you to live in.
He still prefers that you are a bit naive and sweet, but now it serves a purpose. Rather than having a happy life as he wanted.
He now, views it as a must, to completely shield you from the "filth" of the current world. “Innocent” people like you are undeserving to live such a cruel miserable world.
Ryuk thinks your entire relationship is the funniest thing to ever exist. He practically laughed at Light’s face when he told him this.
Ryuk knows he stalks you on the daily.
The Shinigami will literally cackle out loud, floating behind Light whenever he writes names on the death note and see Light suddenly pause, pull out his phone , and type out a, doting text to you: “get here safely , I’ll see you for our study session tonight.”
Ryuk will tease him relentlessly, trying to make him slip up , whenever you are in his room. He’ll annoy him by jumping up and down. It also gets worse when there are freshly cut apples in the room.
Light of course will ask you about Kira and You’ll pout, bite your lip, and say something like, "I don't know, Light... Kira is just really scary. What if he accidentally kills an innocent person just because? I think it's wrong to hurt people like that."
The exact second those words leave your mouth, Light’s perfectly fake-ass smile completely freezes.
His ego takes a massive, agonizing hit because the one girl he loves—the one girl whose opinion matters to his god complex—thinks his plan is "scary" and “wrong”.
And Ryuk? Ryuk completely loses his mind, laughing at him.
The Shinigami will start rolling around on the floor, laughing his head off at Light's pure misery. "Aha-ha-ha! Did you hear that, Light? She thinks you're a scary bad guy! The God of the New World just got rejected by his own soon to be girlfriend!"
Light will have to sit there, gripping his pencil so hard it nearly snaps in half, forced to gently pat your head and say, "You're right, it is scary. Don't worry about it," while his internal monologue is screaming in absolute frustration because he can't change your stubborn mind.
Light’s possessiveness only intensified as high school came to an end. He genuinely, desperately wanted you to get into To-Oh University with him.
He practically demanded you accept the offer, completely unwilling to let you attend any other college where he couldn't keep you under his direct surveillance.
But college only made his torment worse.
You were a beautiful, charismatic young woman, and To-Oh was filled with older, bolder men and beautiful, intelligent ladies.
Because he had to keep up appearances and avoid L's intense scrutiny, he lived in constant, agonizing torment, unable to use the Death Note on the people who flirted with you.
One afternoon, a loud, popular guy from the university track team cornered you in the corridor.
He leaned heavily over you, flashing a confident grin, trying to smoothly slide his digits into your phone.
You gave a polite, slightly flustered laugh, just trying to be nice, and smiled up at him.
From the end of the hall, Light was standing completely still. His polite mask was completely gone, replaced by a dead, hollow stare.
His hands were buried deep inside his blazer pockets. His fingers were literally tracing the edge of the hidden compartment, touching the paper cut from his Death Note.
He furiously wanted the guy dead right then and there because of how close he was standing, and because he had actually managed to make you smile.
But he couldn't do it. If that track guy suddenly dropped dead of a heart attack right after flirting with you, L would connect the dots instantly. L probably knew all about you by now. From your visits from his house.
L would investigate why a perfectly healthy college student died immediately after interacting with Kira's suspected inner circle.
Light was forced to swallow his deadly rage. Forcing a charming smile back onto his face, he strode over and smoothly wrapped his arm around your waist, firmly dragging you away from the athlete.
From that day on, he started rushing to your side whenever your classes would end, yeah sure he was going out with other girls but the both of you weren’t officially, yet.
Plus he tells you that “you are the only one I actually care for.” To disregard any insecure feelings you harbored.
He’d bring you back to his house the very second you were free, desperate to avoid other people flirting with you after classes or hogging up your free time.
When you said you were going to a speed dating event where your friend dragged you he immediately talked down to the person you were friends. Yeah he’ll do anything for sure to not let anyone date you.
The moment you walked through the Yagami front door and greeted his mother, Light finally breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Inside his house, you were completely isolated.
You went upstairs to his bedroom, sitting on his bed to study for your upcoming math retake. Light stepped out for just a moment to grab a drink.
As you reached down to grab a dropped highlighter, your fingers brushed against something else.
It was a tiny, torn piece of paper that had accidentally slipped out of Light's watch or wallet. Curious, you picked it up, looking at the jagged edge.
Right at that moment, Light stepped back into the room.
When he saw what was in your hand, Light’s soul nearly left his body. You were literally holding a torn piece of the Death Note.
He moved faster than humanly possible. In a blur of sheer panic, he lunged across the room and snatched the paper out of your hands before your pencil could even touch it.
His chest was heaving violently, his eyes wide with a rare, genuine terror. Before you could even process what was happening, Light slapped his palms over your eyes, completely blinding you.
"Light? What are you doing? I can’t see anything !" you whimpered, trying to pull his hands away.
Light didn't answer. His heart was hammering against his ribs. Because the second your skin had made contact with that paper, you’d see Ryuk by now.
Ryuk was floating in the middle of the room, his massive yellow eyes wide glowing red. Then, a massive, terrifying grin split the Shinigami's face.
This made Ryuk intensely interested. He didn't say a word to you yet, just letting out a low, amused chuckle that vibrated through the air.
Light knew that if he took his hands off your eyes, you would look up, see a literal God of Death standing over his bed, and your naive, anti-Kira mind would put all the pieces together. You would know he was the mass murderer you feared.
"Light? What's that sound? Why is it so cold in here?" you asked, your voice trembling.
Gripping your arm firmly while keeping your face turned completely away from the center of the room, Light practically dragged you out of his bedroom.
His face was entirely pale, slick with cold sweat. He opened the front door, his voice tight, strained, and totally stripped of its usual warmth.
"You need to leave. Right now," he commanded, his eyes boring into yours with an intensity that genuinely scared you. "Go home. We'll study another time."
You stared at him, hurt and confused, before turning around and quickly running down the street.
The moment the front door clicked shut, Light leaned his back against it, sliding down to the floor as he let out a ragged breath.
Upstairs, Ryuk was literally rolling on Light's bed, suffocating from how hard he was laughing.
The Shinigami was kicking his legs wildly in the air, pointing a long, gray finger at the ceiling as Light walked back into the room.
"Aha-ha-ha-ha! Oh my god, Light!" Ryuk howled, his voice echoing off the walls. "She touched the notebook page! That means she can see me now! The next time she comes over, I can talk to her! And I can tell her all about how wonderful you are"
Light grabbed his desk chair, his knuckles turning entirely white as he stared at the cackling Shinigami.
You were completely an anti-Kira. If you saw Ryuk, if you found out the truth, the perfect paradise he was building for you would shatter completely.
He had to figure out a way to keep you blind to the monster in his room, or risk losing the only person he actually loved forever.
For the next two weeks, Light completely avoided you.
Whenever you tried to catch him in the university corridors, he would offer a brief, excuse and would walk away.
He ordered Ryuk under no circumstances to interact with you, trying to entirely suppress the fact that you had touched the Death Note page.
But Light couldn't keep you away forever.
You had a physics class to pass and the professor was harsh about grading his tests and you talked him into studying with you at his room again.
You walked up to his bedroom assuming he was inside. You opened the door—and the breath completely left your lungs.
Floating right beside Light's desk was the towering, monster.
Ryuk was staring directly at you, his massive yellow eyes bulging with delight as a grotesque, horrific grin split his face from ear to ear. “Hi.”
He was completely enjoying your sheer terror.
Your entire body went rigid and you began hyperventilating, your chest heaving violently as you stumbled backward, crying out in sheer panic.
The door clicked shut behind you as Light stepped into the room. Seeing your hysterical state, he realized his containment plan had utterly failed.
He knew ryuk definitely planned this and didn’t do as he said.
He had no choice but to stop you from screaming and alerting his mother downstairs, Light had to out himself completely. He’d go by your side kneeling to soothe you.
"Calm down," Light said, his voice dropping into a cold, terrifyingly sharp pitch you had never heard before. "He won’t hurt you that’s just Ryuk. He's a Shinigami. And... I—” he hesitated “I’am Kira."
Hearing the boy you like admit to being the kira made your panic spike even more .
You screamed, entirely refusing to believe it. When Light lunged forward, trying to grab your shoulders to steady your hyperventilating frame, and cover your mouth but you instinctively slapped his hands away
"Don't touch me! Get away from me!" you sobbed, turning on your heel and sprinting frantically down the stairs.
And ryuk was genuinely enjoying what was happening.
You open the bedroom door but he caught up to you in seconds, his hand clamping like a vice around your wrist, brutally dragging you down.
He pinned you against the bed ( woah so cliché) , his body pressing heavily against yours to trap you completely
His doting “ boyfriend ” facade was entirely gone.
"Listen to me very carefully," Light hissed, his grip tightening enough to leave bruises on your skin. "You are going to sit on my bed, and you are going to calm down, you will not scream or shout, if you do I’ll hurt you—and you don’t want that right? i don’t want to hurt you either.”
You looked up at his face, trembling violently. In that horrifying silence, the realization hit you if you said a single word about this to anyone, you would be dead.
Light loved you, but he would not hesitate to silence you.
SYNOPSIS: "You're not listening!" A bloody hand shoots out to clutch at the front of his tunic, fisting the fabric tight enough to make her knuckles white. "You know it's not possible, if you try to save me you could die!"
"Then I shall die trying!" He snarls, the break in composure startles her into silence, eyes wide.
NOTE: He's aged up obviously
MASTERLIST
The red flashing light around his wrist echoes the quick pace of his heartbeat.
When her distress beacon had lit up, he'd abandoned his patrol route and shot off towards her location immediately. Damian had sworn he felt his heart pounding in his ears when she stopped responding over her earpiece.
"Where is she?" He demands the moment he touches down on the building adjacent to the abandoned apartment complex. The tightness of his father's jaw, the furrow in Nightwing's brow, the twitchiness of Hood's fingers along the trigger of his pistols: none of it works favourably to calm his thoughts.
It's a moment before anyone speaks.
"Still inside." Says the gravel in Batman's voice.
Instead of pushing for why none of them are mid-extraction, Damian scowl and turns his attention to the building. It's always quicker to do his own deductions, and frankly, he's in no mood for anybody's stuttered attempts to explain. It looks still from the outside, no lights shining through the cracks in the bricks or the broken windows, but silence does not always mean inoccupation.
There is an art to nothingness, to maintaining the illusion of it. One can fool the eyes and the ears, but never the ironclad intuition of the mind.
Shadows. They are there, invisible but present. He only recognises it because it is the same sort of suspense he grew up with, had been trained to replicate. Make yourself invisible until it is time to strike. Efficient, cold, and a distinct lack of detachment.
"I fail to see why grandfather's men prove to be enough of a hurdle that hinders our extraction procedures." He says tightly, running the pad of thumb over the hilt of his sheathed katana. A self-soothing gesture he would never have normally indulged in.
"That place is crawling with assassins, Robin." Nightwing says, running a stressed hand through his hair. "I did a sweep around the building earlier. I've never seen this many in one place."
"I dunno what you did, but it looks like you really pissed Ra's the fuck off." Jason chimes in, and promptly goes ignored by Damian.
"We're working on clearing an entry point." Batman says. "She confirmed the inside was overrun before her comms cut out. We need to play this smart." Damian grips his weapon in frustration. "Spoiler in en route as backup, Red Robin is conferring with Oracle over the building's blueprints."
The thing is, Damian believes them. He knows his family adores her, knows that they are equally as frustration and impatient by the little tells they show, but he is certain none of them feel the cold dread that's been an iron band around his chest since he found out about the situation.
Damian knew he should have accompanied her, knew he should have argued harder when she'd insisted she'd be fine on her own. Not as a slight against her own skills, but purely because something had felt off about the entire thing. Much too simple, much to easy. They should have seen the ambush coming from a mile away, he should have seen it.
This wasn't the usual hostage situation or a negotiation. Damian knows what Ra's is capable of, knows that the assassin's will not leave until they complete their mission, whatever the hell that may be. The building is only so big, there are only so many places to retreat to. What if his love is injured? What if she's incapacitated somewhere and they've already gotten to her?
What if Damian is too late?
In hindsight, there was nothing that could have stopped him from slipping away. Everyone else could plan all they liked, but he would not wait around idly when she was inside, condition unknown.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Stupid fucking Ra's and his stupid fucking assassins, and their stupid sharp fucking blades. She grits her teeth, knuckles white against the bathroom sink. The faucet trembles with her arm, the effort it takes to lower herself down onto the ground nearly makes her black out.
The gushing wound across her right thigh doesn't make life any easier.
"Fuck." She whispers hoarsely, peeling back the torn fabric to look at it under the dingy moonlight. It's deep and jagged, a gag tears out her throat at the flash of bone beneath the bubbling blood spilling out onto the floor under her.
A simple intel gathering assignment gone awry, she had barely managed to press the distress beacon programmed into her comm link and say a few words before it had been destroyed by Ra's men with a crack to the side of the head. She'd managed to take down two of them before the third had materialised out of nowhere and carved her up. The only reason she'd managed to slip away with an injury of this calibre had been the smoke pellets she'd had on her.
She was going to die in this stupid, dirty bathroom tucked away in some nameless person's abandoned apartment. There were worse way to go, but this fucking sucked. There was always the chance of casualties in the field, but something about it always made her a bit invincible. There's no glamour in what any of them do, but she'd always felt a bit invincible flying from rooftop to rooftop with the others.
The others.
They'd try to piece together a plan, she knows they won't give up. The protectiveness of her partners, the way they're all grit and determination when it comes to the people they care about, there's no world in which they wouldn't try to help her, but this? Them, even as strong as resilant and resourseful as they are?
They cannot hope to take on a small army on their own and reach her before she bleeds out. It's the truth, it sinks like a stone in her gut. Knowledge is power, but ignorance is bliss, and for once she wishes that she had the same endless optimism that some of the other had.
Jason would be pissed, Bruce and Dick would be devastated. She's sure Tim and Barbara would run themselves ragged trying to find a way to have prevented the tragedy, Cass and Duke would receded into themselves.
Damian...
She blinks back the burn of tears.
It's childish, but she's never wanted to see him more. Their goodbye that night had been rushed under the guise of more time. Nobody thinks theirs will run out until it does. She wants to see him so badly, wants the comforting touch of his hands that have proven themselves of gentleness and warmth when needed. She wants to hear his half-hearted scoffs and the way he whispers endearments against her skin when he thinks she's asleep.
The sleeve of her tunic ripping is a crack in the silence. Clammy hands clumsily wrap the wound, trying to apply some semblance of first aid to a wound that definitely will not be helped with the meagre supplies she has on hand.
Despite the inevitability of it, she's not going to actively participate in quickening her death. Her harsh pants are the only sound in the room for now, but it'll only a few minutes until she's found-
The window clicks.
Hackled raises through the spinning in her head, her hand feels around frantically for a weapon that's not there. Squinting her eyes, she can make out a figure slipping into the room, silhouetted against the moonlight. It's a man by the looks of it, and she's haflway through the motion of pushing herself to her feet, blood loss be damned when he speaks.
"Do not move." The man says, and her breath hitches.
It must be a trick of the light, or she might already be halfway in the grave because Damain kneels beside her, sharp eyes surveying the scene, drinking her in like it's the first time he's seen her. Too in shock to say anything, she watches in disbelief as he seems to gather himself together, the bob of his adam's apple as he swallows.
"Damian..." She breathes, afraid to reach out and touch him lest he dissipates.
"Beloved." He murmurs, eyes flickering up to meet hers before dropping down to her thigh. His brows pull together, and for a moment she swears she sees a hint of panic before those iron doors slam shut and leave him composed once again. "We must get you out. I'll be able to treat you better in the cave."
The mention of the cave and his hands pressing around her wound snap her out of her daze.
"Why are you here?" She hisses, head dropping back in pain as he pulls on the binding to make it tighter, cutting off the blood flow. Her hand jerks out to squeeze his arm in pain. He barely flinches.
"You thought I would be content waiting outside for the rest of them to scope out a viable escape route?" He quirks a brow, tension lining his shoulders.
"This was clearly a trap." She grits her teeth. "None of us knew Ra's was here, and because you snuck in, they have to rescue both of us now." Despite her words, her grip on him remain tight, unwilling to let go.
"Hush." He says quietly. "Do not concern yourself with me, I'll either find a way to get us out, or my family will break in and assist us."
"They won't, not before I bleed out. I know you can tell." She pants, voice cracking halfway through. "And you can't fight if you're carrying me and...and you know there's too many of them. Dami, please go back out without me-"
"This is not a discussion."
"It's not worth the gamble-"
"Do not utter such foolishness again"
"You're not listening!" A bloody hand shoots out to clutch at the front of his tunic, fisting the fabric tight enough to make her knuckles white. "You know it's not possible, if you try to save me you could die!"
"Then I shall die trying!" He snarls, the break in composure startles her into silence, eyes wide. For a moment, none of that cool, collected exterior is there. There's pain in his eyes, desperation nipping at his heels and a wild look to him that she's never seen before.
The hands on her thigh tremble.
Damian knows how bad the situation is. He had not...part of him had been convinced that he'd find her whole and they'd figure it out from there, but this? The sheer amount of blood pooling beneath his knees, soaking through his pants...it's a miracle she's still conscious. any unnecessary movements will only speed up the process.
He breathes deep, trying to reign himself in before he unravels at the seams. Damian will not allow either of them to entertain the thought that they might not make it out of here alive. In front of him is the only person who has showed him what it feels like to be so wholly understood and loved, someone who has fought for him when he had deemed himself unsalvageable. She had looked at the rotten parts of him and seen something worthy of saving.
Again and again she has pulled him back from the sludge of his own mind, molded him into a man that is not defined by the black mark of his past. It is common sense that she should know, then, that not even the throes of death would ever be enough to strip his loyalty away.
If he were a smaller man, he'd have said this moment is repayment for all the times she's saved him. A lesser man he is not: his loyalty does not come any strings. He tips his forehead down, presses it against hers. As intimate as the moment allows.
In a moment of desperation that shows just how shaken up he must be, Damian smooths a hand over her hair, lets it cup her cheek for a second and makes her look him in the eye.
"Ya Rouhi, I would not turn my back on you even if my demise was to be destined by your hand." He whispers fiercely.
Her face crumples, the mask of bravery shattered
"I don't want to die." The admission is shaky, makes Damian's heart squeeze with pain.
"You will not." He says, eyes flashing. "I swear it, on my life, you will wake up tomorrow and have whatever god forsaken, tooth-rotting concoction you may please for breakfast."
She sniffles out a breathy, pained laugh. There's no struggle when he slides his arms under her and hoists her against his chest. The shift tears a gasp out of her throat, vision blacking out for a moment as the gash in her thigh radiates unbearable pain.
Both of them know better than to rely on the sound of footsteps. Ra's trains his own in silence better than that, and though it pains her to make the comparison, she thinks of the way she can only hear Damian coming up behind her in their apartment if he wishes for it and makes his footsteps intentionally noisier.
The corridors are eerily quiet, the type of suspended silence where you're bracing for something to jump out at you. They encounter...nothing. There's nothing for a good few minutes, a stalk contrast to the relentless onslaught she'd been facing before.
Damian is not naive enough to believe they've retreated. He knows his presence must be a variable unaccounted for, something worth pulling back to analyse and plan for.
He is also not arrogant enough to believe it will be enough to keep them away for long.
Damian's arms tighten around her as he peers over his shoulder, then around a corner. It's clear.
He frowns.
"Something's wrong." He hears her whisper. It's akin to a prayer answered. not one moment after the words pass her lips, the hair on the back of his neck stand up and he ducks.
A shiny dagger embeds itself into the wall behind him right where his throat would have been. A curse pushes past his lips, but there's no franticness in the way he looks over his shoulder. The empty hallway holds three assassins halfway down. In front of them appear another four.
They're outnumbered, and Damian's mind scrambles to connect the dots into a semblance of a plan. There's only one he can think of right now, but he cannot fight freely without worrying about one of their foes harming her, lunging to finish the job. Green eyes flicker across the environment, the floors and the ceilings, their opponents and the exit he'd planned to slip out of just a few feet away.
There are no grates on the floor, and the ceilings are too high to jump to for access to any ventilation shafts. Both ways are blocked. Something cool and metal digs into his back as he takes a step backwards. Damian stiffens, chances a glance behind him.
Oh.
Good enough.
"You must trust me." He mumbles, low enough for her to hear. With a flick of his wrist, he sends three knives flying this way and that, and uses his momentum to turn and yank the doorknob behind him open.
Damian pushes her down and into the small supply closet, slamming the door shut, drawing his katana out. He kicks the doorknob until the handle is crumpled, unusable from the outside. Nothing can get in through his side, and he doubts she's in any shape to stand and open the door from hers.
The cry of his name, the repeated thud of a body against the door goes ignored in favour of widening his stance. Protectiveness hardens every line in his body, eyes narrowed and sharp. He is centered, he is calm.
Damian is not a killer anymore.
He is a protector.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Blood smears on the wood from the effort of her clawing. The handle won't move, jammed from the outside, there's no strength in her left to stand and try to break down the door.
"Damian!" She shouts frantically, scratching at the door uselessly. Her fingertips are caked with blood, skin ripped and embedded with splinters. "Let me out! Damian!"
Fuck him, fuck his stupid self sacrificial self, when they got out of this she's going to strangle him herself for this. The clang of metal on metal, fist on flesh and cloth is faint but there. As long as it's noisy, that's good, it means he's still alive and fighting, she thinks a little hysterically.
Back to the door, she drops her head in her hands, willing herself to focus and listen, to fight the heaviness dragging her down. Her blood has soaked through the makeshift wrap, dripping onto the floor. The wooziness catches up to her, and eventually the lightheadedness wins out.
Her last thought before the she's freefalling into the dark is about the cat they were going to adopt together next week. An elderly calico with a missing eye.
She goes limp against the door.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
"-on. Open your eyes. Please. Please come back to me." The words are faint, slipping like sand away from her. It's as though she's floating somewhere far, untethered and detached, void of an anchor or a lighthouse.
It's...it hurts. To listen. It sounds so heartbroken. Hoarse and desperate in a way she hasn't ever heard before. Someone's begging. She knows that voice, knows him in a way that tugs at her very soul. Oud and leather, tinged with something metallic. The scent wraps around her, comforting and familiar.
She can't listen to the devastation in his voice anymore. Slowly, so slowly it feels like pulling herself out of a vat of thick mud, she opens her eyes.
Damian chokes, squeezing her to his chest tightly. He's mumbling something with a broken voice that hitches every so often, face buried in her hair. "Hayati," He gasps, a prayer against her temple. He pulls back frantically. "I love you. Do not leave me like this. I love you."
She's only half there, but still registers the glassy sheen over his eyes, the redness around them as he drinks her like he's trying to memorise her.
He looks horrible, cuts and bruises across the visible skin, the left side of his face is coated with blood, a cut just blow his right eye trickles crimson down his cheek. He's favouring one of his sides, and his breathing isn't as deep as it should be, indicators of potential broken ribs.
But he's here.
He's here, and real and alive. Her hand twitches, curls on top of one of his and is immediately enveloped.
The beginnings of a question try to pass her lips, but the words die on her tongue, too tired and in pain to push them outside. Instead she tilts her head to the side ever so slightly to get a view of outside the closet.
Bodies litter the floor. At least two dozen assassins, still and unconscious, bleeding and wounded.
A small smile pulls at her lips. Of course he won. He shifts to block her view, and if she had anything left in her she would've snorted in amusement at the show of concern.
Lips press against her forehead. "Stay awake." He orders shakily against her skin. "The others are retrieving the batmobile to get you out." The words are pained, breathing laboured.
The most she can manage is a weak hum. They stay like that, her half in Damian's lap, the both of them pressed together as close as possible, breathing and trying to reassure themselves of the others presence.
It's only when Nightwing and Red Hood run into the room, pale but steady that Damian lets go. His shoulders drop at the sight of his brothers. He sways, and after pushing out one last mumble, slumps over her body, passing out.
"You're alright."
A death grip still on him, it's not long before she follows.
SYNOPSIS: Damian pushes her head back down to his chest and smooths his hand through her hair gently. "Nothing of concern." He murmurs quietly, in a tone that the others have never heard before. "Go back to sleep, Habibti."
"Oh my God." Dick blinks in amazement.
"I don't think pinching is enough, I might have to ask Jason to shoot me in the foot." Tim wheezes when Dick elbows his chidingly.
MASTERLIST
"Someone pinch me." Tim whispers in disbelief, peering into the living room from the doorway leading to the hall.
The glare Damian fixes him with from his spot on the couch is withering, and if Tim wasn't a bat that was practically immune to his little brother's moods he would've ran for the hills.
Instead, he grins, slow and shit-eating. "Dick!" He calls over his shoulder. "Dick, come here!"
"Quiet!" Damian hisses, voice pitched low. The scowl on his face is fierce, and completely at odds with the entire scene.
He's laying on the couch, his girlfriend nestles onto his chest, fast asleep. There's a movie nobody's paying attention to anymore droning on in the background, his arms around her securely making sure she stays put and comfortable. She is warm against him, soft and soothing. The weight of her makes the thing that's always coiled tense and tight in his chest unwind, the scent of her coaxes his muscles to relax.
Nights like this are his favourite, back at their abode. Soft music playing in the background, the lights dimmed low and those candles she loves lit on the coffee table. It's moments like those where everything slows down and Damian feels, if but for a while, that he can be still and not suffer the consequences.
His first mistake was agreeing to stay over at the manor. It's the middle of the night, and it was a mistake on his part to oversee the fact that half of his idiotic family is practically nocturnal.
It was just so easy to fall back into habits, he'd been cocooned with the familiarity of her body against his before Damian had realised that perhaps this was not the best place to settle down without the intention of being seen.
It's not that he wishes to avoid being seen with her; that would be a lie severe enough to warrant cutting his tongue out in punishment. No, if Damian had his way, they'd never be apart. He'd have her with him always. It's more that...he's naturally a private person. It had taken an entire year for him to bring her over to the manor itself. These little things, the little pockets of contentedness, Damian finds himself protective over them. He wants every shred of her kindness, wants to keep it close to his chest where it'll be safe.
By the time his oldest brother enters the room curiously, Damian's ears are a little red, but he refuses to let anything but disdain show on his face.
He does not understand why they are treating this like such a monumental sight. He loves her. They live together. They have been each other's for two years now and yet the sight of them together like this is still enough for Dick to laugh in glee and pull his phone out.
"Grayson, I will eviscerate you." He threatens as the flash goes off. "Put that away, this is childish." Automatically, his hand covers her eyes to shield it from the burst of light, and Grayson at least has the decency to look apologetic.
"You're gonna have to move out from under there first, Dami." Dick snickers, looking through the photos, barely holding back a coo. "This is adorable." He grins. "I'm getting this printed; it's going up on a wall here somewhere."
"You will do no such thing!" His face prickles with heat. "As if I-"
He cuts himself off when she stirs against his chest with a soft sound, eyes fluttering open, half lidded. "Hmm?"
Tim and Dick watch in amazement as their brother, regal and cut from stone, softens into something quieter. The hard lines smooth over, the determined glint in his eye ebbs away.
Damian pushes her head back down to his chest and smooths his hand through her hair gently. "Nothing of concern." He murmurs quietly, in a tone that the others have never heard before. "Go back to sleep, Habibti."
The trust between them is obvious, because all she does is answer with a sleepy hum, and push herself a little higher on his body so she can tip her face into the crook of his neck. Damian's arms tighten around her, and he adjusts to make them more comfortable.
"Oh my God." Dick blinks in amazement.
"I don't think pinching is enough, I might have to ask Jason to shoot me in the foot." Tim wheezes when Dick elbows his chidingly.
"We can go to our room." Damian is not startled when she whispers against his neck. Perhaps if he was younger, more brash and easily riled up he would have agreed. Maybe he would have even pushed her off, or been vigilant enough to never let himself be caught in this position to begin with.
But he's grown older, and being here with his family has chiselled down his sharper edges into ones that are still rough, but don't cut as easily. He wouldn't call it 'going soft', because at the end of the day Damian is still inherently the same person. But he understands more now, he knows that beneath their teasing, their intentions are innocent. Their eyes are warm with something like pride and happiness for him. Grayson exudes it as the telltale ping on his phone on the coffee table tells him those pictures have just been sent to him.
"We have no obligation to move." He answers, taking her nuzzling into him as agreement. He's tuned his brother's out, but eventually Tim steps out when his phone rings, and Grayson takes his leave shortly after with a wink and a grin.
And it's peaceful.
They lay there for a moment until he notices fondly that their breathing is in sync.
Carefully, he feels around the back of the couch with one hand and grabs the decorative throw Alfred introduced to the rotation last month. Damian shakes it out and adjusts it to cover them, knowing by the soft exhale against his skin that it was the right choice.
"Wake me up if we do need to move." She says sleepily, lips brushing against his jaw chastely. "Love you, Dami."
Fondness seeps through him, cements itself in the cracks of something he had always felt was missing before she came into his life. A balm, cool to the touch, healing to his soul.
"Ya Rouhi." is lips press against her forehead, sweet and intense as he always is. "Rest."
He watches her muscles relax, watches the way she trusts him so openly, notes exactly when she falls back asleep with the way her breathing deepens. Damian always sleeps better with her there, holding onto her like this, keeping her against him reassures that part of him that is used to his joy being torn away for a lesson that might have been beat into him regardless.
He feels better knowing she's safe, protected, even if he knows she's the last person that would need it.
Eventually sleep calls to him too, the crackling fireplace ambient noise enough for Damian to let his eyes shut as well. He'd probably resolve to get up after a while, to carry her to the room they're staying in because although it's cozy here, he would much prefer to rest on an actual mattress.
But for now, the moment is his. Theirs.
"What the fuck am I seeing?"
Nevermind.
Annoyance flaring, he holds back a sigh and takes the blanket off of them, manoeuvring to slide an arm under her knees and pick her up.
Jason looks stunned as Damian pushes past him towards the stairs wordlessly.
"Told you so." She smiles against his chest when he grumbles.
Can I request some platonic WHA headcannons? Olriggio / Qifrey w an teen apprentance (That is like 2x the version of Aggot, in a bad overworking way yk) that is in their teen years and the "Im not a child" phase where they want to do spells and go out and do commissions on their own to prove themselves, sneaking out to practice more and all that comes w it. Only to end up hurting themselves or getting in trouble (Surely, for Olly's part, fire magic can do harm to the one drawing it if its drawn incorrectly; so they end up burning their dominant hand).
Also maybe small interactions w the girls on Qif's parts 🥹? Like Qifrey's og aprentance showing them cool stuff n all.
Take care! Also feel free to write this in any form you wish for!
Take care!!
WHAT'S PLAYIN'? ─── SWEET CHILD O' MINE (GUNS N' ROSES) ♬.ᐟ
FEATURING ᯓ♪ qifrey x teen!apprentice!reader • platonic ♬.ᐟ
ARTIST ᯓ♪ this took a month before i freed it from the confines of my inbox lmao im sorry for the long wait anon! :') — also i kinda like this concept, i should make a child mc series for qifrey hmmm ♬.ᐟ
the first time qifrey took you in as an apprentice, the transition went so smoothly he had to convince himself that you are still a child and not a grown up adult. you did not cry, did not throw tantrums like the other apprentices he had seen (you're a kid, you're supposed to act like one!) and listened to him with so much attention he sometimes had to excuse himself simply because your stare makes him nervous. you were simply too invested in listening. something about your eagerness to learn and patience to practice over and over feels concerning, akin to adding fuel to a forest fire–it starts as a spark of ember, then the blaze becomes enormous, enough that he sometimes has to pull you back from chewing more than you can swallow.
sometimes, you have your weirdness. you're a child, of course you'd develop weird quirks of your own!
qifrey's fond of your small habits; like how you sometimes practice your drawings on uneven surfaces to challenge yourself, you start your circle from the bottom and end at the bottom with the smallest gap between them (his breath catches in his throat every single time), caressing the parchment before you draw–something about how the paper feels different, he's not too sure why you do it–and the list goes on. truthfully, qifrey's fond of almost everything you do! and you grew up under his care at such a young age that he's seen every habit and growth you went through. (except for the random long staring you sometimes do. it gets a little creepy at night.)
but the one thing he hoped you would grow out of was your questionable need to “grow up faster” and sense of independence–you're too young! you have him to lean on, it doesn't matter if you're a kid or a teen, heck, you can depend on him even if you're a grown adult! you'll always be his precious baby!
your rebellious teenage phase did not phased him that much, he had expected it from you as he was the same himself. (poor beldaruit, so this is what it felt like when he was still an apprentice.) nevertheless, he thinks he's prepared himself enough for it!
until he wasn't.
“you ought to explain yourself this instant!”
qifrey wasn't sure what had transpired, but from the looks of his dear friend's face and the gauze around your head and arms, things aren't looking good.
“there's nothing for me to tell.”
“yes, there is.”
“alright, everyone calm down.” qifrey stands between the two of you. honestly, the way you and olruggio are glaring at each other almost made it look like you're related somehow. it would be best if he handles this himself, lest the both of you burn the atelier down. he leans down to your height, taking your hands in his like he had always done, something he does to keep you calm whenever you feel overwhelmed or anxious after a mistake.
and yet, you look like you wanted nothing more than to run to your room. he convinces himself it's just the stress from the situation and not you growing tired of the affection.
“my child–”
“i'm not a child.”
well, that's certainly one way to make him feel better. there's definitely not a part of him that feels a little sad.
“alright, then.” he clears his throat. “my dear, what have you been up to this morning? we've been looking everywhere for you.”
you purse your lips together, the line a little wobbly and your hands curled under his palm. the silence was long, he could hear your restless mind like a white noise that he hears whenever he feels like you're in trouble or distressed. there's also an impatient sigh from behind him, one he knows oh so well.
“they were doing missions on their own, without telling us.”
“that's none of your business!” you turn to glare at him once more, refusing to look at your master's frown–the pain from the gashes on your arms and the throbbing of your head was much more tolerable than the disappointment in qifrey's eyes.
you hate that kind of look, you've worked so hard never to see that look on his face. and all it took was one slip and a tumble down.
“were you, my dear?”
“i…” you grit your teeth against each other, pulling your hands away from him to cross your arms against your chest. “they just asked me for a small favor, that's all.”
“and that small favor got you wrapped up, huh?”
“olly, can you please check on the pot in the kitchen for me?” qifrey looks at him with a tight smile–olruggio thinks he's the one in trouble now that he's smiling like that. with a stubborn huff and shake of his head, he turns on his feet to do what was asked of him. besides, this was turning into a massive headache, he'd rather not deal with this.
“so, my apprentice. what were you up to, hm?”
qifrey's eye watches you fumble with your feet, eyes cast down on the floor. this way, you look like you've went back to being a foot smaller than today–when you were still the small little thing that follows him around with an eager pep on your steps and bright excited eyes. there's no blaming him, really, for he cannot stand your pouty lips and sullen eyes.
“you're not in trouble, just so you know.”
a finger pushes back the hair in front of your face, a gentle smile on his lips as you finally look up at him with a guilty look.
“you went back to the small village we went to three days ago, didn't you?”
“mhm.” your nod was meek, so was your voice.
“why didn't you tell me?”
“when the village chief asked you if we could help them gather herbs before winter comes, why did you refuse to help them?”
the accusatory tone in your voice did not bypass his ears. it was almost like you were scolding him and not the other way around.
“well, because i couldn't possibly take you with me. the herbs they were asking for requires us to fly at such high altitude.” gingerly, he caresses the plush on your cheek, careful not to overwhelm you so much that you'd resort to hiding from him. “i wouldn't want to risk your safety.”
“i have sylph shoes for that.”
he pinches your puffed out cheeks, laughing when you weakly swat his hand away from the pampered skin.
“yes, you do. but since you went on your own, i'm sure you know why now, am i correct? those are burn marks on your arms, aren't they?”
qifrey wonders if he had told you of the fire breathing birds that live in those mountains, would you have stayed here and not risk your life trying to prove something to the villagers, or to him? something grips at his heart, telling him that it was partly his fault. had he informed you beforehand, perhaps you wouldn't be wrapped up and hurt like you are now.
luckily for you and him, you were a smart cookie.
“was it scary?”
“n-no!” you pull away from his irresistible gentle caresses with a stubborn huff, the flush on the tips of your ears betray you. “they were just small birds that breathed fire! they weren't hard to deal with.” somehow, you look a little proud of yourself. “besides, i got the village chief what he wanted! it wasn't a hard task!”
“oh my, you're getting quite confident! courageous and amazing, you are!” a hand pats the top of your head. the compliment really did make you glow a little–a cheeky smile on your face and the proud look in your eyes reminded qifrey that you are a growing child and he's not mentally prepared to watch you turn into a full witch yet. he fears that in a blink of an eye, you'd grown too big for him to carry you in his arms.
“neverthelessl, please be mindful of your safety when doing so, alright? i promise i will take you to some of my missions soon. but until then, i don't want you going on missions on your own.”
“really!?”
please, give him a little more time to cherish you at this vulnerable age of childhood. you're still his baby, no matter what.
═════════════════════════════════════════════
the first time jabber saw you was an accident. it was late, around nine you were tucked away in the corner your family's cafe, textbooks spread across the booth table.
you were at as much peace you can get when studying physics. you jumped the sudden sound, frantic knocking against store window. you froze in shock, taking in his appearance.
his hands wrapped around in bandages, matching his torso. his lip busted and bleeding and he looked incredibly out of breath. you cautiously sped to the door, motioning for him to come in.
you closed the door, but made no effort to move away let alone remove your hand from the knob. you watched him hunch over the nearest table, arms caging his head as he caught his breath.
it was awkwardly quiet, if you chose to disregard the whispered wheezing. after an eternity, you spoke up.
"uh—um, why are you here?
" 'cause you opened the door."
" that's– you know that's not what i meant."
he chuckled, slowly standing up wincing at the ache of his muscles. his head turned in your direction, eyes darting all over you face. a small smirk spreading on his face.
"do you always open the door for strangers?"
you relaxed a little, figuring he wasn't a threat.
"only the ones who look like they're going to collapse soon." you took a couple steps forward, getting to the distance where you could kick him and run if you misjudged.
you stuck your hand out, introducing yourself. he mirrored your actions, his grip was a bit rougher the bandaged wrap roughing over your clean palms. "Jabber."
nodding you pulling your hand away, "okay, mr. jabber. i have an exam in a week so i'm going to go back to that." you gestured to the discarded papers and books on the back table. "and you can sit there and not move."
not staying for discussions you walked back to your table, finding where you left off. you were just about to highlight something that seemed important, before you were interrupted.
"you don't need to highlight that, it's useless." you didn't glance up, coating the letters in neon pink anyways.
"like you'd know."
jabber placed a hand over his chest gasping, "i would know, third year bio major and plans to go to pharmacy school. i may look like a low life but i'm not."
the highlighter found the table and you at him with real shock. "so jabber the biology major, why are you half mummified and—" you gestured to his swollen lip which is now purple and covered in dried blood. "— bloody."
jabber sat down in the booth next to you, "boxing, it's fun."
"nothing seems fun about being beat up."
"that's why you train, to not get beat up. it is a little fun getting beat up though."
you pointed your pen at him, eyes playfully squinted accusingly "are you a masochist?"
he grinned at the accusation, "if i say yes are you going to kick me out?"
"yes, unless... you help me pass his exam?" you raised your voice at the end, seeming hopeful.
jabber tapped his chin, pretending to think. "under one condition, you come to the gym with me."
you glared at him suspiciously, "to do what exactly?"
he sighed, putting his arms behind his head, leaning back into the booth. "oh you know, cheer me on, tell me how good i look dripping with sweat. be my personal cheerleader. i'm giving you options sweetheart."
"there will be no gawking, no cheering, just unfortunate sweat."
"no staring? you were staring at my—" he flipped his locs dramatically, gesturing to his torso. "—washboard abs. so we got a deal?"
you sighed giving in, you know you need the help and if that meant an annoying sweaty man by your side for a week. maybe you could handle it.
ੈ✩ tags: 18+ MINORS DNI, enemies to lovers, workplace relationships, sex pollen, dubcon for that reason, smut, hate sex, fingering, face fucking, dom!aki and brat!reader, degradation, biting, choking, drunk sex, impact play
ੈ✩ a/n: happy belated thanksgiving yall
It was your fault – it always was. If you hadn’t directly defied Aki’s orders, maybe you’d be conscious enough for him to take you back to headquarters. Enough to stumble back home at least, instead of sprawled out on Aki’s lap in the backseat of a cab. The look he’d given the driver was apologetic, gentle enough to assure that no, sir, I’m not bringing home an inebriated girl to have my way with her. Work happy hour got a little too crazy.
Of course, that was a lie.
Your impulse control was terrible. It didn’t help that your temper was worse than Power’s – at least when it came to dealing with Aki, who hated that you got under his skin in a completely different way. Only one year his junior, you had kept to yourself when you had joined Public Safety. It was only a matter of time for him to find out you were an insolent bitch whenever he tried to exert his authority.
It was supposed to be a sting operation. Take down some yakuza members who had liaisons with certain devils. Easy work for you and Aki.
Despite the mission brief, the two of you had met an entirely different beast. In the back rooms of some dingy bar, the Devil had throbbed and moaned through its leaking pores, its body an amalgamation of every victim that was its prey. The gangly limbs of naked women were encapsulated in a transparent yet muddy flesh.
Before Aki could so much as whip his katana across the dripping flesh, you extended your daggers quicker than he could blink. You were fast. He hated admitting that. A contract with the Snake devil matched your personality, he always thought—you and your venomous tongue.
A quick slash triggered the Devil’s aggression even more, and out came the fumes. You had dropped to the floor with a thud by the time Aki could make sense of his surroundings, his throat burning from holding his breath. He carried you out of the building as quickly as he could.
Now, here you are, sprawled on his couch, chest rising and falling with deep sleep. Aki is relieved for that, at least – the slaying of the Devil was exhausting on his own with you being passed out.
Fuck, he needs a drink.
He opens the liquor cabinet to pour himself a glass of Suntory, cringing at the burn of it sliding down his throat. He glances at the couch to check on you and widens his eyes when he sees that you’re awake. Sitting up, eyes darkened with an emotion he’s never seen in you before.
“Welcome back,” he mutters gruffly.
You say nothing. You only stare back at him, pupils dilated to the max. Transfixed. You’d never looked at him like that before unless you were several beers in, and even then, he ignored the fact. You say his name in a way that makes his insides heat, his heart blanching in the deep pool of your pupils staring back at him. There’s a frisson of wariness that slices through him as he blinks.
“You need water? Hungry? You were out for a while,” Aki offers politely. His fingers strain against his whiskey glass.
You shake your head, still staring at him. You blink slowly. His heart stutters.
You close your eyes, shaking your head again. You scratch the back of your neck, cross your arms in a defensive stance as if you’re trying to fold into yourself.
Your mouth is bone dry and tastes like carpet glue. You want to spit, but Aki’s fuzzy rug looks expensive, so instead you glare at a spot near your feet until your vision stops shimmering. Every cell in your body aches, raw nerve endings sparking against the inside of your skin. Your hands flicker, restless, like you could wring the world’s neck if you tried hard enough.
Aki watches you from his kitchen, shoulders set in a way that’s meant to project calm, but his grip on the whiskey glass is so rigid you expect it to shatter. You think about how long it would take for those fragments to embed under his skin, how much pressure to split the veins on his hand. The thought makes you smile, your lips splitting before you can reel yourself in.
Fuck. The Devil’s not done with you.
You can tell by the way every face and voice in your head smears together, blurring into a chorus. Everything feels raw, open to the air—like you've been skinned. You try to sit still, screw your eyes shut in focus. You try to remember your training, but the memory of the operation keeps looping; flashing back to the Devil’s whine, the glisten of its jelly skin, the gloom-thick stench of lust marbling the air. The need to bite something—someone—buzzes under your tongue.
Aki still hasn’t moved. You can almost see the thoughts grinding gears behind his eyes, all those rational synapses clattering: She’s still high as balls, he’s thinking, need to keep her calm, need to keep her from stabbing me in the chest.
He watches as you hunch forward, elbows to knees, hands knit tight under your chin. Your breath is uneven. The horror of the Devil’s lair should’ve rattled you, but there’s no trembling this time, not even a trace of the shakes you got after most jobs.
Instead, your energy spikes sharp, restless—a low whine in your bones, a hunger that makes your teeth clench. Something is still inside you, and not in the spectral, symbolic sense. The Devil’s residue is in your blood.
Aki sets the glass down. You were always a little unpredictable after missions, but not like this. Not so… untethered. He crouches in front of the couch, careful not to crowd.
“You okay?” he whispers. You open your eyes. Pupils blown wide, almost animal.
Smells hit you: aftershave, briny sweat, whiskey, a bitter-laced edge beneath it all. The air is saturated with him. It makes your head spin, suffocating and sweet. You pick at your sleeve, unpicking a loose thread, then press a fist to your mouth to bite it off, but your teeth won’t cooperate. You want to bite something, but not fabric.
“I’m hungry,” you say, forcing the words past the pressure in your throat, the softness of your tongue. Your voice doesn’t sound like yours. Aki nods, missing what you mean entirely.
“I can heat up some leftovers. And there’s frozen gyoza in the freezer—lemme—” He starts to stand, but you grab him by the wrist. Hard. A strange sensation buzzes in your fingertips.
His warmth floods your palm, so much more solid than you expect—bones and sinew under skin, somehow both fragile and immovable. You can feel his pulse, not in his wrist but inside your own chest. Aki tries to pull free, politely at first, and then with a controlled twist. You don’t budge.
“I’m hungry,” you repeat, aware that your voice comes out odd, almost childish, stringy with saliva. You want to gnaw him down to the marrow.
Realization passes over his stormy blue eyes. He gives you a look, neutral as possible, like a pane of glass over fear.
“Huh. You’re still under the Devil’s influence,” he says, voice low. “It’ll pass. Just—just hold still for a second.”
He reaches again for his whiskey, but this time you yank him all the way down to couch-level. The bottle tips, and you barely notice. His face hovers a few inches from yours, raven-black hair falling out of its neat tie. The urge to laugh, or bite, boils up your throat. You don’t know which will come out first.
He tries to keep his breathing even, but the scent of him fills your lungs, as deep as the Devil’s maw. It’s a miracle he hasn’t cuffed you already, called for backup, or tranquilized you on the spot. Self-control: the virtue he worships. You ache to see if you can break it.
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Aki says, maybe to himself, maybe to you. “Just… you need to ride it out, okay?”
From this close, he can see the faded mark of a cut that ridges underneath your bottom lip — a nick you’d gotten in a fist fight weeks ago. He remembers the blood, the way you swiped at him with your sleeve and laughed at him for caring. Even then, your face was full of drunken ecstasy, eventually softened with the dullness of cheap bar drinks. There’s nothing soft in your face now — only hunger, deep as a pit.
“No,” you gasp. “I need— I need to get it out.”
The room’s heat prickles your skin, sweat gathering at your collarbone and pooling in the dip of your thighs. Your body feels like it’s stitched together by an invisible string pulled too taut. Muscles at war with your nerves.
Aki’s face, blushing against porcelain skin, radiates a morbid magnetism that you can only attribute to wanting to see a car crash. Your hands shake with the possibility of your touch being destructive, every cell under your skin scraping desperately to the surface in a seething crawl.
Your vision whites out a bit as you feel heat fogging the inside of your skull — a smothering, hormonal blanket. Aki pulls away ands spoons some leftover rice into a bowl as you watch him, the careful movement of his forearms, his Adam’s Apple bobbing as he regards you with the wary cadence of someone handling a wild animal. It takes everything in you not to reach for him, to unspool all the tightness in your skin to lick the salt off his sweat.
You’re fucking burning — the stench of the Devil still permeating through your pores, turning itself into something utterly terrible. You can hear your pulse in your ears, static thickening everything. Somewhere across the apartment, the microwave beeps. Aki sets the bowl in front of you and keeps his hand on the rim, steadying it. His other hand hovers level with your face, palm out, halting.
His face in the lamp-lit apartment is tired, blue-shadowed beneath the cheekbones, but his gaze pins you. He’s fighting the habit of walking away, leaving you alone to self-destruct. That’s new. He’s always been a dick about personal boundaries—his and everyone else’s—but right now, for once, he’s not treating you like a bomb. He’s treating you like a person in the middle of coming apart.
You reach out and take the bowl, but your hands don’t quite work. The rice tastes like nothing. Cigarette ash and wet chalk. You feel Aki’s stare on you, and when you look up, he doesn’t flinch or look away.
You want to lie down and float until the next morning, maybe for a week, but Aki hovers with that draining, careful patience that’s almost sympathy. He sits, hands loose, knees apart, breathing through his nose. You can taste the air. Salt. Sweat. Cherry trees blooming in the spring.
He’s waiting for you to come back to yourself. That’s what he does, the professional: waits things out, nurses the process, ignores the mess until it stops being inconvenient. Except you’re not sure if it will, not this time.
You want to tell him: There’s something wrong inside you, and if you can’t get it out, you’ll ruin the room. The staccato itch in your gums, the ache in your bones—if it was possible to peel yourself open right here, you’d claw your ribcage empty.
You eat spoonfuls of rice, bites of gyoza. The meat still feels frozen, the rice stale.
“Think I lost my appetite,” you mutter.
Aki glances at you, but you can tell from your peripheral vision that a glare is pulsating underneath his stoic face.
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously,” you bark back. Aki scowls the way he always does, venom spreading on a tongue that he refuses to use because he knows better. He knows you’re incapacitated in a completely unprecedented way, so he doesn’t snap back at you. Just this once.
He mumbles something under his breath and puts away the dishes carelessly as he chugs more whiskey. When he sits down next to you, your pulse jumps at a depth that makes your chest hurt. As if your heart is trying to dive itself down into the deep end of the pool.
“I’ve never seen shit like that, you know,” he murmurs, trying to make conversation. An attempt at casual. “That Devil. I don’t even know if a Sex Trafficking Devil could even be real — not that it’s not a human fear, but it’s too specific.”
“There’s a fear for everything,” you mumble.
You think about how much your heart is lurching, how the cells underneath your skin are thrumming. Yearning for contact.
Lust is what is plaguing you, ultimately. It clouds you too much for you to say it out loud. Instead, you pounce on the person who cares enough to feed you.
The forward momentum knocks the air out of both of you—a dusty cough from your own lungs, a grunt rumbling somewhere beneath his ribs. You pin his shoulder under the cut of your jaw and clamber across his lap, knees punching into the sad couch cushions. There’s a sour, animal joy in the way he tries to block you, hands rigid and hovering at the jagged notches of your hips. The heat under your skin spikes. Every neuron in you is tuned to the need for friction. He’s solid, all sinew and stubbornness. The world teeters on the edge of dizzy white noise.
“Stop it,” he snaps, more bark than bite, but you can taste the fear in it—righteous, responsible. Professional. You ride the tremor of his voice, intoxicated by the pushback, how he refuses to meet your stare even as you press your fever into him. The hardness of his thigh is a dare. You aren’t sure whose heart is hammering harder.
“Make me,” you scoff. Your tongue is numb, every word dragging velvet behind the teeth. You hear him swallow, feel the reverberation against your chest. He manages to wedge a forearm between your bodies, not enough to push you away but enough to set a boundary and define the line.
“Don’t,” he says, voice ragged. “You’re not—this isn’t you.”
He says it like an apology. Like he’s sorry to remind you of yourself. Meanwhile, you want to crack his name open on your teeth. His cologne — firewood and amber — floods you, making the bitter strand of want under your tongue tingle again. You press your mouth to the hollow above his collarbone, his pulse vibrating against your lips.
Aki says your name, voice tight, and only then do you realize your rough grip on him, fingers fisted in his shirt hard enough to rip. You stammer out an apology, but it feels like your senses are flooded with an offending gas. Sweet aroma, the taste of his sweat.
“Please,” you gasp, the sensation in your throat hideous and radioactive. Your jaw grinds as you rock into him, climbing onto his body into a straddle. “Aki-kun—”
Shame flashes bright in your throat at the high-pitched plea that falls out of your mouth. It’s not like you. Aki knows that, especially, because his blue eyes are bright and wide with shock, cock stirring at the implication of it. You want to open him at the seams, so you’re clawing at his collar, fiddling with buttons with childlike frustration.
“Stop,” Aki snaps. The calmness in his voice is infuriating. He has you by the upper arms now, fingers pinning into muscle.
“No— just let me—”
“No,” he says firmly. “You need to wait it out.”
It goes against everything in your pulse, your state of mind. Bruises you in a pulsating pain. You want skin and weight and teeth and he won’t fucking give it to you. You press your pelvis against his, the ache in your thighs forcing you to press harder, to find a calm within the blizzard inside your bones.
“Just — fuck, please,” you slur into his shoulder, tongue failing. “Need you. Need you to make it better.”
Aki breathes heavily, closing his eyes in a useless attempt at containment. He doesn’t open his eyes as you rock harder into his lap, the wet heat of you stirring his cock in ways he wants to curse God for. You can feel the slightest bit of friction when he’s half-hard, and it makes you laugh, half-snarling as you dig your fingers deeper into the muscle of his arms.
“Fuck off,” he mutters, trying to wrangle your wrists into submission, but you’re able to break free with the whip of your hands. You can feel tears stinging from the corner of your eyes, threatening to spill over. The heat underneath your skin feels unbearable now — you don’t even want to rip him open more. Your urges are reduced to a tiny animal’s, feral and chaotic and frustrating in its containment.
You press your forehead to the knot of his tie, fingers trembling at the steady column of his neck, and say, “Help me.”
Your voice is terribly weak. The gnawing inside you is starting to hurt in a way that feels irreversible. He feels like the only way to drown the ache out, and you’re too frenzied to examine the reason why. You beg in wet gasps, drowning in suffocating heat.
He freezes at your plea. It’s broken, almost pathetic, coming out of your mouth, which doesn’t suit you. It doesn’t sound like your voice. He strokes your cheek like you’re something feral and half-tamed.
“It’s the Devil’s effects. It’s not real. You’ll feel normal tomorrow.”
“It hurts,” you whimper, clutching the front of his shirt. A sob bubbles up raw and ugly in your throat, not even from the excruciating illusory hot flashes from the Devil’s effects, but for the sole fact that Aki refuses to touch you.
You needed it, needed him. Did he hate you so much to refuse you relief?
The synapses in your brain flash. It’s all too loud in your head. When you look at him, something changes — if he won’t help, you’ll have to take it for yourself, won’t you?
You kiss him.
Not on the cheek, not a gentle brush, but lips pressed to his in a collision that leaves his teeth rattling. You grab at his face, palms flat against his cheekbones as if you could climb into his head and startle him into coherence by force. Aki tenses, a hot silver of shock lighting through his body before he jerks his head away, electrified and breathing through his teeth.
“What the fuck —” Aki spits out, his voice strangled. A string of spit snaps between you, embarrassment flashing nuclear inside the both of you.
A dark flush bleeds lightly under the pale skin of his cheeks, settling into his neck that reminds you of sweet prey ready for teeth. You expect him to push you off, grab one of his weapons, summon Kon for the sake of restraining you. Spit in your face and call you worthless. Instead, he only stares at you.
You should retreat. You want to crawl into yourself — the mortification of kissing him breaking through the Devil’s haze to remind you of the reality of your relationship. The humiliation of it all sobers you, makes you square your shoulders, even if the gnawing ache in your chest was about to crawl out into a new beast.
The self-loathing throbs in your throat, shame blanketing your body and turning it frozen. Your brain frenzies beyond the Devil’s heat — fuck, I should apologize, or I could kiss him again and make him want me, or I could run away and find someone else to fuck, or maybe I should kill myself—
Your train of thought is interrupted by Aki yanking you forward by a fistful of hair. His mouth crashes into yours, heat funneling into the narrow point of contact where lips felt like carnations. His tongue slashes into your mouth, furious and unpracticed, hurried as if he were the one affected by the spores of lust instead.
Aki bites you like a warning and you let the pain bloom on your mouth, salty copper bleeding on your tongue. His fingers bunch at the roots of your hair, pulling slightly through the strands. His roughness would’ve made you laugh if you could breathe at all, but you’re too engrossed in the taste of whiskey and blood and the sharpness of his teeth. At least a year’s worth of unvoiced hate melting into unfettered lust.
You push him hard until his back hits the back of the couch. Your mouth descends onto his jugular, then the side of his neck, chasing his pulse. You bite him hard and he groans, feeling the draw of blood.
“Crazy bitch,” he mutters, pupils midnight against the moon-paleness of his face. “I should fucking sedate you.”
“You don’t want to,” you slur, teeth bared and taunting. “You like me crazy. You love how much I want to fuck you right now because it’s what you’re like when you’re sober. Without a fucking Devil.”
You crash your lips to Aki’s again — desperate and rough, teeth catching, defenses breaking like shattered porcelain. Saliva, spit, the resinous taste of his cologne. You claw at him, breaking the buttons of his shirt like you want to open his chest and crawl inside to feel how he ticks.
He groans as you bite the hard line of his jaw. He fists your hair as you find the skin above his ribs, his own hands going to your hips the way a man might try to cage a rabid thing.
Aki pulls away from you to see you beyond the ruination that his hands will extend. It’s why he blocks out the Future Devil during times like these — he could see your death if he wanted to, the way you’d come undone from his actions with a sob. Anything that could make his cock stir.
“Aki,” you whimper. “Please.”
Your whines raise in pitch as you rut against him. It’s only then, out of his feral haze, that Aki realizes how fucking hard he is. He groans as he feels you through the wetness of your panties, which drips through the thin linen of your trousers.
“Fuck,” he groans, grabbing your wrists, “Wait— wait. Just—”
“I can’t,” you rasp. “It hurts. Hurts so much. Need you—”
He gasps when you pull him onto the carpet, kneeling as your nimble fingers tug down the zipper of his trousers. He was hard from the moment you kissed him, he realizes. Aki can only resort to calming you down with calloused fingers combing through your hair.
“Shhh, shh— just wait—”
But you can’t wait. Neither can he — not when you’re in between his legs, kneeling with your mouth watering. It doesn’t even feel fair at this point to let you suck his dick — aren’t you the one who needs relief?
Aki takes your hand and pulls you upward, coaxing you into straddling his lap again. You don’t protest, merely kissing his neck with feverish eagerness as you lift yourself enough to tug your trousers off. He groans, every kiss feeling like a branding, like liquid gold burning molten upon his ordinary flesh. Was he affected by the Devil too?
You take a reprieve from kissing to nuzzle into his neck. Of course, this is what makes him freeze — the tenderness.
He had gotten used to your chaos, shed his reservations along with your humility when the fever truly hit you because in the back of his mind, it would always be tongue and teeth with you.
The thought of fucking you would flicker in his brain at the rarest moments. When it did, it was always rough, you attempting to dominate him to prove a point, him putting you in your place just because he could with sheer strength.
He hadn’t prepared for softness.
“Aki-kun,” you sob. “I can’t—”
The pit of his stomach deepens at the sound of your voice.
“It’s okay,” he mutters uselessly, petting your hair.
“No,” you whimper. “F-Feel like I’m gonna die if you don't —”
He realizes, acutely, at that moment, that his dream was never a passing fantasy at all. It was what he wanted most, buried under layers and layers of professionalism, of uncaring faux-placidity that called to logic.
You are nestled at the crook of his neck, tears falling onto him, whimpering out of sheer desperation. Admittedly, this was another passing daydream of his. You being cute. Pathetic. Malleable.
“Please, Aki-kun,” you whisper into his neck. “I want you. It feels terrible.”
He hitches his breath before lowering his hand to the apex of your thighs, gathering your slit upwards to lubricate your throbbing clit. You gasp at the intrusion, your cunt pulsating automatically at the prospect of finally getting filled.
His fingers are all knuckles and heat as they fumble past the shoddy elastic of your underwear. The wetness startles him, his hand trembling a little as he touches you, like he’s bracing himself for a shock that doubles back through his bones. Maybe he is.
You buck against his fingers, ungraceful, grinding against him like he’s merely an object — a handle or hinge or switch to be thrown. The ragged drag of his fingers against your clit sparks the air inside your head, blowing out every rational thought in your mind and reducing it to the need to come, god, just fucking come, and then maybe you’d stop shaking.
He kisses you again. Catches your mouth and sucks on your tongue as if to wring out the poison from you himself. It’s difficult to breathe. You don’t care much, wanting him to suffocate you at the root, lips bruised and sloppy. Fist fight intimacy, skin to skin in collision. You bite his bottom lip and the guttural noise from his mouth has you careening.
His fingers are long, knuckle-deep inside your pussy until he hits the spot inside you that feels like bruised fruit. The delicious pressure of it makes you whine against his mouth, breathless, eyes rolling back into your skull at the pleasure.
You claw at each other until your clothes are off entirely. Nails snagging at skin, not knowing or caring if red trails are left behind. Aki’s fingers curl inside, blunt force fucking you open while his thumb rolls around your clit. His other hand seizes a fistful of your hair to control the angle of your mouth, teasing your eagerness by pulling his own mouth further away from you.
You gasp at the slight pain in your scalp, only soothed by the peak growing inside you.
“That’s it,” he sighs. “That’s a good girl. Just listen to me and I’ll take care of you, alright?”
You whimper in response, looking submissive for the first time in your life. He feels fucking insane as he overstimulates you, watches the tears flow from your eyes.
Aki cants your hips forward, the knuckles of his hand rough and merciless in the way they work you open, and your soggy cunt pulses around his fingers with such frantic need that your vision flickers with motes of black. His teeth scrapes your jaw, biting deep at the bone and bruising your resolve to fight back. You’re broken apart for him, humiliating in its helpless immediacy, and the aftershock leaves every muscle in your legs fluttering at the edges.
“Aki—”
“Shut up,” he grits. “Shut up and fucking come on my fingers.”
The room fades away until it’s just you and him and the ache. Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, the dusty warmth of whiskey radiating from his neck mixing with the sweetest aroma that you would only be able to describe as otherworldly. It had to be the Devil’s doing. You’re coming on his fingers alone and everything feels like daisies.
He groans as he watches you come. As your body relaxes from your high, you feel the precise shape of his cock underneath you. You wriggle against him, hard enough to grind your clit against the head of his cock. He grunts like he’s been punched, making you want to rub harder, to coax him through the threshold of his pants.
He pulls his hand free with a noise, then smears your wetness along the hungry seam of your mouth. The taste of yourself is sharp and musky and obscene, and you lick his fingers despite it, kitten-like. He grunts and pushes his fingers onto your tongue. You can feel the violence of his dislike for you sizzling under the surface, even as he thumbs your lips and pulls them open for a real kiss.
You let him have you. There was nothing left to do. The Devil’s heat left you helpless, skin flayed into strips, but his touch is the salve now, the only way to cool the fever thrumming through your bones. He sits back, spreading his knees, the tent in his pants lurid and obvious. You want to laugh in his face, tease him about it, but your voice is broken. All you can manage is a hungry gasp of his name, soft and desperate through the tears you’d almost forgotten were pooling in your eyes.
You paw at his crotch frantically. With a groan, he yanks your hands away and you make the most pathetic noise.
“I need—”
“Calm down,” he commands sternly. “I won’t fuck you if you’re not patient.”
“I feel like I’m dying —”
He grabs your face roughly, squeezing your cheeks with his long fingers. “Go into my bedroom and wait for me there. Make sure all your clothes are off and fucking behave.”
He watches your face sour like a child’s and his lips almost quirk up at how it’s a reprieve from whatever beast was inside you at the moment. His eyes glance at your pert ass, the soaked lace of your underwear taunting him as you walk to the bedroom.
Aki swears under his breath and drinks another gulpful of whiskey. Takes his gun out of his holster and morbidly contemplates how worse this could get. Whatever (unfortunately common) dream this was of his, the image of you nearly naked in his apartment, it had manifested into a nasty curse. He’d have to live with the fever of it.
You really should have noticed he’d upgraded the lock on the bedroom door. But the click still makes you shudder, anticipation sparking up your arms and across your shoulders all the way to your teeth. You’ve never once slept in his bed, never crossed this particular threshold except to rifle it for evidence of Aki’s embarrassing secrets. There isn’t much: the linen is stark, the books beside the low bed are dog-eared as hell, the closet so empty you can count every hanger. The only things out of place are your own, scattered in a pathetic trail: skirt, blouse, ugly polyester coat. All a little torn. All smelling like the inside of his jacket now.
You want to stuff your mouth with the pillow and scream through it. Instead, you flop onto your back, blood humming in hot, angry pulses. The fever isn’t a metaphor. It’s watching your hands shake, curling your toes when air moves across your bare legs; it’s shivering with the urge to do something—run, fuck, murder—but your hands are trapped on the comforter, which hardly smells like detergent anymore. You’re so wet you half expect a slick mark to stain the sheets when you sit up again.
You hear Aki’s footsteps before you see him, deliberate and mean. There’s nothing of his usual stiffness when he enters; his shirt is already unbuttoned, sleeves rolling back to the torque of his forearms. Black hair down, tie discarded. It’s obscene how self-contained he is while you twitch on the mattress like a deboned fish. The assessment in his eyes is flat, clinical.
He flashes you a stern look and you lay back down on your elbows, scowling like a rejected dog. He almost wants to laugh.
“I should fuck your mouth with the way you’ve been acting,” he grunts. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
You pretend your mouth doesn’t water. He can see the flash in your eyes, the tantalizing glint displaying what’s probably going on in your head right now. Better not poke the bear if he’s supposed to tame it.
The thought of it makes your mouth salt over, thick and selfish. He should fuck your mouth. For the sin of biting him, for the humiliation of lust collapsing your body so quickly, for the crime—now proven fact—of wanting, more deeply than air, the specifically horrid, beautiful taste of Aki.
He stands at the edge of the bed, gaze raking you up and down, and the lines at his mouth are deeper than you’ve ever seen them. He’s so still, even the breath in his nose is almost silent. Disgust, amusement, hunger—you can’t tell which occupies more of his face. He doesn’t smell like soap, just that flat chemical of his body, maybe some lingering pepper of cordite and ash under his fingernails. He’d touched his gun five minutes ago. You can smell it.
With the first step forward, Aki’s whole body resolves into force. This isn’t the Aki from the office, or out in the field, or the bored, ceremonial Aki who covers his mouth when he yawns. It’s something else: a heat with nowhere to go except toward you. He grabs you by the hair. Not a playful tug—at the root, hard enough for your scalp to smart. You feel giddy.
“You’re going to behave,” he says flatly.
“If you don’t get in me now, I’m going to kill you.” You glare. He tugs harder.
“You’ll have to try harder,” Aki says, a sneer curling at the edge of his mouth. His grip at your scalp is calculated, the flex of his arm telegraphing how little it would take to break your neck, if you were anyone else.
He doesn’t move, not until your glare softens and your body slackens, sopping-wet and almost cowardly in the sheets.
Then, a single motion: he yanks you upright, plants you on your knees, bends your head back until you’re looking up at the cloudy lampshade and his knuckles digging into your hairline. Your eyes cross with the pressure, and you suck in a breath. There—already, just like that, all the fury is sluiced through your nerve endings and replaced with that keening, wild hot hunger.
You want to bite his hand. Instead, you flatten your tongue out, panting open-mouthed at his wrist.
He holds the back of your head, other hand wrestling the mess of briefs and pants lower on his hips. Then he’s hard and right there and he presses the crown of his cock to your lips, cool and clinical, a doctor measuring your reflexes. Your voice is gone, burned up in all the other screaming, so you show him: mouth wide, tongue wet and shameless on the tip, fucking delighted when he twitches against your taste buds.
Aki hisses—a cuss exhaled to the ceiling—and shoves past your teeth in one go. Your eyes water, and the hand tangled in your hair tightens.
Your mouth feels fucking amazing. Your lips suck into what feels like an incredibly tight ring.
“Careful with your teeth,” he groans, tapping your face unkindly. “Told you to fucking behave.”
You moan, taking him down to the shaft as you choke on his cock. He gasps when he hits the back of your throat and hears you gag. He makes the terrible mistake of looking down to see you choking on him and his stomach stirs with overwhelming lust. Any longer and he feels like he’ll blow his load.
This is not going to help her, he thinks briefly. She needs to cum.
He exhales as he pulls on your hair, your mouth whining as you chase the head of his cock. It’s almost precious how much you want him. Maybe it would be if you weren’t ravenous.
“Hey,” he warns. “Relax.”
He manhandles you onto your back and you nearly drool, blown-out eyes wide as saucers. You already look fucked out, wet eyelashes sticking together.
He circles your clit and you make a wounded noise that gets swallowed by his mouth. Aki has never cared much for kissing — it was always easier to bite and lick, fuck whoever wanted him hard and fast so he could send them away quicker. A dirty, rough fuck that ended clean, nothing to be developed afterward.
Unfortunately, kissing you feels like a drug.
Aki loves the plushness of your lips, wet moans spilling in between spit. The taste of your own cunt on his tongue, makes you whimper. His fingers are deft at your clit, grind and rhythm offset just enough to keep you guessing, desperate, never able to draw a proper breath. He reigns you in by the nape of the neck, hand planted at your jaw to catch the noises you make.
You want his fucking cock inside you. Nothing short of that will satisfy the hollowed-out ache. You push against his thick length with shameless impatience, nails catching on the line of his hip; your legs fall apart and your heat stains his skin, enough that he shudders. For a moment the only sound is breath, the wet drag of his shaft on your cunt.
He lines up at the entrance, splits you open in a lazy push. The slow threat of being filled, not gentle, but measured—Aki is determined to make you feel every last inch. It’s a violence, the way he feeds himself inside you, but your whole body sings for it, nerve endings shrieking in relief as you pulse around him.
His chin tucks at your ear as he pushes deep, hands pinning your wrists above your head. His cock is so thick inside you that you can barely breathe, but you drag your body against his desperately as if you could manage to get him any deeper.
“Aki,” you whimper. “Aki-kun—”
“I know,” he mumbles. “I know. That’s it. Just take it.”
“Faster,” you gasp, squirming against him. Your heel knocks against the small of his back. “More—”
“I’m the one in control, you brat,” he hisses. “Be good so you’ll feel better.”
“Keep being mean,” you grin, your disposition nearly hypnagogic. “Makes me wet.”
He shuts you up with two fingers shoved in your mouth. You can feel his pulse in them, each shiver a counterpoint to the brutal invasion of his cock inching ever deeper between your legs. Aki fucks you with precision, like he wants to prove a point about what you’re capable of taking.
Your jaw aches from the stretch, but the ache between your legs burns hotter; you clench around him and revel in the frustration that creeps into his face, hair falling over his sweat-damp brow. You want to kick him in the chest and split your knuckles on his ribs, but what you do is slither your tongue along his fingers and bite.
He hisses, lets go of your wrists with a long snap, and then you are everywhere at once—your nails clawing at his shoulders, your thighs binding him in place, your teeth grazing bone when you pull his hand away from your lips and clamp down, savoring the copper taste of blood. He lands a smack against your cheek hard enough to light up your vision. You don’t flinch. You giggle.
“You like it filthy,” you laugh, high and uneven. “What would your little office rats say, seeing you fuck me like a animal?”
He grinds your clit with his thumb, no mercy, and your words melt into a gummy moan. The devil-spawned need in your gut is a siren song, and he’s matching the rhythm of it, hips slamming you open, cock hitting deep enough to make your bones shake.
After a minute you’re lightheaded, your nails embedded in his arms, the air thick with noise and friction. He leans close, flattening you to the bed, his hand at your jaw so your face opens to his mouth—or to a slap, you don’t care which—and you’re trapped in the best kind of panic. Every time his hips hitch forward, you feel the bones collide with your thighs. His cocks grind ups against the patch inside you that’s so raw it doesn’t feel pleasure, just bright light and sound. You float in it. You want it to drown you.
He pistons harder and slammins that spot so fiercely your teeth buzz. You arch your back, delirious, moaning at a fever pitch. Aki looms over you, his black hair swinging forward in wild streaks, the shadow of his cheekbones stark and mean. Sweat drips down the hard line of his neck onto your chest, each drop a scald that makes you keen.
“Is this what you wanted?” he hisses into your ear. “Needed it this dirty? You’re a fucking mess. Look at you—”
You whimper, wanting to answer but all that comes out are wet, slurred noises. He snakes his hand down, pinching your clit between two knuckles hard enough to make you sob.
“Speak.”
“Yes, yes, fuck, yes, Aki, just—” You swallow, tasting salt-iron from your own bitten tongue.
You lose the thread of the next few seconds, or minutes—everything is a swirling, seething pulse of wet friction, the push and burn as Aki rams you open, his grip implacable at your hip. The ache in you subsides and is replaced with delicious pleasure. Despite the ache being soothed, the hunger seems to grow.
You want to say: You are in control. You want to prove it by making a mess of him, make him come before you do, draw his resolve out and snap it between your thighs. But every time your body tries to obey that ambition, he pins you firmer—hands flattening you, forearm heavy across your collarbones, knee jamming up under your thigh to angle your pelvis just-so, the length of him pushing deeper than you knew was possible. You gasp, and your next moan is a shiver right at the line of pain: bright, cleansing, almost sacred.
“Holy fuck,” he moans. “You’re fucking dripping all over me.”
“Oh god,” you gasp, your orgasm blinding.
“That’s it,” he rambles. “Ride it out, baby. Cum on my cock. I’ll fuck it out of you.”
If you didn’t already know what the end felt like, you’d think you were dying. It’s the kind of climax that steals voice and thought and snaps a white-hot fuse along your spine. It detonates against the scarred insides of your skull.
Your nails dig into Aki’s arms so deep you feel tendon slide, and there’s a bleak little joy in knowing you’ll both see the marks for days. Every muscle in your thighs and belly knots and holds you rigid around him, every nerve a wire pulled so tight it threatens to bust. And it does—your body convulses, seesawing against the length of him, pussy squeezing in desperate waves.
Aki is whimpering, something you didn’t think possible. He’s glassy with sweat and shaking as he fucks through your aftershocks. His hands diggs into your hips like he could anchor himself to you and survive the flood. He slows down slightly.
You come back to yourself with a mouth full of his palm—he’s covered your sobbing, bitten-wet mouth with his huge, shaking hand to quiet the next insane sound. His cock is still throbbing inside you; you feel every pulse like a pulse ringing in your lower stomach.
“Shh. It’s okay. Stop crying.”
You’re not crying, you want to spit at him. Instead, you suck his index finger into your mouth, drag your tongue from knuckle to tip, and stare him down with wild, ruined eyes. Defiant even in devastation.
He leaves the hand over your mouth, just until your spasms subside, until the arch in your back collapses and your legs fall open, boneless and twitching. Then he pulls away, a string of saliva glistening between your tongue and the rough pad of his thumb. He’s breathing like he’s just run a mile. You reach up—grasp his wrist, keep his hand just above your face, ready to bite or beg again if it comes down to it.
“Don’t fucking tell me to calm down,” you choke out around the edges of his skin, your voice shredded and hoarse. “If you stop now, I’ll never forgive you—”
He slides his hand down, palm cradling your cheek with unwarranted gentleness.
"Tell me how it feels,” he snaps. “I’m not stopping.”
You want to throttle him; you want to praise him. You’re trembling, not with fear, but with the sense that if he pulled out now, the rest of you would follow—your tongue, your heart, your spinal cord, all in one long red string.
“Keep going or I’ll—”
He bucks against you, rough and animal, just the way you like. Your orgasm has made you so loose and slick it’s an invitation: come apart again, this is what you’re for.
“Shit. Good girl,” he pants, and you hate him for it.
You buck hard, knock his jaw with your head, and he’s so surprised at the pushback that for a second you can flip the balance. You straddle him in one twist, slamming down, and his cock splits you open so hard your vision goes white for a second. He tries to choke you just to regain control, but you wrench out of his grasp.
Every fiber of muscle in your body spasms at the stretch of this new angle—a cruel, burning pressure—a raw slap of fullness that bordered on pain. You gasp.
Unconsciously, you clench around him, and Aki swears under his breath, violent and soft, gripping your ass hard enough to leave fingerprints. You set the pace, frenzied and clumsy at first—then more confident, riding the sluggish roll of his hips until something inside you starts to melt. He feels impossibly thick, every controlled pulse of his body grazing the spot that’d make you lose your balance and brains in a single blow. You brace yourself with a palm against his sternum and dig your nails in, using it for leverage as you grind downward.
Aki exhales hard. You feel the tremor in his thighs as he tries to keep up. You stare down at him, wild-eyed and shaking. His face is a snarl, but behind it his mouth trembles with restraint. His hands clutch your hipbones, fingers scoring red into your skin, and you get the hint—rock faster or lose the upper hand. So you do.
You grind down until the only thing left of you is sensation—a hot, wrung-out rag, sore and fevered, nothing but a mouth to open and a cunt to fuck.
He knows it; he feels it in the way your body seizes, the way your voice devours itself: Aki, Aki, Aki, please, more, more, you’re killing me, I love it, I’ll do anything, anything, anything you want.
He lets you ride him until you’re undone. Then, at the flashpoint just before you break again, he grabs your hair at the nape and yanks you down to kiss him. It’s all teeth: he bites your lip so hard the copper of blood is clear against his tongue. It’s a gasp, a lurch, and suddenly he’s on top again, turning you over onto your stomach and pushing a hand against your shoulder blades.
He thrusts so deep inside you it’s unreal—a core-sample of pain, of pleasure so sharp you see nothing but afterimage and dye-bloomed shadow. You know it’s meant to be a punishment, but you only feel pure bliss. You can feel your peak building, not a thought in your head, mouthing obscenities into his sheets as your body flails and shakes.
“Gonna come?” he growls, striking the plushness of your ass with a slap. “What happened to that attitude, huh? All that anger? Now you’re boneless and taking it like a good little slut.”
You can’t answer—your jaw’s slack, and every muscle in your body is twitching with white-hot need. You grip the mattress so hard your knuckles turn bone-white; the sound you make isn’t even a real word, just a raw, kinetic groan torn wide open by his hand beating a fresh red bloom across your skin.
“That’s what I thought,” he sneers, voice breaking with triumph. The satisfaction is real, but there’s a ragged edge to him, too—like it costs him something to hold you down, to fuck you so furiously, to let this side of himself win.
He birds his hand in your hair, bunching the strands at the base of your skull, and yanks your head up so your back arches obscenely, so he can see your face in profile.
“Look at you,” he spits, grinning feral, “little slut, cock-drunk and filthy. How’re you gonna go back to work after this, huh?”
Your eyes flutter; in the blur, you see his face, red and splattered with sweat, pupils so wide it’s almost demonic. You try to snarl at him but your mouth’s as raw as the rest of you—you can only gasp his name, again, again, like a prayer begging for further damnation.
“Please, I’m so close,” you gasp. “Don’t stop—”
You’re whimpering, knees shaking in the sheets, each thrust landing like a hammer blow in the base of your skull. The world has collapsed to two points—the slice of Aki’s grip in your hair and the brutal, friction-ripped seam of pleasure where he splits you open. With every slam and slap, your body tenses tighter, until the only thing left is a coil of pressure along your spine, ready to snap.
He wrenches you up by the roots so your back arches more, chin thrown high, and you hear in your own ears an inhuman wail, a scream too raw for language. Your cunt clamps down, milking his cock in wild pulses. You spasm through your climax, tears streaming down your face as every muscle in you goes rigid and then shudders apart.
Aki is cursing you—he’s lost his own cadence, the measured rhythm giving way to ragged, uneven pounding, like he’s desperate for release but determined to gut every last tremor from your body first.
His voice is close to your ear, filthy, insistent, babbling curse after curse with your name laced through it—fucking take it, you brat, you wanted this, didn’t you, always such a greedy bitch, can’t get enough, gonna make you so fucking sore—and you know, with bright certainty, that you’ll never want anything else again.
You crumple forward as your orgasm rocks through you, half-sobbing, face mashed into the damp sheets. Aki keeps rutting into you, slower but impossibly deep, letting you wring out the last dying electric arcs of the orgasm. Your legs are numb, shaking uncontrollably, but for some reason, your mind is completely blank.
Aki just keeps hitting that deep, devastating place over and over, groaning filth in your ear—"Yeah, that’s it, make a mess. Wanna feel you milk me dry — fuck, you’re tight — you want my cum that bad?”
You nod, or try to, but your neck won’t cooperate. You only whimper and sob. He pushes you down, burying your face into the pillow, and the suffocation makes your last spasms of need clench down tight.
He fucks you through the comedown, doesn’t even slow or coddle—he just holds you under the crux of the shoulder, rutting, cock twitching so hard you can feel every jolt as he loses control. You can’t beg anymore, can’t even think. You want him to fill you so bad your stomach hurts. When he shoves in, bottoming all the way out, and pulses, the heat inside you is electric.
You sag in the sheets, face mashed sideways, Aki’s teeth pressing into the tendon of your neck. His free hand claws at your thigh, jerking you back onto him. The second he cums, it floods you so intimately. Brown sugar boiled down into syrup.
He collapses forward, weight pinning you to the mattress. His tongue flat against the back of your ear. All salt and exhaustion. You can’t move, can’t think, don’t really want to. You lose track of how long you lay there. Maybe you black out.
Aki appears in the edge of your vision, outline blunted by exhaustion. You expect him to light a cigarette, maybe nudge you off the bed with the tip of his shoe, but instead he throws his shirt over your hips and crouches low.
He’s holding a wet hand towel, steaming faintly, probably microwaved. He kneels beside you, eyes slitted with an anger that’s less about you and more about the failure of his own professionalism.
“You with me?” he asks, voice stripped of all the venom it had from before. He checks your pupils, the tender press of his thumb to your cheekbone almost apologetic.
It would be comforting, if you weren’t sure that he’s mentally reviewing all the ways he let shit get this bad.
You don’t respond. You can only blink dumbly back at him. He frowns.
“Hey,” he says softly, tapping your cheek. “Say something. You alive, baby?”
The endearment knocks the air out of you, hangs heavy in the back of your head, somewhere beyond the whirring static noise.
He just called me baby. He is not joking. Aki is too tired to ever really joke.
“Uh huh,” you mumble, voice hoarse, as if it’s your job to apologize for the entire preceding event.You haven’t cried more than twice in your adult life, but you know if you open your mouth again, tears will fall out. That’s another thing you can’t tolerate: crying.
Maybe Aki wants you to. Maybe you want you to.
All you can do is hide your face and bite down on the sound trying to rip itself free from your chest. There was a point, hours before, where you would have given anything for the soft, deep velvet of his voice in your ear. Now, his hand at your temple feels like a sunset wrapped in barbed wire. Warm, lovely—hurting, beautiful.
“Nngh,” you gargle, trying to roll away, but your body’s at heavy odds with you. Your arms don’t want to listen. Your legs aren’t attached. You feel like a crash-landed ship strewn in a crater of its own making.
Aki sighs—audible, slow, almost old—and hauls you upright. He sits on the edge of the bed with your limp shell in his lap, legs bent at grotesque angles. You try to protest, but your forehead thumps against his collarbone, and it’s the first time in memory you’ve ever felt so fragile.
“Don’t move. Let me take care of it.” His hands are pointed and mean as ever as he wipes your thighs, the sticky mess of lust and shame and need, but there’s a tenderness to it.
“I feel weird,” you mumble, suddenly feeling as if you’re hungover.
“You are weird,” he scoffs. “And you fuck like a coked-up pixie.”
The smile you find for him is a strange, not-quite-human thing.
“You loved it,” you rasp, just to needle him. “Blew a huge load, didn’t you, Captain?”
If this embarrasses him, he hides it well: only the hard swallow at his throat, the brief flicker of his tongue at a split in his lip. He swipes the cloth between your legs, utilitarian, but with odd care—enough to make you squirm at the memory of how thoroughly he carved you open.
You expect a reprieve, the post-coital flicker of contempt he’s built up over years of policing his emotions. But he only looks at you, long enough you wonder if you’ve actually died, then cups your chin in two hands and tilts your face up.
He almost looks like he’ll kiss you.
Instead, he looks at the bruises on your body, the shape of sex taking formation in blotted colors. He clears his throat, shame tinting his face.
“Sorry,” he says, and his voice is steady now, softer than even the echo of your own pulse. That gets you: Aki Hayakawa, apologizing to you after years and years of your careless mouth and his mean precision. His thumbs brush the hothouse of your cheekbones. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to—”
“Liar,” you snort, and the effort of it sends a shiver from your shoulders all the way to your toes.
He shakes his head, eyes sharp and silver under the salt-smudge of sweat. “No. I’m not lying. But you’re impossible to handle. I should’ve just tied you up.”
You bat your eyelashes, or you try, but it’s more of a series of uncoordinated blinks. “Next time.”
Aki’s breath hitches, the faintest spark behind the exhausted mask.
“Don’t say shit like that,” he mutters, avoiding your eyes. You think it’s hilarious considering the filth that came out of his mouth earlier. “Makes me think you’re still not you.”
“I was always me,” you scoff.
“No,” he grimaces. “You acted like you were fucking possessed.”
“I was still in there, though.”
His eyes soften, almost, but the steely facade he usually puts on wins over. “Yeah. Guess you were.”
There’s a minute where neither of you say anything, but it’s not the loaded simmer it once would have been. Not rage, not threat, not heat.
You’re sitting in his lap, both naked, both trembling, and neither of you seem equipped to handle something so frail as aftercare. Still, he wraps his arms around you, brings your chin to his shoulder in a way that means comfort even if it’s never been offered before.
__
The next morning, you regain consciousness, the world recalibrating itself around the fact that you can barely move. For a moment, you’re convinced you’re still back on that Devil sting mission, trussed up by yakuza as leverage. Then you realize: this is Aki’s bedroom, haloed early sun strobing through the curtains, the smell of his sweat and your own sex clotted thick in the air.
Your body is folded into a knot of blankets—no, not blankets, his jacket, the sharp-wool lining scratching your cheek. You can’t feel your hands. You try to move them, and only then do you see why: Aki has bound your wrists in the sleeves of his own button-up, coiled so snug the pulse at your wrist stutters.
The little creep, you think. You never expected he’d have such a sense of humor.
He’s beside you, lying on his back, the profile of his face sharp and battered in the predawn light. The inside of his forearm is smudged with marks—yours, probably. For once, he isn’t pretending to be asleep or already up grinding coffee beans at the first hint of morning. He’s there, a real person, shell-shocked and vulnerable for a few ticks of infinity. He blinks awake like a man surfacing from a mile down, eyes shredded by exposure.
“Hey,” you murmur.
He looks over at you, his expression not moving. “Hey.”
“Care to explain why you tied me up?”
“You’re still a liability.”
“Right. Because the most recent collection of UNIQLO is going to restrain me.”
He considers this, meets your eyes, and blinks.
“Couldn’t be too careful.” Then, quieter, “You kept trying to touch me. Even in your sleep.”
You try, for his sake, to look abashed, but beneath the thump of your headache, there’s the pulse of something that almost feels like pride.
“In a pervy way?” You raise a brow.
“Not at first. You kept grabbing my wrist.” He holds it up, and you see the angry pink trenches from your nails. “And then you stole my phone and texted Makima at four in the morning.”
“About what?”
“…You told her you loved me. Also said I had a giant cock and made you see god.” The flush at the shell of his ear is the only proof it’s not a total lie.
You close your eyes and let the humiliation wash through you. “So, what did she say?”
Aki scratches the scar near his eyebrow, sheepish. “She said to keep you hydrated, and recommended two paracetamol every six hours.”
You let out a genuine laugh this time. His lips quiver at the effort of holding back a smile. You make a child’s show of straining against the makeshift bonds. The effort spikes needles up both your arms, but that only makes the reward—Aki’s hand touching your forehead, the gentle brush of his thumb at your eyelid—feel like a contact high.
“Still you in there?” he asks, barely voiced.
“Still me.”
There’s a charge in the air—a hum, uncertain but hopeful—as you lie there tangled in the aftershock, blankets twisting the two of you together in a makeshift shroud. You count out breaths, running a tally of damage: thighs burning, wrists tender, lips bruised. When you move, Aki’s arm slides over your midsection, pulling you closer with proprietary gentleness. You never knew such a thing existed between the two of you. The heat in his palm spreads under your ribs, far softer than his cut-glass voice has ever allowed.
“For the record,” he says, slowly. “I’m glad I was your victim and not someone else.”
You want to say something pithy, call him a simp, a weak-ass bitch, but nothing makes it past the tickle in your throat and the way your cheek is pressed to the back of his hand. It’s so easy to close your eyes and float, just for a second. Even the pressure at your wrists doesn’t bother you—if anything, it’s the only thing binding you to the world.
“For the record, you’re better than my last three victims combined.”
He snorts, half laughter, half bitter disbelief, and for a second the space between your bodies is a live wire.
“Sorry I made you do that,” you say, eyes tight against the morning glare.
“You didn’t make me do anything.”
“You sure?” you laugh, just a puff of breath between your teeth. “I could try harder next time.”
He lets the suggestion hang. You wonder if you mean it as a threat or a promise. He shifts his weight, rolling so that your wrists are pressed to his ribcage, snug, and leaves a palm splayed on your lower back. The weight of it keeps you from drifting off.
You try to catalog the feeling in your chest—a spasm, a little roar irising out, eating up all the leftover shame. It feels like biting into a perfect, stolen persimmon. Terrible, too-sweet, impossible to stop. It’s not romance. No one would call it that. But it’s… something.
“We both have the day off, by the way,” he murmurs.
“You’re saying I can do whatever I want today?” you ask, tilting your chin in a challenge.
“Absolutely not,” he snorts.
“You’re basically asking for it.”
“You’re not going to seduce me this time,” he replies, his voice almost wary.
“So you’ll just make coffee and pretend you don’t want to rail me into unconsciousness,” you suggest, with what you hope is a steady voice.
He sighs. You catch, in the brief twist of his lips, that he’s considering the offer on its full spectrum.
You muster the strength for another wild strike: “Maybe I do want to seduce you. Does that ever occur to you, Aki?”
You hope the invective lands like a brick, but instead he just looks at you—really looks—and there’s an unspeakable flash of recognition, a flicker of weird kinship that makes your insides squirm.
“Later,” Aki promises, surprising you. “First, you need food and three liters of water.”
Instead of hauling you out of bed, however, he keeps you corralled against his chest in the starchy tangle of sheets and ruined uniforms, warm and lazy and mean. You can sense his heartbeat in the wall of muscle pinning you, each pulse steady as a clock, as if his body requires you to re-time yourself to its cadence.
Aki’s thumb, as if by accident, strokes the hollow at your chin. He's not big on physical comfort—prefers to bark orders and slam doors and keep the world at a safe radius, but in the bleached honesty of morning, he can't resist the compulsion to check that you're real. That you're not just a fever dream or a devil hallucination. You realize he’s watching your eyes for signs of relapse; there's a tension in his brow that shows he’s still being cautious.
You swallow thickly. “It’s still me.”
He stares at you another second, reluctant to yield. Then nods, once, and releases your hands from the neat knot of his sleeves.
You press your ear against the metronome of his pulse, close your eyes, memorize the way the shape of your face fits against the hollow beneath his collarbone. Somewhere below the blanket, his knee presses against your thigh, bracing you in place. In that weird, bitter-light morning, you think he could die like this, both of you wound up together like blown fuses. Perhaps it would be an okay way to end.
Sal wakes up with a cold sweat, a choked noise of alarm as his nightmare jolts him awake. He clutches his chest, eyes adjusting to the darkness of your room as he looks around. He yanks the chain of bedside lamp, the shadows that had once appeared as monsters are now just…ordinary objects.
“Sally?”
Sal looks to the side, seeing your bleary expression makes guilt pool in his stomach. “Sorry, I’m okay—go back to bed.” Sally’s hand is shaky as he goes to lovingly stroke your hair. “Don’t apologize, play fair.” You murmur, sitting up, you’re sure you’ll end up dozing off if he keeps petting you. It’s why Gizmo’s so well behaved, Sal knows how to work his fingers just right. “I am being fair, I’m never not fair.” He rubs his head, he’s just a mess, but at least he’s not alone. “I’m just teasing.” You slot your chin over his shoulder, some stray hair tickle your face, you braided his hair just before bed, but came loose anyways. “I know.” He replies quietly, patting your side gently.
Sal lies back down, tugging you down with him, your cheek rests against his bare chest, his skin is warm against yours, you can hear the steady thump of his heart. You can feel him taking a deep breath, his hand rubbing your shoulder. Sal sleeps the best when he’s with you, its even better when he gets to sleep in your bed, surrounded by your smell and presence. “You wanna talk about it?” You speak through a yawn, wrapping yourself around his scrawny frame like a coil. “In the morning, not right now.” He mumbles, the warmth and security of your body wrapped around his is too comfortable. You hum, wrapping your legs around his thigh, you can feel his course leg hair against your calf.
“Love you…” Sal whispers, but in the dead of night you can hear his affection loud and clear. “Love you too Sally.” You whisper back, he gives your arm a squeeze, his mind quiets down, body relaxing into your mattress. Your hand pats his stomach, a gentle acknowledgment. When your breath evens out so does Sally’s, maybe he should just get you to move in, be his little dreamcatcher. Yeah, that sounds nice.
dividers by @uzmacchiato
a/n: i have such a big crush on sal plz like kill me
