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venus; chapter nine; self care

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note: another shorter chapter but its worth it i promise

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venus; chapter eight; sorry

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"yn, oh my god i'm so glad you're okay!" kiyokos arms wrapped around her hugging her tight. yn sunk to the ground with kiyoko, her arms still incasing her bestfriend. kiyoko had somehow, found her on a whim, in the middle of some godforsaken park. yoko had no clue what'd drawn her there, she just knew she had to check.

god she was so stupid. maybe she was just attention seeking like her boyfriend said. it wasnt even that big of a deal now that she thinks about it. yn didnt even have any tears left to cry, she just felt so burnt out. so done. so over everything. she heard patter of more feet running towards her, she knew her other friends were saying stuff to her but all she heard was muffled words. so entraped. until.

until she saw him.

messy black hair and a masked face crouched down in front of her, eyes full of worry. why was he even worried? honestly he didnt even know. her and sakusa werent even that good of friends, didnt talk much, when they did very few words were exchanged. maybe a hi, hows your day. but thats it. but for some reason. kiyoomi was seeing her in a new light. he knew his best friend kinda sucked. but he honestly didnt see how much until she yelled in his face about 7 hours ago. atsumu not even caring that his girlfriend was upset with him, and for good reasons at that. sakusa looked at the bloodshot eyes and the mascara stains on her cheeks, he just wanted to make her feel better. make all her worries go away. but he knew it wasnt that easy, it never could be that easy.

"im so sorry."

the words hit yn like a bullet train. she didnt know why either. and why was he sorry. he had nothing to be sorry for, he wasnt the one that made atsumu at like a good for nothing stuck up bitch. but those words. she hasnt heard them in so long. not from atsumu. not from her parents. not from her friends. not from anyone. he was the first person that she heard those words from in years and it hurt. her heart hurt. they just stared at eachother as yns friends coddled her, asking her if she was okay and if she needed anything. when all she needed was an apology. and she got it. from someone that hadnt even hurt her in any way. but why did it feel so meaningful.

"is he here."

was all she asked. words passing through her friends and going directly into kiyoomi's ears. he looked down and then shook his head. she just sighed. she didnt have enough energy to cry. not even an ounce to let out a quick sob. and honestly if she did, she didnt even know if she would've cried. she knew he wouldn't've been there. but just hearing it kinda just sealed the deal for her. he doesnt care. he never has. and he never will. his best friend that she barely knows cares more then her boyfriend of five years. she just shook her head, biting the inside of her cheek. "i know its not what-" "i dont care anymore." she cut him off, sakusa kinda taken aback by it, but he understood. atsumu was shitty. not only was he a shitty friend, he was a shitty boyfriend. a shitty person.

note: cute little chapter am i right 😸

taglist (fill out form to be added): @deadfish714 @matt444nixi @localgaytrainwreck @nobodybutnnoorr @lorisheaven @sophiahearttss @vi0let-writes @evilari111 @laceythespacey @scoupsworld @0rangej0e @snoowply @yessimo @tyrantsmonarchy @ncitygreen @amayaa-aaa @jiminscarmex @bub-ss @sugacor3 @supahumbreon @corvid007 @swagkittybear @meoqs @surfeitstar @rrayras @meekydeeks @pelicanpizza @softtashoney (if your name is bolded and italicized i cannot tag u pls change ur settings)

Ten: Compliments Go A Long Way

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Summary: YN Hinata is the twin sister of Shoyo Hinata. Where Shoyo is all rainbows and sunshine YN is thorns and storm clouds. YN picks on Hinata any chance she gets. Why? Because of how easy it is & that’s the only way she knows how to show her love. She’d never allow anyone else to treat Shoyo the way she does though. That is until the tall and handsome Tsukishima Kei enters her life and makes it a point to go against her wishes. Why does it always have to be the hot ones?

Pairings: Tsukishima x Reader  

Status: Ongoing

Warnings: Language, angst, & 17+ memes

Updates: When I Can

Taglist: Open {20/50} please send an ask to be added to the taglist

@iamapotat @chewbrry  @kuroaka  @fantasycantasy @passionateuchiha @awkwardspontaneity @alpha-mommy69 @xoxopam4 @universal-s1ut @ks-tsukki @yuminako @thechaosoflonging @krak-jj @whoami-72 @a-little-pebbl @shadysuittrash @lovingnightmarewriter @pleaseitsjustrae0nly @noodleswastaken @wannabeisekai @yunavx @snoowply

Hyperspace

Summary: Unable to sleep during hyperspace travel on The Havoc Marauder you seek out the company of the Batch's resident sniper.

Pairing: Crosshair x fem!reader

Word Count: 3,661

Authors Note: I know that after I took that poll I said I would write a Fives one shot next.... but Crosshair has taken my writing hostage these days. Sorry, but also, not sorry! I wrote this as a prequel to my One-Shot Sniper, but I think it stands on it's own just fine if you haven't read it! Enjoy :)

************************

Over the years you’d been on hundreds of different types of ships; shuttles, Venator class attack cruisers, cargo ships, drop ships, modified attack shuttles… you name it and you had likely been on it. Honestly, you’d spent most of your adult life in space but there was still one problem that seemed to plague you no matter how many hours you’d spent aboard a ship. Hyperspace insomnia. 

You tried your best to smother a sigh as you rolled over on your bunk, frustration bubbling up in you at your inability to sleep for more than an hour or two at a time. Every ship you had ever been on tried to maintain day and night cycles to aid with sleeping in hyperspace but it seemed that your body couldn’t be fooled. You’d spent many nights tossing and turning over the years, much to your annoyance. You sighed again before you sat up, deciding to abandon your current attempt at sleep before your restlessness disturbed anyone, which on such a small ship was unfortunately very easy to do. 

As quietly as possible you slipped from the middle bunk on the Havoc Marauder, it was the middle of the night cycle and the ship was silent except for Wrecker’s soft snores. You took a quick look behind you to make sure you hadn’t woken anyone and thankfully Wrecker was still snoring away and Tech was also still fast asleep on the top bunk. 

When you’d joined Clone Force 99 as a medic they had insisted you take one of the bunks as your own. You’d protested vehemently, as there were only three to begin with, but despite your insistence that you could all share the middle bunk it always seemed that it was free for you to use when they discussed their watch rotations each night. Your ongoing protests always seemed to fall on deaf ears though. On nights like this one, when you couldn’t even sleep you felt especially guilty.

You let out another soft sigh as you looked towards the back of the ship where Hunter was asleep in the gunner's mount. For a moment you considered waking him and insisting he take your bunk since clearly you wouldn’t be using it any time soon but even from this distance he looked peaceful and the fear of disturbing him outweighed everything else. 

As quietly as possible you moved towards the midpoint of the shuttle, intent on making yourself a cup of caf. If you couldn’t sleep, you reasoned you might as well just be fully awake. You pulled two cups from one of the cupboards used for storage, there wasn’t a galley so things tended to end up in random places but you always knew where the caf was. You looked over your shoulder to make sure everyone was still asleep as the water boiled, but all three clones appeared dead to the world. You smiled softly to yourself as you poured two cups of instant caf, Crosshair was on watch and you knew from past experience if you made a cup for yourself and not him you’d get the look. 

When you had joined The Bad Batch it hadn’t taken long for you to feel like one of the team. You were experienced, having spent time with the 501st, 104th, and various commando units prior to joining them and they had immediately recognized and appreciated your work. Hunter, Tech, and Wrecker quickly accepted you among their ranks and you were already on very friendly terms with all of them after only a few weeks together. Crosshair, on the other hand, was a much harder nut to crack. 

The Batch’s resident sniper was quite possibly one of the grumpiest human beings you’d ever met, which was saying a lot because you’d worked with Commander Wolffe for months. It was clear that your addition to the team had been unwanted on his part at first, but over time it seemed he had begrudgingly come to accept you. These days you could even say that he was somewhat in friendly territory with you, or at least as friendly as he ever got, but it had taken a lot of work on your part to get there. It seemed your strategy of smothering him with kindness had finally worn him down somewhat. 

The thing was though, despite his surly exterior you actually really liked the sniper, perhaps more than what was considered professional. He was cunning, brave, with a sly and wicked sense of humour, and it was clear that he was incredibly loyal and cared deeply about his brothers. It also didn’t hurt that he was the most handsome man you’d ever met. You tried your best to keep things strictly professional but there were times when his steely gaze would have you turning into a blushing, stuttering mess, much to your own embarrassment. You’d been around the clones since the start of the war, many who were incredibly flirty, but none had ever had the same effect on you that Crosshair did. 

Pushing your emotional problems from your mind for the moment you made your way to the cockpit. Crosshair didn’t even look up from where he was sitting in the pilot's seat as you entered, he simply kept cleaning the firepuncher without even missing a beat.  

“Hyperspace insomnia strikes again?” He asked lowly, still without looking up as you placed a cup of caf on the console in front of him. 

“I think I might be cursed,” You said with a dramatic sigh as you slid into the co-pilot seat, wrapping both hands around your warm cup of caf as you did so. The seats in the cockpit were actually more comfortable than the bunks and you let out another soft sigh as you settled into the seat. 

Crosshair finally looked up, one brow raised just slightly, “Maybe we should get you a talisman, I’m pretty sure I saw someone selling them to ward off curses the last time we were on Savareen.” 

You chuckled softly, shaking your head, “I don’t think I’ve reached that level of desperation just yet.”

Crosshair shrugged, “Your loss,” before returning his attention to cleaning his rifle. You were fairly positive with the number of times you’d seen him clean the weapon that he could do it with his eyes closed. You were beginning to suspect it was more of a self-soothing habit, that weapon had to be the cleanest thing you’d ever seen. In a way though it was soothing for you to watch him do it, you’d already spent many nights awake watching him clean the rifle with a practiced ease.

You pulled your feet up onto the seat, something you only did when Tech wasn’t around since he was very particular about his ship, as you sipped your caf. You switched between watching the stars streak past and watching Crosshair out of the corner of your eye. A sense of calm washed over you in the comfortable silence of the ship.  

It wasn’t until he’d finished reassembling his rifle and reached for the cup of caf you’d brought him that you spoke again, “I don’t know anything about their curse talismans but Savareen is actually pretty famous for its brandy…” 

Spouting off random facts had started as a way to break the ice with him and had then become a way to pass the time when the two of you were paired off on missions, separate from the rest of the Batch due to your respective specialties. Even in the beginning, he hadn’t seemed to mind it too much, likely because he was used to hearing it from Tech, but now it seemed to be a habit you couldn’t break. You enjoyed watching his reactions and every time he’d actually engage in conversation you felt like you’d won a battle. 

“Is it any good?” He asked, his tone was bored but you could tell by the way he turned his seat slightly towards you that he was actually interested. 

“It’s not bad, a bit strong for my tastes,” You replied with a shrug. 

“Not surprising, I’ve seen your tastes,” He said snidely but there was a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. 

“Hey! I’m just not really into drinking,” You protested with a laugh. You weren’t offended at all though, you were, quite famously, a lightweight. You'd been with the Batch long enough now for them to know this about you, “I need to maintain a clear head at all times in case of a medical emergency!”

“Sure,” Crosshair responded, the dry look on his face making you laugh even harder. 

You continued to chuckle softly to yourself between sips of caf as you leaned forward slightly to look at the navi-computer. You could see Crosshair watching you out of the corner of your eye and your face began to heat up slightly at the feeling of his intense gaze on you. 

“Oh, we just passed Mon Cala,” You said softly, mostly to distract yourself from the butterflies that were suddenly making themselves known in your stomach. You looked back over at Crosshair who was still watching you intently as you leaned back in your seat, “Did you know there’s a type of squid that lives there that has a circular brain that their food passes through?” 

Crosshair let out a snort of amusement, "Sounds like Tech.”  

You slapped your hand over your mouth to stifle that bark of laughter that escaped you. It took you a moment to stop laughing before you could speak again, “I’m going to tell him you said that.”

Your eyes might have been deceiving you in the low light but you could have sworn that Crosshair was actually smiling. Well, smirking was more accurate, but in Crosshair's body language, you were going to consider that a genuine smile.

“Go ahead,” Crosshair replied flippantly, “he’d probably take it as a compliment.” 

You chuckled again, shaking your head in amusement at him before finishing the last sip of your caf, “I think I’ll keep this between the two of us. I’m trying to stay in his good books so he’ll teach me how to fly the Marauder.”

Crosshair scoffed, “Good luck with that, he’ll make you memorize every piece of this ship before he even so much as lets you touch a button.” 

“That’s ok!” You replied happily, as you leaned forward to set your empty cup down on the console in front of you, “I like to learn.” 

Crosshair scoffed again as you continued, your tone turning teasing once more, “Plus it’ll give me more random facts to annoy you with.” 

His eyes narrowed at you which only made you laugh softly, “Are you always this happy?” He asked his tone somewhere between impressed and annoyed. 

“Only around the people I like,” You answered as you stretched out a foot to jab his chair with your boot playfully. 

He was silent for a long moment, his gaze intense as he looked at you. The lights of the cockpit were dim but you could have almost sworn that a light flush appeared on his cheeks. You felt your own face heating up at his look. Concern that maybe you’d overstepped suddenly bubbled up in you but it vanished almost as quickly as it had come. He didn’t seem annoyed. 

Eventually, he snorted, rolling his eyes before he spoke, “So, everyone then?” his tone once again characteristically grumpy. 

“I don’t like everyone…” You started but then stopped, laughing at the disbelieving look Crosshair shot you, “I really didn’t like that Admiral we had to work with on the last mission.” 

Crosshair’s face darkened considerably at the mention of the Admiral who was, for lack of better words, a complete and utter asshole. Both to you AND the clones. 

“He seemed to be offended by the fact that I was a woman,” You continued with a chuckle. 

Crosshair shook his head, clearly annoyed at just the thought of the other man, “He was di’kut.”

You smirked at the Mando’a term as he looked back over at you, the dark look on his face replaced once more with subtle amusement, “That’s only one person though…”

“Well,” You started teasingly, “Not all of us have a 30-foot-long list of people we don’t like.” 

Crosshair snorted again, “It’s more like 15 feet.” 

You chuckled, “Now, that IS surprising. You’re going to have to step it up, Cross.” 

This time you were certain your eyes weren’t deceiving you, his face had definitely flushed slightly. His dark eyes had widened but his gaze was no less intense as he looked at you. It took you a moment to figure out what his reaction was in response to but when you did you felt your chest tighten. Although you often referred to him as such in your head, you’d never actually said the shortened form of his name out loud before. An apology for getting too familiar was on the tip of your tongue but before you could get the words out he was speaking again. 

He lifted his hand in a mock salute, eyes narrowed but amused, “Mission accepted, Sunshine.”  

You felt as though you might actually combust. Your face felt as if it was on fire as a nervous chuckle escaped you. You were so kriffed, no one had ever gotten under your skin like this before. You prided yourself on maintaining professional relationships so this was definitely going to be a problem. Feeling somewhat overwhelmed with the surge of emotions suddenly coursing through you, you turned your attention back to the navi-computer. According to it, you still had another 14 standard hours before you reached your next destination. With a soft sigh, you leaned back in your seat, unable to stop yourself from shyly looking over at Crosshair every few moments. 

He had also leaned back in the pilot’s chair, one long leg crossing over the other. His chair was still slightly angled towards you but he was now looking out the windscreen of the Marauder, the lights of hyperspace reflecting in his dark eyes. Silence settled between the two of you but it wasn’t uncomfortable. In fact, once you got over the initial shock of receiving a nickname from him, you felt more relaxed than you had in ages. Sitting with Crosshair seemed to have this effect on you more and more often these days. 

It wasn’t long before your eyes began to grow heavy, the soft hum of the Marauder’s engines and the comfort of the co-pilot seat effectively lulling you to sleep. That last thing on your mind before you finally let yourself succumb to sleep was a pair of dark intense eyes.

*****

You woke with a start, thoughts a complete jumble as you sat up suddenly, looking around yourself in confusion. It took you a long moment to orient yourself because you were no longer in the cockpit of the Marauder, you were back in your bunk. You frowned as you lifted a hand to rub the sleep out of your eyes. It was obviously still early, the lights of the Marauder still dim and Wrecker was still snoring on the bunk below you, but a quick look at the chrono on your wrist confirmed it was morning. Your brow furrowed as you looked around you, Tech was no longer on the bunk above you, instead, a flash of silver hair confirmed it was now Crosshair in his place. 

You were still confused as you pushed the blanket that had been covering you off and swung your legs over the edge of the bunk before quietly slipping out. Unless it was all a dream, and you were pretty sure it wasn’t, the last thing you could remember was being in the cockpit with Crosshair. So, unless you had recently started sleepwalking that meant someone had carried you back to the bunk. Not only that, but they had tucked you in too. 

Your face flushed as the reality of that settled in your stomach, your heart rate suddenly picking up exponentially. While every single member of the squad were capable of carrying you back to bed and were kind enough to do so, the most obvious culprit was the one who was increasingly in your thoughts and was without a doubt becoming a problem for you. Your eyes strayed up to the top bunk to look at Crosshair, he was facing away from you but you could tell from the deep, even breaths he was taking that he was still asleep. 

Heart still racing you headed towards the middle of the ship where Tech was fiddling with a piece of equipment in one of the seats in front of the console. That likely meant that Hunter was upfront keeping an eye on things, something that you were suddenly quite grateful for. You didn’t need him wondering why your heart was racing first thing in the morning, though even with the door of the cockpit between you you knew he likely could still hear it. Pushing that somewhat embarrassing thought from your mind, you greeted Tech softly as you passed by on your way to make some caf. Your mind was still reeling from the revelation that Crosshair might have carried you to bed but you were able to focus enough to successfully make 5 cups of caf. Normally, whoever was first up who wasn’t on watch would make the caf for everyone but Tech could be somewhat unreliable when his attention was divided. Caught, he smiled up at you sheepishly as you handed him a cup. 

You settled yourself into one of the jump seats, pulling your knees up to your chest as you counted back from 10. Sure enough, you hadn’t even made it to 5 before the sounds of movement from the bunks reached you. It was fairly predictable but made you smile every morning nonetheless, there was nothing that could summon a clone faster than hot caf. 

Also predictable was how grumpy Crosshair looked as he made his way over. Without a word or even a nod of acknowledgment, he grabbed a cup, taking a sip before moving to sit on the seat across from Tech. His tired gaze strayed over to you a moment later and you felt your face heat. You managed to give him what you hoped was a normal smile in greeting before his eyes flicked back to focusing on his caf. 

“Chow time?” Wrecker asked as he ambled over, still looking like he was half asleep but the excitement at the prospect of eating was evident in his voice. 

With a sigh Tech set aside his project and stood, rummaging through the cupboard for a moment before emerging with the morning's rations. He handed the first to Wrecker who had been hovering around him excitedly. In general, the clones ate more food than anyone else you knew but Wrecker in particular seemed to have a never-ending appetite. One of your first duties as the team medic had been to put in a request for more rations for ‘medical reasons’. Wrecker had actually cried with happiness when the extra crate had shown up for the first time and your ribs had ached for days from the bone-crushing hug you had received. The memory put a smile on your face as you took your own ration from Tech before he moved on to Crosshair. 

“Thanks, Squid,” Crosshair’s snide comment as he took his ration bar from his brother nearly had you spitting out the sip of caf you had just taken. You looked at him with wide eyes, face heating as his gaze met yours, amusement swimming in the depths of his dark eyes. Not only that, but he was definitely smirking. Smug asshole. 

Tech looked between the two of you, frowning deeply, “I suppose that comment is in relation to one of your late-night inside jokes?” 

Your face grew even hotter with embarrassment at the fact that your little late-night chats with Crosshair hadn’t gone unnoticed. You spluttered, unsure of what to say as Tech simply looked between the two of you for another moment. When neither of you answered he simply rolled his eyes before returning to his seat, his own ration bar forgotten as he returned to working on the same piece of equipment. 

“Please, do not enlighten me,” He continued without looking up, “I am certain it is not as funny as the two of you think it is.” 

This time you weren’t able to stop the laugh that escaped you and it only got worse when you looked at Crosshair to see that he was also snickering. 

Tech sighed in exasperation as he shook his head, “Children.” 

It wasn’t even that funny but you found yourself struggling to regain some composure. You felt giddy, something that you had experienced in ages. And you knew without a doubt it was entirely due to the silver-haired clone who was still watching you with amusement, a subtle smirk on his face as he continued to sip his caf. 

Eventually, you managed an apology to Tech that was waved off, clearly, he wasn’t actually bothered by the teasing and the rest of the morning continued on as normal. A sense of calm finally washed over you as you sat quietly, listening to the sound of The Marauder moving through space and the occasional conversation between brothers. 

One thing had changed though, you now knew without a doubt that you were harbouring a crush on the team's resident snarky sniper. You were kriffed, but you found as your eyes connected with his later on that morning that it didn’t bother you as much as you had once thought it would. And you knew that the next time you couldn’t sleep you’d be right back by his side. Sometimes, you reasoned with yourself as you smiled softly over at him, you just had to live a little. 

on your side / wolffe x fem!jedi!reader

for @ireadwithmyears <3

summary: having to distance yourself from wolffe after a slip up is a lot harder than you thought it would be

tags/warnings: 18+ for suggestive stuff, angst! with a happy(ish?) ending, forbidden relationship, love confessions, kinda idiots in love, wolffe is down bad and not sorry about it, reader is lowkey delirious and v emotional bc of lack of sleep, allusions to sex but otherwise sfw

song: on your side — the last dinner party

prompts: #21 "when's the last time you actually slept?", #9 "come lie with me, let me hold you."

a/n: okay it's official, wolffe is my fav clone to write for. um, idk if anyone else has ever been so exhausted but not able to fall asleep to the point where you’re literally distraught? I hope this is not a unique experience otherwise this fic makes no sense lol

event masterlist / star wars masterlist / join my taglist / wc: 3.1k

request period for this event is over, dialogue prompt is in bold :)

You messed up. Big time.

The memory of your misdeeds still replayed in your mind, days, weeks later. Your mind lingered on how his rough hands felt against your skin, how his breath mingled with yours, bodies melding together. His words haunted you, adulations whispered in a tone you’d never heard, sentiments you wouldn’t soon forget, no matter how you tried to.

Wolffe had invaded your brain even before you'd fallen into bed with him, but now it was inescapable.

You'd known it was a mistake as it was happening, that stepping over the line would do something irreversible, something you couldn't follow up on. The guilt of doing that to Wolffe, of letting him believe it was something that could be, was eating you alive. If you didn't feel so strongly for him then all of this would be so much easier, and could be written off as a simple blunder — but nothing about this was simple.

Wolffe had been shipped into an active warzone only hours later, and though worry pulled at your heart more than ever, you couldn't help but be partly relieved. When he’d returned, you felt even more conflicted.

He had caught your eyes from across the hangar, something distinctly timid and unlike him in the way he looked at you, and you had to tear your gaze away and leave the space. You couldn’t be anywhere near him. It hurt too much. You knew he’d noticed that you were avoiding him, it would be impossible given how close you were before everything had transpired, but he obviously had the restraint not to mention it.

Sleep was eluding you because of it. Pulling away from Wolffe felt like a physical pain, like the connection you had unwittingly created through the force was being sawed at, and you could feel every ridge of the knife as it cut. If anything, it was proof that you had become too close, that your connection ran too deep.

Now, duty demanded you be in the same room as him, and it was every bit as excruciating as you had expected. You were stood beside him in the command centre, and while your eyes were plastered to Plo Koon, all of your attention was taken by Wolffe.

You could feel the heavy weight of his gaze on you as you spoke, almost feel his breath against your cheek, the warmth of his body beside you. His presence was intoxicating, and even when you closed your eyes you weren’t free of it. His unique presence in the force reached out for you, and while you knew he wasn’t doing it intentionally, you wished he would stop. The familiar feeling made it so much harder not to fall into his arms and forget everything that held you back; a warm blanket, a comforting steadiness, deep red in colour, like the very last sight of the sun against the horizon.

You escaped as soon as you could, scampering from the command room at the first opportunity, but it seemed that Wolffe was done with the silent treatment. He grabbed your arm as you made it out into the corridor, dragging you into a quieter corner of the ship, a hall that ran to a dead end. His gaze was serious when you finally met it with your own, and it turned your stomach. You didn’t know if he was angry or hurt, nothing was given away in his demeanour.

Finally he spoke in a low voice, “are you alright?”

You blinked up at him, wondering how he could be so concerned by you at this moment. His hand still gripped your arm gently, his eyes darting between yours, brows furrowed. He took in your features like he’d never seen you before, and the scrutiny made your gaze drop.

“I’m fine” you murmured, trying to keep your voice even.

“You weren’t in your room last night”

Your eyes raised back to him as your heart skipped a beat, “how do you know that?”

“I went to see you” he confessed, never wavering in his serious gaze.

“Wolffe…” you sighed, looking up at him with a pained expression, “you shouldn’t have done that”

He huffed, stepping into your space, “why not?”

You exhaled slowly, “you know why”

Something in him stiffened, and he took his hand away from you, “what were you doing?”

“I just… I couldn’t sleep” you admitted, running a hand over your face.

“Why not?”

You sighed at his persistence, “it doesn’t matter”

“It matters to me” he muttered, his eyes flashing with hurt. He tentatively brought his hand up to your cheek, running his thumb under your eye. You knew you must look exhausted, and closed your eyes to let the feeling calm you. “When's the last time you actually slept?”

“I don’t know” you spoke quietly, almost ashamedly. Your eyes fluttered open to see the stern look he was giving you.

“Sarad’ika” he whispered the name he called you in only the most quiet of moments, drawing closer so his forehead almost touched yours. “If you won’t…” he sighed, “if you won’t let me take care of you then you need to take care of yourself”

Your heart seized up in your chest. “I—” you didn't know what to say, everything was running through your mind but it was all getting caught in your throat.

Your stuttering was interrupted by the sound footsteps reverberating off of the walls of the otherwise empty hall. Wolffe backed away from you, though he still started at you intently, even as someone walked between the two of you. Unlike him, it snapped you out of it.

“I— I uh… I'm going to my quarters now” you mumbled out, tongue tripping over your words.

You turned quickly, stalking down the hall in wide strides and not daring to look back.

It was the middle of the night and still, sleep wouldn’t take you. The frustration was getting on top of you again, and you paced back and forth in the small space of the ship that was yours. Hot tears sprang to your eyes, wetting your cheeks, and your hands gripped at your hair as if it would alleviate the tension in your head. You had been silently crying long enough that your head had begun to ache, and you silently begged to gods you didn’t believe in to let you sleep, to shut your mind of for just a few minutes so you might finally slip into unconsciousness.

It had been coming to this every night, where you felt as if you were being driven insane because sleep eluded you.

With a small sob, you darted for the door. A distraction, that’s what you needed now. You might wander the halls of the ship as you had in previous nights, or hole up in a cupboard somewhere so you could cry until all your tears were spent. You grabbed your robe as you went, clutching the thick material in a tight fist, but as the door zipped open you almost collided with something, someone.

Wolffe stood tall in the doorway, his hand raised as if he were about to knock. He took in your distressed state, eyes widening at the recognition of tears staining your face, and he reached out to you on instinct, taking ahold of your arms.

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay” he immediately began to soothe you in a voice that was too soft for him. It only made your breathing more unstable, and you choked on your sobs. Wolffe backed you into the dark room and closed the door behind him, “what’s going on?”

The confusion — the worry — it was so plain in his eyes. It made you feel sick to your stomach. You dropped your robe to the floor.

“I just—“ your words were halted by your own sob, and you hid your face in your palms, “I’m so tired, Wolffe”

His hands wrapped around your wrists, his skin warm against yours, and he peeled your hands away from your face. He snaked his arms around your waist without another word, offering the relief you would never ask for but so desperately needed. You took it unashamedly, burying your face in his chest, letting yourself relish in the comfort of his touch. As your weeping continued, he held you tightly, one hand on the back of your head to stroke your hair as he whispered comforting words.

The exhaustion had clearly got to you. There was simply no other reason for this display of raw emotion.

As your breathing calmed, the storm in your mind subsiding to a grey fog, Wolffe’s grip loosened. He pulled back and took your face in his hand, and you couldn’t help but lean into its warmth just a little.

“Now,” he spoke quietly, “are you going to tell me why you can’t sleep?”

You sighed deeply as you averted your gaze, “do I have to?”

“No” he replied, “but it could help”

Your eyes creeped across his handsome features, taking in every mark, every freckle. You couldn’t burden him with everything that clouded your mind, you wouldn’t place another weight upon his shoulders when the war already saw him stretched so thin.

You shook your head, releasing yourself from his grasp and turning away, “it won’t help, it’ll only make things worse”

“Stop shutting me out” Wolffe’s voice was stern as he spoke up, and you looked up to find his brow furrowed deeply, the hurt evident in his eyes and the downturn of his lips.

“I have to” you said quietly, almost a whisper.

“No you don’t” Wolffe huffed, moving to crowd you against the table behind you, “I don’t understand why you’ve been acting like this, why you won’t look at me all of a sudden. I thought—”

He stopped himself. In all honesty, you hadn’t been thinking an awful lot about what Wolffe may be thinking about what had transpired, and as much as you knew you should bury the whole incident, move on and forget, a part of you needed to know. What he thought, what he was thinking now, what he felt. You shouldn’t ask, but you couldn’t stop yourself.

“Thought what?”

You could see that he regretted letting the words slip. “I thought things would be…” he trailed off for a moment, searching your eyes with a hint of desperation, “I don’t know, I just thought it’d be different from this, after—“

His teeth ground together. A quiet curse escaped him as he hung his head in defeat. He knew as well as you that this conversation would only breed more unease. You swallowed, taking a moment to centre yourself.

“We can’t be like that” you muttered.

You knew it was cruel, that he didn’t deserve to hear it put so bluntly, nor did he deserve what had already happened. You had been cruel, consistently, in entertaining this idea of the two of you, and even crueller in making him believe it could be. That was why this was necessary. It couldn’t go on.

He was quiet for a long moment, and when he spoke, it was uncharacteristically timid, his words almost shy.

“Would it be so bad?” he asked.

“Yes! Well, no it— but we can’t, I mean— I don’t know!” you could feel your breath becoming short again, and Wolffe placed his hands on your shoulders.

“Hey, breathe” he spoke softly.

You didn’t deserve him, that was clear to you now. He was too gentle, too good to you when you didn’t deserve it. Your breath steadied under his touch, and you couldn’t face pushing him off this time.

“This is what’s got you worked up?” he asked, and you nodded in reply. His face softened, and he raised a hand to your cheek. “Ner cyare” he whispered, “please don’t trouble yourself over me”

“I can’t help it Wolffe, I—”

I love you

You could so easily say it, and you would mean it, but putting it out into the world would go beyond crossing the line.

“I’m sorry, that I’ve been pulling away, but I can’t— I can’t do this” you insisted, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, unable to name exactly what it was.

“Why not?”

It was a simple question, but the answer was far more complicated. Wolffe gave you nothing but patience as he waited for the reply. His gaze was soft, as soft as it got with him at least, though any amount of tenderness that could be drawn from the man would be considered a feat. It was part of the reason that you struggled to answer him. It was simply too distracting, witnessing the depth of his feelings for you first hand.

When the two of you had slipped up, spent the night with limbs entangled in the cot just a few short steps from you now, it had somehow not occurred to you that Wolffe was in just as deep as you. He had shown his admiration in more ways than one; whispers against your lips and skin, tender touches and a sense of care in every endeavour. In the throws of pleasure it hadn’t registered as anything but that — seeking pleasure.

Now you weren’t sure.

“Because…” you began, barely uttering the word.

There were reasonings you could use, but none would present themselves as you looked into his eyes and were confronted with the depth of your own feelings.

“Because…?” he prompted, and you couldn’t help but sigh.

“Because nothing” you frowned, “because I’m a fool, and because you don’t deserve the only kind of relationship I could give you”

Wolffe matched your frown, “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Think about it Wolffe, I’m… I’m a Jedi, right? You know what that means?”

He pressed his lips to a hard line, unimpressed at the reminder “I know what it means”

You exhaled shakily, and a sadness washed over you, “I couldn’t… I could only be yours in private, I wouldn’t be able to touch you in front of others, to hold your hand or even smile at you for too long. I wouldn’t be able to show the galaxy how much I love you, and that hurts me”

A second passed, and you realised what had been said.

It was as if an airlock had been opened, and all the air sucked from the room. The both of you stood perfectly still, staring at each other with widened eyes. You had crossed the line. It was all hypothetical up until now. But now, it was real. Neither of you moved, or breathed, until Wolffe let a quick and heavy exhale slip, as if in disbelief.

“Love?”

You swallowed thickly.

“I—“ you bit the inside of your cheek as your cheeks burned hot, “I didn’t mean to… tell you like this”

“Is it true?” he asked, deadly serious. His eyes searched yours, for what you didn’t know, but you knew the answer was already obvious in the way you dropped your gaze guiltily, as if the very act of falling in love were wrong.

“Yes” the whisper had barely left you when Wolffe surged forwards and met your lips with his.

He was warm, inviting, eager. He kissed you like a man starved, as if he’d been waiting a lifetime for this moment, and you let yourself give in. You kissed him back more insistently, and let his tongue pass the seam of your lips as he begged for entrance. His arms wrapped around you, holding you to him tightly, as if he was scared you might slip from beneath his fingertips. This feeling was becoming too known to you, too comfortable. It felt too right.

He pulled away, placing his forehead on yours with intention, “I love you, ner sarad’ika”

Your breath was knocked from you upon hearing the words, and you couldn’t help the way your mouth stretched into a tentative grin. You advanced forwards and pressed a more chaste kiss to his lips, and felt him smile back against you. Something about it set your heart fluttering more than anything before. Wolffe still held you, a hand flat against your back to keep you close, where the other held your jaw.

He ran his thumb over your bottom lip as he regarded you, speaking softly, “you have such a pretty smile”

A heat crept up your neck even now, after everything that had happened. Though soon, it began to transform in its meaning. Your smile faded, tears collecting in your waterline once more, and the heat burned at your collar uncomfortably. You didn’t cry as you had before, but the tears fell freely all the same.

Wolffe sighed, wiping them away with a disapproving shake of his head, “I said not to trouble yourself over me”

Your lips twisted with doubt, “you deserve so much more than this, Wolffe”

“It’s not about what I deserve” he reasoned, “it’s what I want”

“But I can’t give you anything”

“I don’t need anything”

You deflated with a huff, “it’s a lot more complicated than you’re making it out to be”

“I disagree” he mused, pressing a kiss to each cheek to collect the remnants of your tears, “I love you, and for maker knows why, you love me. I think that is all that’s important”

You pressed your lips together to stop them from shaking as you felt yourself welling up again, but Wolffe was all too quick to swoop in.

“We’ll figure it out” he promised, “together”

Looking up at him through teary eyes, you found your lips twitching upwards, “together”

The word was a comfort. Neither of you would have to navigate the struggle in isolation, you would support each other.

Wolffe nodded against you, and took your hands in his. You only realised now how they were shaking, and he pressed his forehead into yours with more purpose, peering deeply into your eyes as if he were looking upon your very soul.

“Come lie with me, let me hold you”

Your brow pinched, and you nodded your head in reply. He tugged you over to your cot gently and laid you down in the soft sheets, then stripped himself of his armour to lay beside you.

No more words were exchanged that night, for everything had already been said. His body was warm against yours, and though it didn’t magically lull you to sleep immediately, it was an undeniable comfort. Wolffe fell into unconsciousness before you did, his arms still wrapped tightly around you. Watching him rest calmed your mind. It gave you faith that any hardship the two of you faced going forward would be worth it. He was worth it.

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Tysm for the response! Here is request!

(Platonic) Rex X 11-12yr Padawan Reader

The reader is detrimentally injured during a join mission with the 501st, and bleeding out severely. They begin to have a panic attack, which only adds to the pain, and dampens everything. Rex stumbles upon them and is quick to act! However- with limited medicinal knowledge, and a panicking padawan, he can only pray Kix get here in time, and offer kind words and promises to the child.

tysm!!

Promise of Tomorrow: Platonic! Rex x Padawan! Reader

-this is such an angsty prompt, I love it

-was going to give this a bad ending in tragedy, but changed my mind since I wasn't sure if you'd want that route

-enjoy and don't forget to reblog!

The icy chill of night sent shivers down your spine. If not for the growing pains in your side, you would have laughed and made a joke about spooky dancing skeletons. Stars glimmered in the navy sky, an abyss of infinity that reminded you of the pulling ache of the Force.

Stars, did your body hurt. You wondered how long you had laid in the overgrown grass for. An hour? Two? The ambush took you by surprise when it shouldn't have, threw you off balance when you should have had two feet planted firmly in the ground.

Where was your Master? Anakin promised he'd be only five miles to the east, a little ways away from the breath of civilisation. He promised to RV with you in this exact spot two hours ago, right where your squad had been massacred at the hands of Count Dooku.

The world seemed to spin the longer you stared at the black of night. Spots danced in your vision, little specs that made your empty stomach churn and gush with nausea. You heaved in a short breath, throat constricting as if a snake had wrapped around your windpipe.

No, no, it had been over two hours hadn't it? The sun set around seven thirty-eight, and the sun had already risen halfway across the sky. That meant...that meant you had been laying here in a pool of your own blood for at least three to four hours.

Were you going to die? The knife embedded in your side had viciously been ripped from your flesh the moment you attempted to run with the last of your men and your life. It was a smart decision on Dooku's account--to have Anakin Skywalker's little padawan bleed out in a field of dead bodies.

Surely, that would leave a wound upon history itself. A tear that could never be mended throughout the Order. After all, your Master was dubbed as 'The Chosen One', was he not?

A dry cough slipped past your lips and you tried not to choke on the irony flavour of blood. It trickled past your lips in little droplets, tiny beads of red that stained your skin crimson.

This was it. This was so it. Your chest began to heave, up and down, up and down. No matter how hard you wanted to trust in the Force and all your teachings instilled by the Jedi of the past, your mind could not focus on the balance resting on your shoulders.

Your breath caught in your throat and you felt it constrict where you lay in the grass, staring at the bodies around you. The only surviving men had gone off to find help with barely their lives in tact, but you feared it was too late.

The scale was sure to tip because you were bleeding out, and the pain in your side only numbed to nothing. Nothing. Oh, didn't that mean you were losing too much blood? Too much strength?

How could you even slur out a cry for help to your comm when your dry lips sealed themselves shut? The cracked skin ached just a bit, but not as much as the burning fact that death was much too near for comfort.

Your breath hitched impossibly tight. Breathe. Breathe. Why couldn't you breathe? Speak? Scream? All that filled your ears was the rush of blood and the heavy sound of your strangled cries.

You were dying. You were dying and all alone.

Master Skywalker. Oh, how you prayed for him to hear your pleas, your cries, the tears that burned your blurry vision with salty fluids. Breathe, you reminded. Breathe!

Yet no breath escaped your lips, no oxygen entered your lungs. Breathe. Breathe--

"Commander!"

A faint pair of footsteps echoed through the fog of your dulled mind. You wondered why the voice sounded so familiar, and why it called out to your heart with warmth.

"You have to stay with me!"

The panicked expression on the boy's face made your senses reel in. His name--you knew it, right? It started with an f? No, no. An 'r'. His name...his name was Rex.

You blinked languidly, a dumb sort of realisation dawning on you as you heaved and heaved. Wow, was it always this hard to think? It must be the blood and the way your throat kept closing. Or maybe the blurry dots spanning your vision as you faded into the abyss of a cold, meaningless death--

"Stay with me!" cried Rex. He lifted an arm and you vaguely registered it as his comm. A voice came from the other end, but you couldn't quite register it as he  began to shout aggressively. The mixture of angry sounds, the movement of his lips, fell on deaf ears.

All you heard was the ragged sound of your strangled breathing.

It was as if the world had come to a slow stop. The rush of adrenaline, the swaying of overgrown grass, the silence of only death beside you.

"R-Rex," --you wildly met his eyes-- "h..help." A part of you almost wanted to laugh at the stupidity of such a plea.

Help?

How could he help if your throat wasn't working to deliver the oxygen to your lungs?

Help...?

How could he help when he wasn't a medic?

Much less Kix?

You continued to heave, tears blurring your vision. You didn’t want to die. Not yet and not now. Your squad had given their lives beside you, how cruel would it be for their sacrifices to be in vain?

You thought back to your days in the Temple as a mere Youngling, the evenings when sun leaked through the window panes in golden arcs above your head. It had always been warm in the Temple. Comforting. You wondered if it would have been better to live your life as a specialist in medicine for the Order, or as a harvester of plants.

Anything...anything but this, right? Anything but that aching pain in your chest and that lingering chill of death over your shoulder.

Rex’s lips kept moving. Sound slowly fell into the atmosphere, little droplets that hit your ears like a waterfall. You sensed his urgency, his own pain that flooded his honest heart. You couldn’t die in his arms, not him. Not when he was your best friend, your companion.

“Stay with me!” he pleaded. “You’re gonna make it, I promise.” You would have shaken your head if you could. What kind of lie was he telling you?

Tears ran down your cheeks as you chocked out a jumble of words. A familiar mantra filled your head (I am one with the Force and the Force is with me), one you focused on in order to be with Rex. Your friend. It was all you could offer when fear clouded your mind and death rang true.

“I...I’m going to die.” you stammered between breaths. “I-I’m sorry. I-I’m s-so sorr...sorry.” Rex firmly took your hand in his and gave it a squeeze. In your mind, you heard the memories rushing into his head, the anguish of all the death he faced. “You are not going to die.” he affirmed. “You are not going to die!”

“R-Rex...” You shook your head with a chocked sob. “I-I failed my...my Master and my s-squad...I failed...I failed as a Jedi...”

He only squeezed your hand harder. Held you a little tighter. “No, you did not. If that were true, then you would have already died. I know how close you were to your squad, and I know they would want to see you live. I saw them on the way here, they're going to get Kix and he'll patch you right up, understood?”

All you sensed from his heart was the burn of determination and the fierce beating of loyalty. He would not leave your side, nor would he accept your words even if it were with your dying breath. To him, and to him alone, you were always admirable.

Special, he had once said.

And whatever that meant shouldn’t really matter, right? Even if determination were not enough to keep you alive, you began to wonder, trust. Maybe...Rex was right. He wouldn’t lie to you. He wouldn’t.

With those firm hands, Rex dabbed away your tears. “You’re going to be okay, understood, Commander? You will not die. Not on my watch.”

To Rex, you were special. Not because you were a Jedi or because you were practically a child soldier, but because you were you. In the last moments of the  battle with your squad, you were willing to give your life to fight alongside them.

Still, you couldn’t believe that last bit--the part of him thinking you as ‘special’. For Rex, your friend, your confidant, your companion, held tight to the promise of tomorrow. That piece of determined belief left you gripping tight to life.

Tight to words that rang true in your heart. You shut your eyes, focusing on the pull of the Force. Its calm was just out of your reach, barely a hair's away as you grasped and seized it.

I am one with the Force, you thought. And the Force is with me.

Your breaths began to steady into a calm, where not even the heaviest rains could stir your ocean. The breath slowly returned to your body as you focused on the Force, the warmth of Rex's hand as he kept a firm grasp.

"You're not dying," he affirmed once again. "Not on my watch, Commander." And there was a sureness to his voice that made his words nothing but truth.

The buzz of a speeder cut through the night air, where blades of grass bowed down as a group of men raced over with a med kit. You didn't need to look over to know Kix was amongst them, ordering the remnants of your squad to check for any survivors.

And as Kix knelt before you and got to work, you had a feeling everything would be okay. "Rex," you croaked. "You're not leaving yet, right?"

Rex gave your hand a firm squeeze with a shake of his head. "No, Commander. I'll be right by your side."

There was nothing truer than hearing Rex's voice. Your eyes fluttered shut and you muttered out a small 'okay'. The oceans of calm in your heart continued to remain still, where even the smallest of boats could cross the seas unharmed.

You were in good hands, and for that, there would always be a promise of tomorrow.

You Don't Want Me

Summary: In a world where the majority of people are split into Alphas or Omegas, you’re one of the small portion of the population who isn’t either. You’ve long since come to terms with the fact that you’re never going to have a romantic partner, and you’re, mostly, fine with it. You just wish that your neighbor would stop flirting with you.

Pairing: TBB Crosshair x F! Reader

Word Count: 1384

Warnings: A/B/O but it's not smut, I'm just playing around in the setting. Technically the reader could be read as GN but I put them in a sundress.

A/N: So I had an idea, and this was born. I hope people like it, lol

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“Well now, don’t you look pretty today,”

You roll your eyes as the familiar voice of your neighbor reaches your ears. “Thanks, I guess.”

Crosshair grins at you, rolling his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, “You’re welcome,” You ignore the way his eyes flicker down your body with practiced ease, “You got a hot date today or something?”

“All this because I’m wearing a sundress? No, Crosshair. I don’t date, you know that.” You straighten from where you had been messing with one of your planters, “Not that it is any of your business if I go on a date or not.”

His grin widens, “I’m just looking out for you. People are scum, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah.” You squint at him, “Is there a reason you’re hanging out in my backyard?”

He shrugs, “We have a shared backyard, neighbor. You don’t like it, put up some fences.”

You huff out an exasperated laugh, and shake your head, “You know, someday you’re going to find an omega who’s going to be really annoyed with how obsessed you are with me.”

He pauses, his long fingers absently tapping his thigh, and then he smirks, “Nah.”

“Nah? The fuck you mean ‘nah’?”

Crosshair, like all of his brothers, is an alpha. Alphas partner up with omegas. Its what they do. Something about pheromones and hormones and biology. You’re not really sure.

You never had to learn because you don’t have any of those characteristics.

Scientists, and doctors, call people like you Mu. Halfway between an Alpha and an Omega. In the end, all it means is that you’re a freak.

But you’re fine with it. You have to be. What other choice do you have?

“Having an omega is way too much work, have you heard how Tech’s girl whines for him? Like, all of the time. I’m surprised Hunter hasn’t killed her. Even I find her voice grating.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to talk about your sister-in-law like that?”

“Meh. She already hates me, it’s not like she can hate me more.” He crosses your backyard to peer over your shoulder at your garden, “Your herbs look like they’re coming in nice.”

You’re slightly surprised by the topic change, but you go along with it happily, “Yeah! I was worried because the sage did so poorly last year, but I must have gotten the soil PH right this year.”

You turn to look up at Crosshair, and your smile falters when you see the look on his face. It’s a soft look, with a small affectionate smile that smooths out the harsh lines of his face into something gentler.

It’s a look Crosshair directs towards you regularly, and it’s a look that never fails to make you blush. And today is no exception, as you hurriedly spin away from him to check your other planter before he notices the effect he has on you.

And, as ever, he releases a quiet chuckle that gives you goosebumps.

“What else do you have growing?” Crosshair asks, his breath warm against your ear. He’s close enough that you can feel him pressed against your back.

It really isn’t fair that he keeps doing this to you. He’s an alpha and he knows you’re not an omega. He’s just being cruel for the hell of it, you suppose.

“Um…” You step away from him slightly, grateful and disappointed when he doesn’t follow you, “Tomatoes, broccoli, and a couple of other herbs. I have hot peppers growing in the other planter over there.”

“I’ll have to remember to mention that to Wrecker when it comes time for the harvest,” Crosshair mutters, “He’s always complaining about how expensive peppers are.”

“Well, I’m happy to share. I always have too many anyway.”

You glance away from him and lean over to check on one of your tomato plants, only to squeak and jump when you feel his finger drag up your spine from the small of your back.

You spin around to stare at him, your eyes wide. His fingers, which had been resting comfortably on the back of your neck, now sit right over the pulse point on your throat, and he looks at you like the cat that caught the canary.

“Um...what…?” You try to take a step back but you’re so close to your planter that you don’t have anywhere to go, and when you try you almost lose your balance, so Crosshair has to hurriedly wrap his free hand around your waist to keep you steady.

“Why do you keep running from me? Am I that intimidating to you?”

“No, that’s not—,” You trail off, you can feel your heart racing from nerves, and you know he can feel it too.

“Then what’s the problem?” He carefully maneuvers you and walks you back until your back bumps against the cool material of your home, “I’m not blind or stupid, I can see how you look at me.”

“That’s—“

“—and I can feel how your heart is racing now that I’m touching you. You’re clearly attracted to me, and yet, every time, you run away. Why?”

“I’m not an omega.” You blurt, “I...You—“

He scoffs, “I told you. I have no interest in having an omega.”

“Sure, you say that now, but—“

His eyes narrow at you, “But what? You think I’m the kind of man who would let my hormones control me?”

You don’t have an answer to that, because the truth is, in your experience, all alphas are. Example 1? Your former boyfriend who cheated on you as soon as he ran into an omega in heat.

You don’t have to answer, your silence is answer enough, and he scoffs again. “You do. What kind of shitty alphas have you been around, pretty?”

“That’s not...he couldn’t help his nature…” You trail off, not sure why you’re defending your ex.

“No. He’s just a shitty guy who used his hormones as an excuse to be a dick to you.” Crosshair leans in to press his face into your hair, “Fuck, you smell so good. Like sunshine and the beach—“

“...I’m sorry?”

“That was a compliment, pretty. You smell so much better.”

You feel like there’s a part of this conversation that you missed, but you don’t want to ask him for clarification, not when he’s pressed against you like this. Not when you can feel his lips on the shell of your ear.

But, you do make one, final, attempt to dissuade him from this. “Cross...I’m pretty sure that you don’t want me—“

You’re not able to finish your sentence as he pulls away and pins you in place with a severe look, “You don’t get to decide what, or who, I want.”

You shoot him a doubtful look.

“Fine, let me speak plainly then. I want you. Only you. Since the day we met.” His words make heat rush to your face, and you want to avert your gaze, but he won’t let you look away, “I have no interest in the drama that comes with partnering with an omega. And, to be completely frank, the scent of omega pheromones gives me a migraine.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” He bumps his forehead against yours, “So, give me a chance?”

You stare at him, your heart in your throat.

This has the potential to go so wrong. And you know, in the same way you know the sun will rise in the morning, that if it does, you’re going to be the one hurt. Again.

But you want to trust Crosshair.

And you’re so tired of being alone all the time.

So, even though fear and uncertainty have you in a vice grip, you don’t stop yourself from reaching up and wrapping your arms around his neck. And your actions are rewarded with a look of pleasure.

“So?” Crosshair asks.

“If you break my heart,” You warn him, “I’ll find some way to make your life miserable.”

“Noted.” He bumps his nose against yours, “I’m going to kiss you now.”

“Yes, please.”

And then his lips are against yours and it’s not perfect. It’s a little awkward and a little clumsy, and your teeth knock together. But you wouldn’t change it for anything in the galaxy.

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venus; chapter seven; text

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taglist

note: also kinda short im sorry 😔 but i just wanna divide up the chapters where it makes sense to me and for the story, but hey, we got some yn and sakusa interactions (finally)

taglist: @lorisheaven @sugacor3 @laceythespacey @localgaytrainwreck @nobodybutnnoorr @meoqs @scoupsworld @matt444nixi @ncitygreen @evilari111 @supahumbreon @bub-ss @0ragnej0e @deadfish714 @snoowply @yessimo @pelicanpizza @jiminscarmex @swagkittybear @vi0let-writes @tyrantsmonarchy @softtashoney (if ur name is bolded and italisized i cannot tag you pls change ur settings)

Getting fucked at your parents house filled with your cousins and unless and aunts on Halloween. FemReader is roaming around in short skirt, showing their ass to Simon every now and then. Readers mom sends her to get the table from the backyard, but Simon lurks behind her. Ofc her cousins are jaw opened watching them, reader getting plowed on the table. Later her mom asks what took so long.

HEHEHEHE👹👹👹👹👹👹👹👹😈😈😈😈😈

PLEASE PLEASE JUST DO THIS ONE. IMMMA LOVE AND CRY

OH MY.... OKAY ILL TRY TY FOR THE ASK CYBER!

It was a warm Halloween evening, there were kids running around, parents yelling for their kids to slow down and your family was setting up a nice candy bar in the front yard for parents and children to snack on!

You were wearing a short nurse cosplay, your cleavage visible and the bottom of your ass peeking out of your skirt.

Simon, being the friendly neighbour he is, came over to you and handed you a bowl of... licorice..?

"Got candy for the kids." He said in a gruff but friendly tone, the stubble on his face making the sharpness of his jawline stand out.

"Oh!... thank you Mr. Riley!" You cheered, a smile plastered on your pretty face.

He nodded, and you walked over to the snack bar with your bowl of licorice and set it down, Meanwhile Simon's gaze never left your pert ass.

A few hours later the snack bar got so filled up your mother sent you to get more tables from the backyard, When Simon noticed you grabbing tables he walked over and stood behind you, placing his big hands on the soft fat of your hips, making you look over your shoulder and up at him.

"Y'need help, bird?" He said, a low husky tone creeping up into his voice which made your cunt suddenly clench involuntarily.

You stuttered a bit before he grinned and bit the curve of your neck softly, causing you to arch and moan, pressing your ass against his thigh.

"Needy girl. All I did was bite and now you're pressing yourself on me like a dirty slag." He growled.

You whined and pressed yourself harder against him before he flipped you onto your back and layed you down on the table in the backyard, spreading your thighs and running a thick calloused finger through your soaked panties.

You gasped and shuddered, the feeling of his finger on your soft, wet cunt better than your own.

You then heard a belt buckle being opened and a zipper before he pulled his thick veiny cock out, a thick vein going down the middle and the tip an angry purple.

"Look what y' do t'me ye dirty slag. Pretty girl all dolled up f'me, makin' me hard n' leavin me desperate." He growled into the side of your neck before he bit your earlobe, making you shudder and gasp.

He slowly pulled your panties to the side and rubbed his fat cock along your slit, using your slick to lube his cock up.

It felt divine.

His muscular rugged body above you, when he slowly starts to push in, making you clench and cry out, grabbing his soft belly before he stopped, holding your hips and cooing at you.

"S'alright pretty... y'r doin' so well f'me, you'll take it yeah? Be a good girl and take it?" He cooed at you, rubbing your hip with his thumb as he keeps pushing in, watching the bulge under your tight costume appear on your belly.

You gasped and arched, throwing your head back and curling your toes in pleasure, your head swimming and his cock making you see stars. It's so fucking long. And thick. It never ends.

You look back down to see just the head is in, your eyes widen.

"M-Mr. Riley.. please... s'too big for me.." You whine, clenching harder as he attempts to push in more.

He shushes you by kissing you, his mouth crashing against yours.

He keeps pushing in until he bottoms out, his balls resting nicely against your ass, before he groans and slowly starts thrusting, slow at first before getting his rhythm and jack hammering his cock into your cervix, bruising it while giving you pleasure.

He clamps a hand over your mouth to keep you quiet while he grits his teeth, your cunt keeping on sucking him in.

His balls churn and draw up tighter to his body with each harsh thrust into your cunt, every hit to your cervix makes you see starts and his fat cock stretches you open in a delicious painful way that you can't help but get addicted to.

He thrusts a bit harder before he slams into you one more time, emptying his thick load inside of you with groan, his hand slipping from your mouth as you shudder and cum around his cock before he pulls out.

Both of you are sweaty and panting before he chuckles and zips himself back up, slipping your panties back onto your trembling, drooling frame.

"Cmon sweet girl, we gotta go back." You nodded in reply, getting up and wobbling a bit before he chuckled again and grabbed the table, throwing you over his shoulder and brought you back to the life of the party, where you both continued to have fun into the night.

[Please reblog!! Thank you!]

SWEET DREAM

< osamu miya x reader >

Summary: Being a manager for the Inazarki volleyball club wasn't easy, especially dealing with their chaos. They had made great friends because of it and had caught some attention as well, especially from Miya Osamu. For him, having a crush on the manager isn't ideal but it wasn't anything that he can control. The worst thing about it, watching your crush already be in a relationship with your teammate.

Genre: friends to lovers, angst, drama, fluff

Warnings: Swearing, yelling, teasing, suggestive themes.

Tags: open

CHAPTER TEN

<chapter nine || materlist || chapter eleven>

▪︎___________°••>>>*<<<••°___________▪︎

▪︎___________°••>>>*<<<••°___________▪︎

< taglist > @sproutytoad @grimespial @saturns-satellites @meekydeeks

venus; chapter six; still missing

masterlist

taglist

note: ik this chapter is so short but i promise the next one will be longer

taglist: @lorisheaven @sugacor3 @laceythespacey @localgaytrainwreck @nobodybutnnoorr @meoqs @scoupsworld @matt444nixi @ncitygreen @evilari111 @supahumbreon @bub-ss @0ragnej0e @deadfish714 @snoowply @yessimo @pelicanpizza @jiminscarmex @swagkittybear @vi0let-writes @tyrantsmonarchy @softtashoney (if ur name is bolded and italisized i cannot tag you pls change ur settings)

RETURN TO SENDER | simon riley

It was a joke. A letter to a criminal—UK's most wanted. You told him he was hot. Told him you were a virgin. Left your address, because it’s not like he’d ever get out, right?

✉ 2K FOLLOWER SPECIAL .ᐟ | [ AO3 ]

18+ AU, DUBCON, fem!reader, takes place in the UK, porn with plot, pathetic!reader, harddom!simon, asshole!simon, implied stalking, (morally irredeemable) pining, oral (f receiving), shit-ton of degradation, praise if you use a magnifying glass, virginity kink, pussy pronouns, pussy & face slapping, dacryphilia, unprotected sex [ 10.2k words ]

Who knew working at Tesco would be such a fucking nightmare?

 It’s almost absurd how people can forget how to use their brains the second they step through the automatic doors. It’s a massive store, but you’ve come to believe that its sheer scale only amplifies some customers’ overwhelming stupidity. 

You find yourself watching, day in and day out, as people stumble over the easiest parts of shopping, like scanning a barcode or finding the right aisle despite the sign above their heads. It’d be laughable if it wasn’t so damn frustrating. You can’t even afford the luxury of venting because you're stuck behind the register, forced to plaster on a fake smile, nodding while they hold up the line, your eye twitching as you answer the same question for the umpteenth time in 30 minutes.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of gritted teeth and hollow patience, your shift comes to an end. The relief is brief, but it’s there, at least. You drag yourself out of the store, shoulders slumped under the weight of the day. The commute home isn’t any prettier, but it’s a kind of mindless ritual that’s grown familiar over time—20 minutes on the train, crammed between strangers who are just as exhausted, just as done with the grind. The train lurches and hums beneath you, a rhythmic noise that almost lets you forget the stress. But you’re too far gone for that kind of escape, your mind still whirling with all the things you’ve had to swallow throughout the day.

The train empties as the sun sinks below the horizon, each stop peeling away another layer of the late afternoon crowd. You finally step off the train at the final stop, the air crisper than when you left for work nearly 11 hours ago. The walk home is short, but it’s long enough for your legs to remind you that you’ve been standing for hours. Ten long minutes to your flat, a familiar route that feels both comforting and suffocating in its monotony. 

After walking down some quiet streets, past some sketchy alleyways, you finally reach your tiny one-bedroom flat. It’s tucked just outside Bromley, and it’s small, not much at all, but it’s enough. It’s the kind of space that suffocates you some days and feels like a sanctuary on others. You push your key into the lock and push the door open. You kick your shoes off and they thud as they hit the floor, echoing through your small flat. You hang your keys on the singular hook you stuck on the wall, barely noticing the clink of them settling into place. 

This is what most days look like for you: wake up, subject yourself to a long, draining shift, then return home to an empty flat and an even emptier fridge. It's a routine that feels as hollow as the flat itself. The days fly by in a boring cycle of work, silence, and the echo of things you thought you’d left behind when you took the leap and moved out.

After college, you made it a point to leave your parents’ house. You couldn’t stay in the nest anymore, not when you so strongly believed there was something better waiting out there. You had to prove you could stand on your own, that you didn’t need the constant supervision or the suffocating presence of a family that just didn’t get it. 

Honestly, who could? Who could stay locked in a house that felt less like a home and more like a cage? College had been the escape you’d craved, the independence you had  always wanted. You dove in headfirst, joining club after club, meeting all kinds of people, each one with their own story, a sort of authenticity that people in high school never had.

In college, one of the many things you got involved in was Vets Club, which wrote letters to veterans, thanking them for their service. It was a simple thing, but there was something about it that felt right. You’d write a few lines of gratitude, nothing big, just a small act of kindness. And sometimes, you’d get a letter back. The responses were always the same—surprised and grateful that someone even bothered to take the time. It never felt like much, but it always made you feel good, knowing you could brighten someone's day just by saying thank you.

But now, when you’re standing in your tiny flat, staring at a barren fridge that only houses a bottle of wine and some leftover takeaway containers, you wonder if wasting your time on asinine things like that were worth it. 

You’re having a… Well, a hard time, to put it kindly. The kind of time where nothing seems to go your way, and you can't quite shake the feeling that maybe you made some wrong choices. All of your college friends? They're out there, living it up, traveling the world, landing glamorous careers, posting photos of sunsets in Bali and dinners at places with names you can’t pronounce. They’re thriving, but you’re stuck here, watching their highlight reels on social media while your own life feels like it’s paused on a loop of dead-end shifts and lonely nights.

You had big dreams once. You convinced yourself that an art history degree was going to be the key to something meaningful, something that would set you apart. Now, though? Now, you can barely find work, and the opportunities that do pop up feel like they’re beyond you in all shapes and forms.

Rent and bills are manageable, but manageable doesn’t mean easy. To you, it means scraping by, choosing between a decent meal or keeping the lights on for another month.

Your parents help sometimes, covering the electricity bill here and there, but you’d rather die than let them know how bad it really is. You don’t need their pity, their unsolicited advice, or the smug ‘I told you so’ about picking a more practical degree. No matter how deep you’re sinking, you’ll claw your way up alone. It’s not pride, it’s survival. You’ve always done it yourself, it’s just easier that way. 

And the real kicker? The cherry on top of this already pathetic sundae? You’re a fucking virgin. No one to warm your bed, keep you company. Mid-twenties and untouched, while your friends from high school are already posting pictures of shiny rings and baby-bumps. Like struggling to stay afloat wasn’t humiliating enough, you’re also trailing behind in the one thing that’s supposed to have happened already.

You’ve had chances—plenty of chances—but every time, you freeze. The pressure, the vulnerability, and the fear of not measuring up always make you bail.

Not that you’re a prude. You’ve done everything but. Had shitty oral a few times, given it even more. And if the guy’s screaming was anything to go by, you were either naturally good at it or he was just being dramatic. Either way, it was a fleeting moment of triumph in an otherwise awkward, unremarkable sex life, not quite the high point you’d imagined, but in your world of half-hearted hookups and ‘almosts,’ it was something. Proof you weren’t completely out of your depth.

Not that it really mattered.

You shut the fridge and turn to open the cabinet with the same lack of enthusiasm that’s come to define your evenings alone. Peanut butter and jelly, quick, mindless, barely even a choice. You spread the peanut butter, then the jelly, the motion mechanical, just something to fill the silence. The takeout leftovers can last till tomorrow.

You pad over to and collapse on your second-hand couch, the cushions sighing under your weight, and pull your legs beneath you. You grab your phone out of your pocket, thumb idly swiping up to unlock it. The screen lights up, and for a moment, you just stare at it. An infant-sized handful of notifications blink back at you—an automated bill reminder, a news alert you’ll ignore, a lone text from your mom checking in. That’s it. No stream of messages, no flood of tagged posts or party invites. Just a near-empty notification bar, silent in its own damning way.

With a sigh, you lock your phone and toss it aside, letting it land somewhere on the cushion beside you. No one’s waiting for you to reply anyway.  Instead, you grab the remote and flick on the TV. The screen blinks to life and you skim through a few channels, the lowest-tier cable offering not much more than black-and-white novellas and the news. You settle for the latter, knowing it won’t add much to your day, but it’ll at least fill the space with noise.

The pretty woman on the screen drones on about politics and stocks, things you don’t have the capacity to care for. You nibble at your sandwich, half-listening as the segment shifts. The soft murmur of the newscaster is background noise until something catches your ear, an undercurrent of excitement creeping into her voice as she announces a breaking story. Your attention sharpens as she mentions a supposed notorious figure, someone whose name apparently carries weight in the world of crime.

A man known only as Ghost. No full name, no history, just a shadow stitched together by word of mouth and grainy security footage. The anchor’s voice is steady as she rattles off his crimes. High-profile armed robberies that bled banks dry, embezzlement schemes that unraveled entire corporations, and a trail of bodies left in the wake of meticulously executed mob hits.

It’s the kind of name you’d expect to hear on the news, or in the underbelly of the city where crime festers unchecked. A name spoken with a mix of fear and reverence, as if he was more myth than man.

And yet, despite knowing nothing about him beyond what you've learned in the last 5 minutes of the broadcast, the sight of him on your TV—towering, masked,—hits you in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Intrigue coils in your stomach, but you can’t fight the way he unsettles you.

He’s been arrested. The news anchor’s voice carries the weight of the revelation, the story intensifying with every word. After years on the run, the law has finally caught up with him. Ghost—a ghost no longer—is now locked away in the High-Security Unit of Belmarsh, one of southeast London’s most formidable prisons, home to terrorists, murderers, and just the worst of the worst.

You stare at the screen, the words sinking in as you take another slow bite of your PB&J. There’s a strange sort of chill that runs through you, not from familiarity but from the sheer presence of the large man on the screen, as if he’s in the very room you’re sitting in. The news anchor’s voice drones on, but you’re already lost in thought.

You think back to Vets Club, remembering how the club would sometimes send letters to other people—petty criminals who were locked up for minor counts of drug possession, vandalism, or shoplifting. Stupid shit. At first, it seemed odd, but the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. Why not offer a little kindness to anyone that needs a pick-me-up? They didn’t have to be war heroes. 

As long as they didn’t kill anyone—or anything. 

So just like the veterans, you guys would send letters. And just like the veterans, you'd sometimes get a reply, a genuine thank you, as if the fact that someone cared enough to reach out made a difference. It was just about being human, about showing some kindness when so much of the world felt cold.

You never wrote to someone like Ghost before. Not someone so... bad. Not someone whose reputation is so undeniably, explicitly rotten. Someone who, many would argue, is explicitly undeserving of such kindness. 

You snap back to reality, and his figure dominates the screen—broad shoulders, large muscles even under the clothing, the kind of man who demands attention.  The CCTV footage is grainy, a mere screen capture from a longer video plastered on the TV for your viewing pleasure

His face is masked with a skull-patterned balaclava, the fabric stretched taut over his facial features, distorting the skeletal design just enough to make it seem like the grinning visage is shifting with every movement, angular lines that give him an almost inhuman quality—like a wraith lurking in the dark. 

He’s swathed in black from head to toe, the fabric of his dark jacket and and even darker pants absorbing the dim light, making him one with the shadows that cling to every surface around him. Each step is silent, calculated, his presence more of a feeling than a sight—an omen in the periphery, waiting.

It’s strangely captivating, the way he looms, the way the static buzz of the television makes it feel like he could crawl through the screen at any second, like that stupid Ring movie. You sort of wish he would. 

His image lingers, burned into the LEDs of your TV, burned into your mind. You’re not sure why it catches you the way it does, but you can’t look away. Something about him—his sheer presence, even through a screen—snags at your curiosity like a loose thread begging to be pulled, a sweater unfurled into a heap of yarn. God you’re so lonely.

Your mind drifts as your fingers move almost instinctively. A few quick Google searches lead you down a steep rabbit hole, a litany of news reports covering crimes that stretch back years. No one has seemed to figure out his real name, no verifiable background. Alleged military ties, some say, possibly ex-special forces. Others insist he was born into the criminal underworld, raised by it, shaped by it, an enforcer forged in violence.

Though nothing could be determined for sure, most of the reports agree on one thing for certain: he was methodical, precise, and had an undeniable dedication and passion for his craft. You presumed that’s what made him a terrorist-level threat.

Then you stumble upon another fact—and you pause. Belmarsh Prison, his current home, isn’t even that far. Just a thirty-minute drive from your flat.

That should be alarming, but the thought sinks in your mind like a stone dropped into a well. For a second, the dull, predictable rhythm of your life feels disrupted—a ripple in reality, as if you've slipped into some parallel version of your life, one that isn’t just last night’s leftovers and tomorrow's 10-hour shift.

For the first time in a long while, you feel a flicker of excitement. It makes your life feel a little less dull, like something unexpected, something outside the ordinary routine, has just entered your world. Maybe you could write him a letter—

—No. What the fuck? That’s insane. He’s killed people, and you want to send him a letter? 

…

You decide to send him a letter. 

It’s not like you’re his number one fan—or a fan at all, for that matter. Plus, the chances of him even reading it are slim to none, he’s probably buried under piles of letters that sound just like the ones you used to write, if not worse.

It’s just a letter. You’re not looking for anything in return. You’ll write to him, then move on, because why not? It’s not about trying to change him or sympathizing with him, it’s just... kindness. 

Your half-eaten sandwich is abandoned on the coffee table, forgotten the moment the thought takes root. You push yourself up from the couch. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you move down the narrow hall and toward your bedroom, each step fueled by something you don’t care to name—excitement, recklessness, boredom, maybe all three twisted together.

Your bedroom is dim and poorly lit by your bedside lamp. The air feels alive, the window cracked open, allowing the evening breeze to slip through and blow through the room. The curtains sway with it, shifting shadows across the walls, fleeting and fluid, much like the thoughts in mind.

You reach for an old journal tucked away in your bedside table, its spine softened by years of thumbing through its pages. The cover, once smooth, is now rough with wear, smudged with time and old ink stains. As you flip through, the pages crackle—thin, fragile things filled with half-formed ideas and late-night ramblings from high school.

You find a blank page and grab a pen from the bedside table, its weight familiar, and grounding, and shift into a cross-legged seat on your bed. The mattress dips beneath you, the duvet stretching with the movement. 

For a moment, you hesitate. What do you even say to someone like him? 

You reason with yourself that if he’s unlikely to even read the letter, then it doesn’t matter. You don’t expect anything to come of it, but the thought of sending a message feels like the most fun you’ve had in years.

You press the pen to the paper. 

‘Dear Big Bad Ghost,’ 

A quiet giggle escapes you at that, the kind that bubbles up when you know you’re doing something absolutely stupid. But really, what’s the harm? You have nothing to lose, no reputation at stake, and no consequences beyond a letter that will likely end up thrown in a trashcan. You might as well have some fun with it. A little tongue-in-cheek humor never hurt anyone.

Your pen glides across the paper, words spilling faster than you can second-guess them. You tell him how you found out about him, how you saw his face flash across your TV screen, how his name is spoken like an urban legend on the news channels. And—because there’s no point in pretending otherwise—you admit the truth outright: you thought he was hot, because—let’s be honest—you wouldn’t be doing something this rash if he wasn’t (you make sure to write that, too).

You just keep going. You tell him you’re 24, impossibly lonely and still a virgin, stuck working at Tesco with the worst coworkers possible, with little excitement in your life. You’re sure you’ve painted yourself as painfully average, definitely the most boring woman on the planet, though you wonder if that in itself might intrigue him. Or maybe he won’t care at all. Either way, the words are already there, ink drying on the page.

You tell him that if this were happening back in the States, they’d have slapped him with a RICO charge so fast he’d get whiplash—but lucky for him, he’s dealing with the UK’s legal system instead. A small mercy, though not much of one.

Your pen barely lifts from the paper as you continue. If he ever gets out, you tell him, your door is open for a ‘good time’. You underline it for emphasis, like a wink through the page, though you’re quick to add that, realistically, you’re sure he’ll be locked up for life.

Still, you suppose, even the worst criminals must get bored. Maybe he’ll want a pen pal to entertain him for the rest of his days.

You sit back, tapping the pen against your chin as you reread the letter. It’s ridiculous, a tad insane, but the thrill of it makes your stomach buzz. Some prison guard will probably skim it, roll their eyes, and toss it straight into the bin.

But still…

 You scrawl your name at the bottom and the moment the ink dries, you tear the page from your journal, fold it neatly, and slide it into an envelope. You write your address in the return section. Just in case. Your fingers hesitate at the edge, but before second thoughts can creep in, you lick the edges, the bitter taste making you wince and seal it shut.

Next thing you know, you’re sliding on some slippers, unlocking the front door, and stepping into the cool night air. The mailbox is just a few paces from your front door. The world has gone to sleep for tonight.

You reach the rusted blue box, heart hammering as you pull open the slot. The envelope feels heavier now like it carries more weight than it should. You hover there for a second longer than necessary, gripping the paper between your fingers.

And then you let it go. It’s chilling how easy it is. 

The past two weeks have passed in a blur of work, exhaustion, and the crushing weight of an uninspired routine. You’ve long since moved on from the letter. You’ve nearly forgotten about it entirely. Life doesn’t give you much room to dwell on dumb things like that—not when you spend your days dodging entitled customers and biting back the urge to commit minor acts of violence in the break room.

Today was particularly brutal. Some guy spent ten minutes arguing with you over a 5 quid price difference like it was a matter of life and death. A toddler managed to knock over an entire display of crisps while her mom scrolled through Instagram, blissfully unaware. By the time your shift ended, you felt like you’d been put through a meat grinder and then asked to clock out with a smile.

Rush hour on the train only adds insult to injury. Someone sneezes directly onto the back of your neck. Another person else eats an offensively pungent egg sandwich within arm’s reach. You spend the entire ride back gripping the overhead rail and wondering why you ever thought adulthood would be anything more than a slow, soul-draining trudge toward the grave.

By the time you finally get home, your body aches with exhaustion that seeps into your bones. You kick off your shoes, chuck your bag onto the floor, and drag yourself toward the kitchen. There’s no energy left in you for cooking, so you grab some leftover takeout from the fridge and toss it into the microwave, staring blankly at the rotating container as it whirs to life. No, it’s not the same takeout from two weeks ago. 

You settle onto the couch with your dinner, flicking through the limited selection of channels. With an eye roll, you settle on the news once more, just as a reporter’s voice cuts in, crisp and professional.

At first, you’re barely paying attention, too focused on shoveling lukewarm noodles into your mouth. But then—

BREAKING NEWS: MASS PRISON RIOT ENSUES AT BELMARSH – GHOST AT LARGE

The bold red banner streaks across the screen, sharp and urgent. Your fork stalls midway to your mouth, noodles slipping off the prongs and back into the container as your brain struggles to catch up.

The news anchor doesn’t miss a beat, her voice steady, polished, and edged with just the right amount of alarm:

“Authorities have confirmed a large-scale riot at Belmarsh Prison earlier this evening, resulting in multiple casualties and the escape of several high-profile inmates—including ‘Ghost’, who was awaiting trial for dozens of indictable offenses.”

Your stomach tightens.

Ghost might be on your doorstep and London might look like Gotham, all before dawn even breaks tomorrow.

For a moment, you simply sit there, absorbing the weight of it. You should probably be more concerned. Probably get up, lock the doors, check your windows, and maybe even send a half-hearted text to your parents that, no, you haven’t been stabbed or kidnapped yet. 

After a few more seconds you wisen up, mentally slapping yourself. Super-Mega-Criminal-Ghost has bigger problems than tracking down a random girl who sent him one dumb letter out of the hundreds you’re sure he’s gotten. You’re not special. You’re not even remotely relevant in this situation.

Your eyes lock onto the screen as aerial footage of Belmarsh fills the frame. The prison looks like something out of a videogame—thick plumes of smoke curling into the night sky, roaring flames illuminating figures in riot gear as they swarm the perimeter, floodlights sweeping across the wreckage of what was, until hours ago, one of the most secure facilities in the country. Sirens wail in the background.

Somewhere in that chaos, a man you sent a letter to—that more closely resembled a dating profile— has vanished into thin air.

You exhale, exhausted and too tired to brood on it further. Even if he did show up and break down your door, you’re sure your life couldn’t get worse, so you decide to ignore the news and reach for the remote. With a press of a button, the world of reports and fear-mongering headlines is cut off and replaced by the manufactured warmth of a sitcom.

The studio audience laughs on cue.

You force yourself to eat, to go through the motions. Take small, measured bites, as if chewing will somehow settle the restless feeling creeping up your spine. 

It doesn’t. 

When you finish the sad lump of noodles, you head to the kitchen. Dishes clink as you rinse them, your mind half-present as your body moves on autopilot. 

By the time you’ve cleaned up, the tension in your body has quieted. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. It’s just another night with one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of reasons why this city is exhausting.

You make your way to the bathroom with a sigh, shutting the door behind you. The day clings to your skin, heavy and lingering, but the promise of hot water is enough to shake off the worst of it.

You twist the shower knob. Pipes groan, then sputter, before a steady stream rushes out. You strip down, kicking your dirty clothes into the corner as steam billows, curling against the mirror until your reflection blurs.

After testing the water with your hand, you step in, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips as the warmth crashes over you. It seeps into your muscles, loosening tension you hadn’t even realized you were still holding. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as you let it pour over you.

Your body moves through the motions on autopilot. Shampoo, scrubbed into your scalp. Conditioner, combed through the ends with your fingers. The buy-one-get-one soap glides over your skin, the scent of cheap vanilla and pomegranate thick in the humid air, mingling with the steam that cocoons you. You carefully shave where necessary before the water washes everything away.

You finish your shower, stepping out into the warm fog of steam clinging to the bathroom walls. You take your towel off the hook and drag it over your skin, patting your hair just enough to keep it from dripping but not enough to fully dry it. 

Right now, all you want is to crawl into bed and pretend this night is just like any other, despite the very real fact that the London Bridge might actually go down overnight.

You don’t bother wrapping the towel around yourself. There’s no point. It’s just you here—always, unfortunately, just you. As much as you wish that wasn’t the case, there’s no reason to pretend otherwise.

Pushing open the bathroom door, steam rushes past you, rolling into the hallway like a ghost of its own. The air is cooler than usual, biting at your damp skin. A shiver rolls through you, goosebumps prickling to life as you clutch the towel tighter around yourself.

You move quickly, bare feet padding against the floor, the cool air chasing you down the hall. You shake it off, the shower was especially hot today, after all. 

Once inside your bedroom, you flick on the small lamp on your bedside table. The weak glow struggles against the shadows, barely illuminating the room beyond a soft, feeble pool of light. You sigh, staring at it for a moment. You really should invest in another one, something stronger, something that does its job—but the thought of subjecting yourself to the blinding glare of overhead lighting is unbearable.

The usual cool breeze from the window rolls in and whisks against your skin as you stand in front of the large mirror sitting atop your dresser, as naked as the day you were born. You absentmindedly rub lotion onto your arms and legs, the smooth cream sinking into your skin with satisfying ease, a small act of self-care amidst the shit-show of your life. You swipe on some deodorant, a miscellaneous powdery scent briefly masking the other smells that linger in your room.

You pull open the top drawer, fingers brushing past folded fabric until you find a pair of plain black no-show panties. The material is soft between your fingertips.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband, bending slightly as you slide the fabric up your legs, smooth against your skin. It settles high on your hips, snug and familiar.

But as you straighten,  the air feels different.

Your breath stalls, a tight, involuntary hitch in your throat. A prickle skates down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck rising, your body sensing the shift before your mind can grasp it. Then comes the scent. Subtle quickly shifts to suffocating. 

Ash, woody and bitter like a lonely bonfire.

Gunpowder, metallic and pungent like a shrill war cry.

And beneath it all, something brutally masculine. Utterly tart, like blood welling on your tongue, bitter, metallic, yet impossible to spit out so you’re forced to swallow.

You’re still facing the mirror, bare skin gleaming under the dim light, damp where the shower’s heat still lingers. Your reflection is all soft curves and slow, steady breaths, the delicate contrast of black fabric against your skin.

But you’re not looking at yourself anymore.

Your eyes are locked onto something else. Someone else.

Over your right shoulder, a hulking figure sits backward in your desk chair, big, long legs spread on either side, the heavy, shadowy outline of him filling the space behind you. His presence is so sudden, so jarring, that it takes you a moment to even process it. From what you can make out, he is facing you,  arms crossed over the backrest like he owns the room.

You’re frozen, trapped in your own body, your mind a tangled mess of confusion and fear. You scramble to process how this could even be happening. Your eyes dart to the window over your left shoulder in the reflection, the wind howling on cue as if to mock you. 

Your window is violently wrenched ajar, and suddenly, the drop in temperature makes sense. That’s what you felt earlier—the sudden chill that wrapped around you the second you stepped out of the bathroom. How you didn’t feel it moments ago is beyond you.

Your heart pounds in your ears, a brutal thundering that mutes the voice in your head telling you to run, single-handedly hijacking every morsel of reason you possess. Each beat is so violent, that you think you can feel your ribs splintering, cracking to make room.

You can’t help but stare at yourself, standing there, exposed and utterly vulnerable, tits perked and on display like it’s time for Sunday dinner. But it’s impossible to make yourself move. Your feet feel like cinder blocks.

Your eyes flick back to him.

He hasn’t moved. Not an inch. A statue of flesh and shadow, his towering frame swallowing the space behind you. Your breath stutters as your gaze collides with his—an accident, a mistake. Dark eyes, barely visible, catch the light as he leans in, closer, closer still.

You regret it instantly. Your stomach flips, twisting in on itself as something molten ignites deep inside you. Butterflies—you’re sure—but they feel wrong, tainted, clawing their way up your throat, wings drenched in bile, desperate to break free.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe.

Just silen—

“Shouldn’t’ve given a dog a bone, Girl.”

Oh.

Oh.

Shit.

You swallow, the motion sharp and dry, as your eyes fixate on the sliver of him that the mirror allows you to see. Your tongue feels like it’s too big for your mouth, thick and clumsy, but it's not just that—it’s as though it’s been wrung dry like you’ve forgotten how to speak, how to make any sound at all.

Could be fight, could be flight—or could be sheer, reckless stupidity. Superficial courage floods your veins, burning hot and impulsive. You don’t know where it comes from, only that it’s there, forcing you to turn, to face him, not through the mirror’s reflection but for real, head-on. Your body obeys even as your mind screams to stop, to run, to do anything but face the giant sitting in the chair behind you. It must be adrenaline. 

You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.

He fills the room—dominates it—far more than four walls should ever allow, and far more than your traitorous mirror portrayed. His frame is more ape than human, more God than man, every inch of him radiating undomesticated power that seems to bend the very air around him like a mirage.

He’s dressed in grey, prison-issued sweatpants, the soft fabric taut over his thick, spread thighs. A matching grey sweatshirt is tied around his waist, a small, white wife-beater stretched across his chest. The fabric strains against the thickness of his body, pecs beneath like boulders, barely contained by the threadbare material. The shirt looks as though it might snap under the sheer pressure of him.

It almost seems pointless for him to wear it.

A sick part of you wishes he didn’t.

Around his neck, a set of dog tags dangles, the metal catching the light as it sways in rhythm with his slow, steady breaths. His arms are a canvas of dark ink—twisting amalgamations of war and death, flames and ruin etched into his skin. The same balaclava you’ve seen on your screen stretches over his face, but it feels even more menacing now.

His eyes—dark brown, nearly black—burn as they lock onto you. There’s an eerie glow to them, a depth that makes your stomach twist. You can barely make out their full shape, but you feel the weight of his gaze, the way it maps your body with an intensity that singes. He’s memorizing you, branding you into his mind, scorching every visible inch of your skin just by looking.

Which, right now, is essentially all of it.

It’s suffocating, and overwhelming. The space around you seems to shrink, the walls pressing inward, forcing you to feel the heft of his presence. Your bubble, your safe little world, vanishes, replaced by the oppressive weight of him, his sheer size and power making the room feel like a part of a dollhouse, too small to contain him. Every breath feels harder to take like you’re drowning, and he’s the rip current that dragged you out from shore and pushed you under.

And then, as if sensing your every thought, as if aware of your discomfort and your disbelief, he shifts. Just a subtle movement at first. But a shift is all it takes before he’s not sitting anymore.

Your breath catches in your throat, as he slowly rises from the chair, taking up even more of the room, shadow growing longer in his wake, his muscles rippling in the lamplight. He doesn’t rush. No, there’s no need. He moves, each large step bringing him closer to you.

All that ‘courage’ drained. You never thought you’d be the frozen-in-fear type, but here you are, your body stiff and uncooperative as you look up at him. Your neck cranes back further and further, unwillingly following as he stalks toward you, each step near imperceptible to the ear. At least you know why you didn’t hear him come in.

You’re backed flush against your dresser, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your chest tight with panic, but you can’t look away. You don’t even know if you want to. There’s a strange magnetism to him, something almost predatory in the way he moves, so controlled, so sure. 

It’s addicting.

Your thighs clench together at the internal acceptance, a small attempt at some kind of control over the sick part of your brain that’s turned on by this.

“Quiet little thing.” His voice is low, gravelly like it’s been rubbed raw, but there’s a hint of amusement in it, a wicked edge that makes your skin prickle and your cunt gush. He takes another step closer, a mere foot away, the distance between you is agonizing. “Glad you’re not a screamer.”

He pauses just in front of you, towering over you. The weight of his gaze chokes you like a noose. He doesn’t miss when your thighs clench. You could have sworn you saw the flicker of a smile beneath the balaclava, though it’s hard to tell.

“I’m not gonna bite, Girl,” he tuts, “unless y’want me to.”

The way he says it—so carnivorously—sends a jolt of electricity down your spine, a hot flush of pure shame of pooling low in your stomach. You're still frozen, unsure whether you should respond, run, or drop to your knees. 

“Y’sent me a letter,” he continues, his voice softening just slightly as his eyes flick to your tits like he’s checking out a new appliance.

 “Tellin’ me all about your boring little life,” He steps even closer, “And that sweet little cunt, untouched like you want me t’make it mine.”

You try to speak, but only your mouth moves, your vocal cords too dry, too hoarse, and your throat constricted. He notices. The slight twitch of his lips like he’s enjoying how utterly speechless you are, how dumb you look.

“Y’want me t’make it mine? Hmm? That why you gave a ‘Big Bad’ man your address?”

You swallow in an attempt to lubricate your throat, but it’s futile. Is this what you were subconsciously hoping for when you wrote down which street you lived on and your apartment number? Did you want this? Were you that lonely—that desperate?

“Can y’imagine how hard I came,” he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear, you feel it through the mask, “How I rubbed my cock raw to the thought of some dumb virgin with the audacity of a dozen slags?”

Yeah. You were that desperate. 

You nearly whimper at the way he talks to you. You finally manage to take a breath, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I— I didn’t think you’d—”

He cocks his head slightly as if considering your words “What? Didn’t think I’d show?” he repeats, dragging the words out slowly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as if he’s savoring the mockery in them. “You invited me here. It’d be rude to reject such a generous offer.”

You bite back a scoff. As if he’s so gracious, breaking into your house and cornering you while you’re naked. Talk about audacity.

“Go fuck yourself.” 

“I have,” he shoots back, shrugging almost imperceptibly as his hands find your hips, tracing the fabric of your panties, eyes darkening at the way your mons dimples beneath his thumbs. “Won’t be as good as her.”

Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and something darker curling in your chest. You should shove him away, scream at him to get out, but his hands are so warm when they hold you. The proximity of his body has you paralyzed, his hands still firm on your hips, as if to remind you that he can have his way with you at a moment’s notice.

You open your mouth to speak, but his hand moves higher, wrapping around your waist, while the other slides down to grip your ass, pulling you against him with a force that leaves no space between your bodies. The words die in your throat as your tits collide with his stomach and your cheek presses into his chest, the hard beat of his heart thudding beneath your ear, as he holds you there, pinning you in some weird, bone-crushing hug. 

He smells like soap and something musky and everything you’d expect a fugitive to smell like, like cigarette ash and a smidge of gunpowder. It makes your pulse stutter, like a drug you didn’t know you were addicted to. You can’t help but melt into his strong frame despite your brain screaming at you to push him away.

“Y’feel that, sweetheart?” he hums, his hand kneading the fat of your ass, pressing his bulge against your pelvis through his sweatpants.  “Ever felt a cock that big before?”

“Please,” you whisper, the plea a stark contrast to the defiance you try to muster. Your body trembles, a mix of fear and blistering heat. “Just... don't.”

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound. “Don't what, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his fingers rising from your ass to trace the delicate line of your throat. “Don't touch you? Don't remind you of what y’are?”

He tips your head up to his as you flinch at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than any physical blow. “I…” you stammer, faltering as you meet his dark hazel eyes. 

“Virgin,” he deadpans as he grips your chin between his digits, “Y’terrified. It's written all over your face, baby” He coos condescendingly, eyes scanning your body, lingering on the cute flush in your cheeks, “Curious, too, aren't you? Wondering what it would be like.”

You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his. “No,” you lie, the denial weak and utterly unconvincing.

He lets out a low, exasperated grunt, like you’re testing his patience, like this is tedious for him. And then, without warning, his hands clamp around your thighs, lifting you effortlessly before settling you atop the dresser. His grip is firm as he pushes your legs apart, spreading them as far as they’ll go to make room for himself. The wood is cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him, from the rough drag of his palms as they find purchase on the soft flesh of your thighs, from where he dips his head to your throat. 

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, sweetheart,” You don’t know when he pulled his mask up, but you can feel his canines graze against your jugular, making you wince. He crowds your space, forcing you to tilt back until you’re leaning against the mirror, until there’s nowhere to go. You can feel his lips twitch against the skin of your neck, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“I can smell your cunt.” He licks a fat, hot stripe from your collarbone, past your jaw, and to your cheek, all before growling in your ear, “She’s droolin’ f’me, ain’t she? Gonna give me a taste o' her?”

Your eyebrows knit at the feel of his tongue slobbering all over you. Your breath hitches, and you can’t help but tremble. You can feel your panties sticking to your folds, but you’ve never been this wet before.  “I... I don't know,” you whimpered, overwhelmed by everything he was making you feel.

“Don't know? Please,” he scoffs, his voice thick with disdain. Without any hesitation, both of his hands find the gusset of your panties, balling them before ripping them in half. You yelp as they fall and settle against the dresser top. “Awh. Look at that,” he gets to his knees, thumbs spreading your glistening folds. “She's leakin’ onto my hand." He chuckles as he stares at the dampness between your legs. 

He lunges forward, his mouth latching to your pussy like it promised him a million dollars. A strangled moan rips through you as his tongue swirls and plunges into your weeping hole, mimicking the thrusts he intends to deliver later. He laps and nips, teeth gently but fervently grazing your clit, sending shivers of both pleasure and terror through your body.

Your head jerks back, waves of pleasure that have you gasping for air. His tongue works you in ways that should be illegal. You cling to the edge of the dresser, your knuckles turning white as he buries his face in you. You peer down at him as he eats you, his mask pulled over his nose.

“Whinin’ already?” he growls, his voice muffled against your cunt. He sucks harder, reveling in the way you arch your back and press your hips into his face. “Like a bitch in heat.” Your hands find his head and he suckles at your clit harder, eliciting a string of please, please, please’s from you. 

“Beg for it,” he commands, “Beg to come on m’tongue, baby.” 

“Yes,” you choked out in a gasp, the word a desperate plea lost in a wave of overwhelming sensation. Your body thrums with frantic energy, every nerve ending firing in a symphony as you desperately claw at his balaclava, nearly smothering him. “Please,” you beg, your voice thick with need. “Please, I— ‘m—”

He pulls away from you, gasping for air. His eyes find yours and he lands a firm slap to your cunt, making you jolt. “Tell me,” he hisses. “Tell me y’want to come for me.”

“I... I want to,” you gasped, your body trembling on the verge of collapse. “I wanna come for you, Ghost— Please—.”

“Good fuckin’ whore,” he slaps your cunt again, before diving back in, his hot tongue carding through your folds. He slips his ring and middle finger into your hole and you wail as he massages your g-spot. He slobbers on your clit, wet squelches echoing through the room as you feel the coil tightening in your belly. “Come, let me taste this slutty fuckin’ pussy.”

A strangled cry rips through you as the pleasure reaches its peak, a blinding wave of sensation that absolutely shatters your control. You convulse around him and he has to hold you still, pinning your hips down as your muscles clench and release in a series of involuntary spasms that make up the best orgasm of your life. Hot, thick spurts of cum flood his mouth as you croak out a broken string of curses and moans.  

He laps at you unhurriedly, savoring the taste, the feel of your release coating his tongue. “Fuck,” he moans, his voice rough with satisfaction. He pulls back, lips and chin glistening, and looks up at you with a smirk. “Love you virgins. Come so easily.”

Heat surges up your neck, pooling in your cheeks—a traitorous flush of shame that only worsens when you try to press your legs together. You didn’t think it would affect you like this, didn’t think you’d feel a spark of something twisted at being called the most horrific of names.

Your gaze darts away from his, unable to withstand the weight of it. Your hands move on instinct, a feeble attempt to shield yourself, to reclaim some sense of control. “Stop staring,” you whisper, not used to having eyes on you. But even to your own ears, it sounds weak—like a plea rather than a command.

He chuckles, a low, mocking sound as he rises to his feet, pressing his massive bulge against your bare cunt. “Stop what? Admiring my handiwork?” He reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before harshly squishing them between his index and thumb, your lips puckering.  “Don't be shy, sweetheart. You should feel lucky. Could’ve ruined this pretty fuckin’ mouth instead.”

You bite your lip at the thought of taking him in your mouth, stretching your throat and making you gag. He was so big, would stretch your pussy so good and you know it. He could give you what you’ve been wanting, what you’ve been needing. Tears prickle your eyes as you recover from your orgasm. “Just... fuck me, Please…?” you hum, unsure..

He grins, briefly flashing his teeth in the dim light. “Eager, are we?” He straightens, pulling you by your knees to stand on your feet. “Don't worry. Got more in store for you.”

He hauls you off of your dresser and toward your bed without much effort. Your legs feel like jelly and you trip over yourself, falling back onto the mattress, your body bouncing with the impact. He chuckles as he moves toward you, looming over you, his eyes burning with lust at the sight of you all spread out beneath him.

He reaches for the hem of his wife beater and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside without care, not bothering to take off his balaclava. You drag your gaze over his broad torso, taking in every inch as he stands before you. His muscles shift beneath scarred skin, every ridge and plane carved by years of violence you can’t even begin to imagine. Scars that have scars, bright pink wounds closed over. His dog tags rest between his pecs, gleaming dully against the heat of him. 

Your eyes trail lower, catching on the unmistakable wet patch darkening his sweatpants, a frighteningly long outline of his hard cock to accompany it. He watches you closely as your gaze traces the contours of his body, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. 

"Like what you see, Girl?" His voice is low, thick with a dark amusement. It’s rhetorical, he knows you do. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down, revealing his length with a singular motion.

No underwear. A Right dog, he is. 

Your breath hitches, a gasp trapped in your throat as you take in the full view. His cock is thick and heavy. A brutal, veined length that periodically twitches every time his gaze drops to your sodden cunt. A thatch of dark, dirty blonde hair frames its base, leading up to his navel. The uncircumcised head glistens in the lamplight, a single drop of pre drooling from his tip. You wish you could flick your tongue against it, gulping down every ounce of his slick he’d be willing to let you swallow.

“What’d y’want?”

You can't form the words, your mind blank, throat tight with a mix of fear and anticipation, the air heavy with implicit tension and the scent of sex.

How could he even fit inside of you?

You just dumbly nod in response to whatever he said. Meek, almost imperceptible.

He tuts, “Noddin’ ain’t enough, sweets,” he growled. “You’re a big girl, ain’t you?

“I…” you stammer, your cheeks burning with shame at saying something so lewd out loud. “I want…”

“Say it,” he taunts as he takes his cock in his hands, pumping slowly. His voice is like thunder, a low, dangerous rumble. “Say y’want this cock.”

“I... I want your cock,” you whisper, the words barely audible. You’re too focused on the way his pre drips onto your spread pussy.

“Louder,” he demands, landing a firm slap against your clit. “Can't hear you.”

“I want your cock,” you enunciated, your voice a little stronger this time.

“Louder, y’fuckin’ slag—”

“I want your fucking cock!” you shout, the words echoing through the room.

He shrugs and a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. “Geez, all y’had to do was ask.” 

You could slap him. 

He positions himself between your legs, the bed dipping as he crawls closer to you. He takes your thighs in his hands, pressing them up to your chest. His knees dimple the duvet on either side of your hips, the ruddy head of his cock tracing the puffy folds of your entrance. Each time his tip grazes your clit, a tremor runs through your body.

“So fuckin’ sensitive,” he groans, “So wet f’me, too, Christ.”

He presses forward, your pussy stretching taut over his mushroomed tip. You wince, your eyebrows knitting in pain. He was huge, impossibly thick, and the feeling of him pushing against your sensitive flesh was both terrifying and exhilarating.

“Gonna split this cunny in half, girl,” he winces as you pulse around him. He draws tight circles on your clit and you’re reeling, choking on your own gasps, “gonna feel me in y’fuckin’ throat.”

He pushes himself deeper, inch by agonizing inch until he sheaths himself inside of you completely. Tears stream down your face, a mixture of pain and pleasure overwhelming you. You cry out at the stretch, your body arching into his as your hands search for anything to steady yourself, settling on the hard plains of his back.

“Jesus baby, so tight,” he grunts, stalled inside of you as he tries not to blow his load. “So fucking tight.”

You slowly loosen around him as you adapt to his size, but the burn still has you lightheaded. You've never been so full in your life. Your nails claw into his back, leaving raw streaks and crescent-shaped marks on his scarred skin. “Fuck me,” you rasp, “Please, Ghost, fuck me.” Your hips buck involuntarily as you babble, desperate for more of him. 

He chuckles a low, guttural sound that you swear you can feel vibrating through your body. “Cock-drunk already, are we?” he taunts,  “Fuckin’ whore,” He pulls back slightly before plunging forward with renewed force, cramming his cock against your cervix, hitting places you couldn’t even reach with your own fingers.

He was right. You could feel him everywhere, stretching you, filling you, owning you, utterly consuming you. Every thrust punched the air out of you, the rhythmic plap, plap, plap of his thighs meeting yours reverberating through the room as he fucked you.

“Fuck me harder, I need you— please—” You were so close already, worked up from your last orgasm and already teetering on the edge of another, the pleasure building each time the head of his cock strokes your g-spot. He picks up the pace with a groan and hammers into you, unable to breathe as his cock stretches you to your limits.

 “Ghost,” you sob, fat tears falling from your eyes, wetting your cheeks before you can stop them. His name escapes your lips through hiccups, unable to think of anything except how full you feel, how you could’ve possibly missed out on this for so long. 

He slaps your cheek, the sting is a sudden shock that jolts you back to the present. “Stop fuckin’ callin’ me that,” he snarls, his voice thick with pure sex and an edge of possessiveness, just lurking beneath his words. He leans directly over you, your legs pinned between his torso and yours. He groans before  shrugging up his balaclava and licking your stray tears. You’re too deep in it to fully process, too consumed by the heat of the moment to care.

“Call me Simon when I fuck you,” he rasps against your lips,

“Say it.”

“S—Sim—on,” you mewl, your voice punctuated by each of his thrusts. “S—simon, p—ple—ase…”

“Please what?” he snarls, the head of his cock devastatingly rubbing your g-spot with each thrust, “Please fuck you harder? Please make you cream all over this cock?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you wail, your body writhing beneath him. “Please, Simon— Fuck!”

“Atta fuckin’ girl,” he praises through gritted teeth, and with renewed vigor, he fucks you harder,  caging you in as he fucks you into the mattress, each stroke shoving you farther up the bed.

“Squeezin’ me so tight,” he rasps, “So fucking tight.” he gripped your thighs harder, the fat dimpling beneath his fingers, surely to bruise in the morning. He presses you further, painfully folded in half. “Feel me? Feel how deep I am inside o’ you?”

You gasp, your body trembling, heat pooling low in your belly, sparks shooting up your spine, “Yes,” you breathed, your voice a strained whisper. “Too much... it's so much, Si—”

You’re on the edge, pressure just building and tightening as your walls pulse around him, ready to milk him for all he’s worth. His hips stutter and he knows he’s done for. “Fuck, let go, Let it happen, pet,”

At his command, a raw, guttural cry tears from your throat, and a shattered echo of his name launches into the humid air. It isn’t much of a word, not really, but a primal sound, a desperate, broken exclamation born from the white-hot core of your pleasure. 

Your back arches, lifting you off the bed, your spine a rigid curve against his. Your hips buck wildly against his, grinding and shuddering. The hot, slick rush of your release coats his cock. It spreads across his abdomen and your thighs as well, a glistening sheen in the dim light. Your breath hitches and ragged gasps escape your lips as the waves of pleasure wash over you. 

The world narrows, focusing solely on the feel of his skin on your own as he still thrusts into you, telling you to  “Cream this fuckin’ cock,” as he groans, just as lost in the pleasure as you. The aftershocks of your orgasm reverberate through you, leaving you trembling and weak as he fucks you through it to reach his own. 

A series of breathy moans escape his lips in tandem with yours, each one a ragged exhale as his hips begin to twitch, thrusts growing sloppy as you pulse around him, energy rippling through his muscles as his own orgasm approaches.

 “Oh-,” he breathes, his voice a low, jagged rasp, a guttural urging. “Fuck! Fuck— Shit, just like that, girl.” His hips slam against yours, a final, desperate thrust that presses him flush against your cunt. He spills inside you, a hot, thick tide of his cum flooding your cunt. Ropes of his seed paint your inner walls, as far as he can reach, marking you as his. A wave of heat pulses through you, the feeling of him filling you completely, claiming you from the inside out.

Eventually, the tremors die down, and he rolls off you, the sudden absence of his weight pinning you down leaving you feeling strangely hollow. Your thighs fall limply as he lets go of them, a strange ache that almost bothers you.

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound of contentment. 

“Broken little bird aren’t you?” he drawls.. 

You lift your head to see him eye-level with your pussy, watching as his cum leaks out of you. You lay still, your body aching, your mind spinning. You want to protest, to deny his words and shut your legs, but you don’t think you could form a genuine sentence if you tried. 

Not only did you (finally) lose your virginity, but you lost it to a criminal. That broke into your house. 

He moves to sit next to your laid figure and reaches out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Don't look so glum, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice softening slightly. “You did well,”

“for a first-timer.”

A blush creeps up your neck, and you instinctively turn your face away, curling into yourself. “Shut up,” you mutter, your voice hoarse.

He lets out a low, husky chuckle. “Oh, usin’ fightin’ words now, are we?” His fingers find a stray strand of your hair, twisting it lazily between calloused fingertips. “Funny, didn’t see you puttin’ up much of a fight five minutes ag—”

You don’t let him finish. Grabbing a tousled pillow, you launch it at his face. It bounces off his head with a pathetic little thump. He snorts, catching it mid-air, the plush looking comically small in his massive hands.

“Oh, we’re throwin’ shit now?” He smirks, squeezing the poor thing for emphasis. “Little minx—”

The sudden blare of the doorbell slices through the moment. You both freeze.

His eyes flick toward the door, sharp and assessing, mood immediately changing. “You expectin’ anyone?”

You shake your head. “No.”

His jaw tightens. The weight of reality comes crashing back. He’s a fugitive, and did, in fact, break into your house.

“I’ll get it,” you hum, already moving.

He gives a slow nod, hungrily watching as you rummage through your dresser for something decent. You yank an oversized T-shirt over your head and grab the first pair of pants you can find, his sweats. They nearly slide right off your hips, the waistband hanging dangerously loose, but there’s no time to fix it.

You leave the bedroom, your pulse drumming in your ears as you make your way to the front door. The second you pull it open, your stomach drops.

Two cops.

Their faces are unreadable, their eyes scanning you, the dim space behind you, everything. “Evening, miss. Sorry to bother you, but we’re making the rounds,” one of them says, flashing a tight-lipped smile. “You seen anything suspicious? Anything out of the ordinary?”

Your fingers tighten around the doorframe. You think of Simon. His hands on your waist, the weight of him between your legs, the low rasp of his voice still ringing in your ears. But you swallow hard and shake your head.

“No, nothing,” you say, keeping your voice light, casual. “Why?”

The other officer exhales sharply, shifting his weight. “ Highly dangerous man on the loose. Escaped with the rest of those arseholes from Belmarsh. Last spotted in this area.” His gaze flicks past you again, scanning the dreary interior of your flat. “Figured we’d check in, see if anyone’s seen him.”

You school your face into something neutral, shaking your head again. “Haven’t seen anything lately, sorry to disappoint.”

They watch you for a second too long. You wonder if they can hear your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. But finally, they nod.

“All right. Just be careful, ma’am. Lock your doors.”

“Will do,” you say, forcing a tight-lipped smile of your own.

You shut the door.

Your heart is pounding. You press your back against the timber, exhaling sharply before pushing off and heading back to the bedroom.

“Simon—” you call, nudging the door open.

The bed is empty, sheets tangled, the ghost of his warmth already fading. The curtains billow, the night air slithering in, laced with the scent of him—sex, sweat, something else that’s so distinctly him.

He’s gone.

But ghosts always return to their haunt.

sorry, wrong number! — tanaka ryuunosuke. chapter ten; the lord.

content ; smau. profanity (i think). kuroo and tanaka interaction, yay! basically just filler fluff. meeya finally posted another swn chapter - who cheered?!

< previous ; masterlist ; next >

taglist; @kameyyy @cherrysurf @standcom @44twentytwo @laaalaaaloooppppsiiieeeee @mayyhaps @mimi3lover @evilari111 @s6rine @taefanclub @3stela @heartmaddie @suvakrpa @autlantic @jayathelostdragon @sickpatientt @eoniiian @gumims @4crewz @frootloopscos @writing-for-the-hell-of-it @literallyushiwaka @asteraslvrr @ursafehaven @charlotterosea13 @xjustxlookingx @baylz @fi-chanwrites @phant0mth1ef @sqwishywrites34 @l0ckedtomb @iluv-ace @jiminscarmex @p1nktulips @loveyislost @kozu-chan

SWEET DREAM

< osamu miya x reader >

Summary: Being a manager for the Inazarki volleyball club wasn't easy, especially dealing with their chaos. They had made great friends because of it and had caught some attention as well, especially from Miya Osamu. For him, having a crush on the manager isn't ideal but it wasn't anything that he can control. The worst thing about it, watching your crush already be in a relationship with your teammate.

Genre: friends to lovers, angst, drama, fluff

Warnings: Swearing, yelling, teasing, suggestive themes.

Tags: open

CHAPTER NINE

<chapter eight || materlist || chapter ten>

▪︎___________°••>>>*<<<••°___________▪︎

▪︎___________°••>>>*<<<••°___________▪︎

< taglist > @sproutytoad @grimespial @saturns-satellites

SWEET DREAM

< osamu miya x reader >

Summary: Being a manager for the Inazarki volleyball club wasn't easy, especially dealing with their chaos. They had made great friends because of it and had caught some attention as well, especially from Miya Osamu. For him, having a crush on the manager isn't ideal but it wasn't anything that he can control. The worst thing about it, watching your crush already be in a relationship with your teammate.

Genre: friends to lovers, angst, drama, fluff

Warnings: Swearing, yelling, teasing, suggestive themes.

Tags: open

[orange text - y/n's pov] [blue text - osamu's pov]

CHAPTER EIGHT

<chapter seven || materlist || chapter nine>

▪︎___________°••>>>*<<<••°___________▪︎

▪︎___________°••>>>*<<<••°___________▪︎

< taglist > @sproutytoad @grimespial @saturns-satellites

SWEET DREAM

< osamu miya x reader >

Summary: Being a manager for the Inazarki volleyball club wasn't easy, especially dealing with their chaos. They had made great friends because of it and had caught some attention as well, especially from Miya Osamu. For him, having a crush on the manager isn't ideal but it wasn't anything that he can control. The worst thing about it, watching your crush already be in a relationship with your teammate.

Genre: friends to lovers, angst, drama, fluff

Warnings: Swearing, yelling, teasing, suggestive themes.

Tags: open

CHAPTER SEVEN

<chapter six || materlist || chapter eight>

▪︎___________°••>>>*<<<••°___________▪︎

▪︎___________°••>>>*<<<••°___________▪︎

< taglist > @sproutytoad @grimespial @saturns-satellites

SWEET DREAM

< miya osamu x reader >

Summary: Being a manager for the Inazarki volleyball club wasn't easy, especially dealing with their chaos. They had made great friends because of it and had caught some attention as well, especially from Miya Osamu. For him, having a crush on the manager isn't ideal but it wasn't anything that he can control. The worst thing about it, watching your crush already be in a relationship with your teammate.

Genre: friends to lovers, angst, drama, fluff

Warnings: Swearing, yelling, teasing, suggestive themes.

Taglist: open

[orange text - y/n's pov ] [blue text -osamu pov]

CHAPTER SIX

<chapter five || materlist || chapter seven>

▪︎___________°••>>>*<<<••°___________▪︎

▪︎___________°••>>>*<<<••°___________▪︎

< taglist > @sproutytoad @grimespial

Simon X Reader

(K9 Series, from reader perspective)

TW: mentions of animal death, Abuse, emotional Distress/Trauma, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Violence, Sexism.

_______________________________________________________

Another dog trotted past the window—a spaniel, I think—its tail wagging like a banner as it practically dragged its owner along.

Panzer had never been one for leashes. The one time I tried, he gnawed through it in minutes. Despite his wild streak, he never strayed far. He slept curled between my legs, his head resting on my thigh, always close, always mine.

Or at least, he used to.

My lips thinned as I leaned my head against the cool glass of the hotel lobby window. Simon had still been asleep when I woke. I’d taken his keys, packed up my things, and loaded the car before making my way downstairs.

The lobby had been bustling earlier, but now, with breakfast service over, it had emptied out. I considered grabbing something to eat—until I caught sight of the ground breakfast meat. My stomach twisted.

The first meal they gave me after I was captured was meat. I had already taken a few bites before I noticed the familiar tan fur clinging to it.

I haven’t touched it since. I can’t. 

I checked my watch again. Our flight was in a few hours, and Simon was still nowhere in sight. I couldn’t blame him. If I could sleep that soundly, I would have.

I wanted to ask him how he did it.

Price had let me read his file. I knew what he’d been through—how Roba had used him, broken him. I knew about his home life, his father, how his mother and brother were killed.

And yet, somehow, he slept.

I never could. Restless nights drove me to rooms with locking doors—Price’s office, the bathrooms, even a supply closet. Something about having the power to keep them out made sleep come easier.

The memory of Simon’s face when the door clicked shut flickered through my mind. I wanted to open it again, to tell him it wasn’t his fault. I wanted to say, Surely, you understand.

But maybe he didn’t.

Maybe he was stronger than me. Maybe he didn’t need a locked door.

Sleep had been just another thing Panzer helped me with. His presence was a comfort—always watching, always guarding.

Before I could dwell on it, Simon rounded the corner. His phone was clenched in his hand, duffel bag in the other, his jaw tight, anger flickering in his eyes.

He wasn’t wearing his mask.

I didn’t know why he wore it in the first place, and I knew my confusion showed. Johnny had noticed once, chuckling as he toyed with a tangle of wiring.

“Nothing special underneath there. You get used to it,” he’d said.

Lately, that seemed to be everyone’s answer. The base psychologist. Johnny. Even Gaz, after I flinched at his touch.

You’ll get used to it. It’ll get better. It takes time.

But what if I didn’t?

What if no amount of time could fix the year and a half I’d lost? What if I never got used to it? What if, ten years from now, I still missed Panzer just as much?

Would that be okay?

I wanted someone to tell me it would. That it was okay if it never got better. That I didn’t have to move on, or heal, or let go.

That I could just be, and that would be enough.

Simon scooped up the keys from the table, letting out a relieved sigh as he sank into the booth.

“Thought you left,” he mumbled, head tilting back against the seat.

His words caught me off guard, though they shouldn’t have. Maybe it was the way he said it.

I wanted to tell him I wouldn’t have left. I wanted to ask Why would I? Where would I even go? But the thoughts tangled in my head, stuck somewhere between my mind and my mouth. Every time I opened it, nothing came out. It was like my body had made the decision for me—Don’t say it. Just let it go.

I hated that. I hated that silence had become second nature. That it always felt easier to swallow things down than to let them out.

Simon shifted beside me, head rolling to the side until his gaze met mine. He didn’t say anything. Neither did I.

There were things I wanted to ask—questions that had been sitting on my tongue for weeks, maybe longer. About him. About the mask. About how he could just close his eyes and sleep while my mind never let me.

But I couldn’t form the words.

So I did the only thing I could.

I lifted a finger to my cheek, tapping it lightly. A quiet gesture, but it was enough.

Simon’s brows pulled together in confusion. His gaze flicked between my face and my hand like he wasn’t sure what I was getting at.

I hesitated, then reached out, gently tapping his cheek. The contact was brief, barely there, but his eyes sharpened with recognition.

“In the bag,” he said after a moment. “Can’t wear it through the terminal.”

That was it. No further explanation.

I missed Johnny’s ramblings, the way he could fill a room with words without needing anyone else to speak. I missed Gaz’s patience. I missed the space Price gave me—no questions, no pressure, just the offer of room to breathe.

I leaned my head back against the window as I watched the world move beyond it. People passed in a blur—couples dragging suitcases, parents corralling restless children, business travelers walking with purpose. Lives moving forward, unburdened.

I envied them.

Minutes passed, maybe more, before Simon finally spoke.

“We need to go.”

I didn’t move right away, lingering in the moment, as if staying just a little longer might change something. But it didn’t.

With a quiet exhale, I pushed myself upright and followed him out.

The car ride to the airport was as silent as the first time. The plane ride even more so. No conversation, no questions, just the steady hum of the engine and the occasional shift of Simon in his seat. I stared out the window, watching the world stretch out below, shrinking into something distant.

By the time we landed and made our way back to base, Price was waiting for us.

He stood near the entrance, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but his stance stiff with displeasure.

Not at me.

At Simon.

Price didn’t say a word as he turned on his heel and led us inside. The walk to his office felt longer than it was, the echo of our boots against the floor filling the silence..

Simon stepped inside, and Price gestured towards the chair next to the door.

“Sit,” he ordered.

I did. Price shut the door behind him with more force than necessary, but it did nothing to block the sound.

“What the hell were you thinking?” He asked. “Putting your hands on a superior officer?”

Simon's answer was calm. “He had it coming.”

Price exhaled sharply, “You don’t get to decide that.”

“They call her K9, Price. You know why?”

There was a long pause.

Simon’s voice dropped lower, more bitter now. “They don’t call her K9 because of the goddamn dog, Price. They call her K9 because they think she’s a bitch. That’s how they see her. That’s how they treat her. I didn’t know what it meant. I thought it was some dumbass joke, some stupid fucking reference, but now I know.” His voice rose angrily.  “I know what they really mean. And I’m not just gonna let them walk all over her.”

There was a long pause.

Price finally spoke, his voice hard again. “She didn’t need you to fight for her, Simon.”

“I’m not fighting for her,” Simon shot back, “I’m just not standing by and letting them treat her like shit.

“If you think you know best,” Price said, his tone almost resigned, “then fine. You want to take responsibility for her? Congratulations. You’ll be the one to bring her along on the next mission. You’ll train with her, run missions with her—everything. She’s your responsibility now, Simon.”

Finally, the door to the office creaked open. Simon’s frustration was palpable as he stalked out, his brow furrowed in irritation. Without a word, I grabbed my bag and followed him into the barracks.

Johnny was in the middle of tossing a small ball in the air when he spotted us. His grin was wide, eyes lighting up.

“Welcome back, K9.”

Simon whirled around, voice sharp. “Don’t call her that.”

Johnny blinked, his smile faltering in confusion. “Why?”

“Because I said so. Pick a different damn callsign if you want to call her something.”

Johnny didn’t miss a beat. “Hushpuppy.”

Simon’s eyes narrowed, and he growled low, “No.”

I couldn’t help it—my lips twitched into a small smile as Johnny winked at me, his focus returning to the ball as he sent it spinning in the air.

__

Tags: (Sorry if I missed you!)

@skeletonsucker, @trulovekay, @enfppuff, @cqerrz

great expectations - 8, date night!

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a/n: two written parts! also sorry this took so long I got really into the all for the game books again :/

You really wished you hadn't worn a watch.

You knew it was considered rude to check your watch over and over again while on a date. You knew it, and yet you still cringed each time you felt your subconscious twist your wrist so that the face was pointed towards yourself.

It was hard not to flinch when you realized it had only been two minutes since the last time who checked the time.

Ushijima, for his part, at least pretended to either not notice or not care about your unintentional slight. You felt guilty, but you couldn't stop the creeping feeling of just wanting to be home.

You'd never tell Kuroo that he was right. You were pretty certain that he was.

It wasn't like there was anything wrong with Ushijima. He was incredibly kind and thoughtful. Romantic, too, if the bouquet of roses he had brought you at the start of the evening had any say in the matter.

But you were incredibly bored.

Dinner was over, and Ushijima was halfway through his question about dessert when he stopped and shifted gears. The sudden change in pace of conversation, coupled with the way he leaned forward slightly, like you were co-conspirators, caught your attention.

"Excuse me if I'm wrong, but you're not feeling this, are you?"

"Sorry," You winced, face flushing in guilt. It was one thing to not enjoy a perfectly fine date, but it was another thing for your date to realize you had mentally checked out.

"Don't be." Ushijima dismissed, and you really couldn't help but believe him. "Would you like if we got the check and I drove you home?"

"If you wouldn't mind,"

The only emotion stronger than your guilt was your dread about seeing your housemates so soon after your failed date, but at least you could mope in your own bed.

If you didn't love your teammates as much as you did, or cared about your role as captain so deeply, you would've long been snug in your bed.

Instead, you're on a mission on campus when you should be commiserating your failed date with Kiyoko while forcing Tsukki to fetch snacks and send Hinata on mindless tasks to keep him out of your business.

You love Shoyo. He's got too big of a mouth, and you've learned the hard way too many times.

One of your teammates had texted you in a panic, saying she left her gym bag—and her wallet—in the campus weight room reserved for student athletes. Since it's so late, the whole building is already locked up. You would have told her just to get it in the morning, but she countered by saying she's leaving town early for a family event you've known about for weeks.

And she knows you have a key to the building, curtesy of how much your coach trusts you.

So with heavy footsteps, you take the familiar path towards the weight room. There are a few other student athlete-only areas in the building. Changing rooms, a few conference rooms for the occasional meeting, and a film review room.

Your face twists in confusion as you pass the film room on your way to the destination, because the lights are on. The janitor should have been long gone, and you assume that he just forgot to flip the switch on his way out.

You slip inside to turn the lights off and nearly jump out of your skin when somebody makes a noise of complaint at the sudden darkness the room in plunged in.

It takes five whole seconds for your mind and racing heart to catch up to the scene in front of you—Tooru Oikawa, perched on the chair closest to the screen, frowning over his shoulder at your interruption.

Except, he's not frowning for long.

His body moves before yours understand that you're not being attacked by a stranger hiding in the film room, and he jumps to his feet. He takes only a few steps towards then stalls out, and you're grateful for you, because you're so not ready to confront the mess you created with him that you think if he does try and get closer, you'll bolt.

"Hey, uh," He starts then stops, one hand scratching at the back of his neck as he searches for whatever words he wanted to say. "I've been trying to talk to you."

You know, you'd say. Kuroo told you that Bokuto told him—a round about way of finding your information, you know—that Oikawa thinks you've blocked him because you haven't responded to a single one of his messages.

You haven't blocked him. And you read every single one of his messages, but you felt so awful about what you assumed about him that you haven't been able to respond.

"Yeah, I've been busy." You lie. Besides your usual practices and classes, your schedule has been wide open. Kageyama put a pause on tutoring while everyone preps for the season and you're not spending every day hanging out with Oikawa anymore.

From the look on his face, you know he doesn't believe you. Your feet are still cemented to the ground, so you can't run off, but you do let yourself look at the ground that's slipping out from underneath you.

"Listen, that girl I was with? She's in my Econ lecture and I was only talking to her because Astumu has—had?—this massive thing for her." He's careful with his tone, you've spent enough time around him, but you can hear the edge of desperation you're trying so hard to not look at.

"I believe you." Your own words are even, measured. Honest, if a little underwhelming. You believed him from the moment you read his texts, and you know you're overreacting.

"Then why haven't you texted me back?" He sounds a little lost, and you hate that you're the cause of his frown.

"Because I jumped to conclusions and felt like shit." You explain. Your fingers are wringing the hem of your sweatshirt and it's an effort to even look at him, but you owe Oikawa that much. You assumed the worst and you made the decision to cut and run. "Can we just leave it, for now?"

You know better than to outright banish the conversation, but you're so far from prepared to talk about your shit coping strategies with Oikawa.

"Alright," He sighs, rather reluctantly agreeing. You don't care, because at least he's agreed. You offer a tight-lipped smile in return, and Oikawa's strained expression meets yours too easily. "Did you have fun tonight?"

Your stomach drops. Somehow, you'd forgotten about the fact that Oikawa follows you on Instagram. In a bid to further convince yourself that you were interested in Ushijima, you'd posted tidbits of your night online, though nothing that would hint to the identity of the man you were with.

Oikawa had seen the posts, and somehow you manage to feel even worse.

"Not really," You owe him a bit of honesty for your shitty posts. In return, you're greeted by the sight of his lips curving upwards for a second or two before he got ahold of his expression.

"Not to sound like a self absorbed dick, but I'm glad."

"I know." You snort. And you're not mad at him for his comment, because as stupid as it sounds, you find it endearing.

"Can I walk you home?" Oikawa's quick to fill the lapse in conversation. "It's pretty late and I don't want you by yourself."

"Tsukki was at the library still, so he's on his way to meet me here and we're walking back together." You explain with another tight lipped smile, squeezing your hands in time so that your nails carve crescent moons into your palms.

"Okay." It's a heartbreaking sound, the quiet acceptance of his rejection. You hate it, because no matter how many times you rejected him before, he never sounded so dejected.

"Hey, Oikawa?" You pretend not to notice the way his frown etches deeper at your use of his last name instead of his first. "Thanks for offering, at least."

"Anytime," He's quick to respond, and you know he means it. "Whatever you need."

You know he means that, too.

It makes it harder to walk away. You still manage.

extras!

yn tried and failed to gaslight herself into think she liked ushijima

hinata felt really vindicated when yn admitted she though Ushijima was boring.

there was ten minutes of radio silence between when oikawa saw yn's stories and when he responded in the gc. iwaizumi, atsumu, and osamu made second gc in that time and were devising plans to track down oikawa and make sure he wasn't doing anything stupid (like crashing her date)

after seeing yn on campus, oikawa texted tsukki and told him to text when they made it back safely. out of respect for his captain tsukki did and didn't tell yn about it

yn is really good at self sabotaging

taglist: 10/50

@loveyislost @vi0let-writes @jayathelostdragon @snoowply @ladycaramelswirl @dayanahq @loverryxx @x3nafix @rantsbytk @blue-moonies

sorry, wrong number! — tanaka ryuunosuke. chapter nine; the lord.

content ; smau. profanity (i think). kuroo and tanaka interaction, yay! basically just filler fluff. meeya finally posted another swn chapter - who cheered?!

< previous ; masterlist ; next >

taglist; @kameyyy @cherrysurf @standcom @44twentytwo @laaalaaaloooppppsiiieeeee @mayyhaps @mimi3lover @evilari111 @s6rine @taefanclub @3stela @heartmaddie @suvakrpa @autlantic @jayathelostdragon @sickpatientt @eoniiian @gumims @4crewz @frootloopscos @writing-for-the-hell-of-it @literallyushiwaka @asteraslvrr @ursafehaven @charlotterosea13 @xjustxlookingx @baylz @fi-chanwrites @phant0mth1ef @sqwishywrites34 @l0ckedtomb @iluv-ace @jiminscarmex @p1nktulips @loveyislost @kozu-chan

venus ; chapter five ; missing

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note: i probably shouldve said but the first texts are between atsumu and sakusa

taglist: @bub-ss @deadfish714 @snoowply @yessimo @matt444nixi @ncitygreen @laceythespacey @lorisheaven @sugacor3 @localgaytrainwreck @nobodybutnnoorr @scoupsworld @meoqs @pelicanpizza @vi0let-writes @evilari111

venus ; chapter four ; reserved

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she walked into the gym, shoes squeaking as the jackels and alders warm up, the fluorescent lights burning her eyes, she hasnt been in this gym for months. she walked up the stairs to the bleachers, looking for her reserved seat as atsumu had called her the day before and told her that there would be one for her and what seat it would be. the seats were filled, she was thinking of how lucky she was that there was a reserved seat.. almost. she got to the row and counted down the seats, there was a girl sitting in her seat. her eyebrows furrowed, walking over to the seat. "hey, im sorry i think you're sitting in my seat, its reserved." the girl looked up, smacking her gum, "um, yeah it was reserved but the cute setter said i could sit here!" yns eye sqinted. "um what?" she asked, "i think i said it pretty clearly but good try! or did my words not pierce through that big head of yours?" she said all with a smile on her face. "no you said it pretty clearly, i say what because the setter down there is my boyfriend, and the seat you're sitting in is the one he reserved for me." her arms crossing and the fake smile on her face dropping. "yeah sure whatever you say maam! can you move out of my way now im trying to watch!" "the game hasnt even started yet!" yn exclaimed before walking off. she took back down the stairs and exited the building. of course atsumu would do some shit like this. why wouldnt he? she decided to not report back to the group chat for this one, it just gives the three of them more reason to hate atsumu. and she did not want another scolding.

she sat cross-legged in atsumu's apartment. just waiting. what she was going to do when he got there, she didnt know. probably yell, a lot, and he would yell back. its an endless cycle. she knew it. she just couldnt quit him. locks jiggled before the door opened. chants from bokuto was heard "HOO HOO HOO WHAT THE HELL IS AN AL-" stopping dead in his tracks, "what is it bo?" hinata peeked over bokuto's shoulder, making eye contact with yn. "oooooo your in troubleeee" is all that was heard from hinata before him and bokuto scurried off to their rooms. sakusa also followed after the two boys, leading atsumu into the apartment. "hey, i was looking for you after!" "oh you were looking for me after? i assume in the seat that you 'reserved' for me." she airquoted the word reserved. "yeah! and some other girl was in the seat." "no shit sherlock! because you told her to sit there! you're memory cannot be that short term!" yn stood up, getting in atsumu's face. "ohhhhh yeah i did do that." she just stood there starstruck, jaw dropped "i, i cant do this right now." she walked away, and out of the house. tears welling in her eyes, and falling all before she walked out the door frame.

taglist: @bub-ss @deadfish714 @snoowply @yessimo @matt444nixi @ncitygreen @laceythespacey @lorisheaven @sugacor3 @localgaytrainwreck @nobodybutnnoorr @scoupsworld @meoqs @pelicanpizza @vi0let-writes @supahumbreon

venus ; chapter three ; friday

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taglist: @scoupsworld @snoowply @meoqs @sugacor3 @pelicanpizza @localgaytrainwreck @nobodybutnnoorr @vi0let-writes @matt444nixi @ncitygreen @laceythespacey @deadfish714 @bub-ss (if ur name is bolded i cannot tag you)

great expectations - 7, consequences!

prev. | current | next | series list | character intros

You completely understood why Kuroo and Tsukki liked to bully you so much. 

You were being totally ridiculous. Really, how could you pretend to be so incredibly nonchalant about things (namely, things being Oikawa), when you'd spent six out of the previous day with none other than Tooru himself.

And you didn't hate your time with him, either. Actually, it was quite the opposite. Not only did you enjoy it—but you looked forward to it.

Really, there was no choice left for them but to tease you mercilessly.

There's a stupid grin on your face as you walk into the convenience store next to campus. It's caused by the dumb picture you just texted Tooru, one you took on your short walk to your destination. You called him corny, but part of you is waiting eagerly to see what nonsense he comes up with.

You don't make it more than a few steps into the small shop with you hear a man's laugh, and you think maybe Kuroo and Tsukki should make you pay extra rent for how you recognize his laugh.

Tooru is somewhere in the store, just around one of the aisles. Your smile brights and widens at the prospect of seeing him in person before you have to run off to practice, so much so that you don't even care how pathetic it makes you look.

You're about to call his name when he walks out from the aisle he'd been hidden behind and brings his purchases up to the counter. Except, you freeze right down to your bones when you realize he's not alone.

It's not any of the usual suspects with him. Like Iwaizumi or Bokuto, or either of the Miya twins. It's not even one of his teammates or friends outside the sport.

No, Tooru Oikawa—your Tooru Oikawa—is walking side by side with a girl you'd seen around campus a handful of times.

And you can feel your heart racing, your mind scrambling to explain away the sight before.

Friends. Right, Tooru can have friends that are girls. I have plenty of guy friends, too, so—

It's then that they set their items on the counter together—a joint checkout, curtesy of Tooru's card he pulls from his wallet—and the girl's hand falls almost too easily onto Tooru's bicep in a well-trained flirtation tactic.

You miss the uneasy look on Tooru's face. But what you do see is that guy you just admitted to having feelings for looking awfully cozy with another girl.

You're not sure what catches his attention. It's probably the door opening behind you as a new patron makes their way onto the scene. You don't care enough to turn and look, but when Tooru does, you're struck by an overwhelming urge to flee.

You see his eyes go wide, and it's practically a confession that yes, he was on a date, and not with you.

You're turning around and bolting towards the exit just as he calls out your name, long having since decided your purchases were not going to made that day.

"Sir, your card!" The teenage cashier calls out, and it's the last thing you hear before you break free into the outside world.

Oikawa doubles back for his card, and by the time he makes it out of the store, you're already gone.

extras!

yn didn't actually block oikawa. after she read his messages she realized how she kinda jumped to conclusions and felt shitty about it. will explore it more in the next few parts!!

yn and kiyoko told the boys the whole Ushijima/Oikawa update at the house dinner (kuroo's turn to cook) the next day and hinata acted like he had never heard the worse news ever

the ONLY reason hinata has for not liking Ushijima is bc he plays for another team. he told yn once that she was "fraternizing with the enemy" and suga made him unload the dishwasher as punishment

every time yn denies liking oikawa, she's lying through her teeth

taglist 8/10

@loveyislost @vi0let-writes @jayathelostdragon @snoowply @ladycaramelswirl @dayanahq @loverryxx @x3nafix

back again!

despite how challenging uni could be, koshi loved everything about it. that was, however, until he saw you: the girl that broke his heart back in high school. the same girl he swore he’d never let back into his life.

contains: sugawara koshi x fem!reader, college au, comedy, angst, fluff, second chance romance, slight ooc suga, swearing, occasional alcohol consumption

tw: past mentions of bullying, self-deprecation and anxiety. every chapter will be labelled accordingly but please take care of yourself first

*part of the nerokoma smau multiverse but can be read separately

taglist: open! [send an ask or dm to be added!]

start date: march 17 2025

end date: tba

main masterlist | series tag

i survived seijoh high | victims of academia

SWEET DREAMS

<osamu miya x reader>

Summary: Being a manager for the Inazarki volleyball club wasn't easy, especially dealing with their chaos. They had made great friends because of it and had caught some attention as well, especially from Miya Osamu. For him, having a crush on the manager isn't ideal but it wasn't anything that he can control. The worst thing about it, watching your crush already be in a relationship with your teammate.

Genre: friends to lovers, angst, drama, fluff

Warnings: Swearing, yelling, teasing, suggestive themes.

Taglist: open

CHAPTER FIVE

<chapter four || materlist || chapter six>

▪︎___________°••>>>*<<<••°___________▪︎

▪︎___________°••>>>*<<<••°___________▪︎

[Taglist]: open

SWEET DREAM

<osamu miya x reader>

Summary: Being a manager for the Inazarki volleyball club wasn't easy, especially dealing with their chaos. They had made great friends because of it and had caught some attention as well, especially from Miya Osamu. For him, having a crush on the manager isn't ideal but it wasn't anything that he can control. The worst thing about it, watching your crush already be in a relationship with your teammate.

Genre: friends to lovers, angst, drama, fluff

Warnings: Swearing, yelling, teasing, suggestive themes.

Taglist: open

CHAPTER FOUR

<chapter three || materlist || chapter five>

▪︎___________°••>>>*<<<••°___________▪︎

▪︎___________°••>>>*<<<••°___________▪︎

[Taglist]: open

great expectations - 6, game on!

prev. | current | next | series list | character intros a note from sunnie: there are two separate written sections! I couldn't add my usual dividers bc of a picture limit!

The moment you step into the house party, you know you're in for a night.

Your group separates almost immediately. Shoyo runs off—dragging Tsukki like a begrudging anchor—to find some of their teammates. Kuroo, Suga, and Kiyoko head towards the kitchen to find drinks, while you mumble something about needing to use the bathroom.

It's a lie, so you wait until Kiyoko is tucked away safely in the kitchen before you cross the party in determined steps towards the only reason you even showed up.

"Don't you dare mess this up for us, Tanaka." You threaten, interrupting the conversation he had been previously engaged with. You'd seen him as soon as you'd entered, talking against the far wall with Iwaizumi Hajime, acting like he wasn't investigating everyone that walked in the door.

"I won't! Wait, us?" Tanaka defends, chest puffing out with determination during the time it took for his mind to catch up with your words.

"Yes, us. Don't tell her I said this, but she likes you. So, now you have no excuse to not ask her out." You level him with a flat look, though after a few seconds the corners of your lips curve upwards and you're left with no choice but to smile at him.

You really do like Tanaka. It's just fun to mess with him.

But maybe you took it too far. The poor boy looks like his mind is melting.

You don't have any time to think it through, because without any further teasing, Tanaka takes off in a determined, albeit nervous, stride towards the kitchen.

You're left alone with Iwaizumi, grinning like the cat that got the canary at the knowledge that your plan was set into motion so easily. You've talked Iwaizumi enough for it to not be awkward, though every encounter you've ever had with him was either in the context of his athletic trainer internship or him apologizing for Oikawa's dumb comments.

"Nice of you to do that for Tanaka." Iwaizumi hums over the rim of his cup. You'd prearranged with Suga that he would bring you a drink, so you're not in any rush to take off and find one while you watch Tanaka psych himself up to enter the kitchen. "He's got it bad for Shimizu."

"Believe it or not, the feeling is actually mutual." You grin, thinking of the way your shy, quiet friend gushed in her own way about the spiker.

"Speaking of unbelievable things," Iwaizumi steers the conversation away from Tanaka, and you're unsure what to think as you wait for him to finish his thought. "Oikawa seems to be actually trying to be a better person since your argument."

You cringe, but not because Oikawa was brought up.

"You mean, more like since I yelled at him in front of everybody and their mother and got the whole volleyball department in trouble?"

"Yeah. But don't worry. I know he had it coming." Iwaizumi teases, and you can't help but snort. You also can't help the way your stare floats over the crowd, searching for a head of familiar brown hair that may or may not be wearing a matching outfit with you. "Look, I don't want you to think I'm only saying this because he's somehow my best friend, but I really think you should give him a chance to show you what he could be like."

"Hasn't he already shown me that?" You ask, brows knitting together and giving Iwaizumi your full attention. He knew Oikawa better than anyone, and had stuck around him for so many years. If a guy as good as Iwaizumi was vouching for Oikawa, then maybe he had a point.

And maybe you were starting to wonder if you were seeing the real Oikawa, too.

Iwaizumi shook his head, and you knew that he was being honest.

"Oikawa thinks he has to pretend for people to like him. He's been this way since we were kids. But... he's different with you. He's himself."

Your attention flicked to the crowd once more.

And suddenly, all you wanted to do was find out if Iwaizumi was telling the truth.

An hour into the party, and you still haven't actually talked to Oikawa.

But you had spent that time with your friends, crammed onto the couch and laughing loudly. At one point, Bokuto and Kuroo start shoving each other playfully, and you know you have only seconds before they start full on wrestling, so you jump from your spot on the couch and weave through the crowd towards the kitchen for a fresh drink.

There are more people than you expected. Not only was it the boy's team and friends, but you'd seen your own teammates and other sports members littered throughout the house. It's not crazy packed like a frat party, but you're glad for it. You'd rather not deal with the all sweaty, arrogant men you found on Frat Row.

With all the extra bodies, you don't think twice about the figure sliding in next to you at the counter where you're mixing a drink, assuming they're just waiting their turn for the display of mixers.

Though, when the person speaks, you realize they were waiting for something else.

"You dating any of those guys you showed up with?"

Instinctively, your face twists into a scathing mixture of disgust, distaste, and flat out annoyance. It doesn't take you long to put a name with the face, and you know you're looking at Yuuji Terushima.

You know a few things about him. He's on the school's rec volleyball team. He's not half bad at it, anyways, but he screws around too much to actually develop any skills. And he cheated on your teammate only a few short weeks earlier when they tried out dating.

You had tried to talk her out of it. Terushima tried out dating with anyone who'd let him.

"Did'ja hear me?" He asks, smirking like he knows he's hot—though you know far too much about him to fall for any sort of charm he attempts.

"I heard you," You roll your eyes, not looking up as you finish mixing your drink. You'd be damned if Terushima was going to get in the way of your refill. "I just don't want to answer you."

He smirks wider, clearly enjoying you giving in an answering him.

"Don't be so mean, sweetheart."

It's then that you try and turn to leave, but try becomes the operative word as you twist in place only for Terushima to slide easily to the space you were going to use to escape.

He's got you blocked in against the counter, and briefly your heart rate spikes. Your attention darts throughout the kitchen, but you don't know anybody that's left lingering in the small space.

"Even if you are dating one of them," Terushima continues on, like he wasn't making you incredibly uncomfortable. "They don't have to know—"

Suddenly, Terushima is jerked away from you. You have a split second to recognize a hand clamped on his shoulder until your line of sight frees up, only to be replaced by a broad back wedged protectively between the two of you.

"Hey, man." Oikawa. He's the one who came your your rescue, who was currently glaring daggers at Terushima, if your glance at the side of his face told you anything. "She's not interested. Get lost."

And though Terushima was still smirking at you, he raised his hands as if claiming innocence. With nothing more than a wink in your direction, he melted back into the crowd.

Oikawa waits until Terushima is completely gone before turning back to face you, frown etched deep onto his face. You realize you've never seen him genuinely frown, only playfully. It makes your stomach twist in nerves.

"Are you okay?" His voice is deep and gravelly, and you can tell he's still pissed off.

"Yeah, I'm fine." You nod, crossing your arms over your chest. You were uncomfortable, but not because Oikawa. No, you were grateful for him, a foreign feeling. "He was just being pushy, but he didn't touch me, or anything."

"I swear, I'm going to have Iwaizumi kick him out."

"My hero," You tease, snorting out a laugh. The sound makes Oikawa's frown falter, and you pinch your arm to keep from smiling at the sight. "I think I'm going to head home, though."

"Can I walk you back?" You can tell he's still worked up over what he walked in on, so you know he's not trying to pull any moves.

It makes you think of Iwaizumi's earlier words, and suddenly you're answering before you realize.

"Please."

extras!

yn acts like she hates helping tanaka with kiyoko but she actually loves it so much. obsessed with the effort tanaka puts in for her friend and approves of him completely

the entire time they were getting ready to go out kuroo kept teasing yn about "how much she wanted to go see oikawa" and only stopped when she threw a shoe at his head

tsukki acts like he's too cool to gossip but he's smirking the whole time anyone calls out yn for crushing on oikawa

hinata's big dream (besides going pro in vball) is for oikawa and yn to date. truly thinks of them as mom and dad but he's too scared of yn to say so

iwaizumi never told oikawa that he asked yn to give him a chance. he knows he'll be too annoying about it

oikawa and yn spent two hours together after leaving the party - suga spent 75% of that time stalking her location to make sure she was safe. but also to be nosy. mostly to be nosy.

the house was waiting outside yn's bedroom for the morning debrief after seeing her and oikawa's posts of each other.

Hinata was on the roof with Lev (also on the boys vball team)

taglist 5/50

@loveyislost @vi0let-writes @jayathelostdragon @snoowply @ladycaramelswirl

Please can I request pre-relationship hashira x hashira!reader, where they are sparing together and it becomes a bit suggestive 💙💙

Male pillars x reader - Sparing with benefits

pairing: Tengen x reader, Obanai x reader, Rengoku x reader, Sanemi x reader, Giyuu , reader, Gyomei x reader

content warning: suggestiveness

Tengen:

"you could just give up, there's no chance you could win against my flamboyant self!" he taunted, running around the courtyard with you.

you had been fighting for ten minutes and there was still no end in sight. you weren't a bad fighter, you've been promoted as a hashira some time ago, but Tengen was at advantage right now.

he was faster than you. he had been saving himself from your attacks by avoiding them every time. the smirk on his face only spurred you on more, wanting to win this fight and show him that you were a good fighter.

however, when you raised your bamboo sword for an attack and he turned around to dodge it, you felt yourself trip on a root. it had been sticking out of the ground, making you fall over.

surprised by what has happened, Tengen lost his own halt and fell backwards, landing in a sitting position. you felt yourself fall onto him, at least partly.

when you checked your surroundings, you found your head on his lap. your cheek pressed against his groin. meeting his gaze, you could see his cocky smirk.

"it was an accident! i didn't mean to.." you said, wanting to stand up instantly. this would definitely look wrong from an outsider's perspective.

when you tried to stand up, you felt his hand tangle in your hair, pressing your cheek a bit more against his groin, only satisfied when you felt the bulge against your skin.

"just so you know, my wives had always found you cute enough for this.." he teased, his eyes staying on your widened eyes.

you pushed away, running away from his grip and off the training field.

Obanai:

he was proud of you for becoming a hashira. when he took you in as his tsuguko, he wasn't sure if he made the right decision, but he was sure now.

you were able to follow his movements, dodge his attacks and even make some of your own. your elegance captivated him and he found himself admiring your fighting style.

perhaps he had been diving in his thoughts too much, because when his attention was finally back on you, he was already on the ground.

your legs were on either side of him, straddling his body. heterochromic eyes were staring deeply into yours, surprised by the sudden turn of events.

"i win, Obanai." you said, looking down at the man. your hands were resting on his chest, leaning forward slightly.

his heartbeat was increasing under your hands, cheeks flushing. it wasn't the first time he noticed how beautiful you were, but your allure only increased like this.

"you.. you do.." he muttered, not being able to turn his eyes away from you. yet again, neither were you. you leaned down further, remaining with your faces only a few inches apart.

it would've been so easy to kiss him right now. however, feeling your hips rub against his groin, he couldn't stop his body from reacting, his hands gripping your waist.

"[name], g- get down.."

Rengoku:

"flame breathing. third form: blazing universe!" he called out, his bamboo sword coming at you with immense speed. you barely managed to block his attack - meaning you didn't do it.

your body flew a few feet away, landing on the ground. with a quiet grunt, you turned onto your back. "i give up.." you sighed.

however, there was no audible reaction from Rengoku. turning your head towards him, you wanted to know what's wrong, only to see his wide eyes staring.

he shook his head, running towards you and kneeling down. "are.. are you okay?" he asked, seeing you nod. he didn't respond, as if he knew something you didn't.

"just tell me, Rengoku!" you pleaded, feeling yourself enter a state of panic. did you lose a leg? it wasn't like him to behave this way.

he moved his hand closer, placing his hand against the side of your stomach. your eyes widened, looking down at yourself, staring at your torn uniform.

not only the right side of your shirt, but also the entirety of your right pant leg was missing. you instantly sat up, trying to cover up.

"i didn't know, i will-" you tried excusing yourself, but fell silent when he squeezed your waist slightly, attention moving back to him.

"i'll bring you back." he answered, taking off his haori and pulling it over your form. it didn't help covering your leg, but at least your upper body looked a bit more presentable.

he scooped you into his arms, both your legs around his waist. you rested your chin on his shoulder, wishing to disappear. the whole situation was embarrassing, and even worse, you had felt warm when he touched your skin unhindered.

his hand held you up by your thighs, his grip on your right thigh a bit stronger. you could feel his fingers dig into the soft flesh of your leg, glancing up at him.

"you.. you're really soft." he quietly said, not able to hide his red face from you.

perhaps the whole situations had it's advantages.

Sanemi:

"stop running! just admit defeat!" he shouted after you, determined to get this fight over with. the only problem: you were extremely fast. you managed to dodge his attacks every time.

"never!" you answered, seeing him try to attack again. you were ready to dodge his bamboo sword, but were shocked to see him drop it mid-attack.

his hand shot towards you instead, quite literally knocking you down with his harsh hit. your back made contact with the ground, Sanemi tackling you down immediately.

"i win." he said, smirking at your defeated form. you tried freeing yourself, not able to push up with his hand on your neck.

"i didn't give up yet." you huffed out, feeling him squeezing your throat lightly - he was warning you. only that his warning didn't work as intended.

a quiet whimper escaped your lips, your cheeks flushing in embarrassment. he had heard the sound, you knew it.

"oh? didn't know you were into the rough treatment." he smirked - teased. your reaction was immediate, pressing your knee up and right against his crotch.

he groaned, letting go of you. he clearly hadn't expected you to do that, especially not after you pushed him away and freed yourself.

"didn't know you were into that, Shinazugawa."

"you-"

naturally, another fight started right after.

Giyuu:

how did this happen? thirty minutes of fighting just for your bamboo sword to be kicked to the side by him. he had been too fast for you, leaving you unable to react.

your back was pressed against the wall, wide eyes staring into his. he had caged you between the wall and his body, his form towering over you.

ocean eyes were deeply staring into yours, his hand pressing against the wall behind you. he couldn't tear his gaze away from your body, not when you were presented right in front of him.

"you lost." he stated, as if it wasn't obvious to the both of you. his eyes narrowed, his other hand moving towards you.

"if this had been a fight with a demon, you would've died." he said, making you feel like prey under his eyes. he placed his hand on your chin, thumb nearly grazing your lips.

"don't lose focus." he uttered, but his eyes had long broken their contact with yours. he was watching your lips instead, as if he was debating on a kiss.

"i wont." you answered breathlessly, getting his attention back on you. he let go of your chin, stepping away and picking up your sword.

"let's try it out." he taunted, neither of you really focusing on winning or losing now.

Gyomei:

this fight was unfair to begin with. without a doubt, you were one of the strongest swordsman in the corps. you've served as a hashira for three years now, but no one could win against Gyomei.

naturally, you admitted defeat when he threw you over half the lake, immediately asking whether you're fine or not.

your head broke through the water, gasping for air. the water was freezing cold, but you told him you're fine.

he still made the effort to help you out of the water, drenching his own clothes in the freezing liquid.

"are you sure you're okay?" he asked, big tears already rolling down his face again. you avoided your eyes from his form, not trying to appear inappropriate.

"i'm fine." you answered, looking at your own body. both of your clothes were quite see-through, giving you a greedy sight of his muscles and abs.

looking down at yourself, your clothes weren't any better. you thought of yourself as lucky, not wanting to live with the shame of letting him see so much of your body.

"come, it's freezing in here." he told you, pulling you into his arms and out of the water as he made his way out of it.

what you didn't know, was how his fingers could feel everything that you were seeing. your clothes stuck to your skin, not leaving much room for imagination.

he stepped out of the water, but instead of letting you down, his head tilted towards yours, foreheads nearly touching.

his hands squeezed your body, millions of thoughts running through his head. "you're.." he said, but he stopped, not wanting to do something he might regret later.

"you're still wet, we should get some dry clothes.." he told you instead, putting you down again, his hand sliding against your curves for a moment.

you watched him walk forward, your lips parted. was it wrong that you had hoped for him to continue?

sorry, wrong number! — tanaka ryuunosuke. chapter nine; On My Way!

contents more angst but like in a sweet/comforting way? more brainrot lingo. motherless! tanaka & fatherless! reader. profanity. tanaka is bad at talking about his feelings.

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