a/n: Here I am! This one is a tad short, but I loved writing it! I love a yearning man, especially when paired with Alastor. Reader was very much based on Lilith(cannot wait to get even a tiny bit of content of her in S2!!!).
I might continue this… I love the idea of Alastor secretly having a bride!
warning: Alastor is DOWN BAD for his wife, references to sexual content, but no actual smut (I am in a gentle romance mood today don’t look at me like that), alcohol consumption, swearing, and that is all I believe!
as always, let me know how you liked it and… ENJOY!<3
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The people of the hotel thoroughly believed that they knew Alastor. He was a scary and cruel Overlord who enjoyed sarcasm, but was a sweetheart underneath the “cold” behaviour. Little did they know that Alastor had quite the secret in the deep of his bayou.
Once Charlie declared war against Heaven, Alastor knew who he had to reach out to. The person who owned his soul, his powerful hidden secret. As painful as it was to admit to himself, he couldn’t protect the hotel by himself, he knew who he needed to ask, even though he knew she would understand and support his decision.
After the heavenly meeting, Charlie was stressed out. She was clueless and lost. Paying a visit to Cannibal Town and meeting Rosie did help, but there was still a lot of work to do. Alastor sat in Charlie’s room, while she and Vaggie spoke tactics.
“Using angelic weapons, and sticking together might be enough!” Vaggie said, but Charlie continued to jolt more ideas down onto the piece of paper in her hand.
“Also, we have all of the cannibals on our side, and they would do anything to stick their teeth into some angelic flesh.” Alastor attempted to ease Charlie’s mind.
“I know all that! And it does mean a lot, don’t get me wrong, but we need more. It wouldn’t be fair to risk the hotel without something more powerful on our side. I just have this feeling… We need something else. Adam and his army have been doing this for decades, they have their trained angels, and perfected weapons. What do we have that guarantees us a win? Dad will only interrupt when he must… Oh fuck!” Charlie transformed into her demonic form as she rambled, but Vaggie was quick to soothe her girlfriend and calm her down enough to go back to her proper form and let go a little.
“We still have a few days to figure it out. Maybe, we can get Carmilla Carmine to get us more angelic weapons and maybe lend us some soldiers. The exorcists don’t know that we intend to really fight back against them.” Vaggie spoke once again.
“Well, ladies, it has been a long day full of excitement. I, myself, am pretty exhausted and I believe tomorrow morning we will be smarter! So relax, and don’t let those bed bugs bite!” Alastor quickly said before disappearing within a shadow, not even waiting for Charlie’s and Vaggie’s response.
He went into his own room and disappeared into his bayou, no one would bother him there. He took the well known route to the little mansion within the soppy woods, he did do this trip every single night and morning. However, on the way, he tried to form what he was going to say to her, even though he knew she was going to agree and help her dearest husband out.
He arrived at the familiar front door and welcomed himself inside. He stepped into the living room and there she was, draped across the sofa in her silky robe with a martini in hand and jazz playing in the background. Her hair was spread out all around her and her eyes fluttered open at his arrival. Her lips curved into a smirk when she spotted him.
“Hello there, dearest.” She sat up and put her martini on the side table. He went up to her and kneeled before the sofa, right before kissing up her neck and leaving a long kiss on her lips. After that, he buried his face into her lap, and she welcomed him warmly, as always.
“What a foolishly long day I had, my darling.” He mumbled. He purred as she began caressing his hair and antlers. If anyone else would ever dare to touch him like she was in that moment, he would most likely tear off their arms and shove it down their throat. But she was his darling wife, his reason to wake up in the morning, to make himself more powerful. However, most would be surprised to know that she was more powerful than the Radio Demon. All the souls he owned, she owned too. But… she had one more soul in her possession, Alastor’s. He gave her his soul willingly. He didn’t want her to be his equal, he wanted her to be more powerful and stronger than him. He wanted to know that if trouble ever graced their door, she would have the upper hand, and have more of a chance to come out victorious in any situation.
They were married during their lifetime, and he was the one who died first. People found it strange when Alastor’s wife didn’t cry or break down the days after his death. Just days before the incident in the woods, they struck the deal with the certain demon in hell. She knew that the weak line between her and her darling husband was death. So, she tied up all the loose ends in life, and made herself a cocktail with stuffed olives and an extra amount of poison. Since she didn’t die the way Alastor did, she had no resemblance of a deer in the afterlife. Instead, her lips were stained a darkish red all the time, other than that, she looked nothing like a sinner. Her hair was already abnormally long in life, and her face was as pretty as it was in her time of living. It made more sense that she didn’t step into the spotlight in Hell like he did. Alastor didn’t want to share her with those filthy low-life sinners, and she enjoyed lounging around all day within their mansion, away from hell’s dangers. Her husband couldn’t care less how powerful she was, in his eyes, she would always remain his delicate and fragile little darling.
She gathered his worried face in her palms, and tutted at his helpless eyes. Only she could make him go all putty. “Tell me about your day, dearie.” She said softly, as if he would get spooked if she spoke too loud.
“The hotel is fucked. It’s not guaranteed, but it is a high possibility. Adam and his mindless creatures still hold the upper hand. And that…” His antlers and limbs grew as he himself grew more frustrated. His pupils formed into radio dials and his smile widened painfully. “Al—“ She furrowed her brows as he continued his fit, not even realizing that she spoke. His clawed fingers began making their way to his hair, a bad habit of his, pulling out chunks of his hair in anger. “That drives me crazy! I—“ Before he had the chance to harm himself, she loudly proclaimed in her “Overlord voice”.
“ALASTOR.” The walls quivered and for a second, dark red smoke travelled among them, only to wrap around her fingers and connect it to the smoke ring around his neck. “Enough.”
All of his anger calmed down and got replaced by pride (and some arousal) when he looked at her. Her eyes maroon, the stain on her lips getting darker and her hair floating around her.
“Stop behaving like a child. We are talking on behalf of the future of the hotel, there is no time for this.”
He chuckled loudly and held the smoke that connected them. “Oh, so right you are, darling!” As he began leaning towards her direction, she made the smoke go away and welcomed his lips on hers. He sat on the sofa and pulled her into his lap, while still kissing her. The kiss grew heavier with every passing moment, and soon, his tongue was exploring her mouth. He broke away from her to hum.
“Vesper?” She hummed in answer, with a heavy breathing. He looked to the side and took her martini glass in hand, a second later he tasted the sweet cocktail, which was followed by a low purr of satisfaction. “Lovely.” With a snap of his fingers, two ice cold vesper martinis appeared on the little table. However, his fingers still held the glass his bride drank from. His fingertips touched around the rim, where her lipstick adorned the glass. “My darling, everything you leave behind is a masterpiece. Your lipstick on the glass, the shape of your delectable body and warmth on our bedsheets, your delicious arousal on my tongue.” He said as his huge hands were palming at her hips, the plushy flesh that he adored.
She purred at his words and touches. “Oh, Alastor dear, your words turn useless things into art. And you make me sound like a masterpiece.” She giggled.
He joined in on her laugh and plopped his body on the backrest of the sofa, while maintaining the intense eye contact with her. His claws reached out to grip her chin gently and bring her lips down onto his. After a passionate kiss, he whispered on her lips.
“You are a masterpiece, my darling.”
With a smooth movement, she tore his shirt in half, so his chiseled torso was on display for her.
“Fuck Heaven, we’ll talk tactics later.”
With that, they pounced on each other like wild animals.
Loser! Nerd! Choso Kamo , Mean Girl! Bully! F!Reader!
AU 2000s cliche, college, mean girl and pathetic nerd inspired. Like Regina George meets Peter Parker. But instead with adorable babe Choso.
Poor Choso gets bullied endlessly by you, clad in expensive tracksuits and glossed lips, though he should hate you, you make his life actual hell, he can't help but enjoy the humiliation she gives him, sometimes it feels like her degradation means more than just bullying.
TW and Authors Note!- lots of smut not smut scenes, like teasing also harsh bullying, yes I went all out, she does physically bully him aswell as some maybe harsh verbal bullying. Also cheating, vary vague. Excessive use of 'please' i love a man who yearns. Cliche and kind of cringe. Um Dacryphilia. Men who cry...lord. Also maybe slight virginity kink, he gets shamed for being a virgin and like I dont care if its weird. Im a pervert in the wise words of Ethel Cain. He masterbates and he begs on his knees. I dont regret anything. Also no spell checking or editing, so apologies for issues. I should have been writing an essay but I yearn for Nerd Choso and there's barely any. Like Choso would totally be a loser nerd. Oh maybe OOC, its an AU so does he really need to be in character?
• . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. •
The fluorescent lights of Shibuya University buzzed overhead as Choso Kamo pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose for the third time that morning. They kept sliding down, a problem he'd been meaning to fix for weeks but never quite got around to. His oversized burgundy sweater hung loosely over his frame, the sleeves bunching awkwardly at his wrists as he clutched his binder closer to his chest like a shield.
It was 7:47 AM, and he was already at his desk in the back corner of Calculus. Thirteen minutes early, like always. He pulled out his calculator, his pencils (already sharpened to perfect points), and his color-coded notes. The classroom smelled like dry-erase markers and that weird lemony cleaner the janitors used. A few other students trickled in, their Sidekicks already out, texting before the bell even rang. Choso tried to focus on reviewing yesterday's derivatives lesson, but his attention kept drifting to the doorway.
Don't look. Don't look. Don't—
He looked. And there you were.
You swept into the classroom at 7:58 exactly, always perfectly timed for maximum impact. Today's outfit was a baby pink Juicy Couture tracksuit, the jacket cropped just enough to show a strip of smooth skin above the matching velour pants that hugged every curve like a second skin. Your tank top underneath was white and impossibly tight, your lip gloss caught the harsh fluorescent light like diamonds, and your hair cascaded down your back in glossy waves that moved like water with each step. Your platform sandals clicked against the linoleum as you made your way down the aisle, directly toward him. Choso's throat went dry. His fingers tightened on his pencil.
Please walk past. Please walk past. Please—
You stopped right in front of his desk, "Oh my God, what is that smell?" You wrinkled your nose dramatically, loud enough for half the class to hear. Your friends, Madison and Brittany, both in matching pink velour, stopped behind you, already giggling. "Seriously, does anyone else smell that? It's like... desperation and... what is that, Axe body spray?" Choso felt his face immediately flush red. He had used Axe this morning. His little brother Yuji had convinced him it was ‘what girls liked.’ "I... I don't—"
"Oh, wait." You leaned down, hands on your hips, your face level with his. This close, he could see the perfect application of your eyeliner, smell your perfume, expensive and vanilla-sweet and nothing like the drugstore body spray he'd doused himself in. "It's coming from you, isn't it, Cho-so?" You dragged out his name mockingly. "Did you actually think spraying yourself with half a bottle of discount body spray would make you smell less like a virgin?" The class exploded into laughter.
Choso wanted to die. Actually die. Just disintegrate into his chair and cease to exist. "I—it's not—I just—" His voice cracked horribly, and he immediately shut his mouth, his jaw clenching.
"Aw, he's stuttering." You turned to your friends, your voice pitching up in fake sympathy. "That's so sad. He literally can't even form sentences around me. Brittany, is that sad or is that pathetic?"
"Definitely pathetic," Brittany said, examining her nails. You turned back to Choso, and before he could react, you reached out and flicked his forehead. Hard. "Earth to loser. Stop staring at my tits."
"I wasn't—!" Choso's voice came out too loud, too defensive. His ears were burning now. He had been looking at your face, but his eyes had definitely, for just a second, dropped lower, and of course, you'd noticed. Of course, you had. "Yes, you were." You grabbed his calculator off his desk, holding it up like evidence. "God, you're such a perv. Does your little calculator help you add up all the times you've creeped on girls in the hallway? What's the equation for 'massive fucking loser' again?" Madison snorted. "I think it's L plus no-bitches times virgin-forever."
"That's not—that's not even mathematically coherent," Choso muttered, immediately regretting it. Your eyes lit up. Not in a good way. "Oh, I'm sorry." You leaned in closer, your voice dropping to something poisonously sweet. "Did I hurt your little nerd feelings? Are you going to cry about it?" You shoved his shoulder, not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to make him rock back in his seat. "Gonna run home to mommy and tell her the mean girls were picking on you?"
"No," Choso said quietly, trying to hold onto whatever shred of dignity he had left. He reached for his calculator. "Can I just have that back?" You held it above your head, and even with your platform heels, you weren't that much taller than him sitting down, but the angle was humiliating. "Say please."
"...Please."
"Please, what?"
Choso's jaw worked. His fingers curled into fists on his thighs. "Please give it back."
"Please give it back, your majesty," you corrected. The classroom was dead silent now, everyone watching. Even Mr. Suoh wasn't here yet. Choso could feel every eye on him. His face was so hot he thought his glasses might fog up. But he needed that calculator. He had a test third period. "...Please give it back, your majesty," he whispered.
"What? I couldn't hear you, Cho-so. You're mumbling like a little bitch." Something in his chest twisted, hot and uncomfortable and confusing, because he should be angry. He should be furious. But instead, he just felt... small. And weirdly, sickeningly aware of you. Of how close you were. Of the way your glossed lips curved into that mean smile. "Please give it back, your majesty," he repeated, louder this time, his voice flat. You studied him for a moment, like you were deciding whether to push further. Then you dropped the calculator on his desk. No, you threw it, so it clattered loudly and skidded off the edge. Choso had to lunge to catch it before it hit the floor. When he straightened back up, you were already walking away, your hips swaying in those pink velour pants. "You're welcome, virgin," you called over your shoulder. Your friends dissolved into giggles as you took your seat three rows up.
The bell rang. Mr. Suoh walked in, apologizing for being late. Choso tried to sink into his chair, tried to disappear, but he could still hear the whispers.
"—so fucking pathetic."
"...did you see his face?"
"Probably gonna go home and jerk off thinking about her!"
That last one came from somewhere near the window. Choso didn't look to see who said it. He opened his notebook and stared at the blank page, his hands shaking slightly as he tried to write the date. His face was still burning. His shoulder still tingled where you'd shoved him. The worst part was that when you'd leaned in close and called him a perv, when you'd made him beg for his calculator back, when you'd shoved him and insulted him and humiliated him in front of everyone...
He'd had to shift in his seat and pull his binder lower onto his lap. Because apparently, his body was just as pathetic as the rest of him.
Halfway through Mr. Suoh's lecture on implicit differentiation, a crumpled piece of paper hit the back of Choso's head. He tensed but didn't turn around. Didn't react. Another one hit his shoulder. Then another. He could hear the stifled laughter from the jocks in the back, probably Satoru Gojo and his friends, who sat behind him specifically to make his life hell.
"Yo, Kamo," Gojo whispered, loud enough for half the class to hear. "She's right, you know. You do smell like a virgin." More laughter. Choso kept his eyes on his notes, his pencil moving across the page even though he wasn't actually processing anything Mr. Suoh was saying anymore. Another paper ball. This one bounced off his glasses. He pushed them up with one finger and kept writing.
Don't react. Don't give them anything. Just get through the class.
"Mr. Suoh?" Your voice rang out, clear and sweet. "Can you explain that last part again? I'm a little confused." Of course, you weren't confused. You had a 98% in this class. But Mr. Suoh loved you, everyone loved you, so he went back over the problem, and while he was distracted, you turned around in your seat. Your eyes locked with Choso's. You smiled, slow, mean, beautiful, and mouthed: "Fucking loser." Then you turned back around, flipping your hair over your shoulder, and Choso sat there with his heart pounding and his face hot and his pathetic, treacherous body reminding him that he was exactly what you said he was. A virgin. A loser. A creep who couldn't stop staring at the one person who made his life a living hell.
The bell rang forty minutes later. Choso gathered his things quickly, trying to get out before… too late. You were waiting by the door with Madison and Brittany. And Gojo. And half the basketball team. "Kamo!" you called out, your voice sickeningly cheerful. "Come here for a sec!" Every instinct screamed at him to find another exit. But there was only one door, and you were blocking it, and if he tried to run, it would be so much worse. So Choso walked toward you, his head down, his binder clutched to his chest. "Yeah?" he managed. You looked him up and down slowly, deliberately. Then you turned to Gojo. "Doesn't he look like a bad high school movie extra? Like, 'Random Background Nerd Number Three'?" Gojo laughed. "Nah, he looks like he'd get killed off in the first episode of The Walking Dead"
"Oh my God, you're so right." You looked back at Choso, your eyes glittering with amusement. "Hey, Choso, if you were on tv, what would they say about you? 'Cause of death, too much of a pussy to talk to girls?" Madison choked on her laughter. Choso's jaw tightened. He could feel the anger now, finally, burning under the humiliation. "Can I just get past—" You put your hand on his chest and shoved. Hard. Choso stumbled back, nearly tripping over his own feet. His binder fell, papers scattering across the hallway floor.
"Oops," you said flatly. "Better pick those up, virgin. Wouldn't want to lose your precious homework." You stepped over his papers, your platform heel leaving a faint mark on one of his worksheets, and walked away, your friends trailing behind you. Choso stood there for a moment, breathing hard, his hands clenched into fists. Then he knelt down and started gathering his papers, his glasses slipping down his nose again.
Just get through the day. Just get through the day.
Behind him, he heard Gojo mutter, "Man, that's actually sad." Yeah. It really was.
⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅
The cafeteria was a war zone of social hierarchy, and Choso knew exactly where he ranked. Bottom. He clutched his lunch tray, wilted salad, questionable pizza, and a chocolate milk he probably wouldn't drink, and navigated through the chaos of designer bags on chairs, letterman jackets draped over tables, and the suffocating cloud of competing colognes and perfumes.
His usual spot was in the back corner, at a half-empty table near the emergency exit where the other "invisibles" sat. The quiet kids. The ones who didn't get invited to parties or have their names chanted at pep rallies. Safety. Except today, safety was compromised. Because you were sitting at his table. Not at it. On it.
Your platform heels rested on the bench seat, your legs crossed as you perched on the tabletop itself, as if you owned it, which, socially speaking, you did. You owned everything in this school. The pink velour of your Juicy tracksuit pants stretched across your thighs, riding low enough on your hips that the lacy pink whale tail of your thong rose above the waistband like a deliberate taunt. Your cropped jacket was unzipped, and your tight white tank top left absolutely nothing to the imagination. The distinctive padding and push-up of a Victoria's Secret Bombshell bra creating cleavage that had probably caused at least three minor accidents in the parking lot this morning. You were holding court with Madison and Brittany flanking you, plus two cheerleaders whose names Choso didn't know, all of them laughing at something on someone's Sidekick. Choso stopped walking.
Turn around. Find another table. Literally anywhere else.
But his feet wouldn't move. And you'd already seen him. "Oh my God," you said loudly, your voice cutting through the cafeteria noise like a knife. "Are you kidding me right now?" Every head at the surrounding tables turned. Choso felt his stomach drop. "This is your table?" You looked around theatrically, your glossed lips forming a perfect ‘O’ of mock surprise. "This sad little corner where all the rejects sit? Choso, that's actually so depressing I might cry." Madison giggled. "You should see his lunch. I bet it's like, a calculator and a pack of mechanical pencils."
"No, no—it's definitely one of those sad Lunchables his mom packed for him," Brittany added. Choso's grip tightened on his tray. "Can you just... can you move? Please?" Please. God, why did he always sound so pathetic? You tilted your head, examining him like he was something you'd found stuck to the bottom of your shoe. "Did you just tell me what to do?"
"I—no, I just—this is where I—"
"Where you what? Where you sit by yourself like a loser and probably do extra credit homework during lunch?" You slid off the table, your platform heels clicking as you landed. Even with the heels, you had to look up slightly to meet his eyes, but somehow you still made him feel about two feet tall. "That's so fucking sad, Choso. Do you even have friends? Or do you just sit here and, like, fantasize about what it's like to be normal?" The surrounding tables had gone quiet now. Everyone was watching. Choso could feel his face burning again. His ears. His neck. "I have friends."
"Oh yeah? Where are they?" He didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Because the truth was, the couple of guys he sometimes sat with weren't here today, one was sick, the other had a dentist appointment, and he was going to sit alone, and you knew it, and everyone knew it. You stepped closer, and Choso caught the scent of your perfume again. Vanilla and something floral and expensive. So different from the cheap Axe still clinging to his shirt. "That's what I thought." You poked his chest with one manicured finger. French tips, perfectly done. "You're a loner, Choso. A weird little virgin who eats lunch by himself and probably goes home and plays World of Warcraft or whatever the fuck nerds do."
"I don't play—"
"I don't care what you play." You grabbed the chocolate milk off his tray and examined it. "Chocolate milk? What are you, seven?" Before he could respond, you casually tossed it over your shoulder. It hit the floor with a wet splat, the carton bursting open and spilling brown liquid across the tiles. "Oops," you said flatly. "Butterfingers." Choso stared at the spreading puddle of chocolate milk. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth hurt. "That's... you can't just—"
"Can't just what?" You stepped even closer, and now you were almost touching him, so close he could see the perfect application of your lip gloss, the little beauty mark just above your collarbone. "What are you gonna do about it, loser? Tell a teacher? Run to the principal? Cry?" He wanted to say something. Anything. Wanted to tell you to fuck off, to leave him alone, to stop making his existence a living hell. But his voice caught in his throat, and all that came out was a pathetic, strangled: "Just—"
"Just what? Use your words, Cho-so." You dragged out his name mockingly again, and behind you, your friends giggled. Then your expression shifted. Your eyes lit up with something cruel and delighted. "Oh, baby!" you called out suddenly, your voice pitching higher, sweeter. "Come here!" Choso's stomach turned to ice. No. No, no, no…
Ryota Takahashi materialized from the crowd like a Ken doll come to life. Varsity basketball captain. Square jaw. Perfect hair. Letterman jacket. The kind of guy who'd probably peaked in high school but didn't know it yet. Your boyfriend. "What's up, babe?" Ryota slid an arm around your waist, his hand immediately going to rest on the exposed strip of skin between your jacket and pants, his fingers playing with the pink lace of your visible thong. You leaned into him, your hand sliding up his chest. "Nothing, just talking to Choso." You said his name like it was a joke. "You know, the guy from Calc? The one who smells like Axe and desperation?"
Ryota looked at Choso like he was noticing him for the first time. "Oh. Yeah. Virgin guy, right?" Choso wanted to disappear. Wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. "Virgin guy," you confirmed, grinning. Then you turned back to Ryota, your voice dropping to something breathy and deliberate. "Baby, I'm like, so bored right now. Entertain me?" Choso knew what was coming. He should walk away. Should just leave his tray, leave the cafeteria, leave his dignity splattered on the floor with the chocolate milk. But he couldn't move.
You grabbed Ryota's face and kissed him. Not a peck. Not a casual kiss. A full-on, tongue-down-his-throat, press-your-body-against-his makeout session right there in front of Choso and half the cafeteria. Ryota's hands slid lower, grabbing your ass through the velour pants. You made a little sound, performative, theatrical, and tilted your head to deepen the kiss. The cafeteria erupted. Whistles. Catcalls. Someone yelled, "Get a room!" And you pulled back just enough to look at Choso over Ryota's shoulder, your lips swollen and glossy, your eyes locked on his.
Then you smiled. Slow. Mean. Victorious. And went back to kissing your boyfriend. Choso stood there, frozen, his tray trembling slightly in his hands. His face was on fire. His chest felt tight. And lower, God, lower, his body was betraying him again, responding to the sight of you like the pathetic virgin you'd called him. He forced himself to turn around. Forced his feet to move. Behind him, he heard you pull away from Ryota with an exaggerated gasp.
"Aw, where are you going, Choso?" you called out, your voice carrying across the entire cafeteria. "Don't you want to watch? You'll probably never see a real kiss in your entire life, so I figured I'd give you a show!" Laughter exploded around him. Choso kept walking. Past the tables. Past the stares. Past the whispers and the laughter and the humiliation. He dumped his tray in the trash, he wasn't hungry anymore, and pushed through the cafeteria doors into the hallway. Empty. Quiet. He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and tried to breathe. His hands were shaking. His glasses had fogged up slightly. And he could still smell your perfume, could still see the way you'd looked at him while kissing someone else, could still feel the ghost of your finger poking his chest. Fucking loser. Virgin. Pathetic. Yeah. You were right. He was all of those things. And the worst part, the part that made him want to punch the wall or scream or just break something, was that even now, even after all of that, some sick, twisted part of him was already wondering what you'd do to him tomorrow. Already waiting for it. Already wanting it.
Choso pressed his palms against his eyes and tried not to think about the fact that he'd have to see you in fifth period. Just four more hours. He could survive four more hours. Probably.
11:47 PM - Choso's Bedroom
Choso lay sprawled on his bed in an old Naruto t-shirt and grey lounge pants, staring at his ceiling like it held answers to questions he didn't want to ask. His room was exactly what you'd expect, posters of anime characters he'd had since middle school, a bookshelf crammed with textbooks and manga, his desk cluttered with notes and a half-assembled Gundam model he'd been working on for weeks. The blue glow of his laptop screen was the only light, casting shadows across his face. He rubbed his eyes hard enough to see spots, trying to scrub away the memories of today.
Fucking bitch.
The thought came hot and angry, and he let it. Let himself think all the things he'd never say out loud.
Spoiled, mean, shallow bitch who gets off on making people miserable. Probably peaked in high school. Probably gonna end up working at a mall kiosk selling cell phone cases when her looks fade and nobody gives a shit about her anymore.
It felt good. For about thirty seconds. Then he remembered the way you'd looked at him in the cafeteria. That smile. That cruel, knowing smile while you had your tongue down Ryota's throat and your eyes locked on his. Like you knew exactly what you were doing to him. Like you enjoyed it. "Goddammit," Choso muttered, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. Because now he was thinking about it again. About you again.
About the pink velour hugging your hips and ass like it was painted on. About that stupid whale tail, pink lace, Victoria's Secret, rising above your waistband every time you moved. About your tank top stretched across your chest, the obvious push-up of your bra creating cleavage that had made him nearly walk into a locker between third and fourth period. About your lips. Glossed and pink and perfect, wrapped around words like virgin and loser and pathetic. "Fuck," Choso groaned, throwing his arm over his face. He was pathetic. You were right. You were absolutely, completely, one hundred percent right. His laptop sat open on his desk, the screensaver bouncing across the screen.
Don't. Don't do it. Just go to sleep. Just—
Choso sat up. He pulled the laptop onto his bed, the springs creaking under his weight, and opened Firefox. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. Probably one of the worst ideas he'd ever had, and he'd once tried to microwave a Pop-Tart still in the foil wrapper. He typed it anyway.
(Your Full Name) MySpace
Your profile was the first result. Of course it was. Choso clicked. The page loaded in that janky mid-2000s way, glittery background, auto-playing an Ayesha Erotica song (he immediately muted it), and your profile picture front and center. You, in a pink halter top, duck-face lips, peace sign, the flash of the camera washing out your skin, but somehow making you look even hotter.
Your status: "ugh mondays 🙄💕 but at least i look cute lol"
Top 8 friends: Ryota's picture was first. Of course. Then Madison. Brittany. Some other popular girls Choso vaguely recognized. A few basketball players.
Choso scrolled. Your bio was exactly what he expected:
About Me: im that girl ur bf wants 💋👑 taken by the hottest guy in school ❤️🏀 dont like me? cool, i dont wake up every day trying to impress you 😘 CHEER CAPTAIN. SENIOR. CLASS OF '06 BITCHESSS
Interests: shopping, my girls, my man, parties, starbucks, tanning, PINK, victoria secret, coach bags, looking hot, being hot, etc
Choso's jaw clenched. "Vapid," he muttered. "Completely vapid." But he kept scrolling.
Photos section. 147 albums.
"me nd my girlsss 💕"
"beach dayyy ☀️"
"ryota ❤️❤️❤️"
"cheer comp!!!!"
Choso clicked on the most recent album: "random pics lol"
The first few were typical. You and your friends at the mall. You holding a Starbucks cup. You in your cheer uniform. He stopped. Scrolled back. The cheer uniform photo. You were mid-jump, legs split, skirt flipped up just enough to show a flash of your spanks underneath. Your top was tight, your hair perfect, your smile wide and fake and so fucking pretty it made his chest hurt. Choso's throat went dry. Pathetic. You're so pathetic. He kept scrolling. More photos. Birthday party. Someone's pool. You in a bikini that should probably be illegal. And then he saw it. You, crouched down on what looked like your bedroom floor, holding a tiny white dog—one of those yappy purse dogs rich girls always had. You were wearing a denim mini skirt, the kind you wore to school that definitely violated dress code but somehow you never got in trouble for. A tight pink tank top. Your hair falling over one shoulder. But it was your pose that made Choso's breath catch.
You were crouched low, knees bent, holding a peace sign with your free hand and smiling at the camera. The angle was low, someone sitting on the floor with you, and the way you were positioned meant the skirt had ridden up high enough that he could see almost all of your thigh. Smooth. Tan. The hem of your skirt barely covering anything. "Jesus," Choso breathed. His hand moved to his trackpad. He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. He scrolled down. More photos from the same day. You making duck lips. You and Madison. You holding up a Coach bag like it was a trophy. And then a selfie. Mirror selfie, actually. You holding your pink Motorola Razr up, angled down from above. Your hair was slightly messy, like you'd just woken up or just gotten out of the shower. You were wearing a different tank top, white, thin, the straps falling off your shoulders. And the angle showed everything. The curve of your breasts pushed together by that goddamn Victoria's Secret Bombshell bra. The lacy edge of the cup visible above the neckline of your tank top. Cleavage for days.
The caption: "felt cute might delete later idk 🤭"
Posted six months ago. Never deleted.
Choso groaned, a low, frustrated sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest. He slammed the laptop shut. Then immediately opened it again. "No," he said out loud to his empty room. "No. Don't. Don't do this." But his eyes were already back on the photo. On the curve of your body. On your lips. On the way you looked at the camera like you knew exactly what you were doing. Like you knew some pathetic virgin would find this photo and… "Fuck," Choso whispered. His hand moved to the waistband of his lounge pants.He stopped.
This is wrong. This is so wrong. She hates you. She called you a virgin in front of the entire cafeteria. She threw your chocolate milk on the floor. She shoved you. She makes your life hell.
But his body didn't care about any of that. His body only cared about the way you looked in that mini skirt. About the lace of your bra. About your glossed lips and your mean smile and the fact that you'd looked at him today, had put your hands on him today, had said his name over and over even if it was just to humiliate him. Choso looked at the photo one more time. At you, crouched on the floor in that impossible skirt, showing off your cleavage like it was nothing. And he let out a long, shaky breath.
I'm so pathetic.
Then his hand slipped beneath his waistband, and he hated himself, and he couldn't stop, and the worst part was knowing that tomorrow you'd probably find some new way to torture him and he'd still end up right back here. Pathetic. Virgin. Loser. Every single thing you'd ever called him. All true.
bodyguard yoongi who is a little too protective of you
pairing: reader x min yoongi
warning: violence ?, illegal art dealing, yearning man
Your patience was running thin.
It had been hours since you had been invited into the beautifully decorated mansion, only to be kept waiting like a nobody in a small room, expecting your client.
You were an art dealer, the most well-known in the industry. During your life, you had acquired beautiful and famous pieces and made deals to ensure they had important and caring new owners.
Art, for you, was a form of expression you had always considered truly important in everyday life. After graduating in Art History at university, you followed the steps of your father's way of living.
Your name was very familiar in the business, and you had always been treated with respect, although some buyers had shown dissatisfaction at the mere fact that you were a woman.
But you had never given a fuck about those old pricks’ opinions. You were rich and powerful enough to pressure them into respecting you by threatening them.
So, the fact that you had been left unattended for three hours straight in a boudoir, waiting like a puppy for his master made your blood boil.
Yoongi, on the other hand, was standing next to you, his eyes never leaving your frustrated form, his patience only showing.
Yoongi had been your close bodyguard for ten years, when you had slowly started to put a foot in the market of illegal art dealing. This was the time when bland transactions had started to bore you, and you had sought a more intriguing business audience.
He had always been loyal, never leaving your side and always protecting you when you faced some hard times negotiating with men who liked to step on women.
He wasn’t that knowledgeable about art, but you had noticed his practical mind and you still liked to listen to his opinions about the deals you were about to make.
You sat down on the sofa in the room, noticing its softness and yet it didn’t soothe you. You tapped your heels to the floor, a proof of your frustration. You sighed and turned to Yoongi who was already looking down at you.
« It’s crazy to me how you always put together you look », you told him, your cold and annoyed voice cutting through the air like a knife.
Others would have recoiled at your tone, but Yoongi did no such thing. He knew you, and he knew your anger wasn’t directed at him right now. So, he answered patiently, in the voice you had grown to associate with him.
« Years of training, miss. » He had always called you miss. From the first time you met him until today, he has kept his monosyllabic title as a respectful reminder of both of your positions.
It shouldn’t have bothered you, but you didn’t like it, you thought it brought you to your gender as an insult. When you had corrected him, he had only explained his vision, politely clarifying how deferent it was for him.
You sighed for the last time, before closing your eyes and trying to focus on the deal you were supposed to handle.
Mr. Park was a popular politician in your country, appealing to many with his eloquence and his charm. He had fought for many causes, including social rights and the suppression of taxes for the poorest. However, you knew him as one of the biggest clients in your line of work. His greed was as polished as his reputation, and he loved to acquire new pieces for his collection.
In the art market, he was known to spend crazy amounts of money on everything that caught his eye during auctions.
You didn’t really do auctions, your business was bigger than that. Your father had built an empire of taste that you had mastered to keep floating. Auctions were for fools who thought art was meaningless, insignificant rich people who only wanted money, money, and money.
So, when Mr. Park reached out to you through some contacts, pretending he wanted to buy a new item, you got interested, but wary.
He was a big fish, but not that big. He used to stick around auctions. So why would he come to you, the princess of the underworld?
You had asked Yoongi’s opinion about this deal, and he had told you to stay cautious about this man. After all, he was known for his love for the chase.
You had chosen to go meet him, but it now sounded more like a mistake than anything else. It had been hours since you’d arrived, and the wait had put a psychological toll on you. You weren’t used to being treated like a second-zone dealer, and you were showing it in your attitude right now.
You pat the couch next to you, silently indicating for Yoongi to sit, but he didn’t. He was busy keeping an eye on you, knowing when to talk to distract you from your frustration. He also wanted to stay up to react to potential threats against you.
The truth is, he was totally in love with you. Since the day you had hired him, since he breathed in your essence, and since he saw you command a room of men with just a snap of your fingers. He was weak for the way you loved art, how you were so powerful and yet so fragile, in a way that made him awake at night.
He had never felt something so powerful as his feelings for you. He was commanded by a strong instinct to protect you against all threats, and to care for you in ways others wouldn’t.
Of course, this part was a bit more complicated, knowing he had never confessed to you. He was certain you had no idea about all of his feelings and desires.
Right now, he was trying not to stare too much at your pissed off figure. He knew how much a bad sale could ruin your mood. He knew how you would get when you’re angry. But he couldn’t help to feel his breath hitch at the sight of you, tapping your fingers against your thigh, your brows furrowed in a frown he’d kill to ease with his fingers.
His own fingers itched to take your hand in his, to soothe you and claim you in this boring room like a true lover would.
He only wished for that. To be honest with you, to show you how much of a pathetic man he was for you, had been for years.
If you’d let him, he thought with bitterness, he’d give you the world. Everything you could ever want, he’d offer it to you.
time skip ⏳
The sale had gone incredibly wrong. Mr Park had proven himself to be an expert in bullshit, as well as being hours late to your meeting, organized in his own mansion.
When he had walked into the room with a lazy smirk, your blood grew warm with anger, even if you just let yourself show a hint of disdain before proceeding to your business.
Yoongi, as always in sync with your feelings somehow, had gotten closer to you.
You had thought it would be a normal, yet frustrating deal, but when suddenly your client claimed you were ripping him off, you lost your cool.
The shift had been subtle, but Yoongi felt it.
Your words grew cold and poised, your chin lifting in both mockery and anger to his face. You had spat your truth to him, and as soon as he got mad and started to call his men, Yoongi had intervened.
He had grabbed your arm to put your body beside his and had growled at Mr Park.
When the tension had reached its peak, and Yoongi noticed a man approaching you with a gun, he lost his composure.
« Touch her and you die »
You were sitting in your car, your mind recalling the events in Mr Park’s house with fury. How did he dare? Your name was a protection in itself, a guarantee of quality and honesty.
To you, questioning your integrity was an insult to both your work and your father’s.
And when the security guards had walked over you, guns out like you were a nobody….you had been so mad.
You were still mad. But confusion has also been raised in your mind. Yoongi’s behavior has been strange since the moment the deal got messed up.
You wondered what could have set him off, making him grit his teeth and clench his jaw next to you, his still hot gun in his lap.
You turned to him, your mouth opening to ask him what was wrong with him, when you caught him already staring at you.
You froze, your lips parting and brows frowning. He was never like this. Yoongi usually was a subtle and discreet man, who knew very well how to be invisible to you if he wasn’t needed. He was never one to talk before you did, or watch you before you ordered him something.
So the sight of him scrutinizing you like you were a mystery made your insides loop. His narrowed eyes were full of heat, and you found yourself gulping at his face.
To be honest, you knew how handsome he was. It was foolish not to see it. The way he carried himself screamed his confidence and strength, and yet, you liked how he was deferent to you. Yoongi belonged to the kind of men who didn’t feel less powerful when kneeling in front of women, and that made you weak when you were alone at night, thinking about the man.
He made you nervous sometimes, when he was beating up someone at your feet because they had disrespected your business. He was passionate about your protection, always one to follow you everywhere to ensure your safety, without his presence being overwhelming.
So when you caught him looking at you like he wanted to eat you, you were shocked. Your ears were still ringing from rage at Park’s actions, but your neck colored red for another reason.
He tilted his head, noticing how you got quiet at the sight of him. Was he scaring you? The thought made him angrier, so he spoke.
« He deserved to die, » he drawled in his raspy voice, sending you shivers down your spine. « he deserved much more than dying for what he did to you. »
He looked actually furious, like the thought of you being mocked by Mr. Park was something he couldn’t bear.
You couldn’t answer him, the words you wanted to speak stuck on your tongue. Why was he acting like that ? Where was the Yoongi you knew ?
You couldn’t answer him, the words you wanted to speak stuck on your tongue. He kept looking at you, and you sighed angrily.
« What’s wrong with you? » Your voice was harsh, and this time directed at him. He didn’t flinch, but you noticed his eyes softening.
« You’re too precious to be treated like that, » he answered. « They don’t see what I see. »
Your breath hitched, and you tried to hide it. You were too proud to show him how much he was affecting you.
« What do you see? »
Your voice rang in the back of the car like a bell, the sound clear but menacing. As if it could reveal things you did not want to know. He closed his eyes and breathed in before turning back to the window on his side, whispering that you didn’t want to know.
You gulped and gave up on the discussion. It was just Yoongi, right? He would go back to his usual self in a few hours, kissing the ground on which you walked with a stern face.
A man who yearns and works for you is what you deserve why wouldn’t you want a man on his knees staring up at you worth shipping you a man who buys you everything and anything you want even when you don’t ask for it a man who fucks you sloppy and soft whimpering as his dick touches your deepest part him kissing up your back and gripping your neck before softly gripping your hair and pulling you back into a deep open mouth kiss shakily and when he comes inside of you he thanks you kisses you and you two fall asleep hugging.
(Sorry not that good at grammar and English but I’m learning to be better just ignore it lol)
a/n: I might post scenarios more often now as opposed to regular shortfics due to my hectic schedule so apologies for that. But even then, I still love to write for this man when I have the time. I also remember that taglist is a thing here so... would anyone like to be added? Let me know and pls enjoy (〃^∇^)ﾉ
It has become a daily occurrence for Ratio to be teased by his coworkers about how utterly smitten he is with his spouse and how he's always giving them the gooey eyes. To nobody's surprise, he retaliates with indignation, so his co-worker pulls out the big guns (read: documented evidence). A phone is shoved into his face unceremoniously, and he is forced to watch as the screen exposes his behavior.
It was taken during one of their get-togethers that someone begged him to attend. And since he didn't want to expend any precious energy socializing and being chummy with the others, he brought his wife, the approachable and friendly one of the two. You had a blast getting to know his friends from his workplace (“they're not my friends,” he had retorted) and familiarizing yourself with how they perceive him in a professional setting. One thing led to another, and you ended up spewing out anecdotes and recalling memorable moments with him, eventually settling on the topic of how you two met and got married. Ratio saw this coming from a mile away by the way everyone around him buzzed with unadulterated curiosity and enthusiasm, and yet—foolishly, like a man bewitched and ensnared beyond salvation—he listened closely to you. When you recount how he asked you out for the first time, he increased the proximity between you. You were so immersed with your story from the first time he brought up marriage that you fail to notice him becoming glued stuck to your side like velcro. You gushed over your wedding dress to the giggling research beside you, unaware of the violet-haired genius withdrawing a deep intake of breath at the memory of seeing you in that stunning garment for the first time.
Ratio watches as his face in the video morphed into an expression he knew he would never ever wear in front of his fellow peers and students: head inclined towards you, eyelids dropped in a way that softened his sharp features, his arms crossed yet expanded just enough for his elbow to touch yours, and a ghost of a smile caressing his face. Everyone could feel how visceral his yearning was—see it even. He didn't even realize he was wearing his emotions that openly.
You come at the inopportune moment and see this peculiar interaction unfolding, and without a moment’s hesitation, his colleague saunters over to you with said video. When you set your eyes on the screen, your face illuminates with glee, fondness, and awe—amazed at how you could miss such an obvious expression of love from him. And oh so foolishly, Ratio fails to control himself from making the same expression as the one in the video.
Now, his refutation holds no power against his colleagues’ relentless teasing. The esteemed, stoic and austere Veritas Ratio besotted with his spouse? Without a doubt. The mounting pile of evidence in his colleagues' phone gallery can disprove any pleas of denial.
