People Are Saying Do It Scared, But You Also Gotta Do It Alone. You'll Miss Out On So Much You Want To

people are saying do it scared, but you also gotta do it alone. you'll miss out on so much you want to do if you wait til someone will do it with you. do it scared and do it alone.

DO THESE BOYS IN FURIN ACTUALLY HAVE CLASSES?? Where are the teachers?? Are they getting an education? Do they just hang out in this abandoned school and wear school uniforms? I am worried about their future.

Stress relief 18+

Your tongue swirls on the his salty tip, fat cock twitching and half hard as you tried to coax it to full mast, dragging your tongue down to the base to suck softly at his balls.

Kenji Sato, the man himself whines, sucking a sharp breathy gasp as he glances down at you with teary eyes.

Brows drawn and pouty lips pursed, he looks like he would actually cry.

Its not like you've been teasing him.

You've got a sadistic flare but you're not cruel. Besides, you were trying to relieve his stress.

He had trudged into your shared bedroom after a hectic day of back to back interviews, baseball practice and saving the city, or at least as much saving he could do half asleep before the KDF came.

A sob and a wail here, a sulky tantrum when you hadn't catch what he said, he's winded himself up even more after an overwhelming day.

So you had to take things into your own hands.

"Are you listening to me at all? Emi's asleep finally, and-"

He goes on and on and on as you smile and nod, walking him to the couch, leaning him back and sliding down between his thighs as if you're going about the day like normal.

It wasn't until you clicked open his belt that he pauses, eyes flicking in confusion from your face to hands before your mouth nips gently over his briefs, taking in his musky scent.

He yelps, flushing red as he struggles between irritation and lust.

"What're you doing...?"

Which brings you to now as you pull off his cock sloppily with a wet pop, finally red and hard as it glistened from your spit.

It swirls with his pre, thick globs dribbling down to the couch.

Your mouth twitches up into a smirk at his whines when you stop.

Eyes glazed and loopy, his mouth lolling open, he definitely looks stress-free right now.

"Feels good, Ken?"

You murmur against his swollen tip, hot breath causing him to flinch and twitch.

"Yea...s'gud baby..."

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part eighteen —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3.3k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

Over the next four days, you find yourself panting in exhilaration each morning you spar with Ghost. Every slam of your hand into his ribs feels strangely better than the last. He goes harder on you. He'd been holding back, too, apparently— an unfortunate fact for your ribs. The pain seems to motivate you more, even if he is still beating the shit out of you.

Blue also motivates you. "Hit his nose again!"

Of course, that is the one part of him you purposely avoid.

The sun returns and sweat glides down your face. You knee his stomach. It's less vulnerable than swinging a kick, but still, he attempts to grab you by the waist. You quickly skirt away, the ground firmer beneath your feet, only for his hand to latch onto one of your braids, instead. A sting pulses through your scalp as he tugs hard, wrenching your ear close to his mouth.

"Quicker. Good. But don't get too cocky."

"I thought you wanted me to be more confident," you retort between ragged breaths. 

"Yes, but you can't forget who has the advantage here." There is the slightest bit of arrogance in his voice that makes your teeth grit.

"How could I ever forget?" Your head tilts and he releases the braid. Suddenly, the thought of smacking his nose again doesn’t seem so bad.

His eyebrow quirks. "Get some water, Twix. You need it."

The water caresses your tongue as you gulp it down without abandon. Unsurprisingly, Blue has disappeared somewhere in the treetops. The lack of more broken bones has waned her interest.

When Ghost lifts his mask to drink, you steal a glance at his nose, noticing that the swelling has gone down significantly. The fact he is still wearing that thing with a broken nose upholds your theory that he is at least slightly insane— as if the fact that he once shoved a gun into your fresh wound wasn’t already evidence of that.

Out of nowhere, he materializes beside you and places a hand on your stomach. Your sore muscles spasm under the surprise of his touch, his long fingers stretching from one side of your ribs to the other.

"Your strength starts here,” he explains in a hoarse murmur. “Keep it tight and you will deliver more damage."

You purse your lips to hide a wince and tap your nose. "Don’t I already deliver enough damage?"

"The nose is fragile. You may be landing more hits on me, but I still hardly feel a thing from them."

He allows you to pry his hand off, but the pressure of it seems to linger. Ghost studies you in a way that turns you translucent before demanding, "Lift your shirt, Twix."

Exhaling through your nose, you hesitate before peeling it up, revealing the collection of bruises you have earned from him. A myriad of pink, purple, and yellow skin flares up under his gaze. They have been giving you a hard time lacing your boots and tying your hair in the morning, but once you get moving, the ache becomes easier to ignore.

He has already seen your stomach and more, yet, your skin itches from the exposure. You shove the shirt back down.

His expression shifts. "You should have said something."

"They're just bruises. I'm not bleeding or anything."

"Still."

"Still what?"

He looks irritated. "You need to fucking communicate."

"I don't see why it matters. No coddling, right?"

"That doesn't mean I'm interested in breaking you."

You jerk your chin up to meet his stare. “You won't."

Blue swings down from a tree, plopping between the two of you and unintentionally—thankfully—putting an end to the subject. "I'm glad you two are finally getting along. It's good for the team." She nudges her dad. "But are you done with her yet? You can't just hog Twix all to yourself."

He clears his throat and the air between your bodies breathes wider. "If you're getting bored maybe we need to find something for you to practice."

"Nope!" she says quickly. "Not bored at all." 

He nods to a tree. "Go on. Practice your knives. You haven't done that in a while. Then, you can have her."

With a groan, she trudges away. 

The sparring continues.

Ghost's fists soften by a smidge.

"He annoys the shit out of me sometimes."

Blue rips up a tuft of grass as you inch back to admire the swipe of color on her eyelids. It was her idea to use the bold-colored flowers for makeup— just like the models in her magazines. You did your best to mash the petals and mix them with some creekwater, but the result is kind of patchy and not nearly as smooth as the stuff you used to put on years ago. 

"Hold still. I'm doing your cheeks next."

The sun highlights the splash of freckles on her cheeks and you try to recall if Ghost had them. Her nose is nothing like his. A dainty button. Another trait she must've gotten from her mom. 

"Did you used to wear makeup?" she asks curiously, eyelashes fluttering down. 

"Sometimes. Especially when I went out."

"Went out where?"

Concentration nudges between your brows. "To clubs and stuff. It's where people would... dance."

Her lips spread as she cocks her head to the side in a manner that emulates her dad. You have to remind her again to stop moving. “Oh. Sorry. You danced?"

"I mean, not good dancing. Just dancing for fun,” you murmur, shrugging at the faint memories of being sandwiched between strangers, alcohol flowing through your veins rather than fear and adrenaline. Back then, mornings were spent nursing a hangover before class rather than earning bruises from an ex-lieutenant. 

Humor dances in her eyes when they reopen. "I don't think Ghost ever went to a club. I cannot imagine him dancing."

The images in your mind morph into something utterly laughable— him standing there like an immovable tank as people try to dance around him. "No, probably not."

"He never really tells me about his life before shit happened," she says thoughtfully. 

This piques your curiosity, but you keep your voice light. "No?"

"Well, he tells me the simple stuff. Mostly about his job. But never... never the small things, you know? Like I have no idea what he used to do for fun or what his life was like when he was a kid." She pauses a moment before adding, "He had a brother. That much I know."

You glance up. "Had?"

"He died before the virus. His mom and dad, too. But every time I ask how they died, he just says," she deepens her voice, "'Doesn't matter how, kid. Dead is dead.'"

"Oh, um, yeah, that sounds like something he would say." You tap your fingers under her chin. "I can put some on your lips, too."

Her eyes close again as she puckers her lips out. When you're done, she continues. "He also never talks about my mom." Her face twists. “I think he thinks talking about her will hurt my feelings."

For a few seconds, you struggle to find a response. The rare mention of her mom always makes your heart stutter, but this time, your broken, callused hand reaches out to brush a strand of hair behind her ear.

"It's okay to feel hurt, you know."

Blue shrugs and looks up at the cobalt sky. "I don't think I remember her enough to feel that hurt anymore. She feels so... far away. I remember small things, like the sound of her voice and her old apartment where I lived, but sometimes I wonder if I am making up those memories, you know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I know what you mean." A terrible urge sits on your tongue to ask her more about her mom, about what exactly her relationship was like with Ghost, but Blue changes the subject before you can.

"Does the makeup look good?" A shy blush clouds her cheeks.

You stand up with a faint smile. "I think I did pretty damn good. Come on. I want you to go look in the mirror."

Music.

It pounds so hard you feel it in your chest.

Neon walls enclose you as someone touches your backside, dancing against you. There is a man's voice in your ear that you think you recognize but it's hard to hear him through all the laughing and chatter. Your hair falls in loose curls down your back, free of braids, and you swipe it from your sweaty skin before excusing yourself to the bathroom.

You push through the people. The narrow hall is shrouded with different doors... so many doors. Where is the bathroom? It must be a Friday night on Oxford Street with how fucking crowded and stuffy this place is. Someone knocks into you roughly and your footsteps quicken. A sense of urgency drags you into the next door you come across, a large one made of grey oak.

The smell is horrendous but you feel relieved to see urinals and stalls. Immediately, you press into the granite counter and grip the edge as you catch your breath. The scratched, warped mirror houses a face covered in makeup. Youthful eyes. Flushed cheeks. How much have you had to drink? You need to go home. You will pee and then go home, you tell yourself. Over and over, you repeat this as you relieve yourself in one of the graffiti-doused stalls where condom and tampon wrappers crinkle beneath your heels.

When you're done, you try for the large door you came through, but it doesn't budge. The muffled music outside has faded. Panic sears your chest. You press your back against the door. The bathroom has changed. The stalls are gone. The walls feel like they are closing in, and the smell of piss turns into something even worse. You are alone. Where is the man you came with? You look down. Dead bodies. Strewn limbs. You're standing on a pile of them.

You start screaming. Banging on the door. Digging your fingers into the wood until the flesh rubs down to bone. 

It's not a room anymore, but a box. The fluorescent lights replaced by sheer darkness.

The edges of the door disappear.

A sickening silence replaces your screams.

And then—

"Twix."

You sit up, wild-eyed. You grip onto something—fabric—and a foul taste travels up your throat without warning. You heave several times, your entire body shuddering. 

When awareness settles in, you wipe your mouth and blink up. Ghost. He is... here. Hovering over you. His shirt is tightly bunched between your fingers and you have just vomited into it. The realization smacks you awake and you recoil sharply, staring at his moonlit mask with an expression that must be just short of mortified.

"I... Fuck. I am so sorry. I don't know why— I just..."

When you dare to look at the mess you've left on him, you nearly vomit again. Hands shaking, you rub at your clammy face and begin to ramble unthinkingly as his stare flickers between you and his soiled shirt.

"I've been trying so hard not to hold back like you said, but I think it is fucking me up a little and letting out some things— memories, I guess. I was pretty good about keeping it all in my box because I've been too tired to even think about it, but now I just..." You trail off, realizing your words must make little sense. 

"You've certainly let something out," he rasps.

Your hands drop against the sofa and you cringe. "I'll wash it for you. I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

You inhale. "I just fucking threw up on you."

"I'm aware."

Ghost straightens. He pinches the collar of his shirt and carefully hoists it over his head. Then, you're looking at his bare chest. Slivers of moonlight caress rigid brawn and mountainous scars that capture your gaze for a few heartbeats before you tear it away. 

"I'll, um, hang it outside and... wash it in the morning." 

Your legs are unnervingly steady when you stand up and take the shirt from him, carefully grabbing it by a dry spot. You are relieved to get away from him, draping it over the porch and swallowing gulps of fresh air before you go back inside, praying he's gone back to bed.

Luckily, he has. When the empty living room greets you, you sink to the sofa and palm your eyes. Then, you notice something left on the pillow. A cigarette. You pick it up and recall the few times you smoked whenever your friends offered one. The taste never sat well with you. 

You rummage for your lighter. The first inhale burns terribly, but you cough into the pillow and try again. It starts to calm you down after a few times, and only when you've gotten to the butt of it do you go back to sleep.

"No wonder you're not getting stronger if you throw up like that every night."

Not even five minutes into training the next morning he brings it up. The rest of your sleep ended abruptly when he got you up at an unearthly time, probably to avoid having Blue as an audience. You are too winded to even scowl, your fists held tight in front of your face as you try to predict where he will aim next.

"I told you. That was the first night in a while." 

"Right. Something about a box, huh?"

"Can we just forget about it, please?"

"Hard to forget when my shirt still smells."

"I washed it the best I could."

The next dodge has your head flying down fast enough to undo one of your braids. Hair slips over your face and you huff, holding your hand up. "Hold on. Give me a minute."

As you undo the other one and opt for shoving your hair into a tight bun instead, he watches you strangely. The feel of his stare ignites a spark of irritation and you flash him a sideways glance. "Look, thank you for the cigarette and everything else you have ever done for me, but you can stop looking at me like that. Like you... pity me. I'm not going to break, I'm not going to ask you to kill me again. Everyone left in this world has nightmares and mine probably aren't the worst of them."

"I don't pity you," he says. "I am just trying to understand you."

"Why?" You finish the bun and drop your arms awkwardly at your sides. 

"It's important to understand your ally."

"Oh. Is that what we are?"

His eyes narrow. "Obviously. I wouldn't bother wasting my time with this every day if we weren't."

"Good to know you aren't doing it because you owe me."

"You know what I mean, Twix," he growls. 

"No, I don't." You throw your arms up. "I don't know what you mean and I don't know why you never killed me because you had every reason to, and I definitely don't understand you, so I guess we make terrible allies, Ghost."

"What is with you?" He cocks his head to the side, tone mild with curiosity. "So talkative all of the sudden."

"I have no problem talking when the other person isn't blatantly ignoring me."

His brows lift. "Fair enough."

A deep inhale flares your nostrils before you spread your stance. "I'm ready now."

Despite your claim of readiness, he quickly backs you into a defensive position that has you frustrated once again. You don't understand why, but your progress slips. You keep having to adjust your stance and all of your attempts to hit him fail. It's not long before he locks you against a tree with a tattooed forearm against your neck. 

"You aren't focused today," he accuses.

"Damn, you're observant," you breathe out. 

"Jesus fucking Christ. If I wanted to listen to someone mouthing off, I'd get Blue out here." He presses a bit harder and your throat twitches. "I'm not going to threaten you anymore, but clearly, you think straighter when you channel your anger, so whatever you were dreaming about last night— get it out of your head."

He's right. You breathe deep and try sorting through everything in your head, focusing on just the anger, but it's like fishing in murky water. When he releases you, more of the same happens. This time, you end up on your butt. Ghost glares down at you, circling like a vulture.

"You were doing good the past few days. What the hell is this?"

"I told you," you say through your teeth, brushing off the dirt from your jeans. "Letting out my anger means letting everything else in the box out and it is... confusing me. Making my head fuzzy, I guess."

His chest expands with a deep breath and his pointed stare turns meticulous. "Explain this box to me."

You hesitate for a moment. "It's just... where I put away all of the shit that would otherwise make me insane."

"And what is wrong with being a little insane, Twix? This world is insane. Might as well match it."

Your mouth opens, then closes. You struggle for an answer and rub your temples. "I don't know. Being insane means losing myself completely. I mean, I have already changed so much in the past five years. Like I said, I was never meant to be this person."

"What person? A person who survives? A person who does what she has to?"

"A person who hurts others," you grit out. "A person who kills." 

"You've killed people, right?" he roughly asks and you nod. "Then you're a killer. You were always meant to be a killer. End of story." His words strike you, and you begin to shake your head defensively, but he continues before you can muster a reply. "The past five years haven't changed you, they have revealed who you are. Now—" he raises his fists, "—open the stupid box and turn everything you feel into anger. All of it. It is valuable fuel that will continue to keep you alive."

He swings.

A kaleidoscope of long-ignored memories flashes through your brain when he hits your sore stomach. Your family. Your friends. The life stolen from you. 

And then— you recover your footing and slam a boot into his knee. It loosens his stance just enough for you to throw yourself at him, effectively knocking him over. The ground welcomes your bodies again, but this time, you grip his shoulders and wind up on top, practically laying all of your weight on him. A few harsh breaths expel from your nose before you become fully aware of the position, the heat from his chest pressing into your breasts.

Quickly, you splay your hands flat against him and sit up straight, thighs spread over his narrow hips. Ghost could easily flip you over and pin you if he wanted. But instead, he crosses his arms behind his head. 

"Comfortable?" you ask him breathlessly, raising a brow.

"Quite. Though, if this were real, I suggest an elbow to the neck once you've got them down."

"So you admit it, then. I got you down."

"I allowed it."

"Sure." Your teeth snag on your lip and you lightly brush a finger over his masked nose, detecting a tick in the hinge of his jaw. "Then I will 'allow' you to keep this for now, but next time, I might do more than just break it."

His eyes widen imperceptibly before he quickly recovers. "Ah. So you are a person who hurts others, then. Someone was trying to tell me otherwise."

Your lips twitch at the corner on their own accord. "Shut the fuck up."

He simply stares at you for a pregnant pause before clearing his throat. "I did allow it, but that was good. You focused on the anger, didn't you?"

You nod. "Yeah, I did. Is that what you do all the time?" you ask curiously. "Just get angry and kill people?"

"Pretty much."

By the tone of his voice, a deep brass that reverberates through all the places your bodies touch, you are certain he's joking. Realizing that you are still on top of him, you push off his chest and swing a leg over, careful not to knee his face or let him see the deep flush that crawls over every inch of your skin. 

simon swore up and down he’d never want kids, he was certain he’d end up just like his old man and he would rather die than let a child grow up how he did. he tells you, “look at the state of me, yeah? not exactly father material, am i? i’m tapped in the head, ‘ts not fair to give a kid any of that.” as he taps his temple with his pointer finger.

years pass, and those words echo in your mind as he holds your chubby baby in his rough hands, one gently splayed on their soft tummy while the other supports their head. he’s gently suspending your baby in the air, mimicking helicopter noises as they squeal and giggle happily. simon has the biggest grin on his face as your 3 year old begs him to let them have a turn as a rileycopter, small hands tugging on his cargo pants with pouty lips.

not exactly father material, simon? you beg to differ.

palette

hajime umemiya x graffiti artist!reader only a little snippet, but it might become bigger later, word count: 899

you were at home right here with the collection of paint markers and aerosol cans at your feet. your free hand adjusted the filtration mask on your face as you sprayed a nonsensical pattern onto the wall using a fluorescent green so bright it almost hurt your eyes. as you began to draw on the concrete wall using a black paint marker, you felt the sneaking suspicion that eyes were on you. 

that was odd. 

you did most—hell, all your graffiti work in the dark of night, hidden from sight. you’d been chased off by a few townsfolk when you were tagging signs or walls in broad daylight, which you supposed was fair. you were technically doing something utterly illegal, after all. but you kept at it at night, painting flowers and animals, or just random letters onto whatever surface you could. 

bofurin boys often covered it up—as was their right, too, you supposed, but it always irritated you when you’d come back around and find work you’d slaved on all night be covered up with a fresh layer of white paint. 

but back to the feeling that you were being watched. 

“who’s there?” you call out, pulling off your filtration mask slightly. 

“so you’re the one doin’ all those green tags!” a boisterous voice said, and you felt a sudden presence right behind you. you whirled around, dropping your black paint marker across the floor, wincing as it skittered across the alleyway. “did you know that this taiyaki place has called us every day for a week about the graffiti?” 

fuck. you did know that voice. hajime-fuckin’-umemiya, leader of the bofurin, who had essentially annexed and reformed furin high school by force. not only were they vigilante heroes of justice—they also practically were civil servants that served the community—and now their fucking leader was staring at you with a strange, open look in his eye. 

he wasn’t even dressed in his furin uniform—you think you’ve seen it a few times, the whistling long coat that he wore out on patrols with some of the other furin boys. despite it all, he somehow had that sort of aura of warm authority about him—paired with a brilliant and curious smile on his face.

“so what?” you ask defensively. 

“you do know the graffiti’s illegal, right?” umemiya questioned, raising an eyebrow as he walked over to where your marker had skittered across the floor, picking it up. “you could be put in jail for up to five years, you know!” he flipped the marker around, holding it out to you. 

“like i need someone from furin lecturing me about that,” you say, taking the marker back from him. umemiya seemed to deflate a little, almost like a sad puppy, upon your very subtle furin insult, so you hastily add a, “no offense.” 

“mm. i get it, i get it! i do. all the work i did to rehabilitate bofurin’s image doesn’t mean much when people remember how dangerous it was before,” umemiya says sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “but! i figured i’d come around the taiyaki shop at night, see if there was some repeat offender doing the graffiti, and here you are!” 

umemiya spreads his hands magnanimously, and you can see how worn and callused his hands are from years spent brawling against other students. there was no way he was going to start fighting you, right—?

“i just wanted to ask you to stop,” umemiya says. “i mean, i respect your artistic visions! i always thought it was a waste to paint over your works—i remember one time you did this bright yellow rabbit on a blue moon, very cool, by the way—and—“

huh?

“i really like your art! i was wondering, if maybe…”

you held your paint marker, watching umemiya seemingly steeling his nerves for a moment–

“do you want to come to furin and paint? there’s a lot of graffiti already, and most of the time when we patrol we never use the classrooms anyway, so if it was anonymity you were worried about, that’s covered—and plus, at night, you’d still get a lot of time to do whatever you want—”

“… you’re offering me a place at your school to just—paint?” you ask confusedly, raising an eyebrow. 

“well, yeah!” umemiya says. “i mean, it’s a waste to paint over your hard work, right? it’s different than the other tags.”

“... is it?” you ask, staring at your half-finished graffiti, joining other fresh tags on the wall. 

“well, i’m not really sure if i fully believe in the idea that art carries intention–but i’d like to think yours does! and it’s kind. and i think there’s people at furin who might appreciate it.” 

“well…”

you sigh, running a hand through your hair.

“well, okay,” you say. “but if anyone tries to start something–”

“please,” umemiya says. “we’re not animals. it’ll be great to have you.” and then he holds out his hand to shake, and you stare down at it.

are you really doing this?

umemiya’s expression is bright, warm. 

you shake his hand. 

his grip is firm, his thumb squeezing the space between your index and thumb–and you laugh with a hint of exasperation in your voice. here you were, pulled right into umemiya’s thrall–lured in by him like a sweet siren song.

“fine. see you tomorrow, then,” you mutter, your cheeks heating up.