The Last Holiday Together.

Introducing The Genshin Impact Tall Man Ship Guide

dedication | young!miguel o'hara x reader

❛ pairing | young geneticist!miguel o'hara x scientist!reader

❛ type | oneshot, explicit.

❛ summary | alchemax is a dangerous place to work. miguel's new assistant may be over her head. maybe he can help her, though.

❛ tags | virgin reader, f!reader, shitty science, plot heavy, loose canon references, literary liberties, loss of virginity, overprotective Miguel o'hara, jealous miguel o'hara, some objectification, workplace politics, aftercare (as requested), corruption (is it tho?), bc what bc, Spanish is not translated, young!miguel, heel-foot fetish, somewhat romantic.

❛ fulfilled request | can we please have a miguel x virgin reader and he didn’t even know until he was already putting it in?? And then voila his corruption kink unexpectedly growS? @a--dedicated--fangirl

❛ sy’s notes | miguel sort of works on that whole corruption aspect throughout this fic, but i wanted to meld these two ideas together to create a reader who is entirely dedicated to Miguel. This piece was a bit long for me.

“Miguel, your new assistant is here.” 

On paper, you’re an excellent candidate for the genetics program. 

An excellent GPA, renowned company internships, decent publications, and a diverse upbringing. It was all good. Great, even. But as the head of the genetics program at Alchemax, he has a little thing called priorities. Interviewing everyone himself was low on the rung of shit he felt like he should be doing. There was, however, one little, itty bitty, tiny problem with bringing you on board.

“Dr. O’Hara? ¿Estas bien?”

That shirt-- is not meant to hold those-- His brain was left field, glimpsing at them. A slightly sheer button-up revealed the outline of your bustier and its inability to conceal your body. They should have been illegal. He was pretty sure they were illicit in the handbook on his table. He should really read that again. Maybe then he wouldn’t be salivating over something as simple as a co-worker-- He needed to get out of the lab. The bleached walls tightened around him, the space smaller than he remembered. He was going to get caught.

Realistically, the lab was full of witty people. Many of them were witty men with subpar looks and stupider dicks. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything about it. Not only because your lips were plump, painted petal-pink, and kissable or because the depth of your sultry eyes went straight in the dick. No, but because that would be improper of a man of his stature to tell one of the only women in his care that she was too gorgeous for the job you were clearly qualified for. 

“Sí, coño,” He fixed his glasses, crooked on his broad nose. He stood up from his desk and grabbed his lab coat, swirling it around his broad shoulders. If he wasn’t mistaken, you tracked the movement with your eyes. “Do you want a cafecito? Miss…”

You told him your name. He mulled it over on his tongue, lathing it in a gentle acknowledgment. Cemented it in a place he wouldn't forget. You tinked your head to the side, your lashes fluttering when he cleared his throat. Great, just shocking-- 

“After you,” he headed for the door. He held it open for you, plastering his back to the wood. It didn't matter. You slid by closer than he’d prefer, your hand catching on his belt buckle with muttered apologies. This wasn’t going to end well. 

Cafecito is an excellent excuse to pull his dumbass together. 

It also calms his nerves, centers his mind, and allows him to compartmentalize. Whether or not you could hold your own wasn’t his issue, his issue was the necessity of someone he could trust. Ugly, beautiful-- so long as they were efficient, Miguel would make due. The cafeteria was a large and clean space. The many tables were crowded with wrap-around stations for poorly crafted, misery-inducing meals. Miguel paid and took a seat at a creaky table. One where he could see the door open, shut, and keep an eye on the comings and goings of meager scientists and annoying managers. 

“You’ll be working with me.” 

You pursed your lips around the warm cup of coffee, taking a ginger sip. He noted your lipstick stain that remained as you pushed the cup toward the middle of the table you shared with him. This damn suit vest was stifling. He gave you a long, slow look, tilting his head to the fact that you’d not drunk anything. It’d be rude to acknowledge.

“Delgado told me,” you smiled warmly. “He said you’re a genius. I don’t know that I believe in geniuses.” 

Hmph. Delgado, things fell into place. That sycophant knew what he liked. He also knew that Miguel was better than him, always was, and always would be. Miguel offered you a slick smile, convinced he could assure you otherwise if he needed to. “Delgado says a lot of things. I’m surprised he gave you to me.”

“Why is that, O’Hara?” the way his name slipped off your tongue was a hot sin. If only he believed in a god. His eyelids shifted over his eyes, heavy-lidded and dark.

“You’re beautiful. He likes to collect beautiful things,” Miguel tried, curious.  Your nails clicked in succession over the table. A repetitive click, click, click. He would be annoyed too if he were no more than a ploy. A distraction. Miguel wasn’t sure that it wasn’t working. His eyes flickered down, catching one of your palms curling into a tight fist, tension rolling through your fingers and up your arms. “He knows I do too.” 

You leaned in, close enough that he could spot the unique freckles spread out in a crescent moon beneath a layer of makeup on your face. Beautiful. “I’m not here to belong to you, O’Hara. I hope you know that.” 

He was off to a great, fantastic start.

 “Understood.” Miguel leaned back in his chair, a smirk creeping up his lips. Or, believe that you believed that. You spared him any more mincing comments. Appeased by his suggestion, you brought your drink back to your lips.

“Good. What are we sequencing?” 

“Me.” 

You swallowed. “You? You can’t be--” 

Mhm, he stared, lips pressed tightly together. “You’ll code my DNA. Then we’ll splice it.” 

"With what?"

"You'll see."

“Is this your little,” you swirled your finger in a circle. “Pet project?” 

Unfortunately not, he would have liked to say. That information was confidential, and though you worked on the project, there were levels to his willingness to involve you in the delicate flow of workplace politics. Still, you might make a healthy distraction from his work. Miguel took a swig of his cafecito, boring into the black substance.

“Something like that.” 

Having a pretty assistant means things don’t always get done according to schedule. Not quickly enough, not by far. There is a time limit to everything at Alchemax. The quicker, the better. Thus this project demanded more hours of his time. The project was spliced between the work required of him by superiors and you, your quirks, and your preferences. 

Miguel has learned a great many things about you in a short amount of time. You don’t appreciate misplaced pet names. You actually can’t handle coffee because of the caffeine or the sugar. He also learns things about himself. How little he likes when Delgado comes to check on progress because he isn’t actually checking on shit. He's checking you out. 

He likes to weasel his nasty fingers around the door, peering in to try and find out what specimen he’s actually working on. Miguel was much too smart for that. His beady eyes caught Miguel over your shoulder, mumbling up to him about a new finding in tests you ran earlier that day. Your face mask twirled around your index finger, finally free and at a documentation workspace.   Funny, because he clearly redacts information from your well-recorded notes on the daily. You refuse to include less.

“Hey Mike,” he said. “How are things… Oh hey, you. You settling in, honey? Mike treating you ok? I can discipline him for you.”

“As if you could,” Miguel huffed. 

But Delgado spying on you, the way you record progress by pouting out your lips, shifting between paper and your lab reports, was intolerable. Because... well, he has sensitive information on there. Your nose scrunches in distaste, but you bow your head just slightly as a hello. He might be his supervisor, but Miguel doesn’t need one to know why this asshole is in his lab turning his smarmy brown eyes over the way you sit: one leg over the other. You seem to realize it too, trailing your eyes over his gaudy suit to Miguel’s sinewy hand on your shoulder. 

“Stop being a creep,” Miguel complained, “She has actual work to do.”

“Actual work? As opposed to--“

“Yes, what you do.” Miguel spat out. You eschewed a giggle, turning your face over a pristine white lab jacket that thankfully, you had no qualms in wearing. Otherwise, he might not finish any work in the lab at all. 

“I supervise--

“You’re still talking but we’re not listening,” Miguel waved him off, plucking up papers by your side. Your eyes snap up to Miguel’s deep chocolate eyes hidden behind the thin frame of his metal glasses, waiting for a proper response. “Goodbye, Aaron.”

Miguel walks to the door, locks it with a click, and returns to your side. You glance at his white lab coat, fluttering around his tapered waist. He loves the way your eyes look at him with a soft, inviting expression, beseeching him to come to sit by your side as he always did. “Not a fan of Delgado, I take it.” 

“Are you?” Miguel sits with his legs spread, his fingers threading through his thick brown hair. You set your papers down, swiveled toward him. The wheels of your rolling chair squeak on either side of his thick, black boots. His eye catches your thick thighs, squashed between your midi skirt, its atrocious slip causing him discomfort. His hand leaves his thick hair, dropping in unison side by side. 

“I can’t stand being called honey, Mike.” 

“Shut up.”

The days proceed similarly. Days filled with brushing past him as he slides in samples and reagents. He might lose a sample, clattering on the floor, and you always rush to help him clean up. Lunch together, because no matter how late he eats, you’re there beside him. Then as night falls, you stay until he has finished whatever he needs to do.

“Time to eat something,” you slipped into his office. The clock ticked past midnight. Miguel flicked through handwritten pages of information that did not need to be recorded in computer files. You watched his eyes scan over the ink on the page, acknowledging you with a grumpy grunt. Not now, not when he was so close to finishing the last section of the project.

“Empanada,” you turned his palm over, placing the flaky pastry in his hand. Caramelized apple. He loved a good apple empanada. He watched as you walked over to the coffee maker, drawing him a warm cafecito just how he liked it. Miguel dropped his pen, stretching out his aching spine. 

“Gracias. From where?” 

“I made them,” you set down the cup a little harder than intended. The surface rippled, throwing hot coffee drips onto his pages. His eyes flickered up from the pages to your eyes. Without thinking, he blathers:

“That so?” A pause. “Don’t you have a man?” 

“Miguel. With this sequencing project, you’re the only man in my life. Shut up and eat the empanada.” 

“Huh. Good. I like that.” He swallowed the empanada with a bob of his head, his tongue lathing over his teeth for any more of the sweet sugar. He stood up, finding your expression soft, drawn out by a sense of longing that he couldn’t imagine he saw.  

“You like my sad love life?” 

Yes.

“No, we have a company event. A ball,” Miguel chided, his tone gentling as he slipped away from his desk, abandoning his steamy coffee on his desk. He backed out of the doorway, “It’s all Stone’s politics. You know how these things are. I have to go. Come with me.” 

“Is that a request or an order?” 

“A date.” 

I’d love to. Your words were the only thing that made tonight bearable. Slinking his tanned skin into a dark blue suit that cinched everything too tight was… unbearable. It clung to his skin like a second skin and choked off his air. But it might be worth it to see your face-- just maybe. He tracked the fluttering tails of fish behind bulletproof glass, following them as they fluttered away into their rock. He wished he could too. 

“Miguel?” 

“You’re here,” he turned around, dropping the champagne he idly held in his hand. It went forgotten by his boot as you called his name again. His gaze fixed on yours, the slinky navy blue dress caused his heart to thrum through his chest, chasing the sight of your body at his feet, picking shards of glass up with the aid of a worker, apologizing profusely for the mess. A soft puff of breath slipped from his lips as you stood back up, gripping your purse a little harder in your hands. He ran his hand over his jaw, drawing himself back to his senses.

“Miggy,” he husked out. “Call me Miggy.” 

“You look handsome, Miggy,” his name felt unreal on your lips until he felt the pressure on his elbow. Your soft hands slunk around his, cradling him for some security in the face of the large doors. He shook himself back to his senses. Right, there was a reason he was here. “But shouldn’t we go?” 

He should have-- but did he want to? No, not really. He didn’t want to see Stone’s greasy face, let Aaron take a peek at how you looked dolled up, or any of the rest of these fuckers. What he wanted was something else entirely. 

“Listen.” Miguel stopped, his other hand coming to the jeweled bracelet on your wrist. The doors to the ballroom lapsed, groups of older men filtering in and out with their pieces of the night: doting wives, longing husbands, and partners that their wives or husbands probably didn’t know about. “Don’t wander off from me. They’re all snakes. All of them.” 

“Even you?” 

“Hermosa,” you didn’t leer at him. “I’m the least of your worries.” 

He wasn’t wrong. The ballroom was dolled up in lush fabrics, fine china, and a copious amount of food as it was every year. Miguel found the attempt to distract from what really went on behind closed doors at Alchemax a bit cloying. This year the music was at least tolerable. It filtered out into the ballroom in a syrupy melodies driven on by the soft, promises of rich men for the exchange of sex. For much of the night, he could stomach the various men poking and prodding at him about his impending research. So long as you were here.

“Miggy,” you breathed, a hot puff of air against his ear. He leaned down, his hand atop of yours. “Will you dance with me?” 

Dance? Miguel had two left feet-- it’s why he was a geneticist. For all the work you did on his behalf in the lab, including this very night, he owed you the benefit of whatever you wanted. He searched out a quiet area, one where the only disruption could be the stream of moonlight in through a window. You preferred it over the wall of vivacious men and over-powdered women. He preferred it over the atrocity of his footwork.

“It’s not much of a date,” Miguel’s hand slid around yours. He encompassed your small palm with his large hand, the other gliding across the soft, exposed skin of your back. You swayed with him, side to side. He was an awful dancer, but there was something endearing about that. He saw it in your eyes, the glimmer of curiosity, gliding your dark heels against the inside of his foot. Damn, he still sucked.

“No,” you agreed, shifting to take the lead. He followed your steps. Right, back, left, up. Maybe he stepped on your long dress once or twice, too. Shock, he cursed again, stepping over your foot.

“You’re remarkably bad at this.” You settled your head on his chest, letting your box steps fade into little more than the shifting of your hips. 

“I know. Let’s just-- sway?” 

“Swaying is good.”  

“O’Hara,” boomed Stone. But of course— peace couldn’t last forever. Like a bullet through the chest, a voice caused him to turn in startle. His tan cheeks flushed with warmth, feeling cut off from the cover of others. He was dressed in the most gaudy of clothes that almost seemed to match the crooked expression on his pale face. No matter how many times he tried to fix it, it always looked… wrong. 

Stone’s hands came together, clapping multiple times to force the crowd of politicians, scientists, and bought-in participants to fade away. His voice caused Miguel to growl, a low rumbly noise that you soothed with your breasts pushing gingerly against his arm. He could do it. He could handle this pompous little shit-- “And who is this beauty? A new girlfriend, perhaps? Fiance? O’Hara could do with a wife. Settle him down, y’know.”

Miguel huffed out of his nostrils. “This is my lab partner,” he cleared his throat, leaning forward. “For… the project.”

“Her? A lab partner? Ha!” 

Shock. He didn’t have to look at you to know you were insulted. Miguel pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing out the tension as you smiled through the interaction, taking over for Miguel. “We have measurable results.” 

“That’s what I like to hear, sweet thing. Now, Miguel, Aaron has found a test subject…”

“I’ll interview them.” 

“No need! I--” 

“Excuse me, Mr. Stone. I’ll let you two talk,” you slipped away, your heels clicking off into the busy crowd. Stone was talking. Miguel knew he should listen closely. His half-formed plan to see what the future held for his research was wafting into the air, wisps of it in his ear. Tomorrow-- test-- can you? Panic blinded his senses. He could find you nowhere in the room, and even if he did, would he be too late? 

“Yeah, yeah, that’s fine, it’s… excuse me.” 

The issue with falling for someone was the scythe of his fear. His position was inherently risky. No matter how many groups of people he cut through trying to find you, you weren’t there. No tiny little appetizers of shrimp on half a skewer. No booze, because your head would swim. Not near the bathrooms, either. He rushed down the steps when he found you, just before the large iron gates, staring up at the stars peppering the sky. 

At your feet, Aaron. His drunken fingers trying and failing to guide the strap off of your ankle. You, of course, sat there staring dumbly down at his failed attempts to do something as simple as fix your damn heel.

“I’ll take it from here.” Miguel booted Aaron out of the way. Who, with his sloppy sloshed curses, tried to win a fight with him. He eventually won out. Aaron slunk away, somewhere up the steps. Miguel wasn’t counting. “You didn’t listen.” 

“Hm?” 

Miguel loosened both straps, sliding his open palm under your foot for one then the other. You gazed at him, sliding the black heels off your feet, tutting his tongue at the blistered back of your feet. 

“I told you not to wander off.” 

“I just wanted to see the stars. Besides, it was just Aaron.” 

“It’s never just Aaron. It’s Aaron and Stone.” Miguel’s eyebrows pushed against one another, recording your failure to listen. You crossed one leg over the other, sliding your toes over his silk tie, kept beneath a vest. He knelt before you, searching your eyes for the right answer. “You don’t know… what you’re getting into. I’m trying to keep you safe.” 

 “I don’t need you to. I can take care of myself, Miguel. Please don’t--” you sighed. “Don’t be like them.” 

He knew what you meant. Like Aaron, peeling off your shoes at the sign of discomfort because you were a pretty woman. Or Stone, who couldn’t comprehend your value as a scientist. Those who doubted you because of your color, gender, or a mixture of the two. His mouth twisted in frustration. He was in deep. Whatever you desired, he wanted to give. It came at a price.

“Are you mine,” the words came out stiff, “or theirs?” 

“Miggy,” you turned the word over on your tongue, willing him to stand down. His dark eyes settled on yours, unmoving. “Why do I have to pick?” 

“You can’t have both. You’ll have to choose. One day.” 

Your mind worked. He knew from the way you pursed your lip out, then in, puncturing its pillowy surface with your teeth. You shifted your gaze to the water, the stream coursing down the unfeeling stone. Miguel's fingers ran across your inner thigh, causing you to gaze down at him. The steps of others on the other side of the fountain, fading into the depths of the night caused you to break his gaze. Miguel offered you his hand, fitting the shoes under his other arm as he walked toward the valet. You took his hand and interlaced your fingers.

“Do you trust me?” 

“Of course,” you said, though the words felt thready and thin, nary a whisper. Something in the undercurrent of your voice concerned him. A thread that needed to be snipped, convinced of the vileness of the city-- of who you worked for. 

He doesn’t make mistakes. 

But he left the project code on his desk. It should have been there, yet, the corpse of a decrepit, awful creature withered on the lab floor proved otherwise. Someone had taken it because he was distracted. As a result, someone lost their life... even if it was Stone's doing.

Now, scouring through his papers, his hands tremored like a common drug addict. He supposed he was one, a druggie, tremoring like a shot hungry, Rapture crazed-- 

“Miggy?” 

He snapped around. His gaze melded your figure into one beautiful blurb, even with the glasses on his broad nose. It was your voice, coded in something close to concern. Miguel ran his hands through his hair, long strands falling messily over his eyes and cheekbones. He flattened his hands out atop his head.

“What are you looking for?” 

“The notes,” he weathered a breath. He doddered about the room, throwing a stack of paper onto the floor. They crumpled over the floor, mixed projects, notes on the specimen, but none were his. “Where are my notes?” 

“You’re sick,” your voice broke gently, as if speaking them alone helped. A horrid crack of laughter slipped from his throat, drawing into a long lament as he repeated the words after you. Sick, you said, he was sick. If being sick was the least of his issues, he would have been a happy man. Your steps rang into his ear, heavier than before, painful and loud. He crumpled onto the couch in his office, his hands cupping them. Your soft hands coursed over his chest, unbuttoning his starched button-up and sliding it down his muscular upper arms. “This might hurt.” 

No kidding, needles always hurt. But the instantaneous relief that flooded his system overrode the momentary pain. As your fuzzy figure came into focus, he recognized the drug that you set aside. 

“You didn’t--” 

“You were right, Miggy, about the-- Mr. Sims.”  Miguel gazed at you, leafing through novels of notes with trembling hands. He cursed himself for subjecting you to seeing that. Not quite human, not quite... The twisted look on the poor man’s face. What months of research with one another had offered. He would fix it. He knew the research was on point. It was the application that was lacking.

“I have a copy of your notes,” you murmured as if someone could hear. They likely could. “¿Ay, puñeta, dónde está? Ah! Here, here it is. Your… profile.” 

“You kept it,” he glanced down at the hastily scribbled note attached to the clip. ‘Miguel’s profile’ alongside a soft pink heart. He stopped your hands from thumbing through another leaflet. His eyes traced the dry ink of the heart. His thumb moved to stroke it, catching the sight of bubbling tears welling over in your eyes out of the corner of his eye. The tears slid down your full cheeks, triggering his discomfort to well up in his stomach. Miguel shifted closer, flicking fat droplets off your slight jaw.

“Hermosa,” Miguel shifted his head, cocking his eyebrow. “¿Que te pasa?”

“I should have listened to you Miggy,” you began, inhaling air forcefully through your nostrils. Breathe, you murmured. Miguel's soft hand cupped the back of your neck like a collar. You were happy to be collared by his hand, it felt safe. 

His eyes narrowed, thumb caressing the loose strands of hair at your nape. “You should have. You know I'll take care of you."

You nodded.

"You have to be fully dedicated to me.” 

“I am.” 

“Show me.” You fluttered your eyes, the gears of your mind working to understand what he meant. His hand fell away to trace the bow of your black blouse. He tugged on the knot, slipping the bow loose and running his fingers over your exposed cleavage below. “Take off the blouse.” 

Was it necessary? Some might have said no-- but sex, in its connective nature-- was the ultimate dedication. At the end of it all, that's what he craved: your eyes, your actions, all born with him in mind. With trembling fingers, you untucked your shirt from your black slacks. Miguel sat back, tracking the soft lace of your balconette bra teasing his eye. You loitered for a minute too long, enough for him to lift his thick eyebrow.

“Don’t stop now,” he said. Your knees knocked together, slipping the shirt over and off your torso before draping it on the arm of his couch. Your bra followed quickly after, slipping out of the twisted straps. You skimmed your hands over your breasts, holding them for comfort.

"No." Miguel flicked his fingers, motioning for your hands to move from your thick nipples.  You pushed your breasts together, allowing him to marvel at them a second longer. “Que maravilla... You have no idea how long I’ve waited. Go on, take off the rest now.” 

You suckled in breath, sliding the button of your pants loose. Then the zipper, its cloth scratching your thighs on its way to pool around your ankles. You stepped out of them, joining them too with your shirt. Miguel sat up, running his calloused fingers over the side of your hip and waist. His thumbs hooked in your panties, drawing them down over your pussy, a moist spot on your panties connecting a small string of wetness to your pussy. His palm slid between your thighs, pinned by your thighs pressed together, whether out of an innate need for more pressure or shyness to show him how wet you were. Hm. Miguel melded your ass, striking your skin with his large palm, it jiggled.

“Miggy,” you breathed, shy and intimidated. “I have to tell you something…” 

“Lay down,” he told you. 

“But Miggy, what if someone…” Your eyes darted away from his, chewing on his cheek as you slid back down beside him. You settled on the couch, your legs thrown over his thighs. The couch was stiff, hard against your neck. You stole a haughty glimpse at his face, focused entirely on coursing his palms over your calves and thighs, then back down to your slight toes. He ground your feet over his stiff cock, obscured by the fabric of his slacks. He felt big-- bigger than you could have imagined from the look on your face. 

“¡Basta!” Miguel growled, “No one is going to come in. Let me see you.” 

You flushed. 

“You want me to…” you glanced down, your curls were soft to the touch. 

“Touch yourself for me.” 

With your heart strumming in your chest, you shifted your hand down, spreading your lips, soft and wet. You were so wonderfully shy to follow his orders, the pads of your fingers rubbing along your outer lips, massaging them warm and swollen. You buried your eyes into your other arm, dragging up and down, over and over. A delightful sigh greeted his ear, ensuring that though you were too embarrassed to look at him, you loved it. He allowed it for now-- because he was a gracious, forgiving man. 

“Shock,” Miguel shuffled at the button and zipper of his pants, freeing himself from his slacks. He spat into his palm, stroking over his fleshy length, squishing his cock against your foot. Your toes curled over his cockhead, engrossed in Miguel’s rumbling pants, the soft pleasure that bloomed from his chest. Your eyes trained on his lips, the slight breath suckled between his teeth. Your fingers glazed over your stiff clit, pausing as though you needed his permission, just how he wanted it. Your sweet submission. 

His eyebrow perked. “You can touch it.” 

“Oh,” you glanced down, tracing the way Miguel fisted himself, swirling up to his cockhead, along fat veins and the bubble of salty fluid on his tip. His permission seemed to spur something else in you, flicking your swollen clit to the sound of his pleasured growling, your own pleasure growing in tandem with his. 

“¡Ya!” he annunciated, watching as you failed to stop. All at once he stopped his ministrations. A sigh escaped his chest as he pushed himself up, smacking your hand away from your puffy cunt. His cock bobbed between your bodies. You wanted to touch it, but couldn’t.

"Wait," you cried out. His cock twitched as he lowered his hips down, drawing sweet lubricant on his cock, stroking your pussy. He leaned forward, capturing your mouth in a warm kiss. He dipped his hand down, his cockhead prodding and poking, dipping lower with the aid of his hand. 

“MiggyI’mavirgin,” you said all at once, his cockhead nudged against your entrance. Miguel’s head about snapped as he looked up, eyes popped wide open in disbelief. Before he could quite form a coherent thought, your hands shot out to grip his suit vest, stopping him where he was.

“¿Qué dejiste? Say that again?” 

“I haven’t… I haven't had sex,” you murmured. He hadn’t put it together. Your shyness, the awkward way you shuffled around, loosening your bra and hiding your perfect breasts from his eyes. The words were finally out in the open but didn't register.

"A..." Miguel fisted his cock, once, then twice, shifting back to kneel before you. Your eyes fell on his muscular thighs, the way his hand fisted his dick. “You’re a virgin?”

“I’m too old for this,” you mumbled, hiding your eyes with your palms. Miguel shifted to cast aside your hands from your eyes, his muscular body caging you underneath, looking for an explanation. “I just. Between school, work, I never had time.” 

Not that he was complaining.

"No boyfriend?"

You shook your head. He couldn't believe his luck. Not only were you gorgeous, but you were untouched. His, completely and fully. He liked it better that way-- to be the first memory smeared in your head. So that when you looked back on this moment, right now, it would forever be marked by his face.

"It's mine," he blurted out all at once. "I want your first to be mine."

His hand dropped down to your cunt. The pad of his middle finger worked at your entrance as though he were exploring the truth of your statement, stretching you with the aid of his fingers. You were tight, it had to be true.

You nodded, face buried deep in your arm. It didn’t take but moments for him to draw his hand back, suckling the lubricant from his fingertips. You distantly registered his words, “Damn it, you... you don't know what you do to me.” 

Before you could say a word more, Miguel positioned the head of his dick against your slippery virgin hole. You clenched, glancing down between your bodies again, as you had a dozen times, anxiously waiting. Miguel hushed you, the repetitive shushing of his lips soothing you into complacency, forcing your muscles to relax. “It might hurt. But the pain won’t last,” he assured you.

He rolled his hips forward. His sharp exhale shook with every centimeter that gave way. Your walls were forced apart, suffocating you on the shock of adjusting to having someone, no not someone, Miguel-- your Miguel, sinking into your tense body. He throbbed, twitching in your body. His hands fisted in the aged couch, catching the breath in his chest. 

“Ay, Miggy,” your nails dug into his shirt, loose around his firm muscles. “Miggy, no puedo,” 

“You can, you’re so good, eres tan buena,” Miguel swept your lips between his, taking the moment of your surprise to bury himself further, swallowed by your cunt that resisted his intrusion. Your lips fluttered in the kiss, keened out a cry. The pain of his dick, forcing its way through your passage is quelled by the knowledge that he’s here, with you, his girth forcing you apart, stretching you apart, seating himself flush against your womb. His voice was caramelized, sugared over, and so good. “Look at how well you’re taking me already.” 

“Coño, that’s a tight pussy,” He slid his hips back, the warm sensation of his withdrawal pulling free before shoving back in, a cry shoving forth from your lips, filling his office and the connected lab with your cries. He might have heard someone draw the door open, his hips driving back in, centered on the magnificent groans that stuttered free from your chest with Miguel’s careful thrusts. You keened his name, a repetitious Miggy, Miggy, Miggy-- it was Aaron, probably. He recognized the way his feet drug on the floor. 

He hoped he didn’t just hear it. He hoped he saw it too, the way his balls slapped against your ass, the mess of blood soaking the already unhygienic couch, the way his cock pulsed. You were blissed out, so full and well of him like no one else ever had-- because you were his, and his alone. It wasn’t just sex. It was more than that. From Aaron, whose shuffled steps fell out of his office, to any other little bitch in the office who had their own gain. 

“Damn,” Miguel shifted back, hooking his hand around your thigh to drag you back onto his dick. He swirled his thumb against your stiff clit, whirling it around in one circle, then another, and by the third your knees knocked together, bearing down on his cock to hold him still. “I can’t--” you stuttered out, I can’t--” 

“You’re going to,” he hissed. “You’re going to cum right here, right now, split open on my dick.” 

With another circle, you croaked an ugly cry, a terrible, ugly cry that Miguel couldn’t find any more beautiful as your body buzzed around him, tightening and squeezing your already tight cunt around him. Blissful pleasure radiated there, riding his dick for the friction against your virgin walls, your thoughts fading into a realm of insistent pleasure, where thoughts were space mush.

Miguel withstood the pressure on his cock,  clamping his hand down on your hip. His thrusts stuttered, filling your belly with whip after whip with his full hot cum. Your body twitched in the throes of his orgasm. He tracked his eyes down to your body, withdrawing with a bubbly pop of his dick from your abused hole, the intermingling of cum and virginal blood dribbling down your cheeks. 

Your gaze tracked Miguel, pressing his lips toward yours one more time. You shifted on the couch, legs pathetically tremoring. Miguel chuckled and walked toward his electric kettle, papers crunching underneath his feet, “Don’t bother moving. Not that you could, anyway.”

He warmed a warm cloth with hot water, testing its temperature on his palm before sitting beside your crumpled legs, spreading your legs to clean his mess and sooth the abrasive way he took you. He spread your lips, ensuring you were clean before he would flip the cloth, dropping it on top of your vulva. 

“You know you’re mine,” he asked, though it came out as a statement. With another cloth, Miguel cleaned his soft cock of the mess, exhaustion of the sex and what was to come returning to his gentle, deep voice. 

“Sí,” you answered. 

“And you’d do anything for me. Only me.” 

The words were laced with something more than a suggestion, but an affirmation of your loyalty. Your love. You pushed yourself up, hanging off his arm after he tucked himself into his pants. “Para siempre.” 

He leaned down, plucking the bundle with his sequenced DNA information. Your eyes coursed the information on the page, darting up to his tired eyes. You wanted to ask why or what he knew. Miguel knew it didn't matter. You were his now, from the top of your head to the bottom of your gorgeous toes. You trusted him fully. As you should. With the empty vial of Rapture sitting beside him, forgotten, he spared you a mincing smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. 

“Good. Let's fix our project.” 

They match now :D

She is rather insecure about her hair, and Macaque tries to make her feel better.

He mostly just hides his white hair to because it's better for fighting, since his main power's source are shadows and black hair make it easier to blend in with them. The real deal is the scar for obvious reasons.

She uses black hair dye because try to imagine being possessed by an evil demon who's trying to destroy the entire world, making you lose months of your life, so that your face is forever the same as said demon AS A KID. And also now you have a different hair color because of it.

Again, english is not my first language so I'm sorry for any grammar mistake.

genshin sugar daddies

premise: you have seven sugar daddies: one for every day of the week. a bit overwhelming, right? however, you somehow find ways to make time for each and every one of them, no matter how emotionally and physically demanding they are. it's just that, now they don't seem too keen on sharing, and you don't know what to do. (modern au)

tw: nsfw, dark content - minors dni

mondays are always harder in more ways than one. mondays are diluc's days, and that means that you're spending a good portion of your nights at angel's share.

on mondays, it's happy hour. which means that you're sitting at a booth in the corner looking pretty while diluc is tending to his customers. you're more than happy to sit back and relax while you wait for him to finish with work. when the drinks are on the house, you're willing to wait as long as it'll take.

periodically, when he's not busy, however, he'll walk over to you and engage in conversation. you act as a taste-tester for new drinks so he's always asking you if you like them. you two will talk about your day, any interesting events, and so on until diluc is pulled back into work again.

then you're back to fiddling your fingers and watching him work. over time, you've learned that he preferred that you not do anything while you were supposed to be with him. that instead, you fixated your gaze on him while he moved about. sometimes you'll catch him looking at you to see if your eyes are still on him.

even while he's dealing with a certain tone-deaf bard, there's something about the way he looks at you so intently that reminds you of a predator.

when angel's share closes, you're there to keep him company while he cleans up. when he's done, he'll sweep you away back to his manor.

you'll fall onto the sheets as he grinds against you. his shallow breaths brush against your throat. the look he gives you is nothing short of intense.

"everyone at the tavern was looking at you, you know," he mutters, running his fingers down your chest, sinking into your pants. he pulls them down effortlessly along with your panties. "didn't you feel it, darling? their filthy eyes on you. they want to ruin you. everyone wants to ruin you."

he throws your legs over his shoulders, his fingers crawling up your thighs. you jump when he suddenly inserts two fingers into your cunt, scissoring you. his free arm wraps around your leg to keep you locked against him. his eyes are glued onto you as he presses a kiss against your calf.

"but your eyes were on me all night, weren't they. couldn't take your eyes off me, could you. you're mine, dear. do you hear me? you're mine."

you don't overlook how tight his grip is. tight enough to make you wonder if he'll ever let you go. in the morning, he does, but you're scared for the day he wakes up and decides that it's for the last time.

tuesdays aren't as bad. when you’re sore from the night before, childe is there to take you out to meals, shopping, and sightseeing. he's not always available to spend time with you on tuesdays, because of his equally-demanding job and whatnot, but when he is free, he never wastes a second.

or a dollar.

childe smirks smugly from his sea. his posture is lax, one hand lazily tracing circles on the chair's arm while the other comes up to rest under his chin.

"how about you twirl for me, girlie? you look so beautiful."

you giggle, observing yourself in the mirror. "why thank you."

you bask in the way the soft satin kisses your skin. the way your newly-own earrings sparkle under the dressing room's light. just a couple years ago, you could've only dreamed of being dressed so prettily.

"do your side-bitches ever treat you as well as me?"

"childe!" you chide.

he laughs, getting up from his seat. but you both know better than to believe his little chuckle is genuine.

he approaches you, sliding his hands around your waist. tucking your head under his chin, he stares at you through the mirror's reflection.

you don't say anything, and childe doesn't either. it appears he's more than happy to enjoy just standing there. his gaze is glossed over, far away.

the two of you sway side to side for what seems like forever until he decides to say something.

"do they buy you pretty things like i do?"

of course they do, you think. although you spend one-on-one time with each and every one of them, they are all aware of each other. it's only right that they did. it was the first thing you said when you brought the idea up to them, that it wasn't going to be exclusive.

but when you see the way he looks at you, you can't really tell him the truth. not when his focus is redirected from his thoughts to you.

"the things you buy me are a special kind of pretty," you reply.

it seems like that answer is enough for him, because he doesn't say anything else. instead he hums quietly, letting the vibration ripple in the back of your head. he slides his hands down your hips and before you can say anything else, he whips his head around.

"i'll buy these sets." he motions over to the closest clothes rack to an attendant you hadn't noticed. "and that one. and the dress she's wearing. how many colors does this come in, by the way?"

the attendant doesn't hesitate. "five colors, sir. they come in bla—"

"great." he shuffles through his pocket to pull out a black card. "pack them up, we won't be here any longer," he retorts.

the attendant looks ecstatic, quickly shuffling out of the dressing rooms towards the cash register with newfound glee.

"childe," you whine. "i don't think these will fit in my closet."

his hands crawl lower, his finger hovering over your clit. "then they'll fit in mine. come over any time of the week when you want to wear one of my special pretty things."

your breath hitches as he rubs slow circles on your clit. he pushes the two of you back into the dressing room and closes the curtains.

"what are you doing, she'll be back any second—"

he kisses the corner of your jaw, pressing his lips close to your ear. "no worries. if there's one thing i'm sure about, it's that no one undresses you faster than i do."

wednesday is when usually everything calms down. kazuha will typically invite you to a new park, scenic route, or gallery. together, you'll write haikus, sonnets, and limericks together. some hours you'll just sit in silence, putting pen to paper. and when the sun goes down you'll exchange poetry.

out of the seven men, kazuha probably scares you the most. he was the first person you decided to do this whole ordeal with, after all. and since he's known you the longest, he also knows about your circumstances more than others. maybe that's why he's so focused on treating you as if you were a fragile cherry blossom petal. his touches feel like ghosts, running down your forearm as he presses a kiss to the apple of your cheek.

in exchange for his protection, his money, and his care, you give him honeyed words. you act as his muse for when he's hit a creative block. you're there to listen to him read out verses when the wind can't bear the strength to carry them. you listen to his grief about his best friend, his loneliness when he was forced to leave his home country. as someone many of the locals looked to for wisdom, he too carried the emotional burdens of being someone's rock. emotional burdens that he let onto you (whether purposefully or not, you're unsure). but you listen anyway, hearing him talk about days of poverty, where sometimes he had to worry about things to eat, or how to get proper healthcare.

you can't lie and say you're always stable enough to hear some of the things he has to say, but you try.

even if you sometimes feel like you can't take it, you just smile and squeeze his hand tighter like you're supposed to. sometimes your mind will go on autopilot, and sometimes you'll stand up on the grounds of needing to go to the bathroom. but at the end of the day, this is what you signed up for. this. making men happy so that you yourself won't have to worry about your endless debt.

you peer over your notebook to see kazuha immersed in his own writing. but instead of his usual peaceful expression, he looks somber. his hands won't leave the paper, his eyes glued onto the words that he's drawn onto the pages.

"what's got you so worked up?" you ask curiously. "is it something new?"

it's like your voice snaps him out of his trance. he blinks, looking up at you. there's a smile you know all too well on his lips. "yeah, i suppose you could call it that."

"could i look at it? i want to see what's got you so focused like that."

his lips press into a straight line. "hmmm, maybe later."

his words catch you off-guard. usually he's the one who's eager to share his work, regardless of the quality. "oh? is it something you want to keep secret?"

he doesn't many any hint of an answer. instead, he puts down his pen and stares at the ground in contemplation. he's picking and choosing what words to say.

"i could protect you," he says, shuffling his papers to the side. you turn to him, curious. his expression slowly hardens. "by myself, i mean. i could take care of you."

"kazu—"

"i have the means to make a living for the both of us. i could sell more of my poetry, i know they'll sell well—"

"where is this coming from?" you move closer to him, brushing his hair aside. "kazu, are you worried about something?"

there's something that's stopping him from saying anything. his fingers intertwine with yours, his thumb caressing the back of your hand.

he purses his lips, before turning away and sighing. "no, not really."

after that, he doesn't say anything else. the two of you bask in silence once again. even though you're used to the quiet, there's something deep down in you that feels nervous. like something in the atmosphere changed. there's a sudden resolved glint in his eye as he get backs to writing so diligently on a piece of paper he won't let you read.

after all these days spent talking about himself, somehow you're scared for the day he suddenly decides to stop.

on thursdays you're usually at tighnari's greenhouse, watching him take notes of other plants while you twiddle your thumbs. once in a while, he'll begin rambling about the plants—what kind of species they are, how rare, their medicinal properties, and the like.

you're more of a companion, than anything. someone who can make his days a little less lonelier. and you appreciate it. it's much more tranquil with him. you can enjoy his sharp quips, especially when cyno comes to visit.

his sex-drive is relatively normal, if not a little below average. just like wednesday, you also expect thursday to be a typical rest day.

except when spring comes.

when spring comes, your routine get a little wonky. for one week, at least. because that's when tighnari's heat hits him like a fucking monsoon.

you can already tell when it's coming when he begins to hover closer to you. whenever you take your hand out to do anything, even the slightest gesture, he's already taking it and dragging it towards his sensitive ears.

the moment you've made your plans set to 'take the week off' and help him out, he's already on you, face pressed into your neck as if it's his oasis.

as you can tell, he takes this week very seriously.

"i bet—shit—those other fucks don't get to hold you as long as i do," he lets out as he fucks into you like there's no tomorrow. his hands hold onto your waist like he owns it, pressing sloppy kisses down your spine. "looking so pretty for me. i wonder what they'd say if you got pregnant with my babies. you'd be so much more beautiful plump with my kids. is that what you want huh? to make them angry with my cum stuffed in your gorgeous pussy?"

some days you almost can't believe how uncharacteristically aggressive he is. he dicks you down like he's trying to imprint his shape into the core of your body so that none of the others can fit inside.

and when he cums, he'll take whatever unfortunate portions slip out and smear it all over your chest. especially where your heart is.

then the process starts all over again.

when it's over, he'll spoon you. as if he didn't almost fuck you to death. his touch is tender, like a ghost's hovering over your skin.

"why won't you leave them all for me?"

you shift a little to look at him and kiss him softy, sweetly, on the line of his jaw. "oh, nari, you know i can't."

his ears droop at your words. "you can't, or you won't."

his words make you freeze a bit.

you think back to last week, and the week before, and the one before that. you think about why you started selling your services in the first place, the endless debt you used to be in, and the progression of the relationship between all seven of your...contacts. even if you wanted to, you don't think you could back out if you tried. you've dug a hole for yourself. one deep enough to cause some sort of disruption if you ever decided to stop digging.

so you just hum. "you know how much i love routine."

as some sort of apology, you give him and open-mouthed kiss, one he's almost desperate to return. he moans, hands cupping your face to bring you closer to him.

you're well unaware how much your words have an impact him.

at the end of the week, all al-haitham wants to do is unwind. it's the only logical thing to do. no late-night drinks with the colleagues, no stressful trips to some tourist trap. on fridays, al-haitham comes home to a meal made with love.

when al-haitham's at work during the day, you're usually running your actual errands. it's when you have time to make those one-in-a-blue-moon visits to your actual home, although it's getting harder to call it that.

when it gets to the late-afternoon, you'll usually head to al-haitham's place to start cooking. if you didn't know how to cook before, you do now. every ingredient is handled with care, measured meticulously just as you knew he preferred.

and when he gets home, tired and stressed out, you're there to welcome him with a chaste kiss on the cheek.

during dinner, sometimes he'll talk to you about work or the latest research he'd gotten himself immersed with. in return, you tell him about some of your childhood memories. your likes, your dislikes, what used to be your hobbies. you do your best to keep your personal matters out of the conversation, no matter how many times he tries to pry into your private life.

sometimes dinners feel like a full on investigation, the way he keeps greeding for more information about you. he watches you eat with calculating eyes. you pretend to pay no mind to it.

in the beginning, kaveh used to join you for dinners. you always liked the guy, the way he bickered with al-haitham and riled him up. but now you've begun to see less of him, as if he never comes home on fridays at all.

after dinner, there are two different outcomes depending on his mood:

outcome one is that you'll spend the rest of the night curling up on his couch, the both of you immersed in your own books. al-haitham leans on your shoulder as he flips through the pages as if they're nothing. you can't help but feel ticklish whenever his hair brushes against your jaw.

somewhere in the middle, he'll move one hand to start fidgeting with the end of your shirt, sometimes crawling underneath to caress your sides.

outcome two is less quiet. the moment he gets home with that solemn face, you know it's coming. his voice is huskier, his responses shorter. it's usually a result of an impending deadline, colleagues being more peskier than usual.

the moment you two are done with dishes, he gingerly takes your hand and leads you up to the bedroom.

his kisses tastes like green tea and dinner. his hands run up and down your torso, trying to imprint the feel of your skin into every inch of your brain. you whimper when his thumbs press softly into your nipples, rolling them around as they harden.

your hands find purchase on his collar, tugging him impossibly close. he groans at the contact.

you let out a yelp when your back suddenly falls onto the bed. your hands are pressed onto the sheets, al-haitham's fingers encircling your wrists. his knee nudges your legs further apart, rubbing at your clit.

"don't look at the ceiling, dear, look at me," he breathes out, his hands leaving your nipples to gently guide your face towards. "that's it. good girl. just me. just look at me. only me."

he smiles.

"now, let me do god's work on your divine body."

saturdays with ayato can sometimes get hectic. some saturdays you're out getting bubble tea together and enjoying the city, and other saturdays you're hurrying to some publicitiy event hosted by the kamisato clan.

on those type of days, you can expect to wear gowns layered with shiny nylon tulle fabric. it's not as revealing as what you'd try on in dressing rooms with childe. in fact, it's a bit more modest.

today you're wearing a light-blue gown to match with ayato. you turn around to get a good look at the cute bow attached at your waist, your diamond encrusted earrings swaying along with you.

it's as if you've put on another costume. another front to wear for the night.

ayato enters the room just shortly after. in his hands is a diamond necklace to match with your stunning earrings. small smile falls upon his lips when he clasps it on.

"you're beautiful," he mumbles. you giggle when he kisses you square on the lips, licking away the tinted color.

"ayato," you press in-between kisses. you place a hand on his chest to gently push him away. "you're going to ruin my lipstick."

he pulls away with a cheeky smile, taking your wrists to wrap around his neck. "you can always put on some more later."

you pout but kiss him regardless. he tightens his hold on you in reaction, moaning into your mouth.

at these kinds of events, you're there as his plus-one. just so that other officials could stop introducing girls to him when he clearly wasn't interested in them. it'd be arguable to say that you might even be there to make the events a little less intolerable.

somewhere along the lines, you'd sleep with him in addition to being his arm candy at parties. sometimes even before: you two rushing to put on your formal attires and fix your hair minutes before the event started.

but beyond that, you started to get to know him better. he'd whisper into your ear about funny stories relating to the guests as you meet them. sometimes you'd run away in the middle of the party to binge out on the food and talk about your other interests. surprisingly, he doesn't talk about the politics behind his duties as the head of the kamisato family. not as much as you expected, at least.

instead he talks about his dreams for a family. how many kids, what their names would be, how he'd raise them. and as he talked, he'd give you this heavy gaze that you're not sure what to do with. as if he was expecting something from you.

you're beginning to believe that ayato has somehow confused contractual girlfriend with actual girlfriend.

when you had met ayaka months ago, ayato introduced you as his girlfriend. you didn't attempt to correct him—that's ayato's business. not your's. but when you're expecting ayato to come clean to his dearest sister, you're sorely mistaken.

instead, while he kisses your lips so hungrily, he subtly slips a diamond ring onto your finger.

sundays are usually kaeya's days off. although the cavalry captain's duties are seemingly never endless, he takes the day off to take a breather.

in other words, he sees you.

at first, it was just candlelit dinners. he'd walk in with a bouquet of roses, complimenting your dress and staring at you as if he was undressing you with his eyes. he'd take you to somewhere fancy, pull out the chair for you and sweet-talk you all through the night.

conversations were fun with him. you didn't have to think much at all, not about how to pay the bills, the six men in your life who seemingly began to want yours to only revolve around theirs, or being someone your not.

kaeya was probably the only one who you felt you could be comfortable with. he made you laugh, he'd tell all sorts of interesting stories, and he never made the silence feel awkward.

at least, that's how you used to be.

you see, usually after these candlelit dinners you'd both go back to his place, with him ripping off your clothes the moment the door closed. but as of recently, he's been asking to come over to your place instead more often. almost too often.

and that's not the only thing that's changed.

the sex used to be rough. heated. almost as if he was consumed by all of his pent-up sexual frustration and was only focused on getting off. he'd slurp your cunt like a man starved but he'd still rail you as if that's the only thing he cared about.

but as time passed, he's been getting more and more...sensual. the sex is much more slower. personal, almost.

vulnerable.

after dinner, he slowly slips off your clothing. one article after another, until your left in your underwear. he first kisses you on the mouth, then your neck, then your chest, then your stomach. slowly, he makes a trail of them down your body, as if no skin deserved to be left untouched.

although you made a rule that no one could leave your marks on you, it doesn't mean he doesn't try. as he kisses your lower lips, sometimes he'll attempt to leave marks close to your clit. if you're not careful, diluc will find it tomorrow.

his thrusts were always deep, but now that he's much more purposeful about it. it's rhythmic, as if he's trying to reach a new spot inside you. somewhere no one's touched.

the pillow-talks are much more longer as well. he holds you tighter now, wrapping his arms around your hips as he tangles his legs with yours.

instead of ranting on about the silly incidents he witnessed on the job earlier in the week, he talks about his feelings. towards you. towards diluc. towards himself. some nights you can handle it, some nights are too much.

but you can't say anything. not when he's holding onto you like you’re his lifeline. not when he helps you pay off your debt. and so you let his raspy voice whisper in your ear as he combs his fingers through your hair. you listen to him mumble sweet-nothings.

you're not sure if you like the adoring look he gives you as you drift off to sleep.

Injury

How would the yandere Hashira react to their Darling (who's also a hasira) coming home severely Injured and they were trying to hide it cause they knew if they were seen that injured their "partner" would force them to retire?

Kyujuro

“Where are they?” The loud voice made you freeze in mid step, knowing that you were busted. Of course Shinobu would send a letter out to Kyujuro, not knowing of the tendencies he has when it comes to you. No one knew, because no one believed you. Kyujuro was the perfect Angel, the perfect man. Who would ever believe anything he has done to you?

“Ky-“

“Firelily.” He was pissed, you knew that. His eyes didn’t hesitate to scan over your body; seeing the bandages covering your body. When you tried to look over at one of the butterfly girls for help, his hand moved his haori to block them from you. “We talked about this.”

He said with the sweet smile on his face, hiding the anger easily. It terrified you; wondering what awaited for you. Silently cussing Shinobu for sending him a letter, but know she was just wanting to help. “I-I know but-“

“Do you know what I would have done if I lost you?” You flinched at hearing him, looking down at hearing the concern in his voice. Even with him treating you awfully, you could never deny that he cares for you. Truly he does, just in his toxic way. “I thought-“

“You thought? Baby, love of my life, this…” He stepped closer to you, lifting your chin to stare at him. “This is why you don’t think. This is why you need to depend on me and only me. I can take care of you, I can protect you.”

“K-“

“There’s no arguing. Let’s go. Now.”

Shinobu

“Oh sweetheart.” You had no where to go but to her place; she had all the medical supplies and you could die without getting your injuries checked. Tears slipped over your face, staring at the woman who was giving you that innocent smile and letting you know just how much you were in trouble.

“I-I-“

“Hush now sweetheart; we don’t want you to waste your precious energy.” Shinobu had already decided that she was going to take you out of commission when you returned for the fact she didn’t like to be separated from you. But this… This made her realize just how much you needed to stop fighting demons.

You tried to struggle when she wrapped you in her arms, ignoring her sweet shushing. There was a sharp point to the back of your neck; sedatives kicking into your system while you began to slump forward in her arms. “There there, rest easy my love. I’ll take care of everything for you.”

Giyuu

This is the one that you could hide the easiest from. Mostly because he doesn’t know how to show his feelings; all the craziness is just bottling up more and more because he doesn’t know how to release it until it just cracks.

Like now.

“B-babe…?” He whispered, lowering the sword from his hand. There was a crash that made him panic in thinking there was a demon, but it was only you on the kitchen. Blue eyes were focused on the wounds crawling up your skin; poking out from poorly wrapped bandages. “It’s n-“

“Don’t… Dont tell me that this is nothing!!” He exclaimed, raising his voice and making you jump lightly. You’ve never heard him yell at you before, the sword digging into the wooden floor as he marched over to you. You backed up, trying to put the chair between the two of you and grabbing back on the cabinet. After being taken and forced to live with the hashira, this… this is the time you’ve honestly felt nervous of him. You’ve never seen him act like this before so you didn’t know how to predict what he was gonna do.

“Why did you even go?” He demanded, putting his hands on the table. You opened your mouth to answer, but Giyuu knew you. He knew what your answer would be. “Who gives a fuck about those people? You… You are the only thing I care about! I don’t care if all those people die!”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. A hashira, a demon slayer, not caring about the lives at stake. Giyuu looked at your wounds again. “The thought of losing you… No… I won’t…”

He shook his head; making his way over to you and grabbed your arm before you could stop him. He tightened his arm when you tried to wiggle out of his grasp while he pulled you back to the bedrooms. “You’re no longer allowed to step out of this house, I won’t lose you too.”

Sanemi

“Babe, I’m back home.” He announced loudly, kicking off his shoes by the door while he put his katana on the table. Pale purple eyes immediately shot toward the direction of your shared room at hearing the crash, his hands only slamming open the door seconds later.

You were trying to collect the broken shards of a medicine jar, the medicine spilled over the floor. Sanemi narrowed his eyes, wondering why you need the medicine jar in the first place and his eyes turned to look at the bloodied bandies where you were sitting.

“S-say something!” You yelled out; the silence was pressuring for you- making it feel like you couldn’t breath. Sanemi was never quiet, so to know he was standing there and just… watching you; the thought terrified you. Your body flinched when he stopped in front of you, crouching down before his hand lifted up your jaw roughly. “What happened?”

“D-demon…”

“Demon…” He mused as if it was some joke, then stood up. Your eyes widened as you watched him walk toward the door. “Wha-what? What are you doing?”

“I’m going to to talk to the master.” Your eyes widened at hearing that, quickly running toward him and flinched when you felt him grab you. His arm wrapped around your throat, locking his arm as he held you close. “Don’t fight against me, I’m not gonna let you go out on missions anymore. From hear on, you’re dead. I’m gonna go tell the master that I found your body and you’re gonna spend out your days here. By my side. Understand it?”

You tried to argue with him, but Sanemi kept a hold on you till you passed out. Immediately taking his hand off, fingers pressing against your neck to check if you were okay and put you in bed. He tucked you in, thumb brushing over your cheek. “I do this because I love you.”

Tengen

*Before his own retirement

“There’s my darling!!” Tengen cheered excitedly, sliding in front of you with a large grin. Your eyes widened; not expecting to see the hashira home yet since he wasn’t due to be back for another three days. Three days you would have time to clean up, but his smile dropped when he saw the blood on you.

“Darling, what is this?” He narrowed his eyes at you, making you quickly try to wipe the blood from your skin. “I-it’s nothing.”

“This doesn’t look like nothing.” He even put quotations on the word, hand reaching out to grab your arm. You winced are the pain spiking up your dislocated arm. “See! This is what I’m talking about!”

“Lord Tengen, I’m f-“

“Don’t. If you finish that sentence I will lose my goddamned mind.” He pulled you closer, putting his hand on your lower back to guide you into the house. You looked down at the wives were watching you; they didn’t dare to step out to say anything when Tengen was angry like this. No one could win with him.

“Hey! Wait! What are you doing?!” You exclaimed as the shackle was put around your ankle; trying to tug it out from his grasp. “What do you think?”

“L-Lord Tengen, I thought we moved on from this!” You exclaimed; not wanting to be chained up again. He wasn’t listening to you, getting the medicines that he would need. “Can’t have my darling leave again; now can I? Hmm? You don’t need to do that job anymore.”

“You can’t be ser-“

“Girls; you’ll watch her when I’m not here. Right?” He looked to the three women who nodded immediately to his request. Good luck getting out.

Muichiro

Warnings: murder

You don’t know that Muichiro even knew you were hurt; not hearing him when he was close. Especially because he said nothing as he watched you tried to clean the wound and bandage it up.

But he knew he had to do something.

“Oh? It’s the (your hashira pillar).” You looked over at hearing the surprised Kinoe to your left. “I heard they retired yesterday.”

“They’re looking good for retirement.”

“But aren’t they so young? Maybe they just weren’t ready for being a hashira yet.” Retirement? That word stuck with you, making your way over to the kinoes. “Um… what do you mean im retired?”

“Huh? Whatcha mean by playing innocent? Everyone knows you retired yesterday. Muichiro told the master.”

“What? No I didn’t. I just got back from a mission yesterday… and I was going to give my report to the master.” You were confused. But the kinoes didn’t have time to answer because the familiar spoke out from the side. “Y/n.”

“Muichiro… We need to talk.”

“I know.” His pale blue eyes looked over at the kinoe standing there; feeling annoyed with their presence before he looked back to you. “Why… Why didn’t you talk to me about this? I don’t want to be in retirement.”

“It wasn’t up for decision.” You were surprised at hearing that, but your eyes only widened when his sword slashed through the two kinoes standing there. They shouldn’t have gossiped about you. “M-M-M-“

“Let’s go home.” He said, turning his body to face you. Not a thought behind those eyes; only dreaming on living with you and spending out his days by your side. “Now.”

Obanai

There was no hiding the scent of blood from Kaburamaru; no matter how much you tried. Obanai knew as he saw those crimson petals on your clothes; there was no way that he was going to let you do anything remotely dangerous again.

“I’m fine, I swear.” You tried to argue with him, but Obanai was having none of it. He didn’t believe you; fighting against you when you tried to push him away from taking care of you. “Stop! Stop just stop it.”

He growled, demanding your cooperation. It got to the point where he had to restrained you, being able to focus clearly on your wound and taking care of it. “You’re not leaving again.”

“But I said-“

“You’re not leaving again. That’s final.”

“You can’t-“

“I can and I will. Do remember who’s hands your family’s lives are in.” He hated to use that above your head, but necessary times call for necessary plays. Your hands clenched at hearing that and he picked up your sword from the bedside. “Wa-wait what are you doing?”

“You won’t be needing this again.”

“Wait no-!” Pieces of your sword fell to the ground, Obanai breaking it without a remorseful thought. Mix matched eyes looked over at your sulken form, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I’ll be talking to the master. Be good and don’t make me hurt you when I return.”

It was an empty threat, sorta, Obanai was not above breaking your legs to keep you from running. There was no more leaving the house; he wouldn’t let this happen again.”

Mitsuri

“Honeybunches!” Mitsuri cheered happily as you arrived back home, jumping in your arms and hugging you close. You winced, tears springing toward your eyes at the pain flaring but still hugged your psychotic lover back. But she noticed the wince.

“Sweetie?” She asked, leaning her head back; looking down at you and her eyes widened when she noticed the tears in your eyes. “Baby! Why are you crying? No no no no don’t cry.”

She immediately wiped away your tears, peppering your face in kisses. “Don’t cry! I’m right here for you! You’re home now, no reason to cry.”

That’s not the reason I’m crying… You thought, getting reminded of your injuries with all of her movement. Her hands gently pet your hair, putting her forehead against yours. “You’re all home now. And~ I’ve talked to the master, sooooo you’re on vacation. Permanently.”

“Wh-what?”

“I know we talked about you retiring and I thought it was a brilliant idea because you want to stay home with me.” Your head shook, feeling like your heart was stuck in your throat. No, you felt like you were sick. This was another one of her sick delusions; another one of her thoughts where she really thought you’d played along. “What? Aren’t you happy? Don’t you want to spend time with me?”

Tears sprung in her eyes, making you feel guilty. Of course she knew how it effected you; that’s why she uses it to get what she wanted whenever it comes to you. A small sign came from you; letting her down and she grinned at you. “Come on! Let’s go spend our time together! We have so much to catch up on and all the time to do so!”

It didn’t matter if you were hurt or not, Mitsuri didn’t want you to be leaving anymore. So even if you can back completely fine; the end result would have been the same.

Gyomei

“Sweetie?” You didn’t hide your wounds, thinking that you were fine. But he could hear the way the bandages rubbed when you moved; it made the hashira frown. “What happened?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about lov-“

“You’re lying.” His hands gently held onto your face, thumb rubbing lightly over your skin. “You know I hate when you lie to me. Did you get hurt?”

“Yes…”

“Was it on your mission?”

“Yes…” He hummed, thinking about what he needs to do to. His hands moved to your back, pulling you closer to him to hug you closer. “I’m going to go get some supplies from Shinobu; please get some rest my love.”

He guided you to the bed, helping you lay down as he left the house. But he didn’t head toward the butterfly mansion, no, he went immediately to Kagaya. He was going to fake your death, going to keep you back at his house. Gyomei made a promise to protect you and he was going to keep that promise.

Zagreus

not as a boss fight ❌

not as a boon giver ❌

not as a companion summon ❌

but as Mel's incredibly proud narrator exaggerating all his little sister's accomplishments as she fails over and over again ✔

Headcanons request for Tony Stark’s daughter and tony being overprotective when someone says something mean in public when you stim. Thank you

(Except I liked this so much it became a full fic. Can be read standalone or as WYCFTQ)

You truly never understood the value neurotypicals placed on spontaneity. Its opposite, routine was everything that kept you grounded; safe, predictable, generally within your scope of capacity. Your worst days were the ones that were shoved off kilter by a change in plans, a cancellation, a meltdown that threw your timetable for a loop. You went to school, went to the tower, went home. That was your world. Small, but anything bigger felt unmanageable. Even that was barely manageable. So when Tony announced a surprise for you and Peter on an afternoon where school let off early, you felt unbalanced.

“Mr Stark, pleaaaaaseeeee tell us I literally can’t wait. I might die,” Peter, ever-impatient and fuelled by ADHD after his meds had worn off for the day, was literally vibrating with suspense. As opposed to your drained stillness, feeling like the floor had collapsed under you.

“You’ll like it, that’s all I’m giving you. Patience is a virtue, young one,” Tony raised an eyebrow at Peter, feigning a lecture. “And you’ll be fine,” he turned to you. “We’ve practiced using your strategies. We’ll bring stim toys, your headphones, and I’ve asked where we’re going to turn the lights down and music off to make it accessible. And they listened, because I’m me. We can leave as soon as you need, and you’ve got your communication device to tell us if you’re non-verbal. You’ve got this. It’ll be good for you, and for this hyped one over here,“ he ruffled Peter’s hair. “Capische? Good. Let’s go.”

Tony drove, but kept the music fairly low key. Peter was bouncing in the front seat, animatedly keeping a running list of all the possibilities that got increasingly far-fetched as Tony refused even the slightest hint. You had to admit, even through the snowdrift of anxiety that felt like it was building by the second, it was pretty funny. Amusing, even. Eventually, the Audi pulled into the parking lot of a mall and as he swung it in to park in the electric vehicle charging station, Tony pulled a baseball cap on low over his eyes.

“Alright, you ready?”

Peter was already halfway out of the car before the engine had been cut off. Tony turned to you. “Well, clearly someone is”, he gestured to Peter. “You doin’ okay?” At your nod, he continued in a near-whisper. “We’re going to a toy store. There’s Lego and sensory stuff for days, and I promise you’ll like it. But if it’s too much, I’m right here, and you’ve got your device to communicate. You say the word and we leave, no hesitation, okay?” At the mention of where you were going, you started happy flapping and bounced in your seat. Sensory stuff AND lego? Fuck yeah!!!! Some of the anxiety snowdrift melted back down and you got out to join Peter, who still had no idea where you were going and looked like the fact was making him positively implode. It was funny just how different you were, yet how you were both going to love this place.

At some point between the car and the store, you grabbed Tony’s hand. It was grounding, which you needed when the sensory overload of the general mall walkthrough got disorienting. You stopped, fluorescent lights searing into your brain and the beginning of the meltdown urge to run crept up your spine. Peter, miles ahead and oblivious to just about everything except the mystery destination, kept going, but Tony pulled your noise canceling headphones out of his jacket pocket. “You left these in the car,” he said by way of explanation, “And we’re nearly there. You’ve got this.” Resolve strengthened, you pulled the headphones over your ears, pressing the button on the side, hoodie pulled up, determined. If nothing else, you were going to get there for Peter’s sake- he might explode from excitement if it wasn’t soon.

In line with Tony’s promise, the toy store was bliss. The lights were dimmed and corporate music absent (thank Thor, and whatever other gods are out there), and the Lego. Oh my god, the LEGO. Rows of Star Wars and flowers and little city buildings and a huge tub of loose pieces, next to a free play table in the centre of the display. Sticking your hands deep into the cool plastic pieces felt positively heavenly, and in forgetting anyone else was around you were stimming freely in unfiltered joy. Vocal stimming, too.

“Surely you’re too old to be making those sorts of noises. I mean, I’d expect them from my 2 year old grandchild, not at your big age.”

The admonishment came from a woman, somewhere between middle- and old-age, making her way over to you from the baby doll section. You froze. She meant you? You were so happy you hadn’t been masking, not forcing the happy stimmy noises down the way you typically did when in the presence of others.

“Yes, you, don’t look at me all stunned. What are you doing in here anyway? You look too old to be playing, with Lego or with anything else.”

Fear felt like it was shutting down your access to comprehensible thought. Like moving through jelly, you pulled the lanyard around your neck forward to show the woman the pin. It was a green sunflower lanyard, the hidden disabilities awareness kind, and the button read “Please do not touch me. I’m Autistic.” You felt a distressed sound come from the back of you throat, whining, that you just couldn’t push down. Tony Tony whERE IS TONY?

“Hey y/n, have you seen-“

“Oh, so you’re special. That’s nice of your… people… to bring you out like this. You know, into the community.”

“What the fuck did you just say to my kid.”

The baseball cap was off. Tony had come from the back of the store, from the sensory section with Peter, and stepped straight into the middle of the degrading, one-sided conversation you were now trying to practice your breathing exercises through. You’d practiced them a million times, with Tony, Peter, Nat, Bucky, everyone said to practice because when the time came you needed them to work but right now you weren’t sure they were enough because you felt like you were drowning. Special. You weren’t fucking special, not in the way she meant it, you were just Autistic and Autistic is fine, Autistic isn’t bad, you had as much right to be here as anyone else but that word was making your ears ring, and you felt like your head was underwater and you couldn’t breathe and your hands were flapping but not in the good way in the too much bad energy need to get it out way. You needed weight, pressure, grounding, to be crushed, and, no longer paying attention to the conversation between Tony and the stranger, you pulled your AAC forward from its crossbody strap.

“Squeeze. Tony.”

“Okay, kid, yes, squeeze. I hear you.” You basically body slammed him as he crouched down to your level, and you hummed in relief as the hug was all the input your nervous system was craving. He turned to speak over the top of you.

“I need you to leave. Now. You had no right to say what you did. This is a public place, and my kid deserves access in the way that works for them. That includes stimming, and playing, in the way that brings them joy. I hope you learn from this.”

You assumed she left, because he didn’t say anything else. You stayed, tightly held, until you pulled back from the hug cautiously.

“Do you want to leave?” You shook your head. No. As awful as that whole interaction had been, getting here was a task and you didn’t feel you had made it worth it yet. “Want to see the sensory toys?” Yes yes yes a million times yes. Nodding wasn’t enough; with trepidation, a little of the flappy happy hands broke through. Not fully, though. The word ‘special’ still echoed in the back of your mind, unwanted and uncomfortably present.

The sensory toy section was pure magic. There were bubble tubes, tactile fidgets, bouncy seats, spinners, lights, glitter bottles, projectors, a reversible sequin dinosaur, acupressure rings, a cocoon swing hanging from a frame… It was like a goldmine of sensory wonder. As you joined Peter in discovery, little by little the mask you put up melted away and you were spinning, joyfully bouncing on the balls of your feet, happy vocal stims free and unjudged. And if Tony was putting aside one of everything you showed interest in to purchase and bring home with you, well, of course he was. If he couldn’t make the ableist public go away, the least he could do was provide you with the safest, most inclusive and loving home possible.

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@peggycarter-steverogers

support group for 🐑🦐 pls 💢💢

☆ as always do not repost without permission & remove my watermark! always rb and save instead! tysm! <3 check out my other handles if u like!

Yan Genshin Boys / Regretful Mornings.

Warnings: Fem Reader, not SFW themes, unhealthy relationships, yandere themes, past dubcon, alcohol mention, dark humor, Scaramouche being himself, it’s mentioned in passing that darling stabbed some poor sod while 🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️-ing away. 

In which darling is intimate with the genshin boys, only to be in for a rude awakening the next morning. 

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