Tags: SFW, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Boxer!Nanami — Part 2 of the Hard Fist, Soft Lips series
Nanami has been experiencing a losing streak in his matches, and he eventually realises it's because he craves your presence.
Tags: SFW, Fluff, Comfort, Boxer!Nanami — Part 1 of the Hard Fist, Soft Lips series
Your husband comes home dejected and exhausted after a lost boxing match and falls asleep in your loving arms.
𝐁𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐮𝐫'𝐬 𝐆𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝟑
Dance of Hearts [AO3 Portal] — Wyll/GN!Reader
Tags: NSFW, Jealousy, Oral (Wyll receiving), Overstimulation, Fluff and Smut, No mention of reader's genitals but they are the receiving partner
After your husband's attention and time kept being stolen by snobby guests from the high society, Wyll is more than willing to remind you he only has eyes for you.
𝐌𝐲 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐨 𝐀𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐚/𝐁𝐨𝐤𝐮 𝐍𝐨 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐨 𝐀𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐚
Codename: ROOK [AO3 Portal] — Hawks/F!Reader/Dabi
Tags: NSFW, No Quirk AU, Detective Noir AU, Casefic, Blood and Violence, Crime and Crime scenes, Drugs, Organised Crime, Canonical Character Death, AFAB!Reader, Eventual Smut, Threesome — Multichapter, completed on AO3
Faced with a career changing decision, you go undercover with detective Takami to uncover the secrets of the League, now forced to work with a criminal you've been trying to catch for years: Dabi.
Zburătorul: The One Who Flies [AO3 Portal] — Hawks/F!Reader
You've been dreaming many a night about the seductive creature that people call "The One Who Flies," until one night he visits you to make your fantasies a reality.
Free Falling For You [AO3 Portal] — Hawks/GN!Reader
You noticed Sydney hasn't been eating well and overworking himself again, so you plan to cook him dinner to make sure he eats. Sydney, however, has other cravings.
Anyone and everyone CAN write. The world’s most skilled writer didn’t start off skilled. The key is that they practice hard by writing a lot.
As long as you write, you are practicing your craft and you are getting better at writing. But you will never get anywhere if you let AI write for you.
i made this version of that popular cake meme as a love letter to my favourite artists, writers, editors etc who keep making content about my favourite characters/ship
tags: non-con sex, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, size kink, forced fellatio, forced cunnilingus, impact play, brief watersports, double penetration in two holes, forced breeding, implied hybrid/shifter au
Needing time away from her humdrum life at home, she ventures into the woodland for respite. Little does she know, straying into that cabin in the woods will be the worst—or best—decision she’ll ever make. Depending on who you ask.
all my thanks to @/ohbo-ohno! thank you for being the best beta reader and sitting through my abhorrent typos <3
AO3 MIRROR
The mountain’s breadth of trees and foliage are written with prose.
It’s repetitive. Mind-numbing. She’s already passed this necrosed tree stump five times before. On the sixth circle, she treks through the undergrowth like it’s curdled milk, the tiny scythes of branches whispering against her arms and slicing her open the same way thumbs tear into oranges.
Dehydration crystallises like sediment in her mouth. It makes her bones heavy, bending against her flesh as if they’re groceries about to tear through a plastic bag. The balls of her feet are calcified, her thighs chafed. They rub against her threadbare jeans the same way a match reacts with red phosphorus to produce a flame. It burns, and so do her muscles. They feel moth-eaten and spent. Hung out to dry.
The stench of damp soil and sugar maple impairs her like an opiate. The peal of idle birdsongs grate against her ears. She’s sick of it—she’s been here for three days—and already, she’s sick of it.
She tries her phone again. It’s unresponsive, no signal. She unfurls her map but it’s mottled with rainwater and mud. Her lungs feel dry, pruney, as the dew drops slipping off fern plants seem to replicate the tears thawing in her eyes.
Evening mist hangs over the ground, and the sky turns red-bottomed as it progresses into nightfall. It’s as if the mountain is sentient. Nocturnal. Stirring from a torpor once the sun sets and awakening all that lives within it.
A sob wracks her ribs. It has the same effect of a bullet, ricocheting. She keeps moving even though she doesn’t know where she’s going. She believes that should she continue walking, nothing will be able to catch her. Not the spindly tree branches that take the shape of arms or serpentine shrubbery. She won’t give the mountain any time to fossilise her, if only she keeps moving.
Her movements are clumsy though. Her eyesight is hindered by panicked tears, turning everything shapeless and blurry. She keeps tripping and skinning her knees like the hide of a pomegranate, her flesh peeling back to show the red pulp of her innards.
It was a rashly undertaken lapse of judgement that brought her here. To a conscious mountain that lives and breathes and feels her fear. It was her heart, empty, carved out and replaced by brutal loneliness. Her friends back home are heedless and her parents are never satisfied with what she does. She figured that if none of them would listen, the woodlands would.
And listen, they did.
When she cries out, the wind howls. When she changes her direction, pivoting on her heel, the soil rumbles. She sees things—a shadow spotting her vision, not composed of matter—peeking from behind a tree trunk before quickly slipping away. She witlessly calls out, asking if anyone’s there, and is met with the forest's silent presentiment. She feels the stark pressure of piercing eyes sprawling down her dewy neck, sweeping over her body.
The longer she spends lost, the more she sinks into Appalachia.
It pulls her down like molasses. Like she’s an innocent fly trapped in glue. Soon, she knows there’s no hope. She knows her scent is written into the bark of trees—supple, sugary. A treat for whichever predator finds her first.
A brown bear, swinging its claws at her until her entrails are threadbare and striated. A snake, injecting venom in her blood. A bobcat if she’s lucky. It would be a quick death—sinking its loose jowls into either side of her neck until it snaps and she goes slack.
She’s apt to let go. She’s keen to yield to the alluring call of the woodland to let go, to fall to the forest floor and sit there until she rots. Until the roots worm into her breathing wounds and branches start growing out of her mouth. The urge to stop moving and become one with the mountain is suddenly cogent, leaves no margin of doubt. It comes with the promise of eternal respite and divine mercy. She’s about to find a cliff to jump off of, but before she can, something catches her attention.
A plume of smoke curling in the air.
Whorls of slate-grey soot thinning and disappearing into the sky. She looks for the source and follows it blindly, shouldering past pine needles and hawthorn and all but sobbing as a cabin comes into view. It’s made of wood and the tufts of wildflower that sprout from its thin fissures. It looks neglected and eaten by the elements. Its vaulted roof is stained by the off-white assault of bird droppings, discoloured by acid rain. Some of the windows look covered with dewy newspaper, but still, she knows it can’t be vacant. The smoke undulating from the chimney tells her that.
She staggers onto the porch. Her fist rasps against the door, clippings of wood burying itself into her skinned knuckles as she wildly knocks. Silence. Not even the leaves flutter against each other. Fleetingly, a stint of panic seizes her. What if nobody’s home? But she’s twisting the knob and pushing herself inside anyway, dropping her bag to the floor with a thump, stepping inside.
The cabin makes for a liminal space, smelling of sawdust and pine. There’s a layer of dust on every surface, making the air thick. All the furniture is carved from wood and a couple taxidermied deers are mantled above the stone fireplace, looking more like warnings than decoration. The pelt of a black bear is unfurled across the floor, and a few trinkets are strewn around—a bookshelf of spine-cracked novels, dead plants hanging from the ceiling beams. A mountain of used cigarettes, but strangely, no ashtray.
There’s everything but picture frames. Nothing she can use to humanise the cabin nor the people supposedly living in it.
She guides herself to the kitchen by feeling the walls. There’s a piped stove in the corner and cast iron tools hanging above the counter. Her stomach bubbles, and immediately, she starts scouring for food.
There’s three barrels by the door, and upon popping them open, the stench of brine sprays her in the face. It’s fish with a crust of salt, preserved. In the other barrel is meat buried in shelled corn, and fermented poultry in the last barrel.
It’s all raw and bloody. She steps back, gagging, turning her attention to the shelves that line the faraway wall. Jars of pickled cucumber and carrots. Garlic braids hanging from the edge. Rusty milk churns nestled in the corner.
There’s a galvanised tub full of ice on the floor. She digs through it and almost moans at the jars of jam. She untwists one, sticks her fingers in it, and wipes it clean with her tongue and teeth. It’s tart and tangy but it’s food, sticking to the walls of her stomach, satiating her. And once she starts she can’t stop. She goes back to the wall and finds a stained jar, fishing out a handful of fermented cabbage, stuffing it in her mouth, her face tightly puckering at the sharp sourness.
The juice of the food goes spilling past her lips, sluicing down her chest. It sticks to the chasm between her tits and mixes with sweat, making her shirt cling to her skin, revealing the barest outline of her nipples. She’s so engrossed in keeling over the counter and stuffing her face that she doesn’t even notice the pointed shift in atmosphere. The deer outside stopping their rutting, the trill of birds ceasing. The leaves stilling, as if holding their breaths to hide. Thick, silvery clouds nestling together and eclipsing the sun, casting a thin overcast over the woodland, darkening the already-dim surroundings.
She’s too preoccupied to recognise the tell-tale croak of the door swinging open. It’s tinny, but bullied by the sound of her smacking on marinated cabbage. She doesn’t notice the dull, throbbing footfalls. Pays no heed to the stench of blood invading her senses because she believes it’s coming from her dry, leathery lips that split open as she widens her mouth to fit the cabbage inside.
It’s only when the room darkens, a box-shaped shadow sweeping over her vision, does her blood run cold. She freezes with a handful of vegetable raised halfway to her lips, the brine rolling off a cabbage leaf like it’s an awning, dropping to the floor—drip, drip, drip—the rapid succession of shedding liquid hitting the floor sounds similar to the beating of her heart against her fickle, feeble ribs.
The saline spray in her mouth gets soaked up by her tongue, making it puffy, too big for her mouth. She turns around clemently—treating the shadow like a wild animal—no sudden movements. She goes rigid.
It can’t be human.
It’s huge. Bigger than anything she’s ever seen before. Sweeping shoulders, broad thighs. Its neck is bent uncannily because it’s too big to fit in the doorway. Its chest rises heavily like a bull.
She tries to find a face, and when she does, the blood is drained from her.
It just makes her feel… uncomfortable. Its face is the poor imitation of a human, as if someone tried drawing one from memory but scarcely failed. Failed to capture the humanity, the animation, leaving it looking like a half-convincing resemblance. Its tapetum lucidum glows yellow, burning in the thin mist of moonlight that penetrates the newspaper sticking to the windows.
It stares blankly at her. The hair on her arms stick up, a bead of sweat slices down her neck.
“I’m sorry…”
The creature raises an arm and pulls on a hanging bead-chain, tugging on the light, which is simply a naked bulb in the middle of the kitchen. The kindle is weak but does more than the delicate moonlight. Just barely illuminates its face. His face.
She tries not to let her fear show. Tries not to preen under his depthless eyes, the mean twine of his lips. His hair that seems to have been shaved too closely to his scalp, if the nicks and small cuts on the shells of his ears are anything to go by.
He grumbles an idle prusten. He rolls his elbows back—his shoulder blades unfurling like folded wings—and twists his thick neck.
“What’re you doin’ in my home?”
“I’m so sorry,” she repeats, her words stifled around a wad of cabbage. “I– I’ve been lost for three days. I came up for a hike but lost my way and I saw your cabin and I’m sorry, but I’m just so hungry and–”
A deep, guttural voice peals from the living room.
“Simon!” It says. “Where should I chuck the deer? It’s too big for the livin’ room.”
The aforementioned Simon, she presumes, doesn’t answer the unobserved voice. He keeps his eyes on her, face twisted into a puckered, mean mug.
A string of footsteps precede the face that appears behind Simon’s shoulder. A rounder, ruddier face. A salt-and-pepper stubble and eyes so blue they glow like bioluminescence.
Johnny acts surprised as if Simon hadn’t smelled her from miles away. Her honeyed scent roiling off of her, curling into the air and thinning between the trees. Her sweat pooling in the gusset of her panties, raw and pungent.
He’s purposely coy. It’s written into the furrow of his brows and the caper of his cupid lips but the girl is too disoriented to catch on. She looks at him and beseeches, but almost faints at the deer hanging limply over his shoulder. He holds it like it weighs nothing—a sack of sprouting potatoes.
He coos. “Who’s this?”
“Lost bird,” Simon grunts. “Found her diggin’ through our food.”
“Oh, poor lassie,” Johnny hums. More so to Simon than the girl, which makes her squirm. “She didnae mean any harm, Simon. She’s just hungry… tha’ right, lass? Are ye hurt?”
She stutters out a nod, gesturing to how her jeans cling to her knees, sun-bleached and darkened with blood. She rolls her shirt over her ribcage, showing them her wounded torso. How her skin sticks to her bones.
Johnny bristles.
“The lass needs a place to stay, Simon,” he whispers. “And she’s hurt. Bleeding.”
They talk of her as if she’s advertised merchandise in a magazine catalogue. She squirms.
Simon turns to look at her. The depression in her cheeks due to her hunger and the split skin of her mouth. The pert curve of her breasts. The desperate look in her eyes.
He grumbles, looks over his shoulder at Johnny. “I’ll start the fire. You take the deer out back and drain it ‘fore it hardens.”
“Aye,” Johnny says. He thumps away in clunky boots and a thin t-shirt and jeans. The deer sways with his gait and disappears behind the screen door when he steps outside.
She redirects her attention to Simon, who’s already looking at her. More specifically, at her pulsing neck. His jowls are slightly unfastened, his pupils blown out and eclipsing his irises.
Presentiment settles in her stomach. She blanches.
Suddenly, Simon is grunting and gripping her arm, heedless towards her whimper of fear and fleeting stint of resistance. His nails are sharp, digging sickle-shaped impressions into her arm. He drags her down the hallway and into another room—a bathroom—and tugs the flickering light on. It lacks sheen, barely illuminates the room from its moss-covered nooks to the tiled floor caked with crusted dirt.
(The lightbulb is so dull. It doesn’t reach the farthest corner of the bathroom where the radiator is placed. The radiator bathed in black, hidden beneath the lip of shadows, so she isn’t able to see the forgotten handcuff hanging limply from one of the pipes.)
Simon works his heavy body around the bathroom. He leans over the clawfoot tub—which he dwarfs—and twists open the spigot, watching as brown-coloured water slowly ripens into something clear, gushing out of the faucet. He stuffs a plastic plug into the rust-ringed drain.
He straightens back into his full height. All-encompassing, panoramic. Simon is so impossibly large that it’s a wonder he has so much muscle packed under his skin. Rustic, hard thighs. A shirt that bends against his arms, about to snap.
“Take a bath,” he commands. “Get y’rself cleaned up.”
Simon shoulders past her and ducks to exit the bathroom. There’s no door separating it from the rest of the house, but a multitude of beads hanging above the threshold to imitate one. She keeps her eyes trailed on it while she strips—peeling off her jeans, pulling her shirt over her head. Rolling down her panties and consciously hiding them beneath her other clothes.
She clutches the lip of the bathtub for leverage and dips her toes into the water. Immediately, she melts. The hot water swallows her foot and travels like a spool of thread to the rest of her, weaving itself into her wounds, licking her open like the first thaw of spring.
She submerges herself fully, bringing her knees to her chest. Her neck hoists backward and into the water, soaking all the grit and dirt knotted into her hair. It’s like plying through syrup as she lifts an arm, retrieving a homespun bar of soap, clutching it to test her grip. There’s coily hair knotted into it and sticking to the dried bubbles. She brings it up to her nose, sniffing. Hesitates before rubbing it into her skin and around her throbbing wounds.
The water idly sloshes as she cleans herself. It’s a hollow sound, amplified by the echoey room. She trails her hand below her waist, slipping her sudsy fingers between her lips and stroking, rubbing herself clean.
Beneath the tinny sounds of water surrounding her like a petticoat, something else peals out. Something like a whine. Her fingers cramp above her warm cunt and she goes taut. She turns her head to the threshold of the bathroom and nearly screams but her throat puckers before she can, blocking it, her mouth hanging open in a soundless screech instead.
It’s Johnny. He stands in the middle of the hallway, peering into the bathroom and staring at her, half-obscured by the bead curtains. He looks like a sit-and-wait predator like this—silent and unassuming, if not for his blindingly-white smile shining through the curtain like strobes of sunlight breaking past trees. He steps inside now that he’s been spotted, and that causes ice to lick her organs—she sinks her breasts below the water’s surface, squeezing her thighs together. She bristles as Johnny strides impossibly close, the lip of the tub cutting into his thighs.
He stinks of sweat and iron and wood. His t-shirt clings to his skin, darkened with deer blood, outlining the barest hint of his bulky chest.
He grins. “Brought ye some clean clothes.”
“Oh. I… thank you,” she mumbles. “You can leave it on the toilet if you don’t mind?”
Johnny sets it down. A folded flannel and a pair of sweatpants. He idles a little longer, still smiling, before leaving the bathroom. She counts the minutes in her head and tries to find the right time to leave the tub, outstretching her hand for the towel once it comes to her. But the towel is just scarcely out of reach. The terrycloth grazes her fingertips, teasing her. It’s like it was methodically placed there. Bait at the end of a fish hook to ply her out of the water and stick her ass in the air, reaching over to grip the cloth and tug it over her breasts, stepping out of the tub.
Her eyes stay locked on the crude door while she changes. She buttons the flannel up to her neck and takes heed of the pointed absence of any undergarments, slipping her legs into the gauzy sweatpants, tying them at her waist.
Johnny bursts in as if on cue. He’s still slick with blood, his mohawk odd-angled, spun-thread and matted to his head with sweat. His cheeks bulge around another grin.
“Too big for ye, is it?” He pants. “Might as well take it off. Might trip and hurt yerself again. Wouldn’t want that happenin’, right honey?”
Johnny shortens the space between them in one stride. His fingers, thick and jaded, are already fumbling around the knot she tied, pulling it out of its bow and letting the sweatpants fall, pooling into a crimp around her ankles.
The flannel is big enough to reach her thighs. Still, she clenches her fingers around the hem and tugs it lower, preening under Johnny’s smouldering gaze. It’s almost paradoxical how it works—his eyes are icy blue, yet they have the same effect as basaltic molten. Burning hot. He’s fixated on her skinned knees, gnawing on his bottom lip.
“Simon’s got the fire goin’,” he says. “Let’s go get yer wounds cleaned too, aye?”
Johnny’s walking out before she can blink. She follows after him, flustered, stumbling into the living room lit by a dulcet fire. Simon’s kneeled beside it, sticking his hand in to adjust a lopsided stock of wood, unaffected by the flames that eat away his arm hair. Johnny takes the girl by the scruff of her neck, guiding her to a hand-crafted chair placed conscientiously in front of the fireplace. He presses on her—the sensitive divot between her shoulder and her neck—and pushes her into the seat, unzipping a first-aid kit.
Johnny takes her feet and pulls them into his lap. The angle makes her flannel hitch up, exposing her bare cunt to the hot embers of the fireplace, and the equally hot embers of Simon’s prying eyes. She squeaks and covers herself, averting her gaze as Simon’s stare darkens into the colour of midnight splash hanging over the sky.
“You’ll feel a wee sting,” Johnny warns. He rips the corner off a rag and drenches it in vodka, poising it over her flayed knees. “Should probably give my hand a squeeze or somethin’, ye ken? To lessen the burn, o’ course.”
She hesitates but slips her hand around Johnny’s all-encompassing one, her fingers barely meeting whilst wrapped around his palm. She winces when the ethanol meets her wound, shooting through her veins, and tries recoiling into herself.
But the amplitude of her pain swells, and her muscles girdle.
It’s Simon’s massive hand splitting itself across her thigh that keeps her pinned to the chair. His fingers bite rivets into her skin, the pinch overriding the sting of her tissue soaking up the alcohol.
“Stay still when he tells you to,” he grumbles. “Otherwise it’ll hurt.”
She wriggles uncomfortably. Tries not to flinch when the rag meets her knees again and burns her wound. Simon’s hand doesn’t leave her thigh until he’s throwing another block of wood into the fireplace.
Johnny hums. “So, what’re you doin’ up here? Religious retreat? Mental health?”
She smacks her lips, unsure if she should answer that. She chances a glance towards Simon and bristles because for some reason, she just knows that if she lies, somehow, he’d tell.
“Um. Just stepping away from home, I suppose,” she mumbles. “Friends. Family.”
“Oh. They dinnae care about you?”
She flinches. Not because of the vodka against her skin, but Johnny’s implications.
“No,” she says. Her words are so fickle, so distorted by misery that not even she believes it. “They do care about me. I just needed space.”
He nods. Slowly, his eyebrows press together. “I don’t remember much of my family. It’s a wee bit odd. Can’t say if they liked me or not…”
Simon squeezes the back of his neck. “Enough of tha’. Pay attention.”
Johnny makes a sound like he’s humiliated. It’s only when he unrolls a spool of gauze, wrapping it around her kneecaps, is he afforded mercy when Simon changes the topic.
“Where’s the bird gonna sleep?”
“We’ve still got a cot in the root cellar, aye?” Johnny replies. “For hurricanes and tha’. Figured she wouldn’t mind it there. Wouldn’t ye, lass?”
Clemently, she shakes her head.
Simon grunts. He stands up, towering over them both. “The deer’s there, Johnny. What kind of hosts would tha’ make us? Puttin’ her up with a corpse?”
Johnny blushes as if he’s been scolded. His bottom lip curls out, petulant, a waspish colour flooding his cheeks.
“Aye…” he grumbles. “Tha’s right. The livin’ room, then?”
The girl is sitting, her head oscillating between the two men like a pendulum as they talk.
“No,” Simon says. “We’ll move the cot to our room.”
Johnny nods. He scratches his stubble, pretending to think. “It’s important we keep an eye on her wounds, too.”
“Exactly,” Simon says, petting Johnny’s head. “Smart boy.”
He clicks his tongue and Johnny shoots up, scurrying out of the living room to retrieve the aforementioned cot. Muffled sounds peal out from the root cellar below them. Johnny comes stumbling back up in mere minutes with a rickety cot fitted under his armpit and disappears into a dark room.
“Best get to sleep before it’s too late,” Simon splays his hand over the small of her back. “Y’must be tired.”
She submits to Simon’s touch, letting him guide her through the cabin and into the darkest room lit only by a lone oil lamp.
Johnny is finishing up the cot when Simon releases her. He drapes a cable-knit blanket over the surface, fluffing up a pillow. She doesn’t point out how close it is to their bed, the lip of her cot almost touching their rickety mattress.
“Fair warnin’ lass,” Johnny begins, peeling off his shirt, kittening into bed. “Simon snores quite a bit. Dinnae be feart to smack his gob if he gets too loud, aye?”
She stiffly nods. She climbs into the cot and bunches the blanket around her, making a conscious effort to hide her bare legs. Simon crawls between them, the mattress sinking with his weight, and throws their whisper-thin blanket over his legs.
Darkness penetrates the room when he blows the lamp out. The only smoulder is the silvery glow of moonlight invading the curtains and the reflective light in Simon’s eyes.
He sits up impossibly straight, staring at her like a cryptid caught on a trail cam. It causes discomfort to congeal under her flesh, but slowly, the longer she looks, a bristle of sleepiness lays hold of her. She closes her eyes and falls into limbo. Her breaths thinning into a short, even pattern.
———
She’s between the threshold of awake and sleep when she hears it.
She can’t tell if it’s a dream or the amplified sounds of Appalachia. She feels as if she’s underwater or stuck in syrup, able to hear the rushing brook of her blood against her ears but unable to distinguish the sounds around her.
There’s a grunt. And a moan. The wail of the bed next to her snapping then creasing. Heavy breathing. Sprinting hearts.
Her head is so muddled she can’t register anything. Her mind tells her that the violent slapping of skin against skin is the crack of thunder. That the strangled whimpers are the call of a cottontail.
“Right there, Johnny?” A voice asks. “Takin’ my big cock so fuckin’ well. Greedy lil’ bitch, you are.”
A long, drawn-out whine chases after it. A choked-out scream as if something hurts, succeeded by a wet squelch.
“Look at ‘er,” that voice jeers. “Think she’d take it? Better than you? Think she’d bleed all over it like– fuck… how I smelt it on her?”
The other voice—broken in, wispy—chokes on a response. It sounds a little stifled, as if speaking through something shoved in its mouth.
“No… nae better than me,” it mumbles. “Nae better than me…”
It’s like she’s drowning in purgatory. She can’t move, can’t speak. She’s caught in a phantasmagorical limbo between reality and fantasy. She can feel the serpentine hands of something with no material existence wrap around her and stain her slick with sweat, sweeping over the space between her legs, licking a wetness up her pussy.
A dewy sound peals out. It’s a predator loosening its jowls, stringy and frothy, flaying its lips to bare its teeth. A rumbling roar rips out of its throat, animalistic. She can hear the popping of teeth sinking into flesh. The dull sound of skin breaking.
“Ah!” A squeal. “Simon, tha’– it hurts.”
She feels a vortex in her belly, an ache in her clit.
It’s like she resurfaces the water. All at once, she hears clearly. It’s a lone word whispered in a guttural cadence so close that she swears it’s mumbled against the hot hull of her ear.
“Good.”
———
She wakes the next morning with her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth and a damp heat between her legs.
Sunlight filters through the gauzy curtains, hitting the bed next to her. The bed is starkly empty she notes, as she crawls out of her cot and pops the stiff muscles in her back, stretching.
She pokes her head out of the bedroom and tiptoes around the cabin as if avoiding a barrage of landmines. There’s a downward force in her bladder that tells her she’s been in torpor for the better half of the morning, and a heavy crust in her eyes that shifts when she blinks. She finds her way to the bathroom and shucks the flannel over her hips, lowering herself on the toilet seat, emptying herself.
It’s the only stint of respite. The closest thing she can get to calm since losing her way in the mountain three days ago. She relishes in the idle birdsongs outside and the sound of overnight frost melting into the dew that slips off tree leaves, pitter-pattering to the ground. Listens to the stream of her pee peter out, and the ruffle of folding fabric as she tosses the flannel back over her thighs. She listens to the–
“How’d ye sleep, pretty girl?”
She flinches at the gruff voice. It’s written with sleep, barely lucid under a Scottish lilt. Her hands freeze under the running water of the tap as she watches Johnny waltz inside the bathroom, shucking his pants to his thighs and pulling out his cock, pissing in the toilet.
She’s stiff. Fixed to the cold clay tiles of the floor, unable to be bent. She tries not to let her eyes wander, tries to block out the chubby mass of muscle swinging between his legs.
“Oh…” her words are stifled by shock. “F-fine. I slept fine. Thank you again for opening your house to me.” She thinks back to last night—the whimpering, the croaking—and rashly decides to tack on, “But I did hear some weird noises. I could have been dreaming though.”
Johnny chuckles. “...Aye, it’s almost matin’ season ‘round these parts. I think you’ll be hearin’ more of that. It’s best to ignore it.”
Her body girdles when he sways his cock, shaking away the liquid on the tip. He stuffs himself back into his pants and pulls the flush, grinning.
“Bet you’re still hungry. Simon’s wrappin’ up breakfast. Let’s go.”
He pats her bum and makes her squeak. He grips the hem of her flannel and reels it around his knuckles like a leash, tugging her into the dining area—which is more of a nook nestled into the living room—and pulls out a seat.
“Hope ye fancy porridge,” Johnny chuckles. He splits his palm across the top of her head, pushing her into the chair.
She huffs and hoists her neck up, grimacing at the acrid scent of animal hide burning against the base of a cast iron pan. It takes a conscious effort to not crinkle her nose in disgust.
Simon ducks as he emerges from the kitchen threshold. He wields two bowls of food. One for her and the other for Johnny. She takes heed of how—despite his stature—Simon doesn’t have anything to eat.
However it’s a cursory thought, because she’s quickly pulling her lips into a weak smile and examining the bowl in front of her. Food is a generous word, since it looks more like coagulated milk than porridge and smells sour. Simon places a chipped plate of bacon alongside it. It’s curled because it’s overcooked, crusted with charcoal.
She swallows as Simon takes a seat next to her. Johnny, on the other side of her.
“Looks delicious,” she hums. She turns to Simon, “Are you… not eating?”
He picks an off-white tendon from his canine tooth, flicking it away.
He answers in a rigid tenor. “Don’t hurt your head over me. You eat your food.”
She marginally shrinks into herself, embarrassment licking up her spine. She feels like a chided puppy, but perhaps that’s the sentiment.
When she opens her lips and raises the spoon to her mouth, her flannel curls like a wisp of hair off her shoulder, baring her bruised albeit supple skin. She hastily pulls the sleeve back up.
She speaks around the stale porridge and her rising apprehension. “Uh, do you have my clothes from yesterday?” She asks, squirming as her sweat glues the back of her thighs to the chair, sticky. “It’s just, uh, they fit me better.”
“Oh,” Johnny blinks, “o’ course.”
She watches him stand up and slip through the backdoor. He walks towards a clothesline hitched between two trees and retrieves her clothes, returning with them tucked under his arm.
“Here ye go sweetheart,” he grins, setting them on her lap. Petting her head.
She slowly peels through her clothes. Her fingertips drag against her threadbare jeans, her overripe shirt, but never touch the sweat-imbued gauze of something more… intimate. Her maw tenses around the hot porridge.
“Where are my… um…” she lowers her voice even though it’s redundant—Johnny is leaned in close, practically huffing against her ear, sniffing her neck. “... Undergarments?”
Johnny tilts his head, puckering his lips in confusion. He’s written with the innocence of a puppy—whether it’s real or fabricated, she can’t tell. The words have begun bleeding together, blotchy and unintelligible.
“Panties, ye mean?” He laughs. “Ye never had any of those.”
She swallows thickly.
“No, I… I did. I wouldn’t go hiking without–”
“Ye must be goin’ crazy, lass,” Johnny says. “This was all you gave me. Nae panties.”
He stares at her with large, intercosmic, unassuming eyes. His gaze flickers towards Simon. It’s so fleeting that she almost misses it. The sweep of his blue irises widening, eclipsed by his pupils. She tenses. Omniscience hits her like a brick.
Her tongue goes heavy in her mouth, melting her words. The porridge turns frothy in her gut, nausea sticking to her organs and presentiment curdling in the air. She tightens her throat around a gag.
“... When can you drive me into town?”
Johnny reaches over and grips her thigh. He digs divots into her flesh like a fish hook caught in a flayed gill.
“You’re welcome to stay as long as ye want, pretty. There’s nae rush.”
She feels bile crawl up her throat.
“Oh, well, I just don’t want to overstay my welc–”
“He’s excited to play host,” Simon growls. His words are marked by firm determination, leaving no room for objection. He leans over the table, his wifebeater clinging to his muscle, his wiry chest hair pressing against the soft cotton. “We rarely get visitors ‘round here and he’ll be upset if you leave. Y’wanna make him upset?”
Finally, warnings blare like strobe lights in her mind. She fidgets in her seat, sweating, shooting a cursory glance to the backdoor. Calculating her chances of survival should she break through the mesh and make a run for it.
“O-of course not. Not after everything you’ve done for me,” she stutters, feeling a bead of sweat travel down her neck. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for asking.”
Simon settles back in his seat. Johnny, too, frowning around his porridge.
“Good,” Simon grunts meanly. “Now shut your gob an’ eat.”
She clemently chews away at her breakfast, preening under their smouldering gazes. Throughout her polishing off her bowl, she’s reminded Simon doesn’t have one. It’s unseemly for a man so sturdy to not be eating, but as Simon’s lips peel back, sated while he watches her take her final bite, she spots a spray of red liquid washing the spire of his fang tooth, glistening in the sunlight.
“How’d you like tha’, pretty?” Johnny asks. He collapses whatever thoughts—whatever inklings—begin to seize her about Simon as he smiles and their bowls, disappearing into the kitchen.
Right away, Simon is hooking his foot behind a leg of her chair, using it to pull her closer.
He’s centimetres away from her face when he says, “How ‘bout you start pullin’ your weight?”
Her eyes flicker up to see Simon hovering over her. He’s dewy with sweat, big and burly and drifting above her like the closet-dwelling monster from everyone’s childhood.
“You’ve caused enough trouble in my home,” he continues. “Ate a lot of our produce. It’s time you make up for tha’.”
She resists the urge to snarl. She doesn’t even want to be here yet Simon is insisting she fill her role—whatever that role may be.
But as she hoists her neck up at him, she gets skittish and looks away, her tongue knotting. She knows it isn’t smart to upset Simon again. He’s a beefy man with sharp canines and vertical pupils, with more hair sprouting from his forearms than what’s considered normal. A man who expels deep tonal flutters instead of regular breaths. Who—despite his size—can’t ever be heard approaching.
So she smiles instead, asking, “What is it you need help with?”
“Floors need scrubbin’.”
He shoves a rag in her hand and holds out a bucket of sudsy water she hadn’t noticed before.
“Kitchen, livin’ room… just get to work.”
The water sloshes over the lip of the bucket when he sets it down. Simon stands to his full height and stalks out of the room, leaving her alone with her multitude of thoughts.
Slowly, she stands up. She hauls the water bucket to the middle of the living room and is starkly reminded of her strength—or lack thereof. Simon had picked the bucket up so naturally, but with the weak tendons lacing her arms, she struggles. It doesn’t help that her vision is still spotty.
She lowers to her knees, wincing at the chord of pain beneath her bandages. She awkwardly drenches the rag in the water and wrings it dry, poising herself above the floor, working the rag into the floorboards.
She tenses when Johnny walks back in. He’s behind her. Unlike with Simon, she can feel him creeping up. She can feel his eyes on the lips of her pussy where her flannel hitches up while she’s bent over, scrubbing the floors.
Her cheeks burn. She blindly reaches behind her to tug the hem down, covering her warm cunt.
Johnny chuckles. “This is wha’ Simon has you doin’ out here?”
She looks over her shoulder, her skin prickling when she sees an axe in his hand.
“We’re goin’ to the yard to chop some wood,” he says, “but I see you’re already busy bein’ our bonnie housewife.”
She stutters. That operative word, housewife, burns a hole in the snail-shaped cochlea of her ear. “No, Simon j-just asked me to. He asked me to.”
“I know, sweetie,” Johnny replies. He squats next to her and rubs her back in slow circles, trying to hike up her flannel again. “Simon’s just takin’ the piss. He’s a meanie like tha’.”
She tries shouldering him away but Johnny only holds her tighter. Simon reappears in the doorway, watching with his arms crossed.
Johnny clears his throat. “Thought we’d spend time in the yard today. Doesn’t tha’ sound sweet?”
She looks at Simon who’s already looking at her through hooded, brutish eyes. She realizes that her autonomy is divested—that she has no choice but to follow what they say because something is very, very wrong here.
Perhaps this is what the mountain had warned her of. In all of its howling and breathing, the branches gripping her and the delirium written into her psyche, maybe, it was all a warning.
She hangs her head. “Mhm… sounds great.”
She has no time to process what’s happening before he’s folding his hand into the cavity of her armpit and dragging her up and out of the door, into the backyard.
It’s more of a cleared grove than a yard. Dead tree stumps litter the small expanse, grass the colour of ripe lemons because it’s been seared down. There’s a block of wood sitting on a stump, split down the middle. Sun-bleached clothes hanging over the clothesline.
“Y’can watch here,” Johnny says, gesturing to one of the tree stumps. “We’ve got to chop wood for dinner tonight.”
He pulls her down on the makeshift seat, finally letting her go. And just as Johnny pivots, slamming the spire of the axe into the block of wood, she sees him scrunch his nose as he sniffs his hand, drinking in the sweat from her armpit. It goes up his nose and through his nasal cavity, making him quiver as if her sweat is an opiate. Disgust slams into her, sinking in her stomach and settling there like sediment. She doesn’t even notice Simon walking out of the cabin and reaching for the axe, raising it over his head, until the resounding sound of wood snapping peals out, and she’s jumping in her skin.
“No need to be feart,” Johnny laughs. “Just his usual routine.”
She watches Simon work. He looks like a beast on its hind legs like this—impossibly large and splayed out with his arms over his head, growling whenever he brings the axe down on the tree stump, splitting it in two. Sweat burns through his wifebeater and turns the fabric translucent, revealing the barest outline of his chest. His chest hairs are matted with sweat, his sinews straining with each chop of wood. His face is curled meanly into itself, his trimmed hair nicked in different places from at-home shaving and washed with sweat.
Every time he brings the axe down on the wood, expelling a guttural groan, something stirs in her. He does it with such force, such strength, it makes her wary. He fractures the wood along the grain without so much of a blink, without any stifling in his muscle.
All those horror films she watches alone—when her friends say they’re too busy to join, when they lead her on after planning a get-together that doesn’t come to fruition—finally catch up to her, sowing the thought in her head that if she stays, she’ll become the tree stump. Impotent beneath Simon’s hacking and eclipsed by his behemoth-like body.
Her missing panties. Johnny’s sticky hands. Simon’s less-than-human behaviour. It all slams into her like whiplash.
Her fear rears its head as a rashly undertaken announcement tumbling out of her mouth.
“I have to pee.”
She ignores the way Johnny perks up, as if that activated something in his brain. His ocular vein goes large, rapt, his pupils blowing out as he looks at her and then her navel where her bladder sits, suddenly grinning.
“I can come with–”
“I’ll go in the woods,” she says. “Behind a bush or something, okay?”
Simon grunts. It’s a deep prusten sound as he splits another block of wood. Johnny pouts but lets her go, watching with those imploring eyes as she disappears behind some foliage.
It’s now or never, she decides.
She makes sure she’s concealed by the flowering of a tree before speeding up her walk. She moves like an unoiled machine, rusty, as her walk ripens into a run.
She doesn’t know where she’s running. She doesn’t know how far the nearest town is or how to find the trail she lost herself on, but she knows she needs to get far away from here.
The woodland is labyrinthine. Everything looks the same. She hopes she isn’t sprinting deeper into the heart of Appalachia and straight into her new grave, but still, she doesn’t stop running. Not until her lungs wilt into themselves and turn pruney, not until her heartbeat plateaus.
It’s as if she’s working against a rip current. She feels as if a part of herself is already woven into the woodland soil, feels herself written into the rotting, wet trees. It’s like she’s treading water instead of sprinting. And it’s like a supernova has erupted in her ankle as it gets caught under a root, sending her face first into the dirt.
She reorients as quickly as she can. She raises to her feet but winces at the flaring nerves in her foot, and looks around for a stick she can use as a crutch.
But something else catches her attention.
A dog-eared paper taped to a Basswood tree. It’s been eaten by the elements, mottled, barely hanging on. She steps closer and reads the blocky letters across the front, her blood running cold in her engorged vessels.
MISSING PERSON
Fleetingly, hope seizes her, but she soon remembers nobody back home is heedful enough to report her missing, let alone realize she’s missing in the first place. Additionally, the year suggests that the flyer is three years old. Her eyes slink down, trailing over what’s still intact.
LAST SEEN: CLIFF TRAIL
$3,000 REWARD FOR INFORMATION
Foreboding clings to her flesh. She quivers, her knees weakening.
FIRST NAME: J-
The tail-end of it is smeared, the ink bleeding and thinning into the paper. It’s unintelligible, so she trails her gaze lower, heeding the victim’s last name instead.
MACTAVISH.
“Sweetie!” Peals out from behind her before she can read any more. “What’re you doin’ all the way here? Had me and Simon thinkin’ ye ran away or something. Hah.”
Johnny hurries close and swallows her flinch with a tight hug. He frowns at the flyer.
“Why’re you readin’ this silly stuff?” He asks. He tears it off the tree and crumples it up, tossing it away. “That shite gives y’nightmares.”
“Johnny, I–”
“You went pee?” Johnny asks. Nearly makes her screech when he dips his hand low and cups her cunt, feeling around for any dregs of liquid. He buries his fingers unnecessarily deep between her puffy lips, blindly massaging.
“No…” he clicks his tongue. “No. You didn’t. Did ye lie to us? It dinnae matter, sweetie. Here. Do it here, pretty. I’ll wait.”
She musters whatever pluck she has left to shake her head.
However her spine is fickle. All it takes is Johnny glowering, his eyes darkening, his pout upending and curling into something meaner, to force her back into submission.
“Simon’s already angry ye pulled this stunt, sweetie,” he says. “I’m helpin’ you out.”
A tear escapes her. It rolls down her gaunt cheek like the dew that dribbles down trees. She’s quickly crying, expelling howls that burn her energy. She trembles as she squats to the forest floor and pushes pee out of her. She sniffles as she stands back up and lets the liquid sluice down her thighs.
“Good girl,” Johnny hums. “You’re so much sweeter when ye listen, ye ken?”
She sobs into her palms, her ribs so brittle they rattle together. Johnny coos vacantly at her, rubbing her all over the same way one rubs stone fruit to test their ripeness, and croons at her swelling ankle.
“See what happens when you’re naughty?” He asks, picking her up, carrying her close to his chest. “Let’s get you home, honey. These woods are no place for a bird like you.”
She hates how she curls into him. It’s her repressed underbelly fighting its way to the surface because the accumulation of neglectful family and friends has soured her, carving a chasm in her heart that forces her body to respond to Johnny’s affections. He’s a warm body for her, a pair of listening ears. It’s scraps, but it’s more than she’s ever gotten.
They make it back to the cabin in what feels like minutes. Simon’s waiting next to the door with his arms tightly crossed, his face meanly pinched. He growls like a provoked animal. He hovers like an executioner. He’s the living antonym of light at the end of the tunnel, huffing like a bull as Johnny carries her inside.
“How about you rest?” Johnny asks. He sets her down on her cot and pulls the blanket to her quivering chin, tucking her in. “Want some tea? What kind do you fancy?”
She purses her lips, trembling. Johnny sentimentally hums as if he’s sorry. As if he isn’t a part of her plight. Her piercing fear and deep-seated fatigue.
“Garden mint…” he says to himself. “I’ll be right back, bonnie.”
He disappears and returns a few minutes later with a cup dwarfed in his hand. Steam curls over the rim, thinning into the barren bedroom. He tilts it into her mouth, nursing her.
With every sip she feels herself slip more and more back into the familiar territory of limbo. Her eyelids become heavy, her cognizance slackening.
She peels her tongue off her gums to muster a whisper. It’s so weak. Barely audible.
“I wanna go… home…”
Johnny croons. He cups her cheek. “Honey, those people dinnae care about you. Not how me and Simon do. This can be your home.”
He raises the cup to her mouth again, stifling any protests on her tongue.
She hiccups around the drink, her eyes warm and wet.
That’s how she falls asleep.
With hypnotic tea invading her bloodstream, turning her eyelids heavy. Turning her helpless.
———
She wakes with a start.
It’s a crack of thunder that had stirred her, she realizes, instead of the enigmatic sounds of bed springs snapping.
The bedroom is dark and bathed in midnight light. She can barely see anything, save for the barest outline of Johnny in the bed next to her. When lightning strikes, illuminating the sky with a blinding impact crack, she’s able to see the swell of his body beneath his sheets and the shadow of his spun-thread hair. His chest rising and falling steadily.
She’s caked with sweat. Her perspiration soaks her flannel and makes it cling to her flesh, which is flared up as if she rolled in a pile of poison ivy. Her mind is so cluttered she almost folds over as she stands up, testing the grip of her toes on the wooden floor, testing her ability to balance herself.
She’s in limbo. A border space between heaven and hell, awaiting her execution. That’s how it feels as she tiptoes her way out of the room, reaching for an oil lamp, holding it out in front of her.
It’s almost worse like this. A weak flame that barely illuminates her peripheral. She fears that should she turn too fast, an aberration will materialize from the margins of her view and tear her to ribbons.
At this point, she supposes that’s a kinder fate.
She slips into a pair of large boots because she can’t find her hiking shoes anywhere. She opens the door and pokes her head out, immediately met with the spray of rainwater on her face, the wind running through her ropes of neglected hair.
Sheets of heavy rain fall from the awning, creating another divide that keeps her trapped inside the cabin. She steps onto the porch, listening for any incongruous noises. Even if there were any, they would be bullied under the assault of rainfall. She can’t hear her own thoughts like this, can’t formulate a plan to get away from here once and for all.
So of course she doesn’t hear the floorboards settle behind her. Of course, she doesn’t hear the heavy drumming of feet closing in on her.
She doesn’t heed the body behind her until Johnny is sniffing up her neck and snuffing out the oil lamp, laying hold of her in a grudging grip.
“You just dinnae listen, do you?”
He takes her by the scruff of her neck and pulls her back into the cabin, knocking the lamp out of her grip. It falls to the floor and flares into a crash, louder than the rain. Almost louder than her sprinting heart and the blood rushing to her ears.
She wrestles against his grip. “Fuck you both—you sick fucks!”
She almost vomits when her insults make Johnny moan, his cock fattening against her back in a crude Pavlovian response. Each time she struggles against him, his grip tightens. It reminds her of the mountain itself. The more she tries escaping its soporific arms, the deeper it drags her down. It’s fruitless for her to fight it—the whistle of the branches, the tight sinews of Johnny’s grip.
He swings his arm around her neck, pinning her against his chest in a headlock. Her lungs stutter and her eyes turn dewy, her deep-seated fear ripening into paralyzing terror.
A web of lightning shatters the sky, and she almost dies right there.
It’s Simon but worse. A mutation gone wrong. A changeling, perhaps. He’s squeezed inside the threshold, breathing wildly. His wifebeater is torn in different places across his body, split around tufts of fur. Fur that is matted with thick ichor, wiry and sprouting from the spot behind his ears.
Another flash of lightning ignites the cabin, revealing the shaggy coat of hair on his chest. The sheet of fat over his stomach that flutters when he puffs, growling under his breath. He clenches his jaw because he can’t clench his hands, because his thick fingers have turned into claws, sharp spires covered in gore.
Simon snarls. Blood and spit drip from his bloodied teeth as if he’s a rabid animal with a limp maw. He rolls his shoulders and cracks the cartilage in his neck, the sound pealing out so loudly, it’s more like the popping of bubble wrap in rapid succession.
She can barely see him through her tear-filled eyes. It’s the epilogue to her life as he strides in close, biting his talons into her hips and drawing out blood. A snarl of satisfaction escapes him when he smells it—her blood, sweet, albeit stale due to her dehydration.
“Anyone ever told you you’re an ungrateful mutt?” He growls. “I give you food to eat an’ clothes on your back but here you are, tryin’ to sod off.”
Her cheeks dimple when he grabs her jaw. She opens her mouth to protest, but her grievances get smothered beneath Simon’s claws. He stuffs his fingers down her mouth, stunting her complaints. She gags and coughs around the taste of metal and mire crusted under his claws, bile shooting up her throat.
“Dogs don’t talk,” he tuts.
He hoists his arm back and she puckers, preparing for an attack. However, instead of her cheek, Simon’s hand slices against her shirt. He tears her flannel into ribbons, making the fabric slide off her like water from a milk bath.
She stands naked, her skin pocked with fear. She shivers despite being pressed between Simon’s furry chest and Johnny’s warm arms.
“‘Bout time someone taught you some manners,” Simon mumbles. “I was in the middle of my dinner you know? Fuckin’ rude to interrupt.”
She blanches when she sees a limp coyote behind him, splayed out on the porch. She recognizes it as the orpiment-coloured fur to the hair flossed between Simon’s teeth.
She screams as he wrestles her from Johnny’s grip, pulling her towards the bedroom. Simon throws her onto the stiff mattress, her spine shuddering from the impact. She tries covering herself, tries wrapping her arms around her body, but Simon is having none of that.
He pounces, taking her hips and pinning them to the bed. He hovers over her, rainwater dripping from his broken nose, impossibly large as he makes up her whole world. Simon swallows her entire view, leaving her with no chances of escape.
Her gaze flutters down to the chub outlined by his sweatpants and decides she’s left with no chances of survival, either.
She flails her legs as Simon slithers low, flattening his nose against her cunt. She lets out a protracted cry as he hitches his lungs and inhales, breathing in the musk of her bare cunt. The sweat stuck between her fuzzy hair, the sticky arousal that spreads as he forces her legs open.
Simon hisses. It rides the ruck of his throat, expelled from his nose. It’s not in any capacity a human sound. It seems more like a bear flaring its nostrils, poised for attack.
Johnny notices the confusion between her eyebrows because he’s leaning in and murmuring against the shell of her ear, licking it.
“Remember wha’ I said about matin’ season, kitty?”
Johnny leans away, leaving it at that. Equivocal and cryptic and calcified into the furrows of her brain. She isn’t allowed to wade in her confusion though because Simon’s tongue is lolling out, sweeping a fat stripe over her pussy.
It’s like the first thaw of spring. Simon licks her open, spreads her out on his tongue. She can’t help the immediate warmth that courses through her, swathing her in silk.
She cries out. Her back bends off the mattress when Simon pulls her lips into his mouth to suck.
She looks to Johnny for help. She twists herself and tries reaching out, tries crawling off the mattress, but Simon is gripping her ankle and popping the gauze of her bandage with his claws, pulling her back down, wrapping his lips around her engorged clit.
Johnny’s face doesn’t show contrition, but is pinched in jealousy. He watches with a fat mass growing in his sweatpants.
She splits her hand over Simon’s shaved head, using the cauliflowered shell of his ear to try pulling him off of her. That only makes him growl, the vibrations quavering up her spine, his claws digging into her flesh.
She folds her arms over her face, sobbing. Simon’s tongue is wet and hot against her pussy, lapping between her soft folds, slurping her juices. She flushes at how wet she is. At how pleasure leaks through the cracks in her resolve and spreads all over her, reducing her to a panting mess.
Simon releases her clit with a pop. He raises to his knees, towering over her, and now she’s unsure if his glistening chin is because of the rainwater outside or her arousal.
“Hold her down, Johnny.”
Her heart drums against her chest. Johnny crawls onto the bed and kneels behind her head. He pins her wrists down with his kneecaps, keeping her from squirming.
“Will ye let me put my cock in ‘er mouth?” Johnny asks. “Simon, will you–”
“Shut it,” Simon snaps. He shoves down his sweatpants, his cock springing out. All of her nerves bristle like rope, her heart sputtering to a stop.
Simon’s cock is fat and heavy. It droops between his thighs, drooling with precum. It’s stiff but hangs because he’s so large, the engorged tip angling downward, his balls plump, ruddy.
He chokes his hand around it, tugging it. Her throat closes in on itself but her legs instinctively peel apart. Her puffy lips spread open and she flushes at the sticky sound, hoisting her neck back to look at Johnny.
He has his cock out too, pumping it. He grins when they lock eyes and smacks his dick against her cheek. Johnny presses his cockhead into the corner of her mouth, using it to tilt her lips into a repugnant curl. It’s reminiscent of a smile, but it isn’t one.
She wails.
They both make up her beginning and end. They trap her between themselves, leaving her with no escape. Simon at her feet, Johnny at her head. Each of the men are more intimidating than the other, both inspiring fear in her feeble heart. Both inspiring unwanted arousal between her legs.
Simon slaps his flaring tip against her clit. She mewls and hates herself for bucking her hips into him. She’s dew-skinned as Simon pushes her knees to her ears, thumbing her clit.
He deeply inhales.
His chest expands, tugging at the steel-wool hair felted against his big chest. He quivers as he expels his breath, his mating call, and finally feeds her his cock, pushing past her first ring of muscle.
Her body tries curling in on itself like a Venus flytrap, but Johnny is quicker. He bites his fingers into her wrists and pins her to the mattress, keeping her still while Simon stuffs himself deeper. Johnny kisses her tears away while he does it. It’s oxymoronic and it’s betrayal—a Judas kiss—while he wraps his lips around sweet encouragement against her cheeks.
“Got so much fight in ye, sweetie,” he whispers. “Just stop strugglin’ and it’ll feel good.”
Simon leans over her, his cock slipping deeper into her warm cunt. The blood and saliva from his maw drips onto her chest, the blood is so fresh there’s still steam, hitting her like scythes.
Johnny’s getting restless. He watches raptly as Simon starts slamming his hips into her. Johnny ruts against the chafe of her brittle hair and hopes it will give him satisfaction by proxy, but it does little to offset the ache in his balls. His lip warbles.
“Simon, please,” a voice crack, “can I put my cock in ‘er mouth?”
“Fine,” Simon growls. His hips are piston-paced against the girl’s skin, unrelenting and uncaring to how her nails scratch striated lines down his chest in her struggle. “Just stop interruptin’ us.”
Her jaw cramps when Johnny cups her chin. He puppets it open and forces his fingers down. They’re caked with dirt as he swirls them over her tongue, coaxing up the warm spit from the furrow of her throat to be used as a natural lube.
The only mercy she gets is the stint of time between Johnny pulling his fingers out and gripping his dick, laying it on her tongue. He forces her lips apart with the tip of his cock, smearing himself all over her.
“So pretty like this sweetheart,” he hums. “Simon smelt it on ye. Hundreds of klicks away. How sweet y’are.”
She doesn’t have the energy to decipher that. Most of it is being wrung on trying to fight the two men off, but it’s fruitless. Johnny is already slipping into her mouth, and her cunt is already stretched around Simon’s plump cock.
Johnny starts pumping in and out, his cock embroidering a burn in the hinges of her jaw.
She lies there limply, but as Johnny’s wiry hair meets her nose, she realizes there’s one thing she can do. In her thrashing, she undertakes the lapse of judgement to clamp her teeth together, sinking them into Johnny.
He yells and pulls himself out. Johnny wraps a hand around himself, squeezing, placating the sting. A warm wash of tears twine his eyelashes together, long and babydoll-like. He looks to Simon, preening, imploring.
“She bit me.”
Simon slows his hips, only scarcely so. Only enough for her to fill her lungs halfway before he’s dragging himself out agonizingly slow, burying himself back inside.
His eyes, hungry, flutter down to her. His lips wind back, revealing his sharp fangs. He snickers.
“Now you’ve pissed him off, hm? Dumb girl. This is why puppies need owners.”
He pinches her clit, softly tweaking it between the pads of his fingers. He looks at Johnny and condescendingly smirks.
“C’mere, boy. If she won’t suck you off, why not take a go at her other hole?”
She tenses. Fear washes over her like a rip current, all the way down to her ass that squeezes in protest. Her heart feels too big for her chest suddenly. She can’t even see Johnny’s blinding grin through her cloudy eyes as brine tracks down her cheeks, mixing with her sweat.
She whimpers. “No–“
A palm whistles through the air, exploding into a crack of thunder as it breaks against the skin of her cheek.
She lapses into silence. Little hiccups escape her while she peers up at Simon, sniffling.
“Yes,” he says.
He grips her by her hips and flips her over. This way, Simon’s on his back and she’s on top of him, his cock digging deeper. The position is etched with a degree of intimacy that causes heat to pool in her belly—she can feel his hot breath fanning over her face, she can see his feline-like eyes better.
She almost jumps out of her skin when Johnny presses his fingers into her ass, trying to break her in. He thumbs at the puckered muscle, chuckling when it tries squirming away from him.
“Cute little thing,” he says. “She ever been fucked?”
The way she sobs when Johnny forces his forefinger inside gives him his answer. He almost comes right there. At the sound of her slick lubing her up, at the sound of her being torn open like a stone fruit and her pitiful cries for mercy.
“Stop…”
“Stop?” Johnny repeats, “Sweetie, if I stop it’ll hurt when I fuck you. Ye need prep, silly.”
That only wracks her ribs harder. The patrionizing lilt in his voice, the way he pats her bum like she’s nothing but a dumb puppy. Johnny sinks another finger in, knuckle-deep, and curls himself into the walls of her ass, massaging it.
Simon starts thrusting again. He takes one of her tits in his mouth and tongues at her nipple, snapping his hips into her. It only adds more pressure to her other hole, the one being fingered open by Johnny.
“Y’think she’s ready, sweetie?” Johnny asks. He slaps his cock against her hole, teasing her. “I think she’s fuckin’ hungry. Look at ‘er winkin’ back at me.”
Johnny collects the saliva moulded into his gums and sputters out a wad of spit, wetting her tight asshole. He presses his cockhead against her opening, pushing himself inside.
She buckles, doubling over. Her cheek falls on Simon’s chest, chafing against his coarse hair. She’s never felt so full. Folded between the men and being fed two big cocks, left with no space to breathe. She isn’t given respite. No mercy. No time for her to stretch around their cocks.
Johnny splits his hand across the divot where her spine begins and shoves her into Simon. Her jaw hangs loose, her lips parted dumbly, her drool trickling onto Simon’s chest. She’s limp. Letting them have her way with her. Letting them brand her with their fingers digging sickle-shaped scratches into her skin. Letting them break her open with each of their jackhammering thrusts, letting their pants of encouragement and degradation swirl around her like whistles from the woodland, causing goosebumps to arise and her head to pound.
“Do ye feel it, Simon?” Johnny pants. “Is it comin’ on?”
His words sprawl by like a lazy river in her mind. Desultory, like lukewarm water. They don’t click into the empty chasm of her cognizance until something else happens. Something inhuman. Something that has her choking on the raw bile that scratches her throat and the spit coaxed into the rivets of her tongue by Johnny’s assaulting fingers.
Simon’s ramming gets shaved into stunted thrusts. It isn’t due to a loss of energy, but is due to something else keeping him from slipping out. A balloon pushing against the walls of her pussy, swelling inside her. It isn’t fat but is chubby enough for her to feel it, flutter around it.
The knot snarled into Simon’s cock plugs her up. She can’t pull herself off him because it’s puffed up past her cunt, keeping her stuck on top of him. It doesn’t help that Johnny keeps slamming his hips into her, riling the thin skin that separates her cunt from her ass, bending it to the shape of Simon’s cock.
Johnny gasps. “I’m close– shite, I’m close.”
She doesn’t want to admit it, but she is too. She feels her nerves begin to fray at their edges, her stomach wearing thin. Johnny slips his hand low and blindly sweeps at her clit, nibbling on the husk of her ear.
He only gets three more pumps in until he’s emptying his balls in her ass. He grabs her hair when he comes, puppetting her head back so her mouth falls open and he can spit inside. His thrusts are slow and deep and peter into something calm, his cock softening inside her. Johnny grins.
“Say thank you, kitty.”
It crosses her tongue as an unintelligible mumble. She can’t speak properly with Simon’s cock still in her.
Johnny chuckles at that. He wraps his arms around her and pinches her nipples. Twisting them, pulling them.
Simon’s so big beneath her, lounging like a bear. He fucks into her, his thrusts curtailing into sloppy snaps of his hips.
“He’s close, bonnie,” Johnny says. “Kiss ‘im when he comes. It’s what he likes.”
Finally, Simon’s knot unravels, his thick ropes of come sticking to her walls. He makes sure that the warm come dressing her is so deep, it’ll have no choice but to take.
Her body betrays her when it crests and crashes into her orgasm. She’s flashbanged with blinding light, gushing out an off-white liquid that coats Simon’s thighs. It seizes her so deeply it hurts, the panoramic pleasure. An orgasm that makes her brain melt, makes her feel otherworldly.
Belatedly, she remembers Johnny’s order. She leans down to kiss Simon, her lips leathery against his. She only wants a modest peck—something to sate Johnny—but she can’t pull away because her bottom lip is caught between Simon’s teeth, pinched, and being sapped of its blood.
He laps it up before letting her go.
He slips his softening cock out but keeps his come inside her with two fingers, his claws having retracted.
He huffs like a bull. He presses his heavy paw into her abused cunt, palming it. He reeks with a carnal musk, the aftertaste of his rut heavy in the air.
Suddenly, it all makes sense to her.
Simon is the crux of all cautionary tales. The mountains aren’t sworn off because of rabid raccoons or feral fishers but because of something eldritch, whose reputation and folklore precedes any proof of its existence. Whatever Simon is, it can’t be put into words or into anything material, so he’s condensed into the urban legends that have haunted the woods for centuries. The stories that keep hikers off needle-covered paths and unmarked trees and make them carry crucifixes in lieu of bear spray.
She doesn’t even realize she’s softly sobbing. It feels like that’s all she does these days.
Johnny hugs her as if he hadn’t taken a part of her dignity.
He kisses her, kittening into her so that Simon is able to wrap his arms around them both, hugging them.
The calm that lolls after the storm only bruises her further. They act so normal after they’ve stripped her of everything. Johnny massaging her thighs, Simon igniting a cigarette between his lips.
“Will you ever let me go?” She mumbles against Simon’s chest.
He exhales the smoke. “Go where, love? You came into my house, remember?”
Johnny won’t stop kissing her. He’s a pest that’s attached itself to her dewy flesh, trying to lick her clean. Simon curls his fingers in her and makes sure that’s where his come stays.
Simon takes another drag of his cigarette. “Not like anyone back home would miss you, anyhow.”
———
She watches with a smile on her face as Johnny roasts the flank of a moose on a homemade grill and as Simon chops some more firewood.
She lounges in a chair, swathed in her caribou-hide coat. Winter is at its height, laying a skin of pillowy snow across the mountain.
The cubs wriggle in her lap, pawing at the loose tendrils of her hair and trying to pinch her nose.
“Lookin’ so pretty today, mama,” Johnny hums. She giggles when he kisses her, scratching at the cubs’ bellies.
“Ain’t she bonnie?” Johnny turns around and prompts Simon, “Our wee looker.”
Simon pauses his wood chopping and nods. He grips the hem of his lumberman’s jacket and raises it to his forehead to wipe his sweat away, revealing his chest and his hair that disappears into the waistband of his jeans. The cubs yip when he resumes his chopping, splitting a tree stump in two.
She grins.
She loves her family. Her providers and the offspring of their seed. She loves the cubs’ fine hair rubbing against her cheek when they jump on the bed to wake them up in the mornings, their blunt fangs biting her when they’re hungry, and the tiny chines on their back where their sharp spine will eventually grow in, just like Simon’s.
Briefly, she tries to remember her other family. The one that came before this one. But all that encompasses her mind is a supermassive black hole in place of memories. For some reason she can’t delineate them. The face of her father is blurry and the features of her mother fit together like a crudely sewn patchwork quilt.
She doesn’t remember much of her family. It’s kind of weird. She can’t remember if they liked her or not.
But she knows that doesn’t matter. Not when she has doting men around her and their litter hanging off her hips, another one currently swelling under her belly.
She pays no heed to the missing person posters taped to the fringes of the mountain that look eerily similar to her. Not to the K-9’s that try tracking scents but fail because she’s written with Simon and Johnny’s musk. She ignores the odd helicopter passing through each month, scarcely flying past their ramshackle cabin.
None of it matters because she knows she’s where she needs to be.
This is so incredibly well written, I have no words. I'm actively taking notes on how to write effective horror from this because HOLY SHIT THIS WAS AMAZING!!!
The foreshadowing and parallels with the other missing person, the beautiful prose, the descriptions of the cabin???? Pure art. Something about the crude, messy furnishing of the cabin, with the makeshift door to the bathroom and having to wait for clear water to come through is just so raw and authentic. They are very effective at instilling an uncanny, "something is very wrong here" feeling, but just bordering the edge of "this would definitely exist in a remote cabin in the woods."
Incredible fic, so glad my timeline was blessed with something that packs such a gut punch.
the :) AO3 gives you after telling you you’ve already left kudos on a particular fic is my archenemy because what do you mean :) ? what do you mean I’ve already left kudos here? have you read my favorite author’s work? look me in the eyes and tell me one kudos is enough. I’d give them a thousand kudos and my kidney plus my firstborn. what do you mean I can only give them one kudos??????
I am so emotionally feeling this post. I should be able to give EVERY CHAPTER kudos. I should be able to give kudos when I return to a work for the first time in longer than a week. I should be able to give kudos for any time a fic makes me cry, or laugh, or feel the big feels.
SUMMARY : The losing streak that the boxing champion Nanami Kento began experiencing was shocking and infuriating not just to himself, but to a lot of people around him. With his exhaustion rising and the pressure from his sponsors and supporters to perform better becoming overwhelming, Nanami finally understands why his mind is not present in the game. Something is missing, a very important component to his motivation, the one that keeps him going in the face of defeat and countless obstacles.
His spouse, you.
WORD COUNT : 4.6k
AUTHOR'S NOTE : Suffering from a back pain that had me going to the ER to get checked only to wait over 10 hours to be seen gave me the inspiration to finally write this.
This longer continuation of my previous ficlet with Boxer!Nanami was inspired by the request of a lovely reader on AO3 <3
The cheer of the spectators was deafening as they chanted his name, clapping and yelling as he walked over to the ring basked in the eye-straining lights of the reflectors. He climbed the stairs and stepped through the ropes to take a seat at his corner stool, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd in search for familiar features. All the voices around him melted into a single continuous noise, a cacophony that was starting to cause the tension in his temple to pulse painfully. It took a tap on his shoulder for him to finally shift his attention from his fruitless search through various faces of strangers to the man standing in front of him. With a sigh, the voice of his cornerman finally filtered through.
“Yo, Earth to Nanami, do you copy?”
Nanami huffed, giving Gojo an unimpressed stare as he smiled at him, his eyes almost twinkling from beyond his black glasses. He helped Nanami get his mouth guard secure and tapped his shoulder again, his tone turning a bit more sympathetic.
“Hey, I know it's easier said than done, but try to focus on the match. You'll be home before you know it.”
With that, Gojo stepped out of the ring, taking his place at the ringside and allowing Nanami a view of his opponent, sitting across from him and staring daggers at him. The referee stepped in the ring and Nanami stood up, watching as his opponent tapped his boxing gloves together and jumped from one foot to the other, clearly pumping himself up for the fight. By the looks of how he carried himself, Nanami could guess that the guy was most likely a brawler, placing all bets on heavy punches and combinations—perhaps even the type to overlook effective aggression in favour of getting points from knockdowns.
With a strategy already formulated in his mind, Nanami rolled his shoulders and cracked the tension in his neck away, stepping towards the centre of the ring and raising his fists. After the referee went through the usual rules, the bell signalled the start of the fight and Nanami moved closer, watching out for the gestures of his opponent and trying to anticipate his actions. A few punches directed at his abdomen and Nanami was quick to parry, ducking once he realised that his head was left unprotected. He narrowly missed a left hook going for his jaw, landing a clean hit to the other fighter’s ribs and sending him stumbling a few steps back. He heard his fans cheer and the voice of the commentator excitedly yelling out about Nanami’s quick reflexes, but he drowned out the sound when his opponent advanced again, unleashing a flurry of punches and forcing Nanami to retreat closer to the ropes. From the corner of his eye, he could see Gojo yelling something out, lost in the amalgam of voices. Not that it mattered to him—he did not have the energy to listen to anyone that wasn't you.
The opponent raised his arm for a punch and Nanami shifted his stance to parry it, only to be surprised by a punch from the other side, landing perfectly against his jaw. He lost his footing from the force, his vision blurred as he connected with the canvas of the ring, cold under his hot, sweaty skin. Fuck, perhaps it was for the best you were not present to see him get caught cold in such an embarrassing way by a feint.
It took him a moment to come to, and once he opened his eyes and saw his opponent at one of the neutral corners, the referee slamming his hand against the canvas next to him, he finally realised he had been knocked out for a few seconds. He quickly pushed himself off the ground, standing up before the countdown was over. He could feel the swelling in his cheekbone, the pain and tingling heralding the onset of a nasty bruise. He was sure you would fuss over him once he got home, he could almost imagine the worry in your eyes so vividly, looking at him as you’d gently tend to his injuries.
Distracted yet again, the thought of your tender touches was brutally knocked out of him by yet another punch delivered to his jaw. This time, he was at least quick enough to adjust his step before falling, a pained grunt escaping his heaving chest. He heard Gojo yell out his name in frustration and he chanced a glance at the remaining match time. He grimaced once he read it: not nearly enough for him to take back the dominance of the ring. He knew he had already lost points from being momentarily knocked down, and whilst he was correct in his assumption that the other fighter was a brawler, his punches were far more calculated than Nanami had anticipated.
Despite not throwing in the towel, it wasn't long before the match ended with the scales tipped against Nanami, the side of the crowd that hosted his supporters echoing noises of disappointment and anger. Maintaining his sportsmanship, Nanami shook the hand of his opponent before he climbed off the ring, marching towards the lockers of the boxing club in time for the organisers to prepare for the next fight card.
As Nanami walked down the hallway, shuffling off his gloves and taking out his mouth guard, he heard Gojo run up to him, slowing down once he was in step with him.
“Hey, man, what the hell happened?”
“Don't talk to me now.”
“No, what the hell is going on with you?” Gojo pushed, following Nanami in the locker room. “You've been out of it for more than half the matches this season. The sponsors are not happy, not to mention your supporters.”
Nanami sighed, throwing his gloves on a chair and placing his mouth guard in a pocket of his gym bag, making a mental note to get it cleaned and disinfected once home. He grabbed a towel as he thought over what sort of excuse he could give Gojo to get him off his back, while also not relaying his real reasons.
“I'm tired,” he said simply, to which Gojo crossed his arms.
“You're distracted,” he countered, earning a half-hearted glare from Nanami.
Sighing, Gojo turned to his own bag to grab a bottle of water, walking over to Nanami and holding it up for him to take once he finished wiping his sweat off.
“Listen, I get it,” Gojo continued. “You need your lucky charm to be present or whatever, but you really gotta pull yourself together, loverboy. Your spouse has a job just like you. You can't keep losing focus like this.”
With a sharp stare, Nanami snatched the bottle from Gojo’s hands, taking a healthy swig to soothe his thirst. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew Gojo was right. His frustration at how rarely he was seeing you despite living in the same home due to your different work schedules was starting to get to him. Coupled with his previous lost matches, it only served to add to the cocktail of negative emotions swirling in his heart, effectively distracting him regardless of how much he wanted to focus on his fights.
He finished the bottle then wiped the corner of his mouth, tuning out the rest of the words that Gojo was ranting at him. He was tired and couldn't wait to finally get home to you and your comforting arms.
The drive home had never felt longer for Nanami, not to mention each step needed to reach the front door of your home. Every muscle and bone in his body ached as he searched for his keys through his pockets, opening the door and being met with complete darkness. His shoulders deflated even further when he realised your shift today was longer than usual. He kicked his shoes off with a sigh and shrugged his jacket off, placing it in its usual spot on the coat hanger before trugging to the living room and approaching the couch. He grunted as he began to sit down, a sharp pain shooting through the muscles in his back. He lied down, trying to find a comfortable position to wait until you got home from work.
His eyes closed just as he checked the clock again, his eyelids heavy enough that he didn't even realise he was falling asleep. A few minutes passed—or perhaps close to an hour, he wasn't sure—when he felt a gentle touch on his jaw and the familiar feeling of a pair of lips on his forehead. He cracked one eye open to see you smiling at him, gently urging him to wake up.
“Hey, handsome,” you said, your thumb caressing his hand. “Can you sit up so I can patch you up?”
Blinking a few times, he did as you instructed without further argument, noticing the bandages, gauze, dressings and painkillers you had prepared on the coffee table. He could tell you had been home for a while, taking the time to get everything ready for him before waking him up to allow him a few more minutes of rest.
As you began to clean the injury on his cheek, he looked into your eyes, noticing just how much your exhaustion mirrored his through the dark circles under your eyes. He took in your features, your mere presence calming him down while he quietly waited for you to carefully place the dressing over the bruise. His cutman usually dealt with his injuries quite efficiently, making sure that he was never at risk of infection or his injuries worsening, but even so you still made sure to tend to anything that the cutman deemed insignificant. Nanami had told you before that there was no need for you to fuss over him, but you always insisted, so he patiently let you tend to him until you were satisfied and reassured that he was okay. There was something so sweet and intimate about your gentleness in the face of his vulnerability, despite how much he didn't want to admit that he loved how you cared for him. After all, as your husband, he was supposed to care for you, too, but with his profession it seemed to him that the burden fell on your shoulders more often than not.
Nanami reached up, affectionately cradling your cheek with his hand. You turned your head to kiss his palm, smiling at him before you returned to focusing on bandaging him. Your fingers swiped against his bottom lip and he winced, suddenly aware of the cut he hadn't felt while high on adrenaline.
“Sorry, it might sting,” you said, disinfecting the cut carefully with a cotton ball, damp with rubbing alcohol.
He hissed, but otherwise kept still for you to finish. You placed a soft kiss on his lips once the dressing was secure, and he smiled for the first time that day, leaning back in to steal another kiss.
“I missed you,” he said, placing his forehead against yours.
“I missed you, too,” you responded, gently threading your fingers through his hair.
“I didn't cook dinner.”
You chuckled. “You didn't have to, silly. You're tired. We can get takeout if you're hungry.”
He hummed, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you to lie down next to him on the couch. He adjusted his position so he could cuddle close to you, burying his nose in your hair to inhale your comforting scent.
“How was work?”
“Hectic,” you sighed. “I'm sorry I arrived so late, but I had a lot of work to catch up on.”
“It's fine.”
You moved your head to look at his face, raising an eyebrow at his short tone.
“Did something happen?”
“Just tired.”
The usual excuse was already prepared on the tip of his tongue, allowing him to continue hiding just how frustrated he was at your absence during his matches, but as a fellow workaholic he knew he had no legs to stand on when it came to complaining about you working so hard each day for the both of you, lest his middle name is Hypocrite. To soothe your worries, he planted a kiss to your forehead, rubbing his palm across your back and smiling at you lovingly.
“Let's go to bed.”
Nanami was sure that if he heard the referee count whilst he was on the ground one more time, he'd lose it. Perhaps then he'd finally be able to concentrate.
A flash knockdown had never been this annoying and demotivating. It had gotten to the point that he was starting to doubt his own abilities and experience. Surely he hadn't always had a glass jaw. In the past, everyone was throwing praises left and right about how he had such a “good set of whiskers,” how his slips and punches always seemed to be so well calculated, and how he dominated the ring no matter his position. Nowadays, not only was he getting his ass handed to him by fringe contenders, but by upstarts and low calibre fighters. It was honestly shameful for someone of his rank, and despite occasionally winning a match here and there, it was not nearly enough to please his sponsors and supporters.
The sound of the bell rang with a shrill vibration through the arena, saving Nanami just seconds before he found himself on the receiving end of what he assumed was going to be a sucker punch, judging by the position the other fighter had assumed. He turned around and slumped on his corner stool, watching in a daze how his cutman Geto stepped up to the ring to tend to his injuries, with Ieiri coming up as well with a damp towel to help Nanami cool down. She took the mouth guard out and allowed him to drink some water from her bottle, moving to the side so he could spit out the rest. The last thing he needed was to get punched in the stomach full of water.
Gojo tapped the canvas to get his attention as Ieiri stepped down, clicking his tongue in disappointment. He placed his chin against his palm, leaning his elbow on the edge of the ring, his other hand lazily hanging against one of the ropes.
“You're distracted again,” Gojo said simply.
Nanami sighed in annoyance and looked away from Gojo, his eyes landing on Geto who was applying a cold compress against his cheek.
“Y’know, I hate to say it but Satoru's right,” he said. “The main event’s about to start and this is already the… what, fourth chance you get? It's also the last one if you want to get into the championship again.”
“You don't need to rub it in, Geto.”
“I'm not trying to, but you have to admit you’re getting special treatment at this point. You're too young to be shopworn.” Geto helped him get his mouth guard secure then gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “You've won before. You can do this.”
With that, Geto stepped out and Nanami took a deep breath, ignoring the snarky jabs at his performance from the commentator. He couldn't care less about their opinions when his mind was racing with negativity, shame, anger and disappointment at himself running wild within him. The adrenaline pumping through his veins was not enough to keep his mind on track anymore, and for a while he wondered if he truly had reached his limit and the only direction left for him to go after peaking was down.
He tried to shake off the thought as he approached the other fighter, taking the first punch, which landed clean against the abdomen of his opponent. He slipped away quickly when the fighter tried to retaliate, parrying the next punch with practised ease. Nanami threw one more punch, but this time it didn't connect right and it left him open for a second too long, the other fighter taking the opportunity to jump to an offensive position. Nanami raised his fists to stop the hits, the sound of his name being called from the ringside by his team making him snarl. Then suddenly, a sweeter sound filtered through, piercing his mind with crystal clarity.
“Kick his ass, Kento!”
Instinctively, Nanami looked towards the source of the sound, registering your face for a split second before he was hit by a heavy cross punch. He stepped back, narrowly dodging a rear uppercut, and stumbled against the ropes. He took one more stunned glance at the ringside to make sure he was not hallucinating, his heart swelling when he saw you were actually there, next to the rest of his team.
You actually came to support him.
A surge of energy shot through his body, his heart hammering with both adrenaline and something more, something akin to motivation, forcing his limbs into motion at last. He swivelled around and pushed himself off the ropes, prowling closer to his opponent, his eyes blazing with a dangerous fire that had almost been extinguished if not for your presence.
His opponent began throwing a few quick jabs and Nanami felt pain shoot through his forearms as he blocked them. One well-timed slip and he saw his opening, with the other fighter’s hand flying past his face, Nanami had a clear shot to his abdomen, landing a jab powerful enough to knock the wind out of him. The fighter quickly recovered, a sharp huppercut connecting to the side of Nanami's jaw and causing a dizziness to settle in his vision for a few moments. An advanced blow to be sure, but instead of letting himself overthink it, Nanami accepted that he had to switch his strategy to keep up.
The crowd cheered, the voices melding together in a way that made his ears ring. He focused his hearing until he could hear your voice again, shouting for him to keep going. He zeroed in on the sound, shaking off his dizziness and glaring at his opponent. The timer on the scoreboard was nearing the end, with just a few minutes left of the main event, and with how the balance was tipped in the favour of his opponent due to the clean punches and ring dominance, Nanami knew he had to make the last stretch count, for his sponsors and supporters, for his team, for himself, for you.
He took a deep breath, the air flowing through his lungs and allowing his muscles to destress for a second as he tuned out every other sound save for your voice. At last, he felt like his mind was finally aligned with his body, working as a whole instead of being pulled in several directions at once and splitting his focus, a single stream of concentration connecting his limbs to his will as he entered the zone. Time seemed to slow down as he shifted his position, pivoting his leg behind him as he wound up for a rear hit, and finally, after so long, he could clearly see his opening, his mind immediately dividing the width of his opponent's torso into ten parts to find the weak spot, situated right at the ratio point of seven to three.
He exhaled, swinging his fist to land a blow against the fighter’s rib, knocking him backwards a few steps. Taking advantage of his lost footing, Nanami delivered a few jabs that the fighter was too slow to counter, instead trying to land an overhand blow which Nanami dodged with ease, ducking under the hit and taking a step backwards to twist his body. His eyes shifted to his opponent’s head, eyes scanning him and effectively calculating his next move until…
There it was.
Nanami saw the weak spot, his focal point narrowing on the exact line of the seven to three ratio, and channelling all his force into his arm, he twisted his body swiftly, his fist cutting through the air like an arrow heading straight for its target. The haymaker landed perfectly against the jaw of the fighter, his head moving to the side as his body tipped over from the force, collapsing unceremoniously on the ground, a clean knockout even if from a wildcard punch.
Nanami took a few steps backwards to one of the neutral corners as the referee began counting down, his hand slamming against the canvas until he heard the final number without his opponent standing up. The cutman of the fighter helped him up as he began to regain consciousness, and Nanami sighed in relief once he heard them confirm he was alright.
He waited for the judges ruling with bated breath, the crowd clamouring as the commentators began singing praises over the clean hits that Nanami managed to land, saying something about his spark having been reawakened. Soon, the scores were out, and Nanami heard the crowd of his supporters erupt with screams of excitement before he even had a chance to register the ruling, the sound of the commentator calling out his name replaying in his mind until he shook off his initial reluctance and raised his hands up in a triumphant pose.
He saw movement near the ropes and his eyes shifted to the spot, noticing you excitedly jumping up and down as you clapped and screamed out how happy you were. Just as Nanami was about to receive his reward, he moved away from the corner, sliding through the ropes and jumping off the ring to wrap his arms around you and lift you off the ground. He spun you around with a smile as you laughed happily, clinging onto his sweaty and tense body. Nanami grabbed your thighs and wrapped them around his waist to hold you up against him, looking up at you with a lovestruck gaze as the crowd cheered.
You cradled his face in your hands with great care, leaning down to kiss him sweetly. He responded by deepening the kiss, pouring his love and adoration into it until the air from your lungs was depleted and you both had to pull away to breathe.
“I missed you,” he said, voice just loud enough for you to hear him over the clapping and cheering of the spectators.
“I missed you, too,” you responded, planting another kiss to his lips before you leaned your forehead against his.
With you secure in his arms, he certainly didn't need the judges to tell him he was the winner.
It was a slow morning for once, the sun shining through the curtains and bathing the living room in the warm glow of the afternoon. The TV was playing a random show, one you chose more to fill the silence as you both relaxed rather than to actually watch it. With his head in your lap and your hand soothingly running through his hair, Nanami felt like he was in his own corner of Heaven.
He stared up at you, watching as you mindlessly scrolled through your phone, occasionally laughing at a funny video and turning it for him to see it. You looked so gorgeous, still in your pyjamas as you lounged with him on the couch, your beautiful eyes sparkling in the light of the sun bouncing off the floor, your lips so kissable that he had to stop himself a few times from disturbing you by constantly distracting you with loving pecks.
He raised a hand to affectionately caress your jaw, catching your attention as you smiled down at him and leaned over to kiss him. He was quiet for a few moments until he finally decided to voice his curiosity.
“How come you came to the match a few days ago?” he asked, eyes watching yours as you looked back at him. “That was one of your usual work days.”
You smirked. “Gojo called me whining like a baby.”
Nanami groaned and looked away with a frustrated sigh as his hand dropped from your face. You laughed in amusement, grabbing his hand and bringing it to your lips to press a quick kiss to it.
“He explained everything to me. You should've told me you were struggling, Ken,” you said, your tone turning gentle. “I didn't know if I should feel flattered or guilty knowing what you had to deal with.”
“You had enough on your plate.”
“Kento,” you sighed, caressing his cheek and turning his head to look at your loving eyes. “I'm never too busy for you. You're my husband, we can find ways to compromise so things work well for both of us. I should've known the matches were so important to you and-”
“Don't,” he cut you off, sitting up and turning to close the distance between you again. “They're not your responsibility. You couldn't have known since I never told you directly.”
You smiled at him, shifting to wrap your arms around him and snuggle against him, pressing your face in the crook of his neck and inhaling him in. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, eyes closing to bask in the comfort of your warmth, the scent of you, his home.
“Let's promise to be direct with each other, then,” you concluded, and he smiled against the crown of your head.
“Okay, darling. Let's promise.”
“You should also probably thank Gojo. He helped me take a day off with his acting skills. My boss actually believed he was my brother who had been in an accident when he called crying.”
“Let's not push it that far.”
You chuckled, shifting again so that both of you could comfortably cuddle while browsing your phones. Nanami began scrolling through some random social media, until a message from Gojo popped on his notification bar. He opened the message and ignored the teasing messages of Gojo, the news article he sent catching Nanami’s eye instead. The thumbnail was very clearly a picture of you two kissing at the match, with him holding you in his arms and your palms placed on the sides of his head, angling him so you could share a romantic and passionate kiss. The headline read “The Power Of Love: Boxer’s losing streak curse lifted by True Love’s Kiss.”
Nanami would've rolled his eyes if he didn't somewhat agree with the headline. Your mere presence was powerful enough to sway him enough to get back on track, soothing and motivating him all at once in a way that nothing else could. He put his phone on do not disturb and looked down at you, peacefully scrolling your phone and leaning against him. He couldn't help but let out an amused huff as he watched you, his knight in shining armour, his hero saving him from his undoing with what he was convinced was true love’s kiss. You looked at him, your lips lifing up in a smile as you noticed his.
“What?” you asked with a slight laugh, and he just shook his head.
“Nothing. I just love you.”
You beamed at him, leaning in to kiss him sweetly. “I love you, too.”
You settled back in his arms, your body fitting against him like you were both carved for each other. The thoughts and worries of his matches seemed distant, forgotten for a while as he focused on the present. Nothing else mattered but the fact that regardless of the outcome of his matches or just how tired or roughed up he was, he always had a home on your arms full of love and comfort to come back to. He smiled, knowing that as long as you were together, he'd always be on the winning side.
Boxer!Nanami coming home from a match he lost, all tired and dejected. You'd been unable to join him as a spectator due to your own job and responsibilities, only adding to his low mood because your soothing presence was not there for him to cling to, so he had to boil in his own negative feelings and overthink until he finally reached the door of your shared apartment.
He fumbled with the keys for a few moments before they slipped out of his grasp and fell to the floor. Shoulders slumping, he closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the door with a sigh, defeated, before he slowly lowered his aching body to the ground to grab the keys.
The door opened slightly and he looked up, meeting your questioning gaze before you saw how tired his eyes were and pushed the door wider, opening your arms up just as he pushed himself off the ground and practically slumped into your embrace.
"Hey," you said softly, patting his hair and holding him close to you.
"Hey..." came his weary response, arms encircling your torso, face buried in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent as he felt the tension in his muscles dissipate with each caress of your hand through his strands.
You pulled him inside just enough to close the door, not letting go.
"Do you want to eat something?"
"No."
"Do you want me to run you a bath?"
"No."
"Are you hurt, do you need me to patch you up anywhere?"
He hesitated, thinking back to the strength of his opponent and how he lost to him. Granted, he had no significant injuries and the match had only been a small one, not entirely detrimental to his career as a whole. But the hits he took were not only heavy, they were carefully calculated to land in a way he could not dodge or parry, leaving him to replay the fight over and over in his mind on his way home, and each time he thought back to a hit and came up with potential counters he could've used, he just sunk deeper and deeper into disappointment. The problem was you were not there to pull him out of his thoughts in time, so now you had to dig past the negativity to snap him back to reality.
He, once again, settled for the simplest answer, "No."
You knew his muscles had to be aching, they always were after a particularly ruthless training session or after a match, and the bruises that would soon appear on his skin would be a testament to that. But you remained silent, knowing he didn't need your insistence at this moment, but your comfort. So you pressed your cheek into his and hugged him a little bit tighter.
"What do you need, sweetheart?"
"Sleep."
You slowly detached from him and kissed his cheek in the process; he reluctantly let go. You carefully pushed the jacket he was wearing off his shoulders as he kicked off his shoes and aimlessly threw his keys on the dresser by the front door. Slipping your hand in his, you both walked towards the bedroom where he changed into his pyjamas and allowed his body to fall into the mattress, exhausted.
You sat next to him and rubbed his back for a few moments before he turned to the side and opened his arms as an invitation for you to join him. You lay next to him and he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer and kissing your forehead sweetly before settling his head on your chest as you hugged him back, the steady sound of your heartbeat soothing him. You were soft and warm, calming. He felt the duvet being pulled over both your bodies and your lips planting a loving kiss on the top of his head.
"Missed you," he mumbled, voice rough with exhaustion. "Been thinking about you all day."
"I missed you, too, Kento," you kissed his head again.
"How was your day?" he mumbled, already half asleep from the way you were caressing his shoulders and running your fingers through his hair.
Your voice barely above a whisper, you started telling him about your day, looking at his calm face squished against your chest, the only indication he was still somewhat awake being the sleepy sounds of affirmation he occasionally made as you were talking to let you know he was listening. You described to him a particularly funny situation that happened that day and saw his lips curl up into a faint smile, huffing an amused breath before his face returned to a peaceful expression. Soon enough, his affirmative sounds stopped and were replaced by soft snores, breathing evened out, as he fell into a deep slumber, comforted by your warmth, your softness, your voice, the stress of his match pushed aside. He didn't have to deal with that now. It wasn't that important anyway. Nothing was that important when he was in your arms.
Soon, your eyelids started to feel heavy as well and you allowed yourself to slip under. You both had to return to your busy schedules the next day, but for now, surrounded by each others' warmth, you deserved to enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasted.
Surely, when he would awake the next day, Nanami would realise that as long as he got to come home to you, winning or losing a match was ultimately meaningless. Regardless of the outcome, he was still your champion and your love was still his most prized reward.
On a University city trip, someone's got to share a hotel room with Nanami Kento, the class's misunderstood loner...and it's going to be you.
Warnings: College AU! Nanami Kento x Reader, double loss of virginity, "just one bed", heavy make-out, PIV creampie, dry humping, fingering, handjob, both reader and Nanami aged 19
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Nanami Kento wore the awkward bearing of a young man who was surprised by the man he was growing to be. Being uniquely in possession of those excellent traits which were overlooked by girls, but adored by women, he had outgrown himself, from personality to hair, and was unsure how to wear it. Not yet having grown the confidence to lean into his character, and own it, he had been written off by the girls in your class as sullen, boring, miserable-- a downer.
All the girls, that is, except for you. And this was how you found yourself to be sharing a hotel room with Kento, on your thesis research trip to Kyoto.
"--made a mistake with the bookings, we're several rooms short--"
'--well we can share a bed, that's fine, but I'm not sharing with him--"
"--I dunno...I don't think he'd try anything, I just...want to have fun, that's all, and he's a bit..."
You scoffed, pinching the bridge of your nose as the other young women spoke amongst themselves. Kento had not arrived, and yet, was the talk of the group. As the only young man in the class, he had maintained a respectful, professional distance from the young women in it. It had earned him what you thought was a rather undeserved reputation.
Where the others saw uptight, you saw diligence. Where they saw boring, you saw reserved. Where others saw sarcastic, you saw hilarious. Where they saw grumpy, you saw rage against the machine.
In truth, you had long-since harboured an obsession with Kento. His hushed intensity was magnetic, and carried a mass you longed to draw you in. While others saw you as opposites, you saw yourself and Kento as each others' perfect foil. Matching puzzle pieces. Each others' missing ingredient.
And, god, you ached for him, alone at night with your hand drifting downwards. And you would not let him be treated like a leper.
"For goodness' sake, I'll share with Kento." You piped up, seeing the other girls all look round at you. Their eyes drifted, widening in surprise at something behind you, and you did not hear the hotel lobby door swing open and closed outside of your view. "In fact, I'd be delighted to share with him. I'm sure he'll be just as funny and respectful as he always is."
"You think I'm funny."
You nearly jumped out of your skin at the question framed as a statement, and spun round to face Kento...but not as you knew him. You stuttered.
"Oh, wow, Kento...your hair..."
Gone was the sloppy, loping fringe. Instead, Kento's honey-blond hair was neatly parted, undercut, framing his face. All of a sudden, he was so...handsome. Kento glowered down at you, impassive and unreadable. He gave one baleful hum at your assessment of him.
"I assume something happened with the room bookings, then. For you to wind up stuck with me." Before you could answer, Kento pulled his phone out of his pocket, turning back to the doorway with one enormous hand grasping his suitcase handle. "You shouldn't have to make a decision to your detriment. It's not your fault. I'll find somewhere else to sta--"
Kento was interrupted, by your hand clasping over his on his suitcase handle. A grunt of surprise left his lips, at the feel of your dainty hand on his. He looked down at them, his expression always somewhere between anger and irritation. You knew better.
"Stay with me. We...get along well. We always have." Kento scowled, his eyes flickering behind you to the other girls, who, while surprised by how a simple haircut could alter Kento so, were sticking to their guns.
"I don't need your pity." Kento sniped, his voice low and earthy, "I'm perfectly happy to le--"
"And I'm perfectly happy to share. Stop being so headstrong and listen to me."
Kento bristled, looking torn between argument and agreement. As the others collected their keys, filing off to their respective rooms, you awaited his decision. With a huff, Kento fetched your room key, and headed off down the corridor. You fizzed with excitement at the prospect of spending more time with him, and suppressed it, following him with an air of assumed solemnity.
The airs and graces were soon dropped, when the door to your room swung shut behind you and Kento, and you found it to have--
"...just one bed. Shit." Kento's face twisted in discomfort, his Adams apple bobbing deliciously as he swallowed. His eyes trailed down to you, and caught your blush as if it were contagious. He turned to grasp the door handle again, stuttering, so unlike himself.
"Couldn't possibly-- absolutely not appropriate-- my mistake entirely-- find somewhere else--"
"Will you? Find somewhere else, I mean?" Kento faltered, his grip on the door handle loosening. He looked at you with something akin to dread. "On cherry blossom week? In historic Kyoto?" By the time you were finished talking, Kento had deflated like a sad party animal.
Night had long since fallen. You heard the laughter, baths and showers running, from the girls in the adjacent rooms. Your confidence was a total mask, as you opened your suitcase, rummaging inside for pyjamas. Your heart pounded in your chest, made all the worse by Kento's silent, tortured appraisal of you. You realised, with a jolt, that you had brought nothing but an oversized t-shirt and underwear to wear to bed.
Beneath his eyes, you were transparent. He felt the tension roll off you in waves. Kento cleared his throat, his ears red, a youthful flush across his nose.
"I'll-- I'll go shower." He offered, considering trying to drown himself. He heard you hum, speaking absentmindedly.
"Go on. Smelly boy." You had barely registered what you said, hearing something like a laugh from Kento as he swung the bathroom door closed behind him. You threw yourself face down on the bed, muffling your cries of anguish into a pillow. Kento leaned against the shower wall as water tumbled down his back, trying not to think with his cock, and failing miserably, cursing his body for its feral stupidity.
You remained face down on the bed. Trying to think unsexy thoughts was murder. You had always wondered how Kento looked, long and tight beneath old band t-shirts. You'd had the briefest glimpse of his abs and happy trail once, when he reached above you to switch the projector on in class. How you had restrained yourself from leaning in and licking the soft skin of his navel was beyond you. The thought of the noise he would have made, alone, had kept you going for weeks. The way you caught him looking at you in class the next day, took you the rest of the way.
"Shower's free." You sat bolt upright, your brain short-circuiting to see Kento stood at the bathroom door in nothing but pyjama trousers, steam billowing out across broad shoulders and swept back hair. You forced your mask back into place.
"Thought you'd died in there." You offered, not as casual as you sounded. You fumbled your shower bag and pyjamas out of your bag, and made your way to the bathroom. You and Kento danced awkwardly, trying to skirt round each other. With a grunt of irritation, Kento grasped your upper arms, moving you effortlessly around him into the bathroom. His touch was scalding. You wouldn't possibly make it through the weekend.
By the time you headed out of the shower, tugging at your t-shirt to make it cover more of your thighs, you blushed to your toes to see Kento sat up in bed, bare chested and reading. He read the same sentence over, and over, and over, trying with broken determination not to track his eyes up your legs, and imagine how you tasted between them. Feeling you hurriedly slip into bed beside him made his cock jump, and he reached out with a fumbling hand, switching off the light without warning.
Only the faint bathroom light illuminated the room. You both lay, backs to each other, on opposite sides of the bed. The silence grew oppressively heavy. You felt lightheaded, barely breathing, hyperaware of every noise and movement your bodies made. You were paralysed by thoughts of his honey-rich voice, his lightly freckled shoulders itching to be touched, how it would feel to be trapped beneath him while he fell apart above you.
"I'm sorry." You blinked, hearing Kento's apologetic rumble.
"...what are you sorry for?"
"This...this situation. I know I'm no fun to be around. And I've made my peace with that. But you--"
"You are fun. Very fun. I'm...not going to punish you for being an introvert."
Kento was quiet on his side of the bed, but no more relaxed. You had gathered the guts to reach one hand across the sheets to him, before he threw the covers aside, and moved to sit up.
"You need your own space. I'll sleep on the sofa." The 'sofa' sat at the end of the bed, barely more than a loveseat, and you snatched a hand out, grabbing Kento round the bicep. You almost shivered at the hard cords of muscle there, thicker than your hand by far, barely grasping on as Kento tensed.
"No. You're taller than me. I'll sleep on the sofa--"
"--absolutely not--"
"--stop being such a fucking gentleman and let me--"
"--I'm not a gentleman, it's just basic manners--"
"--listen, I feel fine, just come and share--"
"--offer some mad girl a bed and suddenly you're a gentleman--"
"Kento, please just come to bed with me."
Kento's brain stuttered, now. He rolled to face you, his whole body on fire, trying to sound calm. He was an open book, to you. You felt every nerve ending of your skin put to the flame.
"...come to bed...with you?" You moved to roll away and cover your face with your hands, indescribably mortified. Kento couldn't allow it-- not when he'd daydreamed about this for so long. He grasped your hands, rolling you back over to face him. He looked awkward, not used to his own strength, as you flipped back over with a squeak, and a weak apology from Kento. You had never noticed the beautiful whiskey depths of his eyes, before.
You were lost for words. The tables had turned so suddenly, you had no idea on which side you sat. Kento scoffed, a faint blush on his high cheekbones, scowling into a corner of the room. The silence thickened again. Kento huffed a laugh.
"Go to sleep. I'll...I'll just play some games for a while." He did not want to. He wanted to flip you over again, to hear that squeak again, wondering if you'd squeak or moan when he pressed his weeping length into your--
"Oh...what games did you bring?" Your eyes lit up, sparkling, sitting up in bed with a bounce. Kento melted. He wanted to put you in his pocket. He could manage the urges, but the affection overwhelmed him and he stuttered, fumbling for words.
"Because..." Kento waited on bated breath, your lips plush and parted, crawling just-so towards him on the bed, seeing how your breasts shifted between your arms beneath that fucking t-shirt and maybe she would want this too fuck we wouldn't come out all weekend once we've tasted each other fuck if she were my girlfriend she'd be my whole world wouldn't ask for anything else ever again--
"...because I'm desperate for a Gengar actually but I haven't got anyone to trade my Haunter with and--"
"Oh. I need a Golem."
"Oh."
"Nice."
You both rummaged in your bags, grabbing your GameBoys, and you swore, trying to find the cable to connect them. Kento raised his eyebrows, scooting himself back beside you in bed, and crossing his long legs.
"Really? You brought one? Who did you think was gonna trade with you, one of them out there--"
"I'll be honest, I was relying on you, Kento, like I always do." Kento's ears reddened. He moved to sweep back the fringe he no longer had. Instead, his long fingers swept back through his neat parting, mussing commas of blond over his forehead, in a way that made you want to do the same until his hair was a mess and he was groaning.
You sat shoulder to shoulder, comparing Pokémon teams. Kento favoured Steel and Fighting types in a balanced, well-prepared team with no weak links. You favoured Ghost types and anything cute, in a weird mismatched set-up that surprised your enemies. With your short cable connecting your GameBoys, you sat thigh to thigh. You hadn't noticed your toes scrunching against Kento's, foot, stroking your skin against his. You felt him shiver and tense.
"What-- what are you doing?" Kento asked, his voice catching in his throat. His chest felt tight. His whole being zeroed in on where your skin stroked his. You caught yourself, and curled your toes away, to Kento's disappointment. "It-- it's okay...you don't have to stop." Your games were ignored now, defunct in distracted hands.
You swallowed, the air thick with tension around you. He was so close, you could smell the residue of his cologne, and the natural masculine smell of him, earthy beneath freshly washed skin. The side of your breast, bare beneath your t-shirt, rested against his bicep. You felt his bicep clench, grazing your nipple. He felt the pebbled snag of your nipple against his arm. He knew he'd combust if he didn't feel your skin on his soon; knew his fragile resolve was breaking.
Your foot cautiously stretched back down, the sensitive skin of your toes stroking against the top of Kento's foot. You felt him shiver again, putting his GameBoy down with a grunt, his eyebrows drawn together with am arm over his eyes.
"Do you...like it when I touch you?"
Kento grumbled under his breath, his mouth twisted in faint derision. "Don't be cruel." You blushed, reaching out for his hand. Kento tangled his fingers in yours, pressing the back of your hand to his twitching thigh, and trailing featherlight fingertips over your palm and inner wrist, an erogenous zone you never knew you had until he elicited a shudder from you.
"See." Kento whispered, lightly stroking the spot on your inner arm that connected curiously to your clit and nipples, a fine gold thread of liquid arousal. "You like it, too. So if you don't mean anything by this, just stop. Don't...don't play games with me." He took his fingers away, and you almost whimpered, chasing his touch, begging.
"No, Kento, wait-- please...don't stop."
Kento short-circuited. He had never been so close to the fabled pleasure of anothers' body. Pornography had little impact for one without the flesh-memory of erotic touch. Kento's cock was thick, now, throbbing. You dropped your head to his shoulder, sighing with bliss as his trembling fingers resumed their butterfly kisses to your wrist. The growing tent in his pyjamas, and the way he spread his thighs aside to accommodate his erection, made your mouth water.
Kento shifted, his body moving on instinct, until he was tentatively leaning over you. He wanted to watch your face as he stroked your wrist, examining its fine little tendons and veins, and examining how you arched, your mouth parted, your t-shirt rucking up until he could see the warm squidge of your belly above your underwear. His voice was husky, thoughtful.
"You'd...you'd stop me, right? If you didn't want this?"
"Yeah, I...yeah. But I-- I don't want you to. I want m--"
Kenti bowed his head to drink the unfinished words off your lips, knowing you wanted more just as much as he did. He grunted against the taste of you, his lips shuddering and uncertain, only hoping his sincerity came through. Kissing him back hard, your lips and tongues clashed, both instinctual, hungry, tasting. You and Kento spurred each other on, your mutual desperation rising exponentially with each nip of the lips, each tongue thrust into each others' mouth, each moan snatched and devoured between kisses.
Your hands sunk into each others' hair, ruffling, teasing, pulling, and you whimpered into Kento's mouth at the massage of his fingertips over your scalp. You were drunk. You had to be drunk, so high off the spontaneity of a moment you thought would be planned to a T.
Kento's mouth wandered, pressing and sucking sharp little lovebites into you on his way down your neck. You had ended up tangled around him, beneath him, the tip of his cock almost escaping beneath his waistband. Riding on buckish young urgency, Kento's broad hand had risen to grope your breast, possessive, trembling against the urge to squeeze you too hard. When you whimpered, arching into his touch, his mind flew back to him, shocked and ashamed by his stunning lack of self-control.
"Sorry," Kento gasped, his mouth and hand flying off you as if burnt, "fuck, sorry, 'msosorry--"
He broke off at the sight of you. Strewn, your hair scrunched against the pillow, with love-swollen lips and roses blooming on your neck, you were serene; for him. Thrown like petals onto the sheets, all for him and his mouth and his hands. Kento felt the fog descend again, dampening his judgement, for the instinctual urge to fuck.
"Have you...have you ever..." You felt Kento's meaning. His voice was rough, deep as the valley, and hewn with stone. You shook your head, still supple and dopey from his attentions. Kento's held breath released in one husky groan. He swallowed, shaking his head down at you.
"No, I...me neither. Always wondered, always--" Always what? Always daydreamed about it almost constantly? Always chastised himself for being such a fucking animal? But, the look in your eyes as you drank him in. Kento and you met on that clouded bridge, in the middle. Your pussy ached with promise.
Kento's hand came to settle slowly on your breast again, delighted by the way you pressed into him. His fingers grazed down over your nipple, reaching the hem of your shirt, brushing upwards.
"I can...can I? Please?"
"Please. Please, yes please, god."
"Fuck...I can't...cant believe it-- finally--" Kento didn't seem to realise he was moaning his inner thoughts aloud, rucking your t-shirt up like unwrapping a gift. As your breast freed, Kento shuddered again, slanted brown eyes scrutinising your body with analytical intent, committing you to memory.
His hand ghosted over your tummy, tracing dimples and stretch marks on the way, before curling around your breast, giving the gentlest of squeezes. The noise that left his mouth was somewhere between a cough and a moan. Still possessed by a haze of need, his mouth dipped down, tongue flicking out over your nipple, before capturing it with his mouth as you arched again, keening. He pressed into your arch, one arm planted above your head, the opposite hand rolling your other breast between keen fingers.
He couldn't help but rock the straining underside of his cock against your barely-covered pussy. The material between you was so thin, you could feel the whole length of him, and the tapering shape of his bulbous tip as it snagged against your clit. Kento knew he'd cum like this, if he wasn't careful, and shivered at the idea of spilling his seed all over your belly. He brushed away his hurrying peak, so determined was he that you'd cum before him.
"--keep--keep doing that...Kentoooo--oooh, feels so good--"
A rush of competitive pride burned through him. He couldn't help but murmur against your spit-slick nipple, nuzzling it with his nose.
"Keep telling me...what feels good. Make sure I'm not selfish, 'cos I--I'll just take if you don't--"
Suddenly hyperaware of your own body and how you must look, dopey and blissful as you chased pleasure by rutting his length between your legs, you stopped, and Kento huffed.
"I can hear you--thinking you look stupid-- and you don't--" He scowled down at you, his voice hoarse and strained between heavy grunts of ecstasy. "Will you cum? Like...like that?" Kento nodded down towards where you had been rolling your pussy against him. You tried to pull an arm over your eyes, blushing, extraordinarily embarrassed. Kento tangled his fingers in yours, pressing them over your head.
"Hey-- hey-- listen, I'll...I'll let you see me cum...if you let me see you. Please." You swallowed, mouth watering at the thought of watching Kento break, such sincere fascination trickling down your spine.
"...okay." You answered, uncharacteristically meek. Kento huffed another laugh.
"Good girl." You blushed from hairline to toes, involuntarily bucking up against Kento with his words. He began to rut against you again, the friction good but not quite right, not as good as it could be. You threw caution to the wind.
"Hang-- hang on, I'll just..." You reached a hand down beneath your panties, parting your labia just enough for Kento's heavy length to snag harder against your clit.
Kento's eyes zeroed in on the creamy white discharge on your fingers as you pulled your hand out, and when he continued his motions, you fell supple and needy beneath him again, groaning with the pleasure of his bulbous tip and the ridge beneath it, catching your clit. Pleasure bloomed through you, so much closer to orgasm than you had thought.
"--don't stop--" You begged, arching up towards Kento until he fucked down harder with a broken growl, his own need to cum eclipsed by your pleasure. Drawing one nipple deeper into his mouth, and lubricating the other with his spit to roll it fluidly between his fingers, Kento learned fast, playing you like an instrument until your mouth gaped in a silent cry, your first orgasm received from another, roaring through you in waves.
Kento kept humping against you, not recognising that you had reached your peak. He faltered, hips stuttering and panting as you groaned, squirming and writhing, groping at him with desperate, fucked-out hands. Kento was obsessed, a spurt of pre-cum adding to the slick he'd already made between your legs. Utterly besotted, his slim eyes wide with blown pupils, he shakily raised one hand to stroke your hair, kissing your forehead through the bliss, shushing you with whispered praise.
"--so cute...look so pretty...thank you-- thank you--"
As you came down from your high, you heard him thanking you, and laughed, trying to cover your face as he batted your hands away, playful and smirking. Biting your lip, emboldened by post-nut confidence, you slid your hand down to grip Kento's clothed, pulsing cock. He stilled above you with a grunt, looking so angry again as that feral, desperate haze descended. You begged him, hushed and soft.
"Can I...feel it?" Kento's thoughts burst with single-minded relief. He nodded, breath catching in his chest, allowing you to roll him over onto the bed until you were lying on your side beside him. You stroked his clothed length, fascinated, watching every reaction with cruel innocence.
Unsure how to handle him, you faltered as your hand began to slip inside his pyjamas. Kento had one arm slung over his face, still scowling, wanting desperately to watch you play with his cock, but too self-conscious.
"Here, I'll--" Kento reached down, shucking his pyjamas down until his cock released. Kento seemed embarrassed by his size, distinctly bigger than average, and thick, his pink tip peeking out from beneath his foreskin. Mistaking the cause of your silence for disgust, Kento grimaced behind his forearm, apologising.
"--shit, 'msorry, I know I-I'm--"
"...wow." Your breathless little gasp, followed by your hand immediately circling round Kento's cock, sent his mind blank again, watching you with dumb adoration as you examined the weight of his cock in your hand. Your hand gripped him, stroking from ball to tip with an inexperienced squeeze that had Kento grunting, gasping and bucking beneath you. It didn't matter that you had clearly never handled an erection in your life; for Kento, who had never been stroked by a woman looking at his cock and face with hungry, adoring eyes, he was being rushed towards a toe-curling orgasm.
Your hand stopped immediately, and Kento snarled, before gasping, momentarily shocked by his visceral reaction to being teased just to the edge of completion. Your pupils dilated, obscenely aroused by the strange danger of a furiously needy man about to cum in your hand. You were lost in the tease, lowering your head and maintaining eye contact as you threatened your lips just over the tip of Kento's cock.
"...stop?"
Kento was glazed, eyebrows tilted, looking uncharacteristically concerned, darting between your mouth, and your eyes, and back again. His nose flared with hot little pants. A barely perceptible shake of the head. You smiled, laying the flat of your tongue against the tip of Kento's cock, and licking over the bulbous head with an incoordinate pump of his length.
Kento's moan rumbled from his chest outwards, muffled as he bit into his own arm, his mind blown by the wet little sucks of his cockhead that he'd imagined only in his wettest dreams. He hurtled with breakneck speed towards his peak, finishing with frantic bucks and begs.
Kento came with an uncontrollable roar of pleasure, both arms gripping the pillow beneath his head, biceps straining, balls clenching. You pulled free of his cock with a wet pop and a little cry of surprise, when the first spurt of cum salted your tongue.
You continued to stroke him, obsessed with the jerk of him in your hand, the way he groaned, low and long, with each stripe of thick, white seed up his belly. It was only after the twitches had ceased, his cock sluggish against his belly, that Kento began to gasp like a fish out of water and gripped his hand around yours.
The words left your mouth before you even thought to stop them, a years old masturbatory kink suddenly within reach. "Can you cum like that inside me?"
Kento stared at you in mute shock, his neat new haircut mussed beyond repair. His post-cum brain struggled to process your request. You frantically babbled to reassure him.
"--I--I mean no condom--and hear me out hear me out-- I've got good protection-- and and I've never and you've never so we won't catch anything--"
Kento was above you, flipping you onto your back and suckling at your neck again within seconds. You heard his oddly grown-man chastisement into your neck, while his body moved in the total opposite direction.
"So fucking irresponsible-- just just "oooooh cum inside me Kento" just like that, fuck-- do you think I'm--I'm fucking stupid? Sh...shit...fucking yes please I can't believe I'm doing this--"
Kento's cock had barely softened, graced by the barely-there refractory period of youth. He was thick, heavy, and dragging down your belly. You were just as frantic as him, kicking off your underwear and watching Kento hyperfocus again; this time, on your bare sex, right before his eyes.
He knelt back, gripping himself in his fist as if holding himself back. Feeling his sharp eyes penetrate you, you moved to close your legs. Kento looked at you as if you were mad, batting your thighs aside with his knees as you covered your face, mortified.
"Beautiful." He berated, rubbing his fingers through the cum spattered on his belly, and sinking them down to glide cautiously between your labia. You gasped, squirming, and Kento watched his fingers coat with your slick with a gulp, feeling a fresh burst of blood engorge his cock until he ached.
He leaned to his bag, rummaging and cursing, before coming back up with a bottle of lube. You shot Kento a look and he shot you a look in return, berating you again with a voice stricter than fitting for his age; "I was expecting a room of my own."
"Oh yeah? How's that working out for you?"
"Very well actually-- stop laughing or I'll--"
"...you'll what? Make me?" You asked, coy. Kento let out a strangled little groan, and pinched the bridge of his nose as you laughed.
"...don't even...dont even know what you're asking...idiot--" Kento huffed as you drew a crooked smile out of him, your joyful muffled giggles a natural balm to his baseline rage. You stilled again, breathless as you watched him stroke his pulsing cock, your throat dry with voyeuristic anticipation. Kento panted, beyond embarrassment and hanging on by a thread.
Kento stroked some lube between your puffy folds, eyes heavy as you squirmed, prodding one finger softly at your entrance. You stilled beneath him, holding your breath. Kento tangled your fingers in his.
"Breathe." He hummed, and as you released a shaking breath, Kento began to ease one slick finger inside you. Your mouth dropped open, eyes closed beneath raising eyebrows, as Kento slid his long finger into you all the way to his knuckle. He hadn't realised he was holding his breath until he felt lightheaded.
"...you...you feel...fuck, incredible, so--so tight..." Kento whispered, his voice low and gravelly, that same primal urge to fuck immediately into you threatening to cloud his brain. By the way you gazed up at him, still and supple, you would probably let him too and he could just push right in and--
"...we'll take it slow," Kento reassured you, tight and tense, "...and I'll stop straight away if...if it hurts."
Your eyelids fluttered to feel Kento's thick tip prod at your entrance, sure he wouldn't fit until he pressed forwards, and you stretched like you'd never stretched before. You bit your lip against the faint sting, nodding urgently and gripping Kento's thighs as he looked at you in concern.
Kento was lost in the moment, his eyes zeroing in on where he gradually sheathed himself inside you. He'd never felt such exquisite pleasure, obsessed by how your plush walls moulded to the shape of him, sucking him in, slick and tight. You squeaked, biting into Kento's shoulder as he bore down on you, his cock almost sunk to the hilt. He stilled as he bottomed out, his fingertips bruising on your hip, trembling with jagged groans.
You felt so strangely placid, full, and wrapping your legs around the small of Kento's back to lock him inside you. The brief sting, the belly-deep ache, left you feeling like you had made a blooming transition from girl to woman in one deep thrust. Kento drank you in, pressing a long, lingering kiss to your lips and mumbling against them.
"...'m not gonna last long." Kento was possessed, pulling out a little before rutting into you again, delighted by your gasp, determined to break more noises out of you. His usual gentle nature was becoming quickly overrun by a firm, authoritative edge, not knowing yet how this would come to define him as a man.
Kento rocked into you, shallowly at first, before gaining the confidence that he wouldn't break you. By the time he had built a rhythm, pumping into you through sweaty pants, your breaths mingling together, he felt the drag of orgasm approaching him fast. Kento's imagination could never have matched up to the reality of dragging his cock through such nectar.
Any time Kento tried to talk, he broke off into anguished pants and groans into your throat, sinking his teeth there for a moment, seemingly irritated by how sloppy he'd become.
Hearing you whimper and squeak as he moved within you offered him some condolence for being a speechless mess, at least.
Though you knew you wouldn't cum from this alone, you were lost in the addictive feeling of being full and fucked into by Kento chasing an instinctual high. You couldn't help but let your fingers wander downwards, rubbing your clit beneath them. The thick pressure in your belly made your pleasure three-dimensional, so much better than your fingers alone.
Kento was a quiet lover, saying more through heated glances and lingering touches than he ever could through words. Knowing he was holding back for fear of hurting you, you whispered against his ear, sending ripples down his spine.
"--harder-- pleasepleaseplease--"
"Fffuck okay...this?" Kento sunk into you to the hilt and jabbed, urging himself deeper, earning a guttural groan as his cockhead pressed against your cervix and soft-spot. He nodded into your neck, shuddering deeply. "Th-this...yeah...oh fuck, yeah..." Your toes curled against the back of his thighs, and you sobbed with the bone-deep adoration of his kisses to your womb. Kento's restraint snapped, tilting your hips as he gripped you, holding nothing else back.
Kento sped up, driving himself inside you with total abandon, his breaths coming out as spitting curses and groans. Finally, he strained above you, his moans breaking and peaking, unable to hold off any longer;
"--gonna...gonna...cum in you for--for-fucking-ever-- nnggh--"
Watching Kento break and spill himself inside you, his cock jerking with long, painfully pleasurable contractions, was the erotic vision you had sought your whole adult life. Hurriedly working your fingers until your own high hit you, had Kento collapsing on top of you to feel your pussy clenching around him, milking him of every little drop of seed.
Kento was silent, his corded back clenching over you. You nuzzled into his ear, pressing kisses along his jaw until he gave you his lips with a groan. Pulling gently out, and replacing his cock with his fingertips so he could feel how his seed dripped from your cunt, had Kento wondering vaguely how he'd ever use a condom now he'd tasted the ripe-peach of you without a barrier.
You nipped Kento's neck, jolting him back to reality. Glossy doe-eyes glimmered up at him in the dark; and you, desperate to feel full again, completely addicted to him as he was to you.
"...again?"
"...give-- give me a minute."
+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+
"Heard some strange noises coming out of your room last night."
You kept your face innocently neutral at the breakfast table the next morning. You tipped your head to the side, inquisitive, as if you didn't feel multiple thick loads of Kento's seed soaking your underwear.
"Oh?"
"Mhm." A knowing stare from the other girls at the table. Kento sat down, clearing his throat, his plate piled with what should have been an embarrassing number of pastries.
"She's really good. At Pokémon battles." You had a single moment to admire Kento's absolute gall, the other girls looking at him with vague displeasure as he continued.
"Her Gengar's really strong actually. I wasn't ready for it. I thought Machamp would be a good choice, but--"
The other girls had already lost interest, turning their conversations elsewhere. Kento looked up at you from the other end of the table as you mouthed oh my god at him. He was inscrutable, apart from his twinkling eyes.
You were fortunate that none of these girls were at your wedding, years later. But you did occasionally still refer to making love as 'Pokémon battles', if just to hear your impassive, suited, quiet man laugh.
This was so beautifully written, I adore everything about this!! 😭 Them discovering each other's bodies and becoming addicted, the slurred speech, the curious touches, gorgeous, I am eating it up like I haven't known what food is until now.
And the ENDING??? I AM SOBBING PLSS I love him so much 😭❤️
— TAGS : NSFW, jealousy, oral (Wyll receiving), overstimulation, fluff and smut, gender neutral reader, reader is insecure, Wyll is a loving husband, no mention of reader's genitals but they are the receiving partner
SUMMARY : You needed more, you needed to see him crumble beneath you, begging you to push him right over the edge. You needed him to chant your name and sinful declarations of love and devotion until it was the only thing you could hear falling from his sweet tongue, until the image of those bastards putting their hands on him and keeping him away from you all night was replaced by the one of Wyll coming undone and looking up at you in adoration.
And being the ever doting husband, Wyll was more than happy to make your fantasies a reality.
— WORD COUNT : 4.7k
— AUTHOR'S NOTE : Since Larian didn't give us a scene with Wyll, I have taken it upon myself to ensure I write this man as satisfied.
The liquid in your glass swirled with each rotation of your wrist, holding your attention if only for a few moments. It was enough of a distraction to allow you a second to regulate your expression, lest your eyebrow twitch in annoyance again right in front of some of the most influential people of Baldur's Gate. You attempted to sip again from the glass, but the way your drink burned down your throat like liquid fire was enough to have you pull back and hurriedly mask how your nose scrunched up at the sensation. Some draconic alcoholic drink, you recalled, one that you didn't bother to remember the name of, but that you should've expected would be so strong since it was crafted by people who can breathe actual fire.
You set your drink down on a table in your little corner of the room, abandoning it for whatever butler was quick to snatch it to maintain the spotless appearance of the ballroom. Now without your distraction, you scanned the room, noting how even while basking in the brilliant glimmer of the chandeliers hanging above, you still managed to blend into the shadows. Something told you it wasn't your well-honed stealth skills that kept the nobles' attention away from you. Rather, you were sure the hostility came from being akin to an intruder in the upper class, the hero of Baldur's Gate that married into nobility, your background be damned.
The air was thick with rare alcoholic drinks and expensive perfumes, enough to make you nauseous as arrogant laughter and shameless gossip intermingled in a cacophony of upper city superiority, a tune that you always begrudgingly played to. Or tried to, at least. You were sure the fake smiles and sugar-coated pleasantries shared amongst the nobility around you were enough to make even Astarion gag, let alone you. But perhaps your attitude towards the entire event that you were attending was also contributing to your unwillingness to mingle and meddle in affairs you had no interest in.
At last, your scrutinising gaze fell on the person you were most excited to see: your husband Wyll. His presence shone from the middle of a group of lords and ladies that were engaged in a political discussion like a ray of sunshine slipping through the cracks of a dull wall eroded by corruption. You felt your shoulders relax the moment your eyes met and his smile softened just for you. With a polite wave and a sweet smile, you began walking towards him, making sure to use a proper posture so as to maintain his image and yours.
You saw Wyll excuse himself and exchange handshakes and smiles with the other noblemen, bowing politely before he began his journey to meet you halfway. You sighed in relief that finally you'd have the opportunity to dance with your husband, spend some time holding him close so you could drown out the world and focus on his calming presence, but your plans were cut short the moment a woman stepped in his path and bowed her head with reverence, asking him if he'd spare a dance. With an apologetic look sent your way, he politely accepted her request and led her towards the centre of the ballroom, taking their place in an elegant dance amidst the other couples.
It wouldn't have been a problem for you, if it didn't keep happening.
One after another, more and more men and women began interrupting you and your husband, stealing him away for whatever political or business conversation, getting too close whenever they requested a dance or offering drinks too insistently. It had your blood boiling.
Your mood only continued to sour whenever you'd notice people leering at your husband, their hands far too comfortable on his waist, their heads bowing in much too close of a proximity to his, their eyes narrowing and lips turning into arrogant smiles whenever they caught you glaring from across the room. The fact that you felt out of place certainly did not help your feelings.
Before you knew it, the night had ended without you having any chance to even talk to your husband, let alone dance with him, and your thoughts had been left alone to marinate for longer than it was healthy.
Which is why you now felt on the verge of tears whenever you caught a glimpse of Wyll from the corner of your eye, walking beside you towards your shared bedchamber. You could tell he was tired, could see it on his face as his eyelids fell heavy half-way through. You blinked away tears of anger and frustration and fiddled with your sleeves as you tried to collect your thoughts, but whenever you managed to put them into place, they fell apart and spiralled once again.
You were a burden, one to be ashamed of. To think that Wyll just graciously took each and every insult thrown at him about his new demonic appearance only to now have yet another stain upon his reputation, his spouse no less, the one who was supposed to be lifting him up and enhancing his image, not tarnishing it further. You were aware most of it just came from ruthless gossip, but being marginalised either out of arrogance or out of jealousy was starting to get to you. You began to see the images all the mean-spirited whispers were trying so hard to project into your mind: perhaps Wyll would be better suited at the side of a better person, maybe one of the people that kept stealing him away for a romantic dance, a more handsome man with power over commerce, a more graceful woman who could charm others into agreeing with Wyll's plans to better the city. Someone who was not you.
By the time you reached your room, you didn't even realise just how obvious your feelings were on your face. You opened the door more forcefully than necessary and stepped inside, a confused and worried Wyll following you closely. You sat down on the bed unceremoniously and began to unlace whatever strings were holding your emblazoned jacket tied neatly.
“Love, is everything alright with you?”
You looked up, ready to brush off any concerns Wyll would voice, but your train of thought was cut off right as your eyes met with his. He regarded you with such care, worry swimming in his soft eyes as he kneeled beside you and placed his hand over your knee. You shook your head and tried to tell him he can just sit beside you, but you knew he wanted to have a direct line of vision to your troubled gaze.
“You've been acting off this evening. Do you want to talk about it?”
His gentle tone pulled at your heartstrings. It made you want to wrap your arms around him and kiss him while also wanting to just break down crying in frustration.
Instead, you decided that he had dealt with enough stress for one night.
“Nothing, dear. I'm okay, just tired,” you said through a fake smile and reached out to brush your fingers across his cheek.
“Don't lie to me.” His firm response had your expression drop, and although his touch was gentle as he leaned into your palm to kiss it, his eyes were almost admonishing you for trying to deflect. “I won't pry if you don't wish to tell me, but just know you don't have to hide from me.”
Oh how easy it was for him to slip through the cracks of your armour, it was almost scary. With a frown, you decided to come clean, unable to resist the need to fall into his comforting arms, wishing just to hear his voice whispering vows of his undying devotion to you as you drifted off to sleep.
“You deserve the world, Wyll,” you said, voice shaking with emotion. “I can't even give you a fraction of that. Not in the way that another could…”
“What are you talking about?” His hands came to cup your cheeks softly and you leaned into his warm touch, grabbing onto his wrist like a lifeline, the only tether left to your self-control. “You've already given me the world; it's standing right in front of me, the love of my life. I often feel like the colours around me are so vibrant simply because of your radiating presence. What have I done to make you think otherwise?”
You shook your head quickly, noticing how doubt and sorrow settled in his expression. “No, no, it's not that! You didn't do anything, I just…” Wyll remained quiet, waiting for you to take in a small breath and continue. “I know you've noticed the way the other nobles look at you, the way they talk about our union. Despite everything that happened, they see me as less than, or perhaps a threat to a potential opportunity to get closer to you.”
“Surely you wouldn't want me stuck in a loveless marriage with a pompous noble whose most interesting attribute is a stick they keep hidden where the sun doesn't reach.”
“Of course not, Wyll.” You frowned and Wyll fell silent. “I feel like I don't belong. These people kept you away from me all night and kept throwing mean glares my way. I didn't want to complain because I know you're dealing with a lot, but I don't like the way they kept sticking to you like leeches.”
“So you're jealous? Is that it?”
“Well maybe I am jealous!” you suddenly burst out. “Maybe I am, because you're just so perfect that I don't understand how you chose me when you could've had anyone else in the world!”
You breathed out and finally registered the surprised face of Wyll. He opened his mouth, but before any words could spill out, you pulled yourself out of his grasp and turned away, ashamed at your irrational outburst. Gods, maybe you had too much to drink, maybe a single sip of draconic alcohol was enough to have you getting dizzy in embarrassment and frustration. How childish, to just spill out your insecurities in anger. Perhaps this was why others deemed you unfit to be one of the rulers of Baldur's Gate.
“My love,” came Wyll's soothing voice, but you dared not turn to look him in the eye. “Would you believe me if I said that every morning when I wake up and I'm greeted with your sleeping face on the pillow next to mine, I tell myself I'm not worthy of this?” You sighed and crossed your arms, unsure if you could even believe such a thing. “You're… incredible. You're more than I could have ever asked for and you have no idea how lucky I am to be by your side. The fact that I get to call you my spouse is honestly a dream come true.”
He took a step closer to you and gently placed his hands on your arm, turning you around slowly and searching your eyes. Your shoulders relaxed when you felt his warmth close and you allowed yourself to look back at his loving gaze. One of his hands came up to caress your cheek once again, a gentle smile pulling at the corners of his lips.
“We've endured many dangers in our adventures. I'd do it all over again for you. I'd traverse the flames of Avernus, I'd fight any monster in Faerûn, I'd endure any pain so long as I get to see you smile. Those posh people from high society don't know you like I do. They don't know me like you do.” Softly, he placed his forehead against yours, his other hand moving up your arm to rest on the other side of your face as you placed your hands on his waist. “I could never love anyone else like I love you, my heart. The flaws that you see in yourself, they only add to your perfection to me.”
“Wyll…”
“Don't push me away, please,” he said, a hint of desperation lacing his voice. “I love you. Let me love you.”
His lips brushed against yours, pulling back slightly, and when you chased his kiss he fully gave in to you. He pulled you close, one hand falling to wrap around your waist and press your body against his as you got lost into the sweetness of his mouth. The way he kissed you was loving, sensuous, but you were hungry, greedily craving more of his love and touch. You parted your lips and swiped your tongue on the bottom of his lip, and with a grunt of pleasure, he granted you access to deepen the kiss.
Your hands moved from his hips to his chest, fingers finding the buttons of his satin shirt and unbuttoning them with urgency. When your hands dipped beneath the fabric to feel his skin, he let out a soft moan and pulled back slightly, only for your lips to trail down his jaw and to his neck, kissing every bit that you could reach.
“Slow, slow, my love, slow,” he muttered, breath hitching when you kissed the spot right under his ear. “Let me take care of you. I want us to take our time.”
He placed his hands on your arms and pulled you away just enough to look at you. You finally took your time to admire him, his clothes that up until that moment had been neatly covering his body were now rumpled from your hands pulling at them. You hadn't had time to light any of the candles around your bedchamber, but the large windows allowed enough moonlight to fall through the room to see the details of his appearance, the angles of his face. His chest was slightly exposed, a thin layer of sweat already forming over his skin. His lips were swollen from your kiss, still wet and parted to allow shallow breaths to pass through. And his eyes… Despite his gentlemanly words about taking his time to make you feel good, they were positively burning with lust. But even so, the love he held for you managed to shine through when his expression softened as he took in your dishevelled look.
“Okay,” you responded, nodding your head. “Let's take it slow then.”
He smiled at your words and leaned in to kiss your forehead, his hands moving to the laces and buttons holding your shirt together. “May I?”
You nodded and moved closer, capturing his lips in a kiss once again but letting him set the pace this time, slow and loving, melting into him as his fingers pushed away the fabrics from your body. Your hands grabbed the silky material of his shirt, pulling it from his trousers and working in tandem with him to undress each other. Eventually, you were both nude before each other, your expensive clothes scattered haphazardly on the floor.
His hands were gentle as they traversed your skin, slow and graceful as they traced each curve and edge of your body, your own exploring the expanse of his back, moving to his sides, abdomen, then travelling higher up to his chest. He moaned softly in your mouth when your palms grazed his nipples, one of his hands twitching against your hip while the other found its way towards your chest.
Without breaking the kiss, you guided Wyll to your bed until his legs hit the frame and he pulled away to lay down. You took your place on top of him, lowering your head to pepper kisses across his face that had him chuckling. You smiled, trailing your lips back to his jaw, this time slower than before, kissing down his neck and collarbone. He sighed at the feeling, your hands moving across his body to feel each ridge and bump on his skin—courtesy of his demonic attributes—only serving to pull him deeper in a trance. His skin felt hot beneath your fingers, his breathing getting heavier with each soft kiss you planted on his body, your lips eventually reaching his nipple and wrapping around it as you swiped your tongue against it. Wyll gasped, placing one hand to the nape of your neck, feeling goosebumps spread on his skin when your fingers found his other nipple.
“My love,” he began, followed by another soft moan. “I'm supposed to be taking care of you.”
“Please, Wyll, I need this.”
He didn't argue further, the hint of desperation in your voice not lost on him. You shifted lower on his body, pressing close to him while your abdomen brushed against his hardness, pulling a hiss from between his teeth. The sound only served to spur you on as you continued your journey down his stomach, your hands drifting to his hips while you felt him melt under your kisses. Eventually, when you were satisfied with how breathless he seemed to be from the smallest of touches, you caressed his thigh with one hand, going higher and higher as his muscles tensed under your palm, then twitched when you finally wrapped your hand around him.
“My heart!” Wyll gasped, his wrist quickly finding yours and touching it gently. “You don't have to-”
“Will you be good for me, my dear?”
Wyll looked down and was reminded why he was so thankful of the darkvision that his good eye offered, perhaps the only positive from his curse, for as soon as his gaze landed on you he was sure he was enchanted. Your eyes were looking back at him, shadowed by lust, commanding submission to your will, with your hand firmly wrapped around him, your lips inching closer to the tip of his cock.
“Yes,” Wyll answered, his voice barely a whisper. Although his tongue felt like lead in his mouth, he was willing to agree to whatever you suggested, if only you'd keep looking at him like that. “I'll be good.”
You offered him a smile, your tongue darting out to lick gently at his tip, relishing the way he gasped out your name with a trembling voice. You shifted your hand slightly, pressing your tongue flat at his base then dragging it upwards, the simple movement already having Wyll throw his head back in pleasure, but even so, some shakes of excitement and a few soft moans were not enough. You needed more, you needed to see him crumble beneath you, begging you to push him right over the edge. You needed him to chant your name and sinful declarations of love and devotion until it was the only thing you could hear falling from his sweet tongue, until the image of those bastards putting their hands on him and keeping him away from you all night was replaced by the one of Wyll coming undone and looking up at you in adoration.
You groaned at the thought, opening your mouth and finally tasting him fully, hollowing your cheeks to make sure you fit as much of him as you could. The choked moan that slipped from Wyll's lips only further sent you deeper into desire, your tongue swirling around him as your hand worked him in tandem, making sure that whatever part you couldn't take would not go neglected. Your free hand rested on his thigh for support, feeling the muscles flex with each bob of your head, each suck and lick, as your fingers dug into it. Wyll's moans became more constant, falling from every other breath and beckoning you like a siren's song. You moaned as well, the vibration of your voice reverberating through his length and making his mind melt.
His fingers found your head, placing his palms on it gently but not daring to make any move to push you lower, cautious not to hurt you even while lost in the throes of pleasure. Instead, he tried to distract himself from the urge to thrust into your mouth by muttering sweet praises under his breath, shivers cascading down his body with each beat of his heart, each pulse of arousal. He was approaching the sweet precipice at a dizzying speed, with how you were licking and sucking at him, swallowing every drop of precum leaking from his tip. His body was hot, trembling beneath you, and soon enough his mind was so far gone in a fog of lust that he began to mindlessly string together words he hoped made sense.
“P-please, my love,” he uttered breathlessly, a whine escaping him. “Gods, please! Please, I'm so close!”
You hummed, earning a grunt from him at the vibration coursing through him, and when you felt the muscles in his thighs tense up, you raised your head. Wyll groaned, throwing his head back, your tongue teasingly tracing the length of his cock again. His fingers twitched on your head, palms pushing you down slightly in a silent demand for more before he stopped himself and gripped the sheets instead.
“Hells, why did you stop?” he asked, looking down at you with a disappointed frown only to be met with a serious expression. “Love? What's wrong?”
You gently caressed his thigh, tilting your head slightly as you watched him try to catch his breath, concerned clearly written on his face. You shifted, slowly crawling higher on his body.
“Remember when we took a vow?”
Confusion glinted in his eyes, but still he regarded you with sincerity, raising his hand so he could caress your cheek.
“How could I forget? It was the happiest day of my life.”
Satisfied, you lowered your head to press kisses up his chest, speaking between each one, “What did we promise each other?”
“That we'll be together, come what may.”
You hummed, kissing his neck, then his cheek, while your hand slithered lower to wrap around his cock again, revelling in how his breath hitched. Your lips shifted to his ear while Wyll placed his palms on your hips, guiding you closer to where he needed your body.
“And who did you vow to belong to?” you continued, your teeth grazing against the edge of his earlobe.
“You,” Wyll responded right away, almost eager to proclaim it. “I belong to you.”
You smiled at his answer, positioning yourself on top of him so the tip of his cock would line up with your entrance. Your thumb caressed his cheekbone affectionately as you lifted your head to look into his eyes, the adoration you held for him clearly visible through the specks of lust still swimming in your gaze.
“And who do I belong to, forever and always?”
Wyll raised his hand from your hip to run his knuckles against your cheek gently, regarding you like you were the embodiment of peace and beauty, washing over him like sunlight, your every touch akin to the summer breeze. Refreshing, calming, hot.
“You're mine,” he answered, eyes darkening once he felt you rub against him, so close to finally enveloping him in your warmth. “All mine.”
You leaned down and pressed your lips against his, your tongue swiping across his bottom lip as he opened his mouth to taste you in return. You lowered your body slowly, both of you moaning in each other's mouth as he entered you at last, your body adjusting to him and wrapping around him like the Gods themselves carved the shape of you to match his. It didn't take long for the embers within him to reignite, raging deep into the pit of his gut like the flames of Avernus, sending rivers of fire through the very marrow of his bones with each thrust.
You broke your kiss to watch Wyll as his mind began to slip, drowning in the passion you both shared. His body was glistening with sweat, muscles shaking as he grasped at whatever part of you he could reach, your hips working in a hypnotising rhythm that had any coherent thought evaporate from both of your minds. To him, you looked divine, your muscles flexing with each movement, mouth slightly agape to let out short breaths and delicious moans, your brows frowned in concentration. It only took you muttering a sincere “I love you” for Wyll to tumble over the edge earlier than he had hoped.
“Hells below,” he whispered, a groan following shortly after when you continued moving even as he came down from his high, his senses going into overdrive at how sensitive he was. “My love, I- Gods, you're still-”
Looking up at you was a mistake on his part, the sinful sight of your eyes gazing at him with such desire overwhelming enough that he thought he'd either come again or have a heart attack. He writhed beneath you, not wanting to stop you when you felt so incredible, like you were guiding him up to the summit of Mount Celestia itself. Wyll discovered he was grateful for one more demonic trait he had been punished with: his stamina. He was sure that was the only thing keeping him from losing his grip on his last thread of sanity.
“You can take it for me, Wyll, can't you?” Gods yes, he could take whatever you wanted if you continued to speak to him like that, the demand in your voice hidden underneath a honeyed tone. “You can give me one more.”
Goosebumps crawled up his body and a choked moan got stuck in his throat as you sped up the pace, watching intently as he fell apart beneath you and began chanting your name like a delirious prayer. Your name, none of those heartless nobles who dared keep him away from you.
“Should've done this sooner,” you said, breathless. “Should've come up to you on that ballroom floor and showed everyone that you're well and thoroughly taken.”
You gripped the headboard, focused on chasing your own release knowing that Wyll was close again. He felt so good, the angle at which you were lowering yourself on him ensuring that he hit every spot you needed him to, until your moans got louder, until your sweet praises and filthy declarations became unintelligible. Before you knew it, you came over him, pulling him right after you into the deep end of white hot pleasure, his hands gripping your hips in an almost bruising manner, while yours dug into the headboard so hard you were surprised you didn't break it. After a moment of catching your breath, you pulled away, groaning at how his softening cock dragged against your walls at the motion, before you collapsed next to him.
It only took a second for Wyll to reach out for you, pulling you close to him, the shaking in his limbs beginning to subside as he pressed loving kisses on the crown of your head. You hugged him back, tracing aimless patterns on his back as you got lost in the scent of him, closing your eyes in bliss.
“Thank you, Wyll,” you uttered, your voice muffled from how your lips pressed to his collarbone.
Wyll pulled away slightly to look at your eyes, the moonlight bleeding through the windows bathing you in an ethereal glow. He almost lost track of what you had said, too preoccupied focusing his entire being on how gorgeous you looked, naked beside him, your tired eyes holding so much love it had his heart skipping several beats. And to think you'd ever believe he could love someone else, when not even the greatest wizards and sorcerers in the Forgotten Realms could have one this enchanted with the love of their life.
Wyll finally remembered what he wanted to say, the back of his palm brushing against your cheek.
“What for?” he asked.
“Reassuring me.”
He chuckled, squeezing you close to his heart, one hand rubbing against your arm.
“You don't need to thank me for that. What kind of husband would I be if I didn't shower my dear spouse in all the affection I can offer?”
You smiled at that, allowing your body to relax in his arms, your breathing evening out as you listened to his heart steadily beating in tandem with yours. You relished how he kissed you so gently, how his hands banished any sort of tension from your muscles, how his presence finally silenced the awful voice in your head that dared to make you think even for a second that Wyll would ever have eyes for another.
Just as you were about to fall asleep, completely at peace enveloped in his warmth, Wyll spoke up:
“I also wouldn't mind repeating myself, if you ever get jealous again.”
You smiled, pinching his side playfully as he laughed and threw the covers over both of you, finally settling into a deep slumber.
— PAIRING : Hawks/Keigo Takami x Reader x Dabi/Touya Todoroki
— WARNINGS : (check Ch. 1 for all the warnings) Crime Scene, Blood and Violence, Groping
Standing outside of a shady bar filled with drunk people, cigarette smoke and the smell of sweat in the middle of the night was not exactly how one would envision the start of a nice, enjoyable work shift. In fact, it was not a nice, enjoyable start to anything.
You looked up at the sign hanging above the door and swinging along in the night wind, the chill of the air making you clutch your jacket even closer to your body. Your skin was covered in goosebumps, but you were unsure whether they were caused by the low temperature or your anxiety from being in such a place alone at night. You trusted that Hawks wouldn't get you killed so recklessly by sending you to this location, but nothing in the world could've possibly comforted you when you knew that the only thing standing between you and meeting Dabi face to face was the rusty door of a seedy bar.
Despite your nerves, you willed yourself to open the door and step inside, immediately grabbing the attention of several patrons who stopped their chatting and drinking in favour of watching you make your way down to the bar and taking a seat at one of the stools. You tried to seem as nonchalant as possible while looking around, scanning the environment for your target, but a new face was ought to bring suspicion no matter how well you blended in with the regulars. You ordered a drink more so for appearances, but still carefully took a sip or two so it wouldn't be obvious you had ulterior motives to be there. After all, you knew people from around these parts didn't take kindly to undercover cops slithering their way into their territory.
You turned your body to the side, crossing your legs and casually leaning your elbow on the bar, holding your glass to your lips so it would seem like you're sipping. You now had a better angle to search the faces and appearances of the other customers. You didn't notice anything out of the ordinary for a few minutes, and just as you were getting ready to stand up and go to the bathroom so you could approach more tables and booths—and to avoid getting approached by random people—the door creaked open once again.
You were thankful you weren't drinking when you saw Dabi walk in, lest you would've choked on the liquid. His hands were stuck in his pockets, the collar of his leather coat raised. His mere presence was unsettling, enhanced by his scars and myriad of piercings adorning his face. You noticed a few patrons avert their eyes or simply ignore him, but you continued to stare. As if sensing your insistent gaze, his eyes shifted to you, icy blue, electric, and you resisted the urge to turn away. Instead, you arched your back to accentuate your body, tilting your head and giving him the most seductive smile you could muster, silently attempting to convince him to approach you. His eyes lingered on you for a second longer before he walked further in the building and joined the masses.
You panicked for a second. Had he recognised you? You had run-ins with him before but surely being outside of your work uniform and usual patrol areas was enough to conceal your identity. After all, you never managed to even get close to capturing him and you were certainly not the only officer he'd had to deal with.
You thought perhaps he was just not interested in flirting with a random person, but even so you couldn't let him slip through your fingers. You watched as he approached a table and quickly turned back around to the bartender, ordering two new drinks. Having a peace offering would probably prove to be helpful in breaking the ice.
When you stood up and turned to start towards Dabi, your worry only increased as you noticed he was absent. You walked to where you last saw him but to no avail, looking around almost frantically in search of him until your eyes landed on the back door of the building. You quickly set the glasses down on an empty table and walked to the door, carefully opening it and looking down the back alley. You stepped out and finally spotted him leaning against a wall smoking.
Resuming your flirty demeanour, you walked over to him and noticed how his eyes shifted to you, yet he didn't bother to make a move to acknowledge your presence.
“Hey handsome, got any more smokes?” You pouted. “I forgot mine home.”
“I don't have any.”
You stopped your eyebrow from twitching at his immediate rejection and instead took a step closer in front of him, almost breaching his personal space.
“What do you mean?” you asked, feigning innocence. “You've got one right there.”
He followed where you were pointing at and saw his lit cigarette. He huffed.
“Your eyes ain't working? I'm already smoking this one.”
“Well, I'm sure we can find some way to share,” you said sweetly, taking one final step to close the small gap between the two of you.
Your heart was beating out of your chest as your lips hovered mere inches from his, afraid he'll push you away, or worse. You could smell the smoke on his breath and to your surprise he didn't make any attempt to put distance between you two again. He was waiting to see just how far you'd go before you backed out, not giving you the satisfaction of succumbing to your game. You mentally cursed the situation you were in, but kept up the mask and pushed yourself into him, placing your hand on the wall behind him and finally pressing your lips together.
You gave him a closed mouth kiss for a few seconds until he seemingly got bored of your technique, his free hand coming up to hold the back of your head and tilt it for better access. You felt his tongue across your bottom lip and you instinctively opened your mouth, to which he responded by deepening the kiss. It was sloppy, the taste of tobacco still heavy on his tongue as it languidly toyed with yours, the contrast between his rough, scarred bottom lip and his soft upper one leaving you almost dizzy as you tried to keep up with him and reciprocate. Besides his natural musky scent, you noted the smell of soot invading your nostrils, but also of a gasoline-like chemical you couldn't quite place. Your hands moved from pressing against the wall on either side of him to sliding to his shoulders, holding onto his leather coat like you were fighting to hold onto your last string of concentration, breathless from how insistent he was with tasting you and not giving you a moment of respite.
Suddenly, he gripped your arms and moved you to the side, pushing you against the wall and holding your hands behind your back. You hissed in pain as your cheek scraped on the brick wall, struggling to break free from his iron grip.
“Hey! What the hell are you-”
“Don't fucking move,” he spoke next to your ear. His low, raspy voice made you shiver. “Who sent you?” “No one, I'm just here to have some fun!” you quickly answered and mentally cursed the way your voice broke.
“No one, huh?” he scoffed. “Got any weapons?”
“Of course not!”
“Then you won't mind if I check for myself,” he stated. “Don't try anything stupid or I'll turn you into ashes.” He gave you enough space to push yourself off the wall a bit, but you still remained stuck in your position against it as he propped his cigarette between his lips and kneeled down behind you. His hands circled one of your ankles and dipped under the edge of your boots to check for any hidden weapons, then slowly moved upwards on your leg, one of them squeezing the flesh of your inner thigh, the other feeling your front pocket before he switched to your other leg. He repeated his motions, only this time his hands slowed down as they were ascending, making you dig your nails into your palm.
You gritted your teeth as he stood up and firmly placed his hands on your ass, feeling you up and giving you a tentative squeeze before his hands moved to your hips and pulled you closer, flush against his body. You felt his breath fan over the nape of your neck, sending goosebumps on your skin, and you swallowed the lump in your throat, his hands moving from your hips to your stomach, slowly trailing upwards.
In a panic, you swiftly pushed his wandering hands off of you and stumbled away a few steps, finally facing him. You were met with a cocky smile as he dug his free hand into his pocket, the other coming up to grab the cigarette again. He looked like he was enjoying himself.
“That's enough,” you snapped. “You already know I have no weapons on me.”
Dabi tilted his head to the side and looked you up and down.
“I still don't know. Maybe if you strip for me I'll know for sure.”
“I have no intention of doing that,” you bit back and immediately regretted your tone. Your plan fell through faster than you had anticipated and you were only digging your grave further.
Dabi raised an eyebrow, drawling out a bored, “Really? I thought you said you're here to have some fun. You didn't seem to mind having my tongue in your mouth a second ago.” He slowly began walking towards you as you held your ground, willing yourself to not back away from him. Unfazed by your defiance, he brought his cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply before he stopped right in front of you, the smoke from his lungs pouring out on his breath and fanning your face with each word he spoke.
“You're not here to drink, you're not here to fuck, you don't seem like you're here to fight either. So what are you here for? Just a random death wish?”
“I'm here to talk business,” you said, gazing at him with determination.
He raised an eyebrow, waiting for you to continue.
“I have valuable information for you, but it doesn't come cheap.”
“How 'bout I just kill you instead?”
“You'd kill a reliable informant.”
“Reliable,” he scoffed, then began laughing at you. “I ain't stupid, doll. You think I'd forget that pretty face?” Your eyes widened and you straightened yourself, trying to put some safe distance between the two of you, unnerved by his words. Suddenly his free hand shot up and grabbed your wrist before you could move away, fingers clutching you almost painfully.
“You and your fellow officers have been nothing but a bunch of fucking thorns in my side. I should've killed you all long ago. Why should I even trust you now?” Your nails dug into his wrist, trying to loosen his grip on you so you could pull away, but he was too strong. You glared at him, angry at how your entire plan of approaching him and gaining his trust crumbled in just a few moments of being in his proximity. You were fearing for your life, knowing that his temper was just as volatile as the flames he had an unusual obsession with.
“I'm putting myself on the line to help you here!” you said. “I want to join you!”
“You're just a spy sent by the big guys, aren't you?”
“I'm not, I swear!”
“You swear?” he pulled you closer to him, his other hand grabbing your waist and for a moment you were painfully aware of his still lit cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers behind your back. “You're playing with fire, sweetheart. One more lie and you'll go up in flames like the sun.”
“I'm not lying, back off!”
With one strong push, he finally let go of you, your force causing you to stumble back while he maintained his position. You looked up at him, eyes ablaze with fury and a speck of panic, as you rubbed your sore wrist.
“I hate the Commission and everyone working for them!” you sneered. “Believe what you want, but you know just as well as I do how useful it would be to have a law enforcer back you up.”
“What the hell could an officer do? Give parking tickets to other cops as a distraction?”
“I could be a fly on the wall. No one would care to investigate someone if they don't stand out.”
He raised his cigarette to his lips again, drawing in a breath then exhaling it, the light at the end of the alley behind him filtering through the smoke. He was quiet for a moment, almost as if assessing your worth. You didn't know what to expect from him, but based on the precious little you knew about Dabi, half of you thought you'd be killed soon. However, much to your relief—at least temporarily—Dabi spoke again.
“You got any dirt on the big names of the Commission?”
Hook.
“You bet your ass I do. Name the name and I'll bring a file on them next time we meet.”
Line.
“This will be our usual meeting spot then, at least for now. Don't even think about chirping if you care about your life.”
Sinker.
You couldn't help the smile that pulled at the corners of your mouth, pride and relief flooding your veins at last. Equipping you with the task of bringing back information on a few big-shots of the Commission, Dabi soon turned around and left you to gather yourself in the dark alley. Perhaps the mission wasn't doomed after all, but even with the positive outcome, something about Dabi left an unsettling feeling in your gut. You hoped the next time you met would be less hostile, although you knew it was just wishful thinking.
You dug your hands in the pockets of your coat to stave off the chill of the morning air as you approached Hawks, a coffee already in his hand. He had called you to join him at a crime scene just an hour prior, and you made haste to arrive.
The scene that greeted you was bleak, yellow police tape encircling the crime scene where several forensic experts were gathering evidence. The grey skies only added to the sombre atmosphere, but you were thankful it wasn't raining, lest the evidence be washed away.
When Hawks saw you approaching, he gave you a smile, his stance relaxed with one hand in his trousers and his signature shearling jacket draped over his shoulders. His friendly, care-free demeanour contrasted the crime scene backdrop in a way that made him seem out of place, but still managing to soothe your nerves.
“Morning! Sleep well?”
You were greeted by the memory of the past night, your conversation with Dabi, the anxiety, the kiss. You shook your head. “I've had better nights.”
“I can imagine,” he sighed. “I would've brought you a coffee but I'm not sure what you like.”
You waved off his comment and turned your attention to the crime scene, the more grim parts of it obscured by the forensic specialists examining the location. Being one of the lowest ranks in the force, you had never been this involved in a crime scene. Part of you was intrigued, but even that couldn't soothe the emptiness that settled in your stomach.
Hawks walked with you towards the yellow tape, explaining to you that the victim was the missing civilian you had seen on TV the other day. Unlike the agent's body, this one was still in one piece, despite the multiple stab wounds, which were also the cause of death. You listened carefully to what Hawks was telling you and suggested that if this victim was also a target for the League, the modus operandi was far too varied to pinpoint to a single person. Hawks nodded in thought. It made sense the League would operate as a group, after all, it made it easier to hide evidence that could tie them to the crime.
“The body is too close to the road.”
You blinked, looking at Hawks with a puzzled expression. He nodded to himself again and took a swig of his coffee.
“It can't be the League. The body is too close to the road where people pass,” he concluded, moving his hand in the general direction of the scene. “Sure, it's hidden in a bush near some trees, but if the League doesn't want a person to be found, they make sure they aren't. And if they wanted to send a message they would place the body in an even more public area.”
“So… what? You think some random criminal did this?” you asked.
“We can't know for sure, but it wouldn't be far-fetched to assume some killers would use the high activity level of the League in this area as a cover-up. Let's ask what else they found,” he said, then took a few more steps towards the yellow tape. “Hey, Aizawa!”
A person perked up as Hawks called out, standing up from where he was examining the evidence left around the body. Aizawa began approaching Hawks, taking off his gloves and placing them in his pocket. He pulled down his mask and the hood of his suit, revealing his hair neatly tied in a bun to prevent contaminating the scene. You saw him frown at Hawks, tired eyes fixated on him.
“Stop yelling, I'm not deaf yet,” Aizawa said as you made your way over to the two of them.
“My bad, had to grab your attention somehow. You seemed engrossed with what you were doing,” Hawks said, offering a friendly smile. “Got anything for us?”
“The estimated time of death is sometime around eleven P.M.” Aizawa crossed his arms over his chest. “Weird thing is, despite the stab wounds being the cause of death, the body was doused in naphtha. It's almost as if they left the job unfinished.”
“What sort of liquid is that?” you asked.
“It's a solvent used for thinning pain or as fuel for campfires,” Aizawa responded. “Kind of like gasoline, highly flammable. It's been found in other fire incidents around Musutafu, but we can't know for sure if they are related.”
A chill ran down your spine, memories of the night prior flashing before your eyes. The heat of Dabi against you and his musky scent, blending with the smell of soot and a gasoline-like chemical you couldn't quite place. Naphtha.
You excused yourself to Aizawa and pulled Hawks to the side, leaning close to his ear.
“I think I know who the killer is.”
“What?” he whisper-yelled back and moved to look at you. You clicked your tongue and pulled him back in so others couldn't hear.
“Think about it, who in the League has a tendency to light things on fire?”
“Yeah, emphasis on fire, not stabbing,” he retorted. “If Dabi was the one who did it, we wouldn't even have a body. We'd have a pile of ashes, at most.” “Unless he had to be somewhere else,” you argued. “He knew who I was, he knew why I was there.” Hawks was quiet for a long second, then straightened himself, looking at you with a seriousness you hadn't seen from him until then. His eyes looked sharper when he wasn't smiling.
“I think you shouldn't jump to conclusions so fast,” he said, leaving no room for discussion. “Don't forget he's our only chance to get into the League. If he hears you've ratted him out, you'll lose the already small amount of trust you've gained from him. Take advantage while you can.”
Before you could respond, Hawks turned on his heels and walked back to where Aizawa was to continue his discussion with him. Frustrated, you glared at his back as he walked further away. As much as you hated to admit, he was right, you already knew what you had to endure to get Dabi to even talk to you, let alone trust you. You couldn't let it all collapse from an impulsive decision when the stakes were far higher. Besides, you were bound to Hawks's orders, seeing as he was your superior and the lead investigator of your dangerous mission, at least if you cared about getting out of it alive.
You sighed in defeat and tilted your head back, watching the gunmetal clouds drift by through the leafless tree canopy for a few seconds before you decided to join Hawks once again for the investigation. You realised with a heavy heart your days would be just as shitty as your nights from here on out.
— PAIRING : Dabi/Touya Todoroki x F!Reader x Hawks/Keigo Takami
— WARNINGS : NSFW (Not in this chapter), Noir AU, No Quirk AU, Porn With Plot, Sexual Tension, Threesome - F/M/M, Drugs Blood and Violence, Crime Scenes, Organized Crime, Murder, Eventual Smut, Cunnilingus, Double Penetration, Masturbation, Analingus, Mildly Dub-Con, Not Canon Compliant, AFAB reader, She/her pronouns for reader
— SUMMARY : Being a police officer in a city where crime runs high and respect is non existent has got to be one of the shittiest jobs you've ever had. But it pays the bills.
However, once you and detective Keigo Takami are assigned a case that deals with the murder of a prolific law enforcer and the subsequent chain of disappearances happening all over Musutafu, you realise that having your bills up to date is most definitely not worth all the danger you're up against. Especially when that danger is named Dabi, one of the most sought after criminals that you've been trying to catch red handed for years.
Nonetheless, this is your only opportunity to make your job finally mean something, so you and Keigo decide to go undercover right in the jaws of peril, its razor sharp teeth waiting to bite into your neck like a guillotine.
But you won't back out now, will you, officer?
Good luck on the job, codename Rook.
— NOTES : This was supposed to be a smutty one shot I have no idea what the fuck happened. It's been gathering dust in my Docs for over a year and yet this is the only chapter I have 💀 I left notes for myself saying "don't go overboard with the plot because the point is for them to FUCK" and now here we are. It definitely worked. For sure... Still hope you enjoy!
“A big-name agent of ours went missing a few months ago. No trace of his whereabouts until a couple weeks ago, when his body was found in the dumpster behind a hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Well, parts of it anyway.”
The man in front of you took a final puff from his dying cigarette and promptly extinguished it in the ashtray in front of him, right next to a bowl of sweets with generic labels. He exhaled the smoke in billows and it vanished in the air, lingering with a pungent smell of tobacco and an awful chocolate flavouring. Your nose scrunched up slightly and you resisted the urge to cough.
“We have no evidence left at the crime scene and the body being chopped up makes it near impossible to determine the murder weapon,” he continued. “We have some of our best agents dealing with the autopsy and the case as a whole, but no clear suspects so far.”
“This seems like highly classified information. So why are you telling me this?”
You closed the file you were handed and placed it back on the desk, eyes shifting to detective Enji Todoroki sitting across from you, watching the way his eyebrows dropped down just a little in an expression that seemed to almost be judging your intelligence.
Really, you felt like you should be the one judging here.
To say you were confused would be an understatement. When you were called into Enji's office, you had assumed you did something wrong on the job, since most people in your workplace seemed to overlook you even when it came to small tasks. Sometimes you felt that if you wouldn't turn up to work one day, no one would notice. Usually, you didn't mind — being invisible meant you could do your work in peace without being bothered by unnecessary small talk or the occasional office drama that you sometimes overheard in the break room. You were just an officer, one of the lowest ranks in the force, so the only time you expected any attention was when something went wrong.
When Enji personally came to look for you before you went on patrol for your shift you felt your stomach drop. Yes, the job sucked a good majority of the time, since you noticed you were often not taken seriously by your colleagues, sometimes probably even considered a liability when dealing with more violent cases. But like any other person roaming the earth, you still had rent to pay and food to buy if you wanted to continue existing, and working for the Public Safety Commission ensured you did just that and still had some money left for your more frivolous wants. Straightening your back, you followed Enji to his office, every bad scenario playing in your mind only getting worse when, as soon as you sat down, he dropped a file containing the case details on the desk in front of you, pushing it forward in a silent prompt for you to read it.
And now here you were, bombarded with information about a murder you were pretty sure you were not qualified to deal with, at least judging by your contractual obligations. You had half a mind to ask if you'd be getting paid more if you worked on the case, but you bit your tongue from the overwhelming feeling of uneasiness creeping up your spine.
“Of course, I don't expect you to understand things so quickly.” You resisted the urge to roll your eyes at his comment. “But surely you've gathered by now that you have been assigned as an assistant to this case.”
“That much is obvious,” you couldn't help but retort. “The question is still why?”
“I was meant to be assigned to this case, but the crime rate has spiked in recent months. I have bigger issues to deal with, so the Commission decided that we need someone that can slip under the radar.”
Ah, so they just needed some cannon fodder. Part of you thought you should've expected as much from the Commission.
“I still think I'm terribly underqualified to be working on this case.”
Enji leaned back into his chair, tapping one of his armrests with his index finger. “So do I, but you'll be working under detective Takami.” He heaved a sigh and allowed a sarcastic undertone to lace his voice, “Who should've been here to give you a quick overview of the case progression so far, but who are we to count on his punctuality?”
Wait a second, working under who?
You blinked and did a double take at him, replaying his words in your mind as if trying to dissect their meaning. This was fantastic in the worst possible way. Not only did you practically have a murder case of a prominent agent dropped into your inexperienced and unsuspecting arms, you were now the right hand of the second best detective of the Commission, Keigo Takami.
If only you had these kinds of odds bestowed upon you if you played the lottery, surely you'd have won enough to ditch this job.
You thought back to what Enji had just revealed to you and couldn't shake the feeling that there was a different reason why they would ask an officer to help with this case, other than just “slipping under the radar”. With one of the best detectives taking over, you figured the Commission wouldn't be stupid enough to allow someone like you to get in the way of the investigation.
As the questions multiplied in your mind, your tongue was tied, unable to figure out a way to put your doubts into words, especially since you knew Enji would do nothing to soothe them.
There was a knock on the door breaking your train of thought, before it opened to reveal detective Takami, an easygoing smile etched on his lips, his gloved hands buried inside the pockets of his shearling jacket, with only one coming up to push his aviator sunglasses that were resting on the bridge of his nose to the top of his head.
“Sorry I missed the introductions,” he said, “but I'm sure we weren't called here just to chat.”
“At last you grace us with your presence, detective. A little while longer and our officer here would've taken over the case in your stead.”
You whipped your head towards Enji, almost ready to ask him if he was serious, before you looked back at Keigo to see him meet your gaze.
“I'm Keigo Takami, it's a pleasure to meet you.” He gave you a charming smile and extended his hand for you to shake. You grasped it firmly and introduced yourself. “So, were you one of the first responders at the scene?”
“Actually,” Enji interjected, “the officer is unfamiliar with the case at the moment, save for the basic details.”
“Oh?” Keigo frowned in confusion.
“As of today, this is your new assistant in this case.”
Keigo blinked a few times, then shook his head and huffed a laugh. “I'm sorry. What? An officer? Not that I mean to doubt your judgement or anything, but isn't this case a little too sensitive for an officer to deal with?” He turned towards you. “No offence.”
“None taken, I'm a little confused myself.”
Enji sighed and massaged his temple with one hand before he leaned forward. “You see, your role in this case will be a little more... 'hands-on' than usual. I mentioned we don't have any concrete suspects, but we do have an idea of the organisation that might be responsible for the murder, which is why we need to employ your help for the investigation.”
“I don't see how this is anything new,” Keigo said. “We've been investigating the League for a while, they operate in this area. Tying them to this murder would be the most obvious first step.”
“The League?” you interfered.
Enji raised an eyebrow at you. “Are you familiar with them?”
“Uh, yeah.” Your eyes shifted between the two men watching you. “They've made a name for themselves amongst the police officers. We've been trying to catch a few of them in the act but they always slip away.”
“Unsurprising for the police force,“ Enji scoffed and you frowned. “Let's hope we won't have the same disappointing results in this case. We have no time to waste on pathetic failures.”
Keigo looked at you from the corner of his eye and noticed the way your shoulders tensed up. He leaned over and dug his hand into the bowl of sweets on the desk, effectively catching both of your attentions. With a fistful of candy, he resumed his questions for Enji who was dishing out your responsibilities.
“So is this about the NOMU Program?”
Enji's eyes narrowed. “How do you know about that program? It's classified information, even for you.”
Keigo shrugged and shoved some more candy into his mouth. “If it is about that, I'd argue that's even more reason why we shouldn't drag an officer into this.”
“Sorry,” you interjected. “What is the NOMU Program?”
“Don't concern yourself with things outside of your duties,” Enji snapped.
“Come now, let's be courteous with our colleague,” Keigo said with a light-hearted tone before turning to you. “It's a codename used by the League. We figured it stands for Network of Metahumanoid Units. A fancy name that's probably got to do with their attempts at reanimating corpses.”
Fuck, so now you were dealing with zombies? Sure, technology as a whole was impressive, but it was nowhere near sophisticated enough to bring someone back from the dead. As far as you knew, every attempt to reverse death was futile. So then why would someone bother?
Enji noticed the confusion in your eyes and spoke before you could ask any questions. "They're planning to use them as weapons. Keigo called them corpses because essentially that's what they are: on the brink of brain death.”
“The only reason why they don't collapse is because the League is pumping them full of a drug called Trigger that boosts their baser powers,” Keigo continued, earning an annoyed glare from Enji at how readily he presented the classified information to you. “We've only had a few attacks reported so far, and we weren't sure what exactly we were dealing with, so we had our top agents deployed to deal with them. Which is why the police weren't mobilised.”
“Sounds like a pretty important omission to me,” you countered with a frown. “So is this what we're dealing with here? Drugged up zombies?”
“We're still unsure,” Keigo answered. “If this victim was supposed to be part of the NOMU Program, then we wouldn't have a body cut up into pieces on our hands. Maybe they're trying to send a message.”
“That's where you two come in," Enji announced. "This time, you will not be dealing with any forensic analysis, suspect interrogation or evidence collection. Instead, you two will act as our eyes and ears and infiltrate the League.”
An insurmountable amount of pressure crashed over you and clenched your muscles in a vice grip, to the point where you almost felt as if it would crack your bones at any moment. You tried to control your expression in an attempt to stop your shock from washing over your face, but surely the vein that started throbbing painfully in your temple was enough proof.
“Hold on.” You raised your hand again to signal for Enji to slow down. “You mean to tell me you called me here to act as your spy?”
Enji scowled. “I don't like it either. They shouldn't send a rookie in for such a big case. I should've been the lead, but it wasn't my decision to make, so I suggest you suck it up and do your job.”
Your voice was exasperated, “There are so many ways that this could go wrong if you send me out there! I'd just hold detective Takami back!”
“I have to agree,” Keigo said. “It's best if I work on my own as usual.”
“Well you see, Takami, things are not so easy in this line of work,” Enji snarled, then produced two folders from his briefcase and stood up, handing them to you and Keigo. “Commission's orders and instructions. Read them thoroughly. Good luck with the mission detective, officer.”
And with that, he stepped out of the room and you felt as if all oxygen made an exit along with him, your heart pounding in your chest so hard you could almost hear it through the grave silence that fell over the room as you read the instructions:
“Officer,
As of today you will refer to yourself as Rook and to your mission partner as Hawks. Forget your real name. Return your weapons, badge, uniform and any other equipment that may be in your possession at the reception of the PCS HQ.
While infiltrated do not contact anyone outside including family members, friends, acquaintances and other PSC employees except for your partner.
You will not have any accolades attached to your name. Your achievements will not be disclosed by the PSC if you succeed. You will receive no posthumous awards if you die. This is your duty to fight for the people. Failure to comply could result in dismissal, sanctions and/or prosecution.
Destroy this document after reading.”
This job was so not worth it.
You watched the grainy screen of the tube TV perched in a corner of the office intently, listening to the news broadcasted somberly by the anchor along with your colleagues. Keigo was by your side, expertly twirling a pen in his fingers, but his focus was zeroed in on the screen, his nose and mouth buried in the raised collar of his jacket.
After the discovery of the body of the Commission's agent, the disappearances around Musutafu increased by a concerning margin. What was worse was that not all of them were agents, some were simply civilians that seemingly had powerful or useful builts and abilities, like the person whose face was now on the screen, their name, last known location and clothes they were last seen wearing listed underneath the picture.
You crossed your arms over your chest and frowned. If this was what you were dealing with, even with your training and experience you were unsure how you'd survive as a double agent. You had no special skill, no upper-hand tactic and you couldn't rely on Keigo—Hawks—for fear that you'd hold him back and compromise the mission.
With how they had you bring back anything that would suggest you'd ever had any contact with the Commission, it really seemed as if they were trying to erase any trace of your existence. This job was all you had, all you ever worked for since you were just a bright-eyed trainee at the police academy, ready to take on any danger coming your way if it meant you could save someone else from it.
How naïve.
Maybe you should've just given up when you were still a child, still able to choose a path that would fit you and your capabilities more. The society in which you lived was unforgiving to weak people, so you had to adapt. But women were not always respected in the police force, and those who were got there because of their network rather than their own abilities more often than not. Not to mention that a police officer's chances of advancing without having someone behind them were close to none.
In other words, there was no way out for you. But at least you weren't exactly the perfect catch for whatever the League was planning, by the looks of things.
From the fog of your worries, you felt Hawks tap your shoulder to catch your attention. His collar was now pushed down neatly and you could see the serious way in which his lips were pursed. He gestured with his head for you to follow him and you complied with a nod.
You reached his office, after stopping by your desk to collect the last bits and pieces you had left laying around, and sat down in front of his desk, one hand worriedly rubbing your chin as you looked out the window. His eyes never left you as he sat down and leaned back in his chair, the pen he was playing with earlier still in his hands. He watched carefully as your brows turned downward in a frown that casted a shadow of concern over your eyes, before he put the pen down on the desk, the sound making you turn to look at him.
“I know you're worried,” he started, “but I want you to know I won't let anything happen to you.”
You let your hands fall into your lap. “Please, don't worry about me. I don't want to be a drawback in this mission.”
“You won't be,” he said, but noticed you were unconvinced when the corner of your lip lifted in what was supposed to be a polite smile, but didn't quite reach your eyes. “You graduated as the top eighth trainee in the police academy, surpassing like, what, 22 of your classmates? That's pretty impressive.” You stared at him in a mix of confusion and surprise and he shrugged nonchalantly. “I've read your file. You've got a lot of potential, officer.”
You smiled and nodded as thanks. In the past, this kind of compliment would've left you feeling all warm and fuzzy on the inside, feeding into your pride and fuelling your determination to get even better. But now, the comment felt like tossing a coin down an endless pit, nowhere near enough to fill the hollow space in your chest and, despite its value, ultimately useless. When did your outlook on your job get so sour?
Maybe it was when you were put up for disciplinary action after attempting to stop one of your fellow officers from brutalising a murder suspect. Or maybe when you had one case shut down because the culprit was the daughter of an acclaimed attorney that somehow found the perfect team of lawyers to render the evidence null. Or maybe it was simply after you had graduated from the academy and were thrown out into the real world. Any way, perhaps this was the universe's way of making up for all the times it fucked up. By giving you a new opportunity.
You picked up the pen from Hawks's desk and fiddled with it. “Officer, huh? I thought my new name was Rook.”
Hawks chuckled. “They're really terrible at picking codenames, huh? Sounds like we're just two bird enthusiasts with no imagination.”
You chuckled at his comment and after a moment you bent down to rummage through the box in which you had collected your remaining possessions from your desk, pulling out a document. You opened it, quickly finding the file in which you and Hawks took notes about your action plan.
“So,” you started, scrolling through the notes, “you were saying you already have a way to get inside the League?”
Hawks leaned forward on his elbows to get a better look at the notes. “Well, yes and no. Enji didn't tell you this, but remember how I said we've been investigating the League for a while? Well, I've been in contact with one of the members. I managed to get close enough for him to think I'll soon defect and join them.”
“So you've been planning to go undercover for a while now?”
“It's the only way I could squeeze any information out of them. They seem pretty loyal to their cause, so getting one of them to become an informant for the PSC was highly unlikely.”
You nodded in thought. “So who's your contact?”
“A guy named Dabi.”
Your blood ran cold and your eyes shot up to Hawks. You knew that name too well. Not only was he notoriously known among the law enforcement as one of the most dangerous members of the League, but he was the person responsible for numerous counts of arson in your area, courtesy of his pyromaniacal tendencies. You'd been trying to find a way to get closer to catching him for years. Each time, he slipped out of your hands, your attempts always too late or too little.
You knew what Dabi was capable of, and without the comfort of a self defence weapon and protective equipment by your side, you feared you'd be turned to ash before you even tried to get any information out of the League.
You stared through Hawks for a few seconds. His eyes searched your expression as he frowned in confusion at your sudden change. You noticed that and blinked a few times, clearing your throat.
“So this contact is our ticket inside, but how do I get him to trust me? I think I'd be found out before I even get to talk to him.”
“No need to worry, I'll send him your way somehow. You then offer to be their informant. We'll have to act separately to avoid raising suspicion, so if we cross paths, try acting like you don't know me personally.”
You nodded in acknowledgement then remained quiet for a second before frowning in thought.
“I don't understand. If you already have an in, then why would the Commission send me to help?”
Hawks sighed. “You heard what the Commission said, you'll be the bait.” He leaned back in his chair. “The League is reluctant to let me join because I'm a well-known detective. They know who I am and what I do, but they don't know you. If you manage to convince them you're also just a crooked law enforcer, that would be the last step we need to finally get inside.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
Hawks regarded you thoughtfully, tilting his head and looking you up and down. His scrutinising eyes seemed to glow as the final rays of dusk poured through the blinds of his office window. Before he even spoke, you knew that his idea would not be to your liking.
AS OF FEBRUARY 21ST, 2024, WE GOT FIVE DAYS UNTIL THE DAY OF DECISION OF THE KOSA BILL, WHICH WILL CAUSE MASS CENSORSHIP ROUND THE INTERNET IF PASSED. OR DOOMSDAY. WE NEED EVERYONE TO KNOW ABOUT THIS AND CONTRIBUTE. I'M NOT GIVING UP ON YOU ALL.
WE'RE DOWN TO THE WIRE BUT WE CAN'T GIVE UP YET. IF WE GIVE UP, EVERYTHING IS OVER. IF WE DON'T, AT LEAST WE HAVE A CHANCE.
I'M THE ONE WHO SOUNDED THE ALARM, AND I'M NOT GOING TO CURL UP AND DIE YET.
Reblog this post in every LEGAL way you can under the Tumblr guidelines with the appropriate tags. TELL AND TAG EVERYONE YOU KNOW, then add the tags to see below... and more if you can think of any complying.
Visit badinternetbills.com if you want to find a way to defeat KOSA. It WILL NOT take much of your time. Reblog with any other information or sources, too-- but make sure to reblog if you can.
Reblog if you support lgbtq+ content.
Reblog if you support questioning queer youth and/or abused youth getting the information they need.
Reblog if you support Ao3 and/or other sites that wholeheartedly preserve talentedly made media.
Reblog if you're going to repost this on other sites than Tumblr and spread the word across Twitter, Tik Tok, Pinterest, or elsewhere, alongside the link to badinternetbills.com.
Reblog if you think KOSA is unfair and shouldn't be anyone's problem -- including the adults ALL OVER THE DAMN EARTH forced to face the mass censorship it causes because "think of the American Children!".
Reblog if you support internet activism and Palestine.
Reblog if you hate fascism or censorship, and don't want actually serious and helpful conversations censored on the internet.
Reblog if you value the internet in any way at all whatsoever.
CHECK THIS PETITION, TOO! https://www.change.org/p/stop-the-kosa?recruiter=1331807538&utm_source=share_petition&utm_medium=sms&utm_campaign=psf_combo_share_initial&utm_term=psf&recruited_by_id=57368c40-d0fd-11ee-98f7-2175430f819f&share_bandit_exp=initial-36809664-en-US
(Also, please reblog with at least "stop kosa" as a tag and not "kosa". I made the mistake of not adding just "kosa" as a tag...)
We won't let this stand any longer. Let's start a riot and get this trending.
killing safe spaces endangers people's lives. many minors and people in marginalized groups losing online friends and spaces can and will kill many people's happiness and in the worst case, the will to live.
I personally keep going because of my online friends. I will lose them if KOSA passes.
this is the same case for many minors (and adults) online.
censoring sexual health will be terrible for many. if there are people out there having sex without knowing the proper safety precautions to take to prevent injury/illness, it will be massively horrific.
all outcry for a ceasefire in Palestine and activism will be censored to oblivion.
if there are people who live in unsafe households, they might never be able to find safety until they become adults, which is far too late.
KOSA is a sick attempt to make the internet a place where there are few ways to be safe.
stop KOSA. it will literally save fucking lives.
sign petitions to stop it. please. spread awareness.
