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#I love how Root just inches in there like a cat :')
aerynwrites · 5 months
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Reciprocation
Halsin x GN!Reader
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A/N: Based on this request which was taken from an HC by @somerandomdot who so graciously allowed me to expand on this idea!! If you haven’t already, please go check them out because their HC’s are always so spot on and often times very delicious.
Word Count: 1.2k
Warnings: 18+ ONLY, NSFW, smut, blow job, oral (male receiving), suggestive content obviously, a bit of fluff at the end, but mostly just filth.
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His skin runs hot beneath your hands, your fingers tracing over taut muscles as you run them over Halsin’s thighs. 
The druid had been rendered silent by your request, eyes slightly wide as he gazes down at you from his position propped up against a great oak tree. 
It’s fitting, really. Oak father…Oak tree-
“It’s not something I expect of you, my heart,” Halsin finally says, pulling you from your wandering thoughts. 
You blink once, lips curling into a smile as your hands slide further up, so close to where you want them to be. 
“I know it’s not expected,” you tell him, nails scratching at the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. “I want to. Is that so hard to believe?” 
The question remains unanswered for a moment, as if Halsin is fighting some internal battle. And maybe he is. 
When it comes to the more…physical side of your relationship with Halsin, he’s always been the giving type. Always seeming to put your pleasure first or even gaining his own pleasure from yours. 
For instance, he loves going down on you. Something that took you off guard at first, especially when he almost insisted on doing it every time. 
“I desire your taste on my tongue more than a drowning man craves air.” 
The memory of his sultry words make you shudder, and brings you back to the present. Halsin’s cock, twitching mere inches from your hands, and your mouth practically watering at the sight. 
You want to taste him too - a request that caught the druid off guard in the middle of your little rendezvous. 
If you didn’t know better, you’d think he’d never had a blowjob before. But you know that’s not the case, he just seems to not be used to being on the receiving end. 
Finally, after what feels like an eternity of silence, Halsin lets out a shaky breath, his hand shaking as he reaches down to cup your cheek in his palm. 
“You know I can deny you nothing, my heart. Especially when it comes to pleasures of the flesh.” 
You smile like the cat that caught the canary, arousal shooting straight to your core at his consent. You’re eager to see what makes the great archdruid tick in this respect.
“Thank you,” you tell him, leaning forward eagerly as one hand wraps around the base of him. “You deserve to be worshiped too.” 
Your tongue is on him before he can speak, tracing from root to tip before taking him in your mouth. 
He tastes exactly like you imagined he would. Heady, the slight tang of precum and something so uniquely Halsin…It makes you moan. 
Halsin responds in kind, an absolutely sinful groan escaping his lips as you sink further down onto him. 
You know he’s big from the dozens of times you’ve been with one another. But he feels impossibly larger like this. Your jaw already aches as you stretch to accommodate him and you have to wrap your hand around what won’t fit. 
But you aren’t satisfied with that. 
Pulling back slowly, you run your tongue along the thick vein running  up the underside of his cock, suckling gently on the head. 
Another moan falls from Halsin’s lips, and this time his hand cards through your hair, gripping the strands with a strength you know all to well. 
“Oak father preserve me…” He sucks in a sharp breath when you sink back down onto him, this time determined to see how much of him you can take. 
You relax your throat, breathing steadily through your nose as you sink further down, the tip of him hitting the back of your throat. You want to think down further, swallowing him whole, but a sharp thrust of his hips has you reeling back, choking on the length of him.
A stuttered groan of your name leaves Halsin’s lips, followed by a multitude of apologies as he moves to take his hand from your hair. 
Not wanting to leave him, you reach up quickly and pull him back, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze as you move to take him again, blinking away the tears gathered in your eyes.
Another wanton groan meets your ears as Halsin thrusts up into your mouth, hips twitching uncontrollably as you give him pleasure. 
“Gods,” he grunts, trying to still his hips as you start to build a rhythm, taking him as far as you can before pulling back once again. “I do not deserve you,” he breathes, words broken by gasps and unabashed sounds of pleasure. “Silvanus blessed me when he sent you to me, a gift of nature itself-ah!”
You feel his nails dig lightly into your scalp, pushing you down onto his length as his hips stutter, and you know he’s close to his end. 
You feel him try to tug you off of him, his cock twitching against your lips, but you give a small shake of your head, instead moving to sink as far down onto him as you have all night. 
The tip of him hits the back of your throat and goes further, and you swallow instinctively around the intrusion. That action, along with you looking up at him through tear soaked lashes makes your lover come undone with a rumbling growl. 
Your name falls from his lips like a prayer as he comes, his seed spilling into your mouth as you eagerly swallow him down. 
Once you’re sure he’s spent and you’ve taken everything he has to offer, you slowly pull away, crawling up his body until you straddle his hips. 
Halsin is never one to be left speechless - always the more vocal one during sex. But now…Now all that falls from his lips are quiet pants, his chest heaving as you settle against him, your hands coming up to rest on his shoulders.
His eyes flutter open after a moment, hazel irises hidden almost completely by lust blown pupils. His hands fall to your hips and squeeze gently, before he brings one up to wipe a thumb at the corner of your mouth. 
Your eyes fall to where his now focus, only to see a small amount of his release on the pad of his thumb. Without thinking, you turn to take the digit in your mouth, smiling coyly when Halsin groans. 
“You might just be the death of me,” he says, pulling his thumb from your mouth to instead claim your lips with his own. 
You let out a small moan when he pulls away from you, his lips marking a trail down your jaw and neck. 
“It doesn’t sound like the worst way to go,” you say, voice hoarse with desire. 
Strong hands grip your hips once more and before you can blink, Halsin has your back pressed into the cool grass before continuing his path down your body, hands following in his lips wake. 
He nips at the sensitive skin of your hip, nose dangerously close to where you’re desperate for his touch. 
“I can think of no better way to leave this world than in the throes of pleasure,” his fingers dig into your thighs, spreading your legs so he can settled between them. “But first, I must reciprocate. For if we are to pass on into the gods embrace, it won’t be until we’re both thoroughly pleasured.” 
You smile and offer no retort as Halsin follows through on his words. 
776 notes · View notes
sailoryooons · 8 months
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Okay hear me out, but maybe a little bit of enemies to lovers, little bit of smutty goodness between witch hunter!yoongi and witch!reader?? Idk why this popped in my head but I’m kind of desperate to see a little something now lol.
Also, I love you ❤️
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❀ Pairing: Witch hunter!Yoongi x f. witch!reader
❀ Summary: For years, you and Yoongi have played cat and mouse. It’s his duty to rid the world of witches, but he always finds a new excuse to let you slip through his fingers. When you find yourself at his mercy, you wonder if the great witch hunter will finally end your game of chase, or if there’s something that will stay his hand. 
❀ Word Count: 4188 
❀ Genre: Urban fantasy, enemies to lovers, a hint of angst, smut
❀ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. 
❀ Warnings: On screen character death (not permanent though), depictions of blood and intense action sequences, scary demon thing, depiction of weapons, hints at violence between two groups of people, mild world building, a bit of angst, explicit language, explicit sexual content featuring light nipple play, unprotected vaginal sex, emotional sex, a lot of spit, UNEDITED. 
❀ Published: August 3, 2023
❀ A/N: I don’t know why I thought I’d be able to control myself with some of these ideas because god dammit Sarah, I want to turn this into more than ~4k of a work. Like this idea inspired me so much, you have no idea how insane I wanted to go on this but I had to CONTROL MYSELF because I promised that this year I would keep it tame. I love you so much and I’m so sorry that this is like 90% plot and 10% smut but I kept inching toward 5k and I was like I HAVE GOT TO STOP MYSELF JESUS CHRIST and dkfgjdiogjfoigjg I am telling you right now, I want to come back and revisit this fic and makie it like a four chapter thing or something because GOD I LOVED THIS IDEA AND YOU KNEW JUST WHAT TO REQUEST. Also this is unedited!!!!
❀ Disclaimer: All members of BTS are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.
| Masterlist | Ask | Hali’s Happy Agust | Song Inspiration |
Most nights, Yoongi dreams of you. He knows better, and yet he can’t help himself. It’s like you’re living under his skin, a virus that has taken root in the marrow of his bones. He doesn’t know how he would dig you out if he tried.
If he tried. 
If anyone from the Conclave knew the dangerous game that Yoongi is playing, he would be ousted or killed. Killing would be the mercy, but he’s garnered enough hate within the elite members of the Conclave to know they’d rather him suffer cut off from his resources. His friends. His family. 
Still, Yoongi walks a dangerous line. He knows it’s wrong, letting a witch infect him like a sickness. He is sure that he’s under your spell. There’s no other explanation for the way he always lets you slip away. For the way he closes his eyes and imagines the flutter of your heart against his, the sound of your gasps, the warmth of your hands.
Stars explode behind Yoongi’s eyes as he presses the heels of his hands into them. He’s exhausted, limbs heavy and sore from a day of bloody work. The activity downtown has only worsened the last few months, making Yoongi hunt multiple times a day and return home banged up. 
The pain he can handle. Witches and their demons are nothing new to him. But he knows there’s something he’s missing, something lurking beneath the surface of the increased activity and the strong demonic presence in the city.
Yoongi knows he could ask you. He’s thought about it a few times over the last few weeks but he’s talked himself out of it each time. The curiosity has always lingered there, waiting for him to ask in those moments where you cross his path, coy and sharp as ever. In the minutes you linger, shooting him insults he thinks you don’t mean and playing little word games. 
He doesn’t ask, though. And you never offer, despite the fact that your sharp eyes and knowing smirk lead him to believe you know he wants to ask. 
Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t. Not giving you what you want is part of the fun. He likes the way it makes you bristle, magic crackling at your fingertips. He loves the way it makes you narrow your eyes at him, lobbing empty threats that make him want to purr. 
Whatever this effect you have on him is potent. He can’t shake you off, can’t outrun you. 
And worse, he doesn’t want to.
Rain begins to beat on the bedroom window outside. Though his limbs are heavy from slogging through the sewer system downtown after a witch and her ivax demon, he’s a little too keyed up to sleep. Yoongi senses something staticy in the air, an energy that he can’t name.
Opening up his phone, he flips through his text threads with members of the Conclave. It seems everyone is in it tonight, the demonic activity buzzing and the monsters worse than usual. He frowns when he sees Seokjin mention a prowler crawling through the warehouse district. Yoongi knows that’s where you live and an unexpected sense of unease slivers down his spine.
He locks his phone and tosses it on the bed. He doesn’t need to worry about you. You’re one of the most skilled witches in the city and you’ve killed scores of demons and others alike. He should remove your head for the number of hunters you’ve put in the ground, but you’ve killed triple that in witches. 
Which is why you’re alone. It’s not lost on Yoongi that you’re a witch without a coven and with unusual alliances living in a warehouse all alone with a prowler on the loose. If you know it’s there - you have to know it’s there, being you - he knows you’ll go after it. 
“Fuck,” he sighs at the ceiling. 
Grabbing his phone, Yoongi sends off a quick text. 
Yoongi: Anyone dispatching to take care of the prowler?
Councilman Haer: Negative. The Conclave will not be dispatching. The Warehouse District is not critical and it’ll go back down after it’s satiated. Prowlers aren’t controlled by witches, it might even take a few out for us.
Yoongi stomach flips as he squeezes his phone tight before getting up. He’s tired of the Conclave’s inaction. He knows he’ll get in trouble for going after something so dangerous without backup, but he can’t ask Seokjin and Hoseok to back him up on this one. Not unauthorized, and not for something so dangerous. 
Unsanctioned hunts is exactly how Yoongi has ended up at the bottom of the pool among Conclave members, but he doesn’t care. Politics can’t erase the fact that he’s the best fucking hunter in the city, and no councilman who won’t get their hands dirty can give him grief for doing what needs to be done.
This isn’t about the Conclave, though. Yoongi knows it. Seokjin would know it, if Yoongi told him what he was doing. But the thought of a prowler tearing through the low-income streets in the Warehouse District doesn’t resonate with him. Neither does knowing that you are one of the witches in the line of fire. 
Yoongi dresses and arms himself with military proficiency. A black, long-sleeved shirt with a form-fitted leather vest over it to prevent most stabs and cuts, knives sheathed along the ribbing of the vest, breathable pants with a tactical belt and pockets full of hunting necessities, and his necklace with the Conclave helix. 
At the last second, he grabs a jacket and pulls the hood up to keep the beating rain from soaking him through. While he has some talent with magic to help him heal faster and make his blows stronger and faster, he’s not skilled in the way of weather or anything advanced enough to keep him dry and comfortable. 
Nervousness settles into him as he takes the subway to the Warehouse District. It’s not far, but the train is empty and filled with dirty puddles left behind from passengers. Lights flicker above as the subway rockets unevening on the tracks, making him dizzy. 
When he steps off the train and into the wet underground of the station entrance, he knows something is amiss. His fingers twitch as he jogs up the steps, boots splashing loudly as the rain comes down. Wind whips at him here and when he hears a crack of thunder too loud and rumbling to be human, his instincts kick in.
Yoongi takes off running. He knows where your warehouse-turned-loft is. He’d originally scouted it out to eliminate you. Now, it’s something he’s always kept an eye on, steering other hunters away from your home. It’s silly, he knows. You’d call him weak if you knew, probably. And yet he does it, diverting danger coming your way when he can.
Now, danger is already there. 
The storm rages harder as he heads your direction. Wind pushes at him, making Yoongi lock his muscles as he fights the freezing cold rain and the debris that blows down the street with the force of the storm. He hopes that it keeps people indoors and away from the prowler. 
But Yoongi sees the purple lighting lance out of the sky, an explosion of radiant beauty for a moment before it strikes nearby, blowing transforms into white sparks and he realizes what is so uncanny about this storm. 
It’s you. You’re the storm. 
A roar of rage shakes the air as he comes around the corner to your street. The warehouse you live in is at the end of the road right up against the bay. The wind is mixed with salt spray, stinging his eyes as he runs towards the shadowy outline of your building, nearly impossible to see in the rain and night.
Yoongi manages to roll one of the heavy doors open to your loft, muscles screaming with effort. Stepping inside, chaos greets him. The ceiling is blown out above your home, rain pouring in from the sky. It tastes like lightning and blood. No doubt your storm is what ripped the ceiling apart, but when he sees the prowler, he doesn’t blame you. 
A massive creature stands ten feet tall, rippling with leathered hide and spikes on its back. Long, gangly limbs drag on the floor with black, sharpened talons on the end of each of its three fingers. The prowler walks awkwardly and Yoongi notes the scorch mark in its left shoulder, making it lean as it drags itself toward its intended target. 
Which is you, laying on the ground bloody and rain soaked. Yoongi doesn’t even think. He has no idea if you’re conscious or not, but he’s moving across the room, putting power into his step as he pulls out two of his daggers and jumps high up into the air. 
Yoongi’s intent is to land on the back of the prowler and sink each blade in as he falls. He doesn’t anticipate the demon to turn away from bloodied prey, but it does, swinging its arm wildly to bat him away. He’s lucky that the forearm catches him in the stomach and sends him flying and not the flaws.
Closing his eyes and bracing for impact, Yoongi is surprised when he doesn’t slam into a wall. He opens his eyes to see himself floating toward the floor, suspended briefly before the phantom energy drops him gently. He lands with shock, looking up to where you’re sitting up, one hand extended toward him.
At least you weren’t out cold or dead. Yoongi is really happy that you’re not dead, but it’s cut short as the prowler charges him. 
This time, Yoongi’s ready. He runs at the beast, waiting until he’s right outside of the window of its swiping claws before he dives to his knees, sliding under the creature and between its legs. He twists his hands, cutting the inside of the creature’s thighs as he goes.
It shrieks, shaking the building and scattering Yoongi’s thoughts. He feels fizzy and confused for a moment, the mind breaking scream of the prowler enough to make him vulnerable. He feels a hand on his face and he looks up, momentarily stricken with the thought that he sees an angel. 
“Thank you,” you breathe, and he recognizes your voice. Usually it cracks like a whip, but this is soft. Strange. It terrifies him. “I’m going to do something that is probably going to kill me. Just know that I liked our game, Hunter.”
“What are you doing, Witch?”
Your smile is like the sun. He doesn’t think he’s seen anything more beautiful. Your face is covered in blood and rain, turning your neck scarlet as it runs. There’s a gash above your brow and he sees a blackened wound in your stomach. 
It is amazing, how a creature like you, bred to be an evil, wicked thing can look radiant. Holy. Wonderful. Your hand is cradling his face and it feels warm, despite the rain and blood on your hands. Your thumb is soft as it sweeps across his cheek, a touch more reverent than he’s ever known. 
“Witch,” Yoongi starts, unsure what you’re doing. 
“I’ll miss that. Take this.” 
Before Yoongi can react, your hand falls from his face. You move past him with absolute confidence, lifting your chin. You have a limp as you do, and Yoongi reaches after you but you’re already out of his grip.
Something stirs in the air. He’s only felt power rippling like that once before when he was a child, and the entire Conclave worked together to slaughter an Eldritch Witch that had attacked them and taken out more than half of their hunters.
Now, Yoongi feels that dark presence again, energy buzzing against his ears as he turns to look at you over his shoulder. The prowler senses the power disturbance too, backing away from you as dark particles begin to gather around your hands.
Above you, the rain hovers, disrupted by the frequency of your magic. The buzz in Yoongi’s ears gets louder as he climbs to his feet, clapping his hands firmly over his ears, wincing as it gets higher and louder. He thinks it might burst his ear drums or crack his skull open. 
Disks of dark particles circle you as you approach the demon, which is now roaring once more, trying to disrupt your thoughts. It doesn’t work, the air vibrating with dark matter. You’re at the center of the swirling darkness, the rings rotating around you like an access.
The sound stops suddenly, and for a moment, Yoongi thinks he’s deaf. Black matter pulses from you, exploding outward. Yoongi hits the floor, realizing if he gets hit with your magic, he’ll die. Never before has he witnessed the Eldritch Blast of a witch, but he knows that it's only used as a final stand.
I’m going to do something that is probably going to kill me. 
The finality of your words shreds him open as the shockwave of your magic barrels at him. He thinks he’s going to die as it expands toward him, but instead, it arches over him, battling down against a magical barrier. 
Take this. Yoongi realizes you’ve warded him from your destruction, keeping him safe as your blast levels the world around you. He feels the magic beating down on your ward like raging fits, vibrating and shrieking under the pressure of the magic. 
It even keeps him from being injured by the collapsing debris. 
Yoongi looks at you as the world falls to pieces. You go down to one knee, then the other, swaying as the darkness cascades around you in a final flutter of power. Then you fall over, heavy and unmoving as the rest of the building comes down. 
All he can do is scream.
-
Most nights, you dream of Yoongi. You don’t know when it started - perhaps that first night after you met him? You can’t be sure. All you know is that at some point, the hunter poisoned you from the inside out, a disease taking root and rotting you all the way through to your core. 
You always knew that dreaming of him would get you killed one day. But Yoongi was different. Wiser than the rest of his wretched Conclave. Smart enough to question his way of life and his faction’s merciless killings. You think he’ll start asking the right questions soon, that maybe he’ll start seeing the signs that who he has sworn loyalty to isn’t who they say they are.
But Yoongi never asks questions. 
It’s easy to tell he wants to. There’s always that little pause at the end of your meetings. You used to think it was perhaps he was trying to decide whether or not to kill you. Perhaps it was that at first, but now it’s something a little different. A little more. Like he is on the edge of finally asking you what exactly is going on in the city that he protects from monsters.
Yoongi is simple, though. He likes his little life tucked away in the Art District and he likes the wash, rinse, repeat of killing demons and corrupted witches nightly. You think he likes your little run-ins.
Now, you’ve finally paid the price of letting him live these last two years. Had someone told you before you’d met Yoongi that you’d sacrifice yourself for him and the rest of a small neighborhood, you’d have laughed in their face. You weren’t a hero, though some might think slaying your own kind and their creatures was worth praise. 
Penance and praise are not the same, though. 
Dying seems like a good way of paying off your list of wrongs. Especially to save Yoongi. If only to save Yoongi, if you were being honest. 
Witches have a lot of lore about death and where one goes in the afterlife. You’re not sure where you are, if you exist, or if you’re even really a thought. It feels like nothingness and everything all at once, a void of floating consciousness. There’s no pain, but you remember the warehouse. Remember the prowler ripping down the door and coming for you specifically. 
And him. You remember Yoongi coming in, looking like a fucking angel of old as he leapt through the skies. Together you might have taken on the beast. But prowlers are notoriously difficult to destroy, and you were in no shape to protect Yoongi, much less fight by his side as a reliable partner. 
That left you with one option, and though you knew it would end you, you’d done it anyway.
Yoongi’s face swims in your mind. Soft and round, eyes like the bottom of the ocean, a single pink scar carved through his right eye. Mouth soft and petal pink, hair silky and dark, reaching to his shoulders. He’s small for a hunter but he’s strong and broad, his mind his best weapon. 
Witch, Yoongi had said. The last words you’d hear from him, spoken with a softness that you’ve never heard from him before. Rain-soaked and wide eyed Yoongi, looking at you like you held the flame of life, like you were something more than a creature on the other side of the trench. 
The best thing you could do for him was die.
So you summoned your magic from deep within you, that ancient, sleeping thing. You try not to think about what Yoongi’s last memory of you will be, an eldritch horror that will remind him of the creature that slaughtered his family as a child. 
Yoongi will never get to ask his questions. You’ll never get to tell him why you haunt the streets killing your own kind. Yoongi will never know the softness of your kiss. You’ll never know the gentle press of his hands. 
Something brushes across your forehead. You feel now and you frown. Or can you frown, in whatever plane of death this is? You’re not sure, but you feel… the weight of your own body. The beating of your own heart. The rush of air through your lungs as you breathe.
Awareness prickles at the back of your neck like a needle. Slowly, you begin to feel solid. Your fingers twist in soft sheets, and when you turn your head, you feel the plushness of a pillow. Smell petrichor and cedar. 
It smells like… Yoongi. 
“Hmmm?” you feel the vibration in your throat at your unspoken question, nothing but a rumble of noise and confusion. Something cradles your face. “Hunnn..?”
A deep, throaty laugh. “Mmm, I take care of you for a week straight and we’ve moved on to endearments?” 
Your eyes flutter open, lids heavy. The world swims into view, a little blurry as your eyes try to focus in the dimly lit room, taking in the bed you’re in and the face hovering above yours. 
“Yoongi,” you breathe, your heart expanding with unfettered joy. 
“That’s the first time you’ve ever said my name.”
“What?”
“Say it more often.” He leans forward and you watch as his dark eyes drink you in. “And never do that to me again.”
Before you can ask him what that is, Yoongi’s mouth is pressing against yours. You melt immediately, going boneless in a bed you’re unfamiliar with, lost in the citrusy taste of his mouth and the gentle press of his lips. His kiss is soft soft soft, blurring reality as he pulls at your bottom lip teasingly before pulling away.
Eyes fluttering open, you stare at him in wonder. He hovers above your face, haloed by inky-black hair. “Yoongi.”
He smiles. “It sounds much better than hunter. Hun can stay, though.”
“You’re not calling the shots.”
“You’re in no condition to fight me.”
“I killed a prowler, I think you’re no problem.”
His eyes glow. “I think perhaps you’re right. But for now, you’re at my mercy.”
“Kiss me again.” You lift your hands and bring them toward his face, brushing a finger over the bottom of his scar. “And don’t stop this time. I’ll ask my questions later.”
“Of course, witch.” 
Yoongi’s kiss is hungrier now. Desperate. Full of all the questions he never asked and you meet him with equal fire. You don’t care that you’ve beat the odds and lived. You don’t care about anything else but the weight of Yoongi straddling your waist and the feel of his velvet soft skin beneath your hands. 
Every inch of him is warm, filled with the heat of the hunter’s fire that burns through every member of the Conclave. This hunter burns brighter than the rest, though. Warmth blooms where your fingers press over his stomach and chest, ridding him of his shirt. Fire burns where you grab his arms, arching into him as his teeth skim your throat. 
You’ve never felt this in sync with someone, bodies twining together like you were made for one another. Yoongi’s hand is scorching as his touch ghosts down your body, his touch light and teasing as he lowers his mouth to your hardened nipple, catching it and giving a gentle suck.
Honey-dipped moans slip from your mouth. Yoongi’s mouth is wet-hot against your skin, tongue laving hungrily as his hand seeks the heat between your legs. Your thighs open for him easily, giving Yoongi access to the dripping mess of your folds. He curses when his fingers slide between your slit, gathering slick to circle his digits around your clit.
“Fuck,” you hiss, hips twitching. “Don’t bother. I can take you now. Want you now.”
“I told you that you were at my mercy.” You summon your magic, rattling his shelves. Yoongi leans over to your neglected nipple and plucks it with his teeth, making you squeal and shiver, pleasure rattling you. “Fine,” he agrees. “Greedy witch. Should have known.”
“Not greedy,” you shoot back as Yoongi sits up and sheds his pants. Your hands follow him, tracing the faint scars on his stomach, pressing against the muscle of his tapered hips. “I’ve waited for months for you to do something. To say something.”
“I’m not good at that.” 
You hum. “It takes me dying for you to take initiative?” 
“A lesson hard-learned and never to be repeated.”
Yoongi’s cock is hard, bobbing heavily as he shuffles you under him and presses your thighs open for him. The brown tip is sticky with precum, his shaft long and thick enough to make your cunt ache for him more.
“Nice cock,” you tease as he pumps himself, hand gliding and spreading his precum down his shaft.
He grunts. “Can’t wait to feel this fucking pussy,” he mutters, leaning forward and pressing the tip to your entrance. You make a breathy sound, eyes fluttering shut at the pleasure-pained stretch. “Think you can take it, witch?”
“Yes.”
Yoongi sinks in and you second-guess your statement for a second, but the stretch of his cock pressing you open feels good. Deliriously so, your back arching as he bottoms out. You feel him in your gut, deeper than anything ever before and you whine as he draws his hips back before snapping them forward, punching the breath from your lungs.
He sets a deep, hard pace. You grip his biceps, feeling the muscle flex in his arms. Every part of you is on fire, lit up from the closeness of your bodies as Yoongi leans down and melds your mouths together, continuing to fuck you so deep you know you’ll never forget what it feels like.
Every brush of his cock against your g-spot drives you mad. Every whisper of your name - your name, not witch - makes you shudder. His tongue is hungrily as it brushes against yours, his moans deep and throaty as your pussy grips him tight. 
“Fuck,” he pants, sliding a hand down your body to grab your thigh and hoist your leg higher. It changes the angle, making his stroke somehow deeper. Your eyes roll back and your head digs into the mattress as you fist at the sheets. “You can fucking take it.”
“Keep going.”
“As if i could fucking stop.” 
You never want him to stop. Fucking you, kisses you, teasing you, shadowing you as you take on the world. You want every part of your life colored with Yoongi. You want him to be a part of your mornings, your fights, your weaknesses, your strengths. You want to rile him up, needle him with little insults that get him going. Tease him to make him laugh and share that secret smile. 
Every moment has led to this. You don’t know how you never saw this outcome, here with him, crying out his name as your orgasm crests into an unstoppable force. When you come around him, it’s with his name in your mouth and so much need for him in your heart that you think you might explode with energy for a second time. 
After, when you’re wrapped in Yoongi and you feel his hunter’s skin blaze against you, sweat-slick skin pressed close, you think that finally, he’ll ask those questions. You’ll give him answers. 
“Don’t do that ever again, witch,” Yoongi warns. “I will follow you into death.” 
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billlydear · 1 year
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BASIC BIOLOGY - BILLY HARGROVE X READER (PART THREE | FINAL PART) | PART ONE | PART TWO
word count: 9492 // masterlist | inbox (please request) | WIP list
Summary: you're paired with billy for a biology project. you only visit his house once, but it's enough for you to understand why he doesn't want you to come over again. when he starts showing up more and more in your life, you realize that it's basic biology: you were made for him, and he was made for you.
Contents: mentions of injuries (healed/healing), trauma, discussions of billy's past, angst with a fluffy ending, cows !
A/N: oh my gosh ! the end ! it feels like i've been working on this forever and thinking about it even longer, and as a new-ish writer on the billy scene, i just want to thank you all for how sweet you've been, in response to this fic and many others. your support is so important to me, and i'm so glad that many of you enjoyed this fic. i hope that you like the ending, too, please tell me what you think!
reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! your feedback motivates me to write more, so thank you for your support :-)
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You wake up beside Billy Hargrove differently than you’d fallen asleep beside him. Where his face had been previously tucked snug to your neck, his breath fanning out over your collarbones, his cheek is smushed to your chest now. His arm is slung over your stomach, one of his legs thrown over your own as his torso lays slumped up against yours. His cheek chubs up where it’s resting on your breast, and- god, his eyelashes are beautiful. The eyes behind them are just as gorgeous, but for now you’re glad they’re shut. He looks so relaxed, so peaceful, and you’d stay still for an eternity beneath him if it meant he’d be able to stay in that drowsy state of serenity. 
His curls are mussed with sleep, bent out of shape and frizzy where they’d typically be slicked. There’s still bruises littered over his face but they’ve already begun healing, shifting in color to be lighter and less jarring. 
Your fingers come up without you noticing to brush over one of his curls. It’s soft to the touch, and you give it an experimental squeeze, watching as it bounces back. You notice that it’s tangled slightly with another strand, and brush your pinky between them to separate the tangle.
It must tug lightly on Billy’s scalp, because he heaves an unconscious sigh. You wait for him to frown, to wake and snap at you for touching his precious hair, but he never does. Instead he settles again, eyes still firmly shut.
You can’t help it; you reach for his scalp. Your nails scrape gently, ever-so-slightly over his skin, brushing over hundreds of individual strands of hair rooted there and curled together. 
Your breath catches in your throat as he moves. He hums, deep, soft, and low in his throat, the sound vibrating in his chest that’s pressed to your side. It sends a shiver up your spine, but it’s quickly quelled with the warmth that comes from his face as he presses it even further into your chest. Now his cheek is practically invisible, buried in your breast and angling his nose to one side. He tightens his arm around your waist, hoisting himself up and over you even further than he’d been before. He reminds you of a cat, purring and leaning into soft touches.
He seems to like it, so you don’t stop. You rove your fingers through every inch of his scalp, scratching and stroking and smoothing through his curls until they’re a mass of individual strands instead of grouped twists. It’s ridiculously soft, and you wonder how you’ve been able to refrain from touching his hair before now.
There’s nothing you’d rather do than stay here for eternity. Holding him, brushing through his hair, loving him. But your bladder has other wishes. 
Wrestling yourself out from under him is difficult, but he accepts a pillow in exchange for your torso. He burrows his face into it just the same, and you can’t help but brush over his curls one last time as you stand over him, tucking the blankets up and around his shoulders.
When he’s securely tucked into your covers and snoozing away, you pad out of your bedroom, thankful that your parents work early shifts.
You seem to have woken up at a perfect time to make a breakfast larger than you normally do. It takes double the time to prepare a meal for the two of you, and you’re thankful that you think to group the eggs together in a pan to cut that extra time down. You’re setting plates at the table, stuffed with eggs, toast, and fresh fruit when Billy emerges from the hallway, staring cautiously at you where he stands.
His hair is haphazardly smoothed, but there’s no fixing the frizz that your fingers had worked out of it. Your clothes look good on him, even if the sweatpants are stretched over his upper calves instead of at his ankles from how he’d shifted in his sleep. Your shirt is riding up at his stomach and you politely avoid looking at his toned torso, even if you really want to.
“Breakfast,” You hum, pointing your spatula at the table, “Orange juice or milk?”
“Uh-” He flounders, blinking rapidly, “Water, please. Or- I can get it.”
He makes to step towards the kitchen but you whirl your spatula around to face him, intent on pampering the boy, “No, just go sit down. I can do it.”
He looks properly chided, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips as he ducks to hide it from you.
You set an ice cold glass of water at his place and notice that he’s waited to begin eating until you sat down. You give him the go-ahead, digging into a chunk of egg with your fork.
“Sleep good?” You glance up at him, a questioning glance shot through your lashes. He nods, silent and careful, and you realize that he seems to have closed himself off since last night, and you think that maybe leaving the bed before he woke wasn’t the best idea, even if it was just to make breakfast. You try remedying it by knocking your foot against his under the table, and he nearly chokes on his water. You leave your foot pressed flush to his own, a constant reminder of your touch on his skin.
“Does your stomach still hurt?” You try again, gulping down OJ. 
“A bit,” His morning voice is raspy and you know you’re going to fawn over it later, even if you’re trying hard not to take advantage of his vulnerability.
“It’s mostly a cut up here,” He reaches a hand under his (your) shirt, rubbing at a patch below his left pec. You can see his fingers move under the shirt, and you remember the wound that’s there from last night.
“That probably means your ribs aren’t broken,” You conclude, relief washing over you at the fact that his bruises are just that.
“Nah, not broken,” He shakes his head, stuffing fruit into his mouth and ignoring the way juice drips down his chin, “I know what a broken rib feels like.”
You still, looking up suspiciously at him with your head ducked to your plate. His shoulders slump, “Just some kid from school. He had rings on, and he hit hard.”
“Oh,” You supply lamely, “I’m glad they healed.”
You eat in silence for a few bites, but he doesn’t shy away from your touch beneath the table, and you’re thankful for that. He even shifts his foot to press more against yours, his sock slightly itchy against your skin. Right after he leans into your touch, he speaks.
“My dad doesn’t usually… do this. This was bad, he tries not to leave marks. I think-” He hesitates, and you nudge his foot with your own again, encouraging him, “I think he’d be even more angry if I missed school than whatever he was mad about in the first place. So he has to keep things inconspicuous. And if anyone sees anything I just have to make excuses.”
“I’m sorry,” You say, not out of pity, but sympathy, “I… I really don’t know how you do it. You’re strong, Billy, y’know that?”
He scoffs into his honeydew.
“I mean it,” You press on, “You just… take it. You let him do that to you because if you fight back other people might get hurt, and that takes strength. Even if it feels weak to get beat on, just know you’re saving your stepsister and her mom, and… I’m proud of you.”
He stills for a moment, jaw stiffening in the middle of a chewing motion. He swallows dry, but whatever it is goes down fine, and he clears his throat without meeting your eye.
“He used to hit my mom,” Billy admits, voice now hoarse from emotion rather than sleep. He scrunches his eyes shut momentarily, “I.. I couldn’t stop him. I was too young. And she left. So I guess I just… got bigger. Just in case.”
You recall seeing a set of weights in his living room. You had presumed they were his, but hadn’t bothered to ask among discussions of mitosis. Now, though, you realize he’s bulked himself up to combat his dad’s abuse, even if he uses it to protect others rather than himself.
It spreads a thin layer of mist over your eyes, the thought of preteen Billy experimenting with handheld five-pounders in hopes of blocking a punch. What hits you even harder is his current image, a toned teen who still doesn’t have the heart to hit back.
You can’t figure out how to respond. If you say you’re proud of him again, he might shut down. If you sound like you’re pitying him, he’ll be angry. So instead you reach over the table, your fork clattering to the wood as you take his free hand.
He’s startled by the sudden movement paired with the noise, but he makes up for his momentary flinch by ghosting his thumb softly over the back of your hand. His fingers don’t curl against yours, so it’s not a mutual gesture, you’re just holding his hand. Slowly, surely, his fingers move inch by inch, slipping between your own and settling against your skin.
You wonder if it’s the first time anyone’s ever held his hand.
“Thanks,” He breathes, his breath a huff of cantaloupe scent. He sniffles, hard, aggressively, and you know he doesn’t want you to acknowledge the tear that streaks fast down his cheek. 
You let him wipe it away without saying anything, even though you want to tell him it’s okay. You hope that the way you squeeze his hand tells him that, though, because it’s true. It’s okay for him to cry, and you’re glad that, even if he tries hiding it around you, he feels safe enough to let the tears fall in the first place.
The rest of your breakfast is filled with mindless chatter, a few gossip strands weaving their way through an otherwise pleasant conversation. He learns that Amanda Weaver has been telling everyone he gave her a promise ring, but you’d seen her fish the plain silver band off of her keychain. 
“I don’t even know her,” He snorts, “And promise rings are dumb.”
Your nose wrinkles, “I don’t think so. They’re cute.”
“They’re pointless,” He insists, shoveling egg into his mouth, “Having a ring to chuck in the garbage is gonna hurt a whole lot more when they leave.”
“If.” You murmur.
“Hm?” He glances up at you, mouth full.
“If they leave.” You correct him quietly, “Some people stay.”
He’s frozen. Baby blues unblinking, he stares at you like a deer in headlights. You hold his gaze with your own steady one, waiting until his brain wraps around what you’re really trying to tell him: I’ll stay.
He’s quiet, for a long time. He keeps his eyes on his eggs, roving over every crease and hill in their structure. Then he mumbles so soft you can barely hear it, “Right.”
There’s a thousand things you want to say. A thousand promises you want to make, a thousand reassuring words you want to mumble against his skin so that they’re absorbed. But the not-so-nice blare of your kitchen timer kindly reminds you it’s time to get to school, and you settle for none at all.
“Shit,” You mumble, shoveling your last bite of melon into your mouth and standing, “I’ll get my-!” 
You glance back at him when you feel a tug, and he’s sitting in place, hand still entwined with yours. He’s cautious, frozen, and you melt into a smile, squeezing his hand.
“My bag.” You clarify, “Are we taking the bus, or walking to your place?”
“Let’s walk,” He decides, his hand never letting up in its grip on yours. It’s bold, it’s forward, it’s healing.
“Okay,” You grin, keeping your fingers tightly curled around Billy’s and tugging him up through the shared embrace, “Let’s go! I’ve gotta be on time today, we’re taking a quiz in first period.”
“We don’t have to go in, we can just get my car.” He lets you drag him to the living room, “The only thing I keep in my bag are cigarettes, anyways. I can bum a few.”
“Billy,” You scold, “Where do your papers go?”
“In the trash.”
“Nice,” You scoff, wincing as you step outside and the harsh sunlight hits your eyes. You fumble with your house keys, slipping them into the lock to close up the house, “I’m gonna buy you a binder. And you’re gonna put your school stuff in it, nice and neat, and you’re gonna carry a pencil, and you’re gonna bring water, and you’re gonna-”
“And you’re gonna fall,” He yanks on your hand, pulling you tight to his side as he points at a rock you’d been headed for, “Pay attention, clumsy.”
“Oh.” You flounder, his toned arm against your cheek as you struggle to right yourself, “Thanks.”
“Anytime,” He flashes you a grin you’ve seen before, primarily aimed at his basketball teammates or a girl he’s chatting up. It’s confident, shit-eating, and it sends a wave of butterflies through your stomach.
The walk to his house isn’t terribly long. It’s a trek, for sure, but you’re there in under a half-hour, laughing all the while. Billy’s hand is still firmly gripping yours, and he’s funny, you remember, when he’s not crying.
“Dad’s not home,” He clocks the car missing from the driveway, “I can get mine and go.”
“Get your bag,” You order, face stern and brows scrunched, “And don’t throw away any of your school papers today!”
“No promises, babe,” He teases, his own key in his pocket as he jams it into the door. You’re thankful that he turns away to step inside so that he doesn’t see your eyes widen at the nickname, but you hope your hand doesn’t begin to sweat, or he’ll notice.
“Maxine?” He calls, shouting through the house. There’s no reply, and her sneakers aren’t by the front door, so you presume she’s not home.
“Probably skated,” Billy shrugs, “My bag’s in my room.”
He doesn’t have to drag you there, you know the way. You send a withering glare towards the room at the end of the hall, where you know Billy’s dad sleeps, as if it’ll cast a curse over the doorway and land him seven years of bad luck. You see the fireplace poker on your way, set neatly back in its place. There’s blood on it.
He changes quick, and you occupy yourself with the collection of tapes by his closet. He’d yanked your shirt right off of his head like you weren’t standing there, but when you’d turned with burning cheeks to give him some privacy, he hadn’t said anything.
Billy’s persistence on holding your hand is sweet, but surprising. The last thing you’d have expected from him was a clingy puppy-boy, but his head turns to track you whenever your hand nearly slips out of his own, and he wrestles with his bag one-handed instead of dropping the embrace. You’re just glad he’s finally holding onto something good in his life instead of pushing it away.
You think it’s a massive inconvenience that he can’t drive while holding your hand. He tries, at first, resting them on the center console, but when he changes lanes and almost overshoots it, you pry your hand out of his own.
“Two hands,” You laugh bashfully, “It’s okay, we- uh, later… later we can…”
“Later,” He turns his head to grin at you, a brilliant display as he slaps his now-free hand onto the wheel,  “Later’s good.”
Unfortunately, later gets pushed back a lot. When Billy pulls into the parking lot, the bell rings. He knows you’re going to be late for your quiz, so he doesn’t try to keep you, smiling softly, “Just go. See you in bio.”
Then between classes, you catch a glimpse of him in the hall. Your stomach starts acting up again, butterflies coming in droves, mind reeling with the thought of him grabbing your hand in public. He almost does, eyes widening as he catches sight of you, broad shoulders muscling everyone out of the way. But before he can reach you, a similarly-toned man steps up beside him, a basketball jersey slung over his frame.
He talks, and talks, and talks and talks and talks, all waving arms and loud jeering. Billy tries holding your gaze over his shoulder, nodding mindlessly along to whatever the boy is saying, but the warning bell rings and you send him a soft, defeated smile.
‘Later,’ You mouth, and his eyes dim when he nods.
Your efforts are futile at lunch, too. He has the class period before with a few of his friends, loud and brash, not your style. It means that you occupy your normal seat, a corner of a bench that the group to your left isn’t using, and tug out a book to entertain yourself. You feel his gaze burning against the side of your head, but if you get caught staring at him, his friends will turn it into some wild story about how you’re infatuated with him, and you’re not the type of person that makes that observation a compliment, at least, not to Billy’s friends. You almost hope he stops looking at you, too, because if they catch him staring, you don’t know how they’ll torment you.
It almost kills him to wait until you’re seated together in biology to reach for your hand. You’d never seen him arrive to class earlier than today, he’s even there before you are. He doesn’t bother to hide his staring, icy eyes tracking you from the second you walk through the door to the second you sit beside him.
You’re thankful that you’re officially seated together now, and you’re thinking that maybe you don’t hate group projects as much as you thought you did.
“Hey,” He murmurs, sliding his hand across the back of yours under the desk.
“Hey,” You hum, flipping your hand over to meet his palm-to-palm.
Everything seems right with the world again.
There’s a certain security you get from Billy’s touch, even if he probably gets more from yours. Having someone to hold grounds you, and you hope it does the same for him. It’s strange, feeling such a strong connection to someone you’d only started talking to days before, but you suppose that’s what happens when you remove all of the formalities of friendship. Your first sleepover just happened to be in an effort to keep him alive, not to eat junk food and watch movies.
You try to pay attention to the teacher, you really do. But she’s nowhere near as interesting as the soft scratching of Billy’s pencil on your paper, and you can’t help but watch as he writes.
You need a ride home?
You reach for your own pencil, scrawling your answer and sliding the paper to him in response
I can take the bus. You should take Max, she skated this morning.
He nearly breaks his pencil writing: She’s got tutoring after school today, she skates home anyways.
Okay, You decide, and you see him smile out of the corner of his eye as you write the word, Thanks, Billy.
He squeezes your hand, and he doesn’t need to write ‘You’re welcome’ for you to know it’s what he’s saying.
Biology typically drones on. You try to stay on top of your schoolwork, of course, but that doesn’t mean you enjoy it. The class is suddenly a lot less dreary with Billy beside you, and it becomes a game of stifling giggles. He steps on the toe of your shoe beneath the table, you tug at one of his curls. He crowds your space with his shoulder and nudges you to the edge of your seat, you let go of his hand to pinch at his thigh. He has to stifle a groan at that one, and to do so he thumps his head forwards on his desk, using the cool plastic against his forehead to quell his rugged laughter.
The thunk of his head against the desk alerts your teacher, and you sit up straight, eyes on your paper that’s covered in doodles as you try not to laugh. She scoffs, seeing Billy slumped over the desk, and probably assumes he’s fallen asleep. When she turns away, you elbow him, dipping your head down to where his rests on the desk to whisper in his ear.
“Cut it out,” You hiss, kicking his foot beneath the desk, “She almost saw!”
“Oh no,” He gushes, turning his head so that a sliver of his face shows, glinting with a shit-eating grin, “Do you think we’ll get in trouble?”
“It’s not funny!” You insist, keeping your voice as hushed as possible, “I’ve never been in trouble before, and if I get sent to the principal’s office, I’ll-”
“Y/L/N! Hargrove!” You stiffen at the voice of your teacher, your eyes widening where Billy’s only sparkle with excitement, “You two seem distracted. Anything on your minds?”
“Not mitosis.” Billy quips, straightening up from the desk and leaning back in his chair. He earns a few laughs from his scattered friends, and the teacher’s face hardens. Your stomach drops.
“You think you’re funny? You’re one missed homework assignment from failing this class. And now you’re dragging Y/N into this, too? Both of you, head to the front office. This ends here.”
There are tears burning at your eyes. You’re not the best student in the world. Hell, you’re not even in the top ten. But you’re not a bad one either, at best you slip through the cracks. You’ve never had disciplinary action taken against you, and gathering your things amongst the tense silence of your peers feels like a death sentence. 
Billy barely remembers to get his own bag, and he pointedly leaves his papers scattered over his desk. You scoop them up in your own handful, and he waits diligently by your side as you pick up your things. When you’re finally packed up he snatches your hand from where it’s hanging at your side, marching the both of you to the door.
He offers the teacher a very quaint, very polite middle finger as he drags you out of the door, and that’s what does it. The second the door shuts behind you, you burst into tears.
He looks up, alarmed at the sob you let out. The classroom you’d just exited has a row of windows that your back is facing, and he’s worried that if you turn slightly, your classmates will see you cry. As much as you’d told him it was okay to cry this morning, he’s sure you wouldn’t want your peers witnessing the meltdown you’re having. He acts fast, using your intertwined hands and yanking you into the nearest bathroom.
Your sobs echo off of the tile, and he pulls you haphazardly into his chest. Your head rests there pitifully, shoulders slumped as you cry.
“Jesus, okay,” He pants, peering under the few stalls in the back to make sure you’re alone, “What’s wrong?”
“I- I don’t know!” You do know, but it feels embarrassing to say it out loud, “I just- I’ve never been in trouble before, and it’s going on my-” You break to quell another sob, tamping it down in your chest, “Permanent record, and-!”
“Okay, calm down.” Billy scoffs, and you’re surprised to find that it’s not a derogatory one, but a fond one, “It’s fine. All we were doing was talking, it’s not like we were smoking weed in the bathroom.”
Your head shoots up and you recognize your surroundings. You glare at him suspiciously, “You don’t have any weed on you, right?”
“No!” He laughs incredulously, “I do not have any weed on me. Now,” He takes your shoulders in his broad hands, and your fingers go cold now that his aren’t intertwined with them anymore.
“You and I are gonna calm down,” He tells you, voice slow and steady. You’re the only one that needs to calm down, but you appreciate his cooperation.
“Then we’re gonna leave this bathroom, and do you know where we’re gonna go?”
“The front office,” You recite, but he breaks into a grin, shaking his head so that his curls fly.
“But that’s where she told us-”
“She can suck my dick.” Billy scoffs, “She made you cry. Forget her.”
“Billy, I can’t just forget her,” You insist, eyes wide and teary, “She’s our teacher!”
“Today’s Friday,” He reminds you, “She’s not our teacher again until Monday.”
“Fine. Where are we really going?” You look at him skeptically, raising your hand to wipe your nose against its back.
“Okay, first, ew.” Billy wrinkles his nose, yanking your hand away from your face and wiping it with a paper towel that he jerks out of the machine. He wipes your nose next, but he does it aggressively, smearing the paper towel against your face and pushing your head back until you’re laughing, trying to swat him away. The sound makes him smile, and it doesn’t fade as he continues talking.
“We’re gonna go see a movie,” He decides, hiking the strap of his bag higher up on his shoulder. Your face darkens slightly, goofy grin dimming.
“We can’t.” You protest softly, “She told us to go to the front office. You said it yourself, Billy, we were just talking. But if we ditch, we’ll be in more trouble, real trouble.”
“I’m always in trouble,” He huffs, “And you’re never in trouble. You really think this’ll be a breaking point for either of us?”
“What’s gonna happen when we don’t show up to the office?”
“They’ll give us detention.”
“We have to go, then!” Your eyes go wide, and you start for the door. He lunges for your hand, grabbing it just before you can push your way out, and this time he doesn’t drop it when he pulls you back inside.
“Detention means we’ll get to sit together for two hours and mess around.”
“No we can’t,” You scoff, “They monitor you. So we can’t just mess around.”
“Hey.” He snaps, begging your attention with those icy blue eyes of his, “Have you ever been in detention before?”
“No.” You admit quietly.
“Right. I have. They don’t care. They don’t want to be there, and they know we don’t either. They’re not gonna punish us any further, ‘cause then they’d just have to sit there with us for longer. Trust me, this will be fun.”
“Fun,” You groan, slumping forwards into his chest rather than covering your face with your hands. It’s a bold move, but a well-received one, and you feel his firm chest shake as he chuckles.
“Yes, fun.” He promises, “But if you really wanna walk up to that office and get lectured…”
“Billy,” You bite the inside of your cheek, lifting your head up so that your chin rests against his chest, “I.. I do. I’m sorry, I know you want to have fun, and- and you can go to the movies if you want! But I don’t want detention on my record. Even if it won’t do anything, I just- it sounds bad.”
“Okay.” He says, after a moment of tense silence. His grin fades, but he doesn’t scoff or push you away. He sighs dramatically, “You’re changing me, y’know. Normally I’d be halfway home by now, but you’ve got me hauling myself in to see the principal, this is bullshit.”
“I told you you could go to the movies!” You gush, laughing weakly at his dramatic display. He brings one of his large hands up to your face, smearing his rough thumb beneath your eyes and wiping away the sticky tear tracks there.
“No,” He sighs again, huffing and puffing, “I’m the one that got you in trouble, I’m not gonna ditch you. We’ll just suffer together.”
His words strike something in you. He’s chosen to change himself, to face consequences for his actions when he’d normally flee. You’re proud of him, so insanely proud that you decide to change yourself as well, and when he leads you towards the office by your intertwined hands, you turn sharply and drag him the other way.
“Wha- Woah.” His eyes widen as you yank him down the hallway, your feet slapping against the shitty linoleum flooring. You beeline for the door, bursting into the daylight with your adrenaline-pumped chest heaving. You come to a stop just outside the building, looking back at him with a thrill glowing in your eyes.
“What movie are we seeing?” You pant, and his grin reappears.
“You’re trouble.” He declares in a laugh, “Let’s go.”
Billy drives fast. This time it doesn’t seem like recklessness, though, but fun. The windows are rolled down, and wind whips through the car and ruffles your hair. His own blonde curls are flying, in his face and over his shoulders against the seat.
“Slow down!” You shriek, laughing through your words, “We’re gonna crash!”
“What are we gonna crash into,” He gestures to the empty road in front of you, all farmland and dust as the same laughter bleeds into his own voice, “A haybale? You want me to slow down so you can admire the scenery?”
There is no scenery. There’s fields, half-dead grass rolling on for miles and miles and passing by so fast that it looks like the sand on a beach. The sky is your ocean, blue and foamy white where clouds streak across it. You pass isolated barns, groves of trees, and-
“Cows!”
“What?”
“Cows! There’s cows up there,” You gush, pointing aggressively at the pasture, “Stop!”
“I can’t-! Uh, okay,” Billy rushes to step on the brakes, wheels screeching against the poorly-paved asphalt as he skids to a stop.
You’re surprised he doesn’t burn through his tires with how fast he stops. You’re out of the car before he can even turn to look at you, seatbelt long unbuckled in favor of dashing for the cows. They’re grazing aimlessly in their pasture, only a weak white fence standing between you and them.
“Hey- Hey!” Billy shouts, rushing to get himself out of the car. He’s panting slightly when he finally stands beside you, regarding you with an indignant look, “What the fuck was that about?”
“Cows,” You croon, sticking your hands over the fence and reaching for the animals, “Come pet the cows with me, Billy!”
One of them seems very interested in any potential snacks your hand might be hiding. Its large, wet nose bumps against your skin and you laugh, long and loud and free, letting the animal explore your scent and petting along its face when it finally realizes you have nothing yummy to offer it.
There’s damp bits of grass stuck to your arm from where its mouth nuzzles against you,, and its tongue is purple when it comes out to swipe along your skin. You shriek, the sound morphing into an elated giggle.
“Oh,” Billy’s nose wrinkles and he takes a step back, “Gross.”
“It’s not gross!” You insist, pulling your arm away to wipe the grass on your jeans, “That’s just what cows do. You’ve never pulled over to pet some?”
“No,” He scoffs, “That’s the most ‘country’ shit I’ve ever heard.”
“Yeah,” You nod gleefully, and he thinks maybe you’ve misinterpreted the scathing tone of his voice, “Come on, Billy, come pet the cows!”
“No thanks,” He shakes his head, “I’m gonna go smoke in the car. Jus’ come back when you’re done.”
You let him head back to the car only for long enough to get a few more scratches in under the chin of a cow to your right. Then you beeline for the passenger’s side, and Billy looks surprised at your arrival.
“Done?”
“No,” You shake your head, reaching for your backpack, “I’m just getting my strawberries.”
“Uh,” Billy watches, apprehensive as you pull a plastic bag of the fruit from your backpack, “You’re not gonna feed those to the cows, are you?”
“Duh,” You nod, pulling the bag open and nearly ripping the seam, “Cows love strawberries, I feed ‘em all the time.”
“You what?” Billy looks at you like you’ve told him you’re made of the red fruit you’re holding, “You’re gonna stick your fingers next to those animal’s faces with food in your hands and you don’t think they’re gonna bite you?”
“No, Billy, cows don’t bite! Not like that,” You insist, hair flying as you shake your head. “I’m not gonna put my fingers in their faces, I’m gonna hold the strawberries on my palm. Then they can’t bite me. Come on, I’ll show you!”
“I’m not feeding cows,” Billy insists, but he moves to get out of the car anyway. When he’s standing at full height he rips the cigarette out from between his lips, blowing smoke into the road, “But I’m not gonna let you run off on your own and get mauled by some hunk of beef.”
“You’re totally gonna feed the cows,” You grin, eyes narrowed at him as you turn on your heel and head back to the fence, “You’ll see!”
You’re already jamming your hand under a cow’s mouth, a strawberry staining your palm red and sticky, when Billy saunters up to the fence. He watches warily as you let the cow nose at your fingers, then it sticks its tongue out to sweep the fruit off of your skin.
You giggle at the ticklish feeling, but Billy’s mouth falls open in horror.
“Oh,” He groans, nose scrunched and grimace strong, “That’s so fucking gross. Its tongue is purple.”
“It’s cool!” You insist, offering the cow a hearty rub between the ears as it munches on your strawberry, hand slimy with spit, “Is there much farmland in California?”
“A bit,” Billy shrugs, blissfully unaware of the curious cow sneaking up behind him as he’s turned towards you, leaning sideways on the fence. “It’s kind of a mix. We didn’t live anywhere near farmland, but sometimes we went to visit Susan’s-!”
Before he can tell you what random relative lived far out in the California farmlands, there’s a cow tongue in his ear.
He jolts away from the fence with a squawk, nearly toppling over as one hand comes up to cover his ear. You’re roaring with laughter even as you help steady him, one hand on his shoulder and the other on his waist while he stumbles to a stop a few feet away from the fence.
“He was looking for strawberries,” You giggle, pulling your sleeve over your hand to wipe cow spit off of his cheek, “I think that was your official welcome to Indiana, Billy.”
“Laugh all you want,” He groans, smearing his own hand over his face to rid his skin of any residual slime you’d missed, “But if we ever make it to an ocean and you wipe out, I’m laughing at you.”
“Deal,” You grin sideways at him, another strawberry in hand.
Of course, Billy does end up feeding the cows. It takes another round of hand-holding, though, where you place the strawberry in his palm and flatten yours beneath it. 
“Just be patient,” You murmur, feeling Billy’s hand tense as the cow noses at his fingers, “He just wants to say hi.”
“We’ve been acquainted,” Billy drawls, grimacing once more as the cow licks the strawberry off of his palm, “He tried eating the thoughts out of my head.”
“What thoughts?” You tease, but before you can gauge the situation and figure out whether you need to start running or not, Billy flips his hand over his shoulder to where you’re standing pressed to his back, and smears his sticky palm across your face.
“Oh,” You gasp, eyes squeezed shut and nose scrunched. You stagger backwards, nearly colliding with his car,  “Gross!”
“Oh, really?” Billy roars with laughter, grabbing you around the waist and leaning his chin over your shoulder as he presses your back to his chest, “I thought it was an Indiana welcome! I thought it was cool!”
“Not when you do it!” You can’t help but laugh, trying desperately to hold the cracked pieces of your disgusted facade together, “You’re not as cute as a cow!”
You’re lying, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“And to think,” He scoffs, loosening his hold on you but not letting go completely, “I was gonna buy your movie ticket for you.”
You’d almost forgotten your movie adventure. You’d been so wrapped up in having fun with Billy, soaring down the streets with music blaring from the speakers that you’d completely ignored the way he’d driven miles away from any nearby movie theater.
“Hey, yeah,” You stiffen in his grip, turning your head to knock your forehead with his. You try not to pay attention to how close you two are, keeping your focus on his stunning blue eyes, “Why are we out here? The theater’s back that way.” You jerk your thumb behind you in the direction you’d came, and his face settles into a smirk once more.
“We’re not going to that shitty theater,” He boasts, “We’re going to a drive-in. It’s a few miles into the next town over.”
It makes sense, you suppose. He has a cool car, and what better place to show it off?
“I’ve never been to a drive-in,” You gush, excitement brewing in your belly, “What are the showtimes?”
“Dunno.” He shrugs, finally letting you go to saunter back to his car and lower himself into the driver’s seat. You follow to the passenger’s side, tucking the empty plastic bag back in your backpack.
“We’ll catch something.” He reasons, hands finally back on the wheel as you shut your door and buckle your seatbelt, “People around here have nothing better to do, I bet there’s movies playing every hour.”
He gets started on the road once more, and you decide to let him drive uninterrupted. Although it hurts you to watch unpet cows whizz by the windows, you know you’ll be back too late if you keep stopping. When his tires crunch against gravel, then smooth over dirt, the unlit neon sign of the drive-in looms overhead. He leans out of the window at the counter, ordering a large popcorn and two sodas along with your tickets in that rough drawl of his.
He’s a bit rough when he stops on the asphalt, but that’s just how he drives. He’s used to driving recklessly, it’s not a habit easily broken. You hope you can help him live better, sending him a soft, sweet smile as he passes you your soda.
“This view good?” He glances over at you, hand already buried in the popcorn.
You nod emphatically, “Mhm! What movie?”
“No clue,” He lets out a huff of a laugh, “Does it really matter?”
“No,” You shrug, “‘Guess not.”
“It’s almost five,” Billy glances at his watch, “Are your parents gonna freak if you’re not home by dark?”
“They’re having dinner with friends tonight,” You recall relievedly, “They’ll probably be out way later than us. And they’ll just leave dinner in the fridge, they won’t know I’m gone.”
“Nice,” Billy nods, absentmindedly gnawing on a solid popcorn kernel, “My dad never goes out with friends. He doesn’t really have any, I don’t think. Susan does, work friends, but she’s probably not eager to show off her husband.”
He speaks about his dad with a bitter tone in his voice, words coming out brittle like they’ll snap if he tries putting any feeling into them. You hum in understanding; if your husband was like Neil Hargrove, you wouldn’t bring him around your friends either.
“You have friends,” You hum, “Don’t you ever eat out with them?”
“Uh,” He turns his head to stare expectantly at you, “Hello? Remember how I drove you a town over to see a movie, and I let you stop us halfway to stage a petting zoo?”
“I don’t mean me,” You gush, “Like, your other friends! The guys on the basketball team, or whoever you usually hang out with. That little crowd. You don’t go out with them?”
“Not really,” Billy shrugs, “They’re not my friends. Not like- um,” He drops his gaze to his lap, picking at the bucket of popcorn, “Not like you are.”
“Oh.” Is all you can manage, then you wet your throat to speak again, “They seem… no offense, shallow. Like- like they only talk about superficial stuff together. I’ve heard some of your conversations, I think.”
“Oh, so you’re updated on the riveting world of Hawkins High’s popularity pageant?” He scoffs, reaching for a cigarette, “Shit’s so stupid.”
“You say that from the top of the food chain,” You point out tentatively, “You don’t like it there?”
“It’s better than nothing.” He slows his attempts to self-medicate, hand frozen where he’s striking his lighter, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I’m not getting pushed into lockers. But, it’s like-” His fingers tighten slightly around the cig, jaw tight, “I got there because of what I have, not who I am. And not even that, I got there because of what it looks like I have. They think I’m some kind of rich kid ‘cause I have a nice car, but we’re lucky we don’t live in the trailer park. They think I’m mowing my way through the cheerleading team because they’ve seen us talking before. Sure, maybe I’ve flirted with a few, but-” His face darkens in frustration, nose scrunching slightly, “On the weekends, my dad makes me do shit around the house. And on the weekdays, I’m looking after my sister.” 
You don’t point out his slip-up, how in a fit of passion he’s dropped the ‘step-’. It’s nice to hear.
“I have no time to sleep around,” He chuckles darkly, disdainfully, “Not often. But because people like me, or- or like what they think of me, they just assume I’m selling myself out for it.”
“It’s bullshit,” He concludes, huffily so, “It’s all bullshit. And it’s not gonna last past high school.”
A tense silence falls over the car after he’s finished speaking. You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised anymore, not after two days of emotional curveballs from the man, but you think it might be the most you’ve ever heard him speak.
He looks nervous, fiddling with the keys in his ignition. Before he can regret opening up, you reach out to take his hand, pulling it away from the keys and linking yours into it on his thigh.
“I’m glad I’m your friend, Billy.” You confess, equal parts honest and tender. You want the words to soak into his veins, flow through his bloodstream and bloom sweet blossoms inside that light up his dark world.
“Me too,” He breathes, eyes glued to your intertwined hands as he tightens his fingers into the grip. As if on cue, the movie screen lights up, and it’s just barely dark enough outside to see the film.
“Here we go,” You settle in your seat, keeping your hand securely in his own, “Popcorn?”
Billy uses his free hand to pass the bucket over, and you can feel the heat concealed by the thick paper bucket hovering just above your hands. You munch on the buttery snack, a kernel already lodged in your teeth.
To Billy’s slight disinterest, it’s an old romance movie. He should have known, all that ever plays at these movie marathon nights are romances and beach flicks. He has a fleeting thought that he’d rather be watching women in bikinis, but it seems like something he shouldn’t think while holding your hand, so he pushes it away and tries to focus on the grainy, black-and-white footage. 
The transatlantic accents and over-dressed main characters only hold his attention for a few minutes. But he’s family to Neil Hargrove, and he knows how to tune out a boring speech. He focuses more on the warmth that your hand pushes against his, sweet and soft and soothing like the blanket he used to get tucked in under at his grandma’s house. His grandma who knitted that blanket herself, just for him, and who slipped him strawberry sweets anytime his dad got too drunk to notice. And the way you hold his hand feels just like his mother used to, with her thumb stacked on his so that she could stroke it like you’re doing now. He’s only held his dad’s hand a few times, and he’s not able to remember much. He just remembers his mom had always dropped Neil’s hand in a big dramatic fashion, claiming that it was like holding a dead fish.
There’s nothing morbid about holding your hand, though. You’re not stiff and cold like his father, your fingers curve around his and mold to his skin. You not only reciprocate, you initiate, squeezing at a funny line or brushing over the back of his hand.
You’re all the best parts of the people he’s loved, and none of the bad parts of the ones he couldn’t. If he was any sleazier, he’d ask if it hurt when you fell from heaven.
You let out a particularly sweet laugh at a scene and the sound takes him back to only a few nights ago, sitting on his bed and feeling safe. He’d actually forgotten about his father until the man had stormed his bedroom, and he marvels at how you’d managed to suck the terrible thoughts from his head. 
Your study session puts mitosis in his mind. Then biology, and he wonders if there’s ever been two organisms more compatible with each other. Personally, he thinks your biology is pretty basic: you were made for him, and he was made for you. 
He’s broken out of his scientific reverie when your head falls to his shoulder. You throw a quick glance up at him through your lashes, silently begging for permission for something you’ve already done. His heart thuds in his chest as he watches you with curious eyes, and a slow nod of his head is all you need to settle against his side. You’re at an awkward angle, side arched over the center console to get your head to his shoulder. That makes it better, Billy thinks, that you had to work for it. It means you really mean it, that you’re not just doing it because it’s convenient. You’re loving him because you want to.
“Shitty movie,” Billy grumbles, his voice hoarse from its prolonged silence.
“Good popcorn,” You hum, reaching for another piece. Billy leans down to snatch it out of your hand with his teeth, and chews it with a growing grin as you chuckle. 
“You’re a monster,” You tease, and a word that his brain usually whispers at him past midnight, loathing in his thoughts and venom in his veins, becomes nothing more than a nickname.
He thinks he wants to be your monster if it makes you laugh like that, all teasing teeth and careful manhandling.
You’re almost afraid you’ve insulted him with the title until he leans his head against yours, neck bent at an angle. His ear is pressed to the crown of your head, and just in case he can hear your thoughts, you think extra hard: I love you.
You last longer than Billy had, but you lose interest in the film, too. It’s not that it’s boring, it’s just not particularly interesting, and your brain is moving too slow for you to concentrate on careful dialogue. Apparently, the excitement of the day has caught up with you. Your eyes are starting to droop, and you think Billy might be able to feel your lashes flutter against his bicep. If he can, he doesn’t say anything, he just stays curled around you in his seat.
Slowly, second by second, minute by minute, you fall asleep. You drift away from the world and all that remains is Billy’s arm against your cheek, his hand holding yours. You don’t know if you’re fully sleeping or not, all you know is that Billy is the one constant between your life and your dreams.
Billy feels your breathing even out, the soft puffs of air that hit his arm soft and consistent. It’s the last thing he wants to do, but he lifts his head to peer at your face, seeing that you are, in fact, asleep.
He has the strongest urge in the world to kiss your forehead. He doesn’t, half because he’s scared you’ll wake up and think he’s a creep, and half because he’s not sure he’s capable of loving back. He’s taking it slow, and he’ll stick with leaning his head on you. 
He does that until the movie’s almost over, and the romantic climax is shining on the screen.
The woman has fallen asleep on the man’s shoulder. They’re not in a car, they’re on a park bench, but her nose is nudged up against his bicep, too, and their hands are intertwined.
The man reaches up to her cheek, and so does Billy.
His hand is warm and slightly rough against the soft skin of your cheek, but it’s his warm breath against your face that wakes you. Your lashes flutter open, and the only thing you can see are Billy’s pretty blue eyes. You’re almost startled, almost caught off-guard, and then you notice the dark flecks of insecurity in them, ridged between peaks of blue like ocean waves. 
He can’t speak. He’s paralyzed, eyes unblinking against your own, unable to ask, to tell, to beg. All he can do is stare, and hope that his hand isn’t shaking against your cheek.
He licks his lips, and you know what he’s trying to muster up the courage to do.
“Billy,” You breathe, soft and careful, “Are you sure?”
He manages to hum questioningly, but it’s a choked sound from somewhere deep in his throat.
“You’re speeding again,” You let out a breathy chuckle, but you raise your hand to hold his to your face, “Is this because you want me or because you think you’ll never get the chance to have me again?”
“I want you,” Billy murmurs, and the man on screen echoes his sentiments.
The woman on screen leans in, and so do you.
The kiss you share is unlike anything Billy’s ever felt. What he’s used to is prodding tongues, nipping teeth, below-the-belt grabbing, but this is new. This is the soft, dewy sweetness of lips barely touching, and the watermelon balm spread over your mouth. It’s tender in the way that you hold his hand to your cheek, and only made more so by the fact that you’re still holding hands between the seats. It’s less of an active kiss and more of an embrace, lips holding each other in place and noses bumping.
Billy’s never felt safer letting his eyes drift shut. At night there’s always the possibility that his dad will unlock the door in the middle of the night and take out insomnia-fueled rage on him. In his car he’ll get arrested for loitering. Now there’s nothing but you, and that’s all he ever wants there to be.
There’s muted claps from the other cars around you as the movie ends, and you choose to attribute the closing scene of fireworks to your kiss and not the leads’. When you draw away it’s with soft, content sighs, awestruck and breathless.
“I want you too, Billy.” You vow, more than happy to let him know he’s loved, “I’m glad we didn’t go to the front office.”
“Me too,” Billy breathes, leaning in to brush his lips against yours one last time, just holding them there as his fluttering eyes stare into yours.
The sound of revving engines breaks you out of your trance, and Billy pulls away from your face to look over your head. He’s still got his hand on your cheek, and you’re cradled to his chest as he watches everyone around you disperse.
“Let’s head home,” You murmur into his collarbones, kissing the skin there chastely, “You can stay the night at my house again, if you want.”
“I should get home,” He admits reluctantly, “My dad is probably still freaked about last night.”
“I wish you didn’t have to go back,” You hum, tracing the outline of a bandage through his shirt against his stomach.
“Me too,” He sighs, and finally lets your face go when the overhead lights to the lot flick on, “But we’ll get out soon.”
“Oh? Where are we going?” You settle back in your seat, turning to face him with curious eyes.
“California,” He smiles, and his genuine one is a breathtaking sight, “And anywhere you want to stop along the way.”
“That sounds perfect,” You sigh happily, head leaning comfortably back against the headrest. A yawn breaks through your lips and scrunches up your face, and Billy has to fight himself so that he doesn’t pull over and kiss the lines near your mouth.
The silence in his car is peaceful now, serene. There’s nothing left unsaid anymore, nothing hidden in your eyes and nothing withheld in your touches. You drift off to sleep wishing you were still holding Billy’s hand, and when you wake up, you are.
“Hey,” He whispers, squeezing your hand where his is interlocked with it, “Hey, wake up. You’re home now, we’ve gotta get you inside.”
“Hm? Oh,” You hum, bleary eyes taking in the outline of your house against the harsh beams of Billy’s headlights. “Thanks, Billy.”
“Uh-huh,” He nods, offering you a hand after you undo your seatbelt, “C’mon, if you can stand, I’ll carry you up to bed.”
You;re more than happy to let him sweep you off of your feet. He can feel your smile as you bury it in his neck, and he doesn’t even worry about shutting his car off and locking it before he pushes open your front door. Sure enough there’s tinfoil covered dinner on the counter alongside a note from your parents, and Billy marvels at how well they take care of you even when they’re not home. 
“To the right,” You instruct him, realizing he’s only ever gotten into your room from the window outside, “And it’s the second door down.”
“Got it,” He murmurs, chin bumping your cheek.
Your bed is still unmade from that morning, and he yearns to slip beneath the covers again. He’s jealous when he tucks you in, and you’re glad you wore comfy clothing to school so that you can burrow under your blankets and not worry about changing.
“Goodnight,” Billy leans down, an inch away from your face, “Can I…?”
You lean up to do it for him, pushing your lips against his once more.
He melts into it, and the way that your nails scratch the hair at the base of his scalp only makes it worse.
“Goodnight,” You mumble, words wonky and misspoken against his lips, “I had fun today, Billy. I’m glad we’re friends, and I’m glad we’re more.”
“Me too,” He agrees, and the sentiments he’s agreeing to feel foreign to him. Five days ago he’d have been the least likely person on earth to have a friend, and now he’s got a partner to boot. In every sense of the word, he loves you, even if he won’t say those three words yet.
“Please be safe,” You cup his cheek, stroking over his slightly bruised cheekbone with tenderness he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to, “And if he hurts you again, stay with me instead.”
“I will,” Billy promises, dotting a dewy kiss to the side of your mouth as you settle into sleep, content with his safety.
He tells himself he’s just puttering around, throwing a stray sock into the laundry hamper and straightening a book he’d nearly knocked off of your nightstand on the way in. But really he’s waiting to make sure you’re really asleep, ring already slipped off of his finger and growing sweaty in his palm.
Once he’s sure you won’t wake, he peels back the covers on your bed, taking your hand in his. It’s got a familiar weight to it, a fact that he mentally celebrates, and his fingers shake as he slides the metal band onto your finger.
Having a ring to chuck in the garbage is gonna hurt a whole lot more when they leave, he reminds himself. Then, ‘If’.
“If they leave.” Your soft voice rings in his ears, and as he treks back to his car, revving the engine in the silvery light of the moon, there’s a feeling he’s never felt before rising in his chest. Hope: “Some people stay.”
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reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! your feedback motivates me to write more, so thank you for your support :-)
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sweet-honey-tears · 1 year
Text
↠ Their Hair ↞
Plot: What happens when you touch their hair? How do they react?
Characters: Kirishima, Denki, Bakugou, Mina, Shinso, Todoroki X GENDER NEUTRAL READER
Setting: Pretty much final year of UA.
Thank you all so much for your support. I don’t think y’all understand how much your comments or hashtags make my day. Not joking when I say they give me motivation- I hope you like this!🤍 Also this is my first time writing for Mina, so I hope you like it! 🤍🌸
🪨 Kirishima 🪨
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Kirishima never really let anyone touch his hair. He’s the one who spikes it or puts a bandana in it- which in itself doesn’t allow people to touch it. It’s not like he’s protective of his hair, it was just how it happened. Kirishima was also responsible for dying his hair. He figured it would just be cheaper and easier than going to a salon. A train ticket, payment, and tip were a bit too pricey. Plus it was a time-consuming process already and leaving campus to go to a salon would only add to this. Time was precious when training to be a hero, and Kiri couldn’t seem to fit it into his day. And regrettably, it’s what led him to his current situation, his black roots now almost an inch and a half grown.
“Hey Kiri, you okay? Ya, look a bit distracted.” Your chipper voice brought him out of his thoughts. He was scrolling through his phone looking at different hair dye brands. The last one dried out his hair and quickly faded.
“Huh, oh yeah, just looking at hair dye. Gotta re-do this soon.” He airily laughed. His hand rubbed the back of his head.
“Oh, I can help if you want.”
Kirishima never knew he had a sensitive skull till that day. But when you brushed your fingers through his wet hair, he got sparks going down his spine. He watched you calmly help wash out the remaining red, your finger brushing through the strands. He remembers watching a movie with Eri, where monsters felt a ZING when they found love. He’s pretty sure he just felt that.
“Almost done Kiri!”
“A-alright!”
Kirishimas just closes his eyes and relaxes against the tub at the feeling of your fingers brushing through his hair carefully.
⚡Denki ⚡
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Denki knew he didn’t have a sensitive skull. Bakugou likes to say it's a wonder Denki even has feelings in his head at all. But he does, and sometimes he wishes he didn’t. Like when Eri accidentally ripped a knot from his long hair while brushing it. But that doesn’t stop him from allowing people to play with it. Eri does his and Shinsos hair quite a bit, putting little cat clips in it while quietly talking about her day. All that said, Denki just likes the feeling of your fingers running through his hair, not even touching his skull - just hair. He’s found you mindlessly do it a lot when zoning out with him. So sometimes he'll sit between your legs on the ground. His back is against the couch you sit on and your legs are on either side of him. There are times there just wasn't enough sitting room in the common area. And as always, your fingers mindlessly comb through his golden hair. Brushing out any small knot there.
You look down at him at the feeling of his head shifting. His chin pointed up and his eyes looked into yours. You know that look, heaving a sigh
you lean down to kiss his forehead.
“Tch”
“Right back at you boom boom boy.”
💥 Bakugou 💥
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Bakugou likes the feeling of your nails on the back of his neck. Moving through the short hair that’s there to the soft blonde spikes.
Only you get to touch his hair. No one else. Not one.
But when you koala hug him, he sees starts. You are sitting on his lap as he works on his homework. Your face is in the crook of his neck, your legs off his to the side and barely touching the floor due to how high the chair is. You have one arm around his torso and the other one over his shoulder.
“Kit, are you almost done?”
“Not yet, Teddy, I have one more problem.”
You grumble, the pads of your fingers going to his neck and rubbing the short hair there. Bakugou sighs, his body relaxing. He mindlessly brings his hand up to your back rubbing it up and down. He can feel your body relax, lightly sighing as your fingers pause. Bakugou continues rubbing your back, but after a minute of your stilled movement, he stops.
“Hm Bakugou-“ you grumble angrily.
“What?”
“You're so mean” you groan, your fingers starting again and ‘coincidentally’ his hand starts rubbing your back till you eventually doze off.
💤 Shinso 💤
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Shinso had to cut his hair after it got stuck in his voice changer. His hair also constantly was getting knotted due to his capture weapon. The fabric kept rubbing against the base of his neck, causing knots and mess. How Azawia did it was beyond him. Long hair and a scarf? Annoying.
Shinso was nervous the day he cut it, somewhat worried about what you would say. But he also figured if this was the defining factor in your relationship, then it wasn't worth it. If his necessary haircut caused a ripple in your relationship, then it wasn't as strong as he thought. The thought shook him.
He kept the length and had the sides buzzed, giving him an undercut.
“Shin!” Your voice called, you were always so happy to see him.
“Hey there Kitten” he speaks lowly, opening his arms to welcome your smaller form. He smiles down at you as you look up at him, your arms wrapped around him. And then he watches it click.
“Holy shit.” You say almost airily. And all Shinso can think is ‘Oh fuck.’ “You look so fucking hot.”
Shinso’s cheeks heat up instantly, his ears tinting red as his mouth hangs open a bit at your reaction. Your hands snake up his neck, and he unconsciously shrinks down a bit. A pleasant sigh leaves his lips at the feeling of your fingers on his newly buzzed hair.
“Feel good Shin?” you coo in his ear, your hand sliding to his cheek and resting on his jawline. Your thumb lightly rubbed his cheek.
“You have no idea, Kitten.” He grumbles, leaning down to kiss you.
🌸 Mina 🌸
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Mina generally just loves physical affection. Her form of affection is physical touch. Any form of touch, even if it’s just slightly grazing your fingertips. But it’s always more than that, Mina comes behind you and squeezes you. She jumps on your back someday. She’ll run up to you just for a hug. Grab your hand or arm and lead you anywhere. On calmer days though, she’ll lay in between your legs. Against you, chest to chest. She’ll press her face into your chest or under your chin, and rest her arms around your middle. Mina will put music on, having the both of you share an airpod. Even though you don’t need the AirPods, they make the moment more intimate. Like you’re in your own world.
Your hand rest on the back of Mina's neck. Careful to not tug one of her tight pink curls and cause it to frizz. You know better than to brush through her curly hair, and instead, settle on just smoothing your thumb over the small hair there. Mina just hums, happy at your consideration and for the quiet moment you two share.
🧊 Todoroki 🔥
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Shoto has a bit longer hair in his final years of UA, starting to unintentionally grow it out. Another break away from his childhood. Shoto wasn't used to physical touch until he came to UA, so every little touch is more comfortable than anything. It’s a feeling of safety whenever you run your hands through its hair. Whenever you comb back the longer strands or move them from his eyes as the wind pushes them around. How your fingers delicately touch the strands to ensure you accidentally hit him.
He smiles so softly and will close his eyes as your finger brushes up his bangs, allowing you to kiss his forehead. You have to lower back down from your tippy toes to look back up at him.
“Tell her I say hi Sho.” You smile up at him, your hand in his as you squeeze them. Shoto was going with his siblings to visit his mother.
Shoto stares down at you like he’s holding the world. So much comfort and love packaged in you.
“I will baby” he sighs, his smile still on his lips. Your hands go up to cup his face, your thumbs rubbing his cheek.
“I love you.” you sigh, pulling him down to kiss him goodbye. Knowing today would be emotional for him, and his siblings as well.
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madisonshoneybun · 2 years
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Animagus
Warnings - None (besides bad writing)
Pairing - Newt Scamander x Reader
Summary - Your an animagus. Your looking for food when Newt finds you. You seem hurt so he decides he wants to take care of you. How long will it take before he realizes your actually a witch?
A/N - I am seriously BEGGING for ideas. I’m so bad at coming up with ideas on my own but I want to write so bad. So if you have an idea please let me know. I’m also wanting to write about Theseus cause he is also the best. 
Words - 1907
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My parents always wanted me to be an animagus. I wanted to too. I thought it would be really fun to see what animal or creature I would be. When I was little it was more of a fun dream but the older I got the more my parents pushed. They wanted me to be something powerful. They were rooting for a magical beast but said as a last resort they’d be happy with some sort of strong animal. Like a big cat. It’s almost like they cursed me because I ended up being just that... a cat. A literal fucking house cat. They were furious. They refused to let me out of the house and told me that 
“If you were cursed to be something so weak, then stay that way!”
I was “forced” to live as a cat. I say “forced” because it wasn’t like they told me I had to be a cat to stay, they would just beat me if they ever saw me as who I actually was. So I thought the better of two evils was to just stay as a cat. There was no where I could go. It was fine for a while. They didn’t treat me the best as a cat either but it was better than the beatings. But one day everything changed.
I was out an about in the neighborhood trying to find food. I was rummaging through trash cans trying to just find anything. Even crumbs would be enough. The night before I got the bright idea to try to take a normal shower, seeing as neither of my parents were home. I cleaned myself really well cause I genuinely had no idea when I would be able to do this again but as soon as I walked out of the bathroom, my father was standing there, belt in hand. I’m sure you could guess what happened next. 
Now I was hurt, dirty from the rain, and just so fucking hungry. And I was having no luck with finding any food.
I wonder what I should do?
I continued to look through trash cans, limping along as I went. But still nothing. I finally decided to give up when I heard someone behind me making clicking sounds with their mouth. I turned around, standing my ground. My fur was standing up and I was trying my best to look around and find a way to escape. 
The man before me had brown curly hair and bright green eyes. They felt like home... but I was too scared to trust it. This man thought I was a cat, he had no idea I was actually a witch. And I had no idea if he was a wizard. 
He crotched down and held out a can of tuna. I glanced at him and then at the tuna. He followed my eyes and slowly pushed it towards me. It was in the middle of us and he took a couple steps back to give me room. I didn’t want to put myself in danger but I was just so anger. I made small steps towards the food. 
“It’s alright love, I wont hurt you...” He sounded so genuine that I just had to believe. I took the final step and went to the food, chowing it down as fast as I could. I wanted to eat it and get out of there. 
I was so focused on eating that I hadn’t noticed him inching towards me until I felt his hand on top of my head. I jumped, backing away and hissed loudly. He looked somewhat shocked by my reaction. “I’m sorry!” He moved back a bit more. No one had ever tried to make me feel this safe before. If I was being honest with myself, I’d pretend to be a cat for the rest of my life if it meant I could be loved. And for a second, it seemed like he wanted to help me, so I gave in.
I slowly walked closer to him. Smelling the food as I walked passed it but deciding I wanted to see what he wanted. If he was only here to hurt me I could just turn back into a witch and scare the life out of him. No one would believe him otherwise. Once I got closer he sat down completely and I rubbed against his sleep. “Hello darling. Do you forgive me for earlier?”
I meowed in response and rubbed myself against his back before crawling into his lap. He slowly brought his hand down and began to pet me. It was soothing. But even slightly touch made my cuts and bruises hurt. He noticed me flinching. “Are you hurt?”
I rubbed into him more while he tried to look me over. “Why don’t I get you patched up? You don’t seem to have a collar... are you a stray?” I just kept purring. Since he had no idea I was a living person, he gently picked me up. I thought he was going to take me back to his house but instead he opened up a suit case. For a second, I thought he was going to smother me inside it or something but sitting in his arms looking down I could actually see a whole other world inside his case. He’s a wizard.
He held me close as he went down the ladder. He was so gentle with me, so gentle in fact that I almost felt like I was going to fall asleep. Once inside his case he used his free hand to grab a pillow then laid me down onto of it. His fingers were so light to the touch that I could hardly even feel them while he checked what was wrong.
“Looks like someone didn’t like you going through their trash? They beat you pretty bad but nothing seems to be broken. You have few cuts that I can put some cream on. What am I going to do with you?” He was mostly mumbling to himself as he looked around for the cream he mentioned. Once he found it he made sure to hold me down as the cream began to burn. I hissed and jumped from his grasp, making a break for the only door I could see. He followed straight behind. 
Outside the door were dozens of different creatures. It was like a giant zoo. I didn’t even bother running around, too scared one of them might have an appetite for cats.
“You not a magical creature so I don’t know if you’ll have much fun here.” He said walking towards me. He took my into his arms and pet me like I was his own. 
After that Newt look me to London and let me stay in his home. He told me I wasn’t allowed downstairs because it was dangerous, so I listened. I bet he thought I was just a really obedient cat. I could tell straight away that he knew more about magical creatures rather than boring plain animals. But that wasn’t to say he’d neglect a non-magical creature. It just meant that he didn’t really know much about them which I think helped in not being figured out.
Sometimes Newt would even invite friends over. Two sisters and one of their husbands. I tried my best to stay away from them, especially when Jacob said he thought I acted weird for a cat. But one day his brother came over. 
I was laying on the couch when he arrived, completely unannounced mind you. He just walked in the front door. His eyes instantly locked with mine for a moment causing me to stand up on all four. I hissed and ran to hide under a chair. I could see that he was just standing front of the closed door. I peeked and he was again, looking straight at me. I felt a chill run down my spin. Did he know? Why was he staring at me like that if he didn’t?
Eventually he broke eye contact and made his way to the basement. I felt my heart pounding in my chest. I needed to leave, he knew I wasn’t a real cat. What was Newt going to when he found out some random witch had been living under his roof for almost 3 months? I hadn’t met any witches or wizards in so long that I completely forgot how they might react. Before I could make a break for the door, Newt and his brother were making there way into the room. 
Again, his brother’s eyes met mine. “Newt, why do you have a cat?” 
Newt’s glanced over and me and chuckled. “She was hurt and hungry so I took her in. She’s not good with strangers.”
His brother grabbed Newt by the arm and dragged him into a separate room. 
fuck, fuck fuck!
I was too scared to move a muscle. Maybe if I just played dumb Newt wouldn’t believe him. I jumped once the two brothers came back into the room. They rushed in like the place was on fire. The oldest holding his wand towards where I was and the youngest slowly making his way over to me, not a wand in sight.
“Come out please. I just want to check something.”
I began to growl and hiss the closer he got. I’m gonna fucking die. This is the end. “Newt stay back.” He didn’t listen.
“She’s harmless and if she’s what you think she it, I’m sure we could just talk it out. Right?”
He was on all fours, bent down, looking under the chair and directly into my eyes. The gentleness I’d always seen in him was there. And again, it made me trust him.
I crawled out from under the chair, moving towards the couch.
In an instant I was sitting on the couch, fully back to who I really was. Newt hardly reacted, while his brother kept his wand drawn. I felt myself begin to shake as I tried to sink into myself and try to come off as small as possible. “I’m sorry...” I whispered, glancing up to meet Newt’s eyes.
“I had nowhere to do and I was hungry... At first I thought you were going to feed me and leave or patch me up and send me on my way but you were so nice that I couldn’t tell you the truth. I thought about telling you everyday but I didn’t know how...” The oldest put down his wand and made his way into the kitchen, while Newt sat beside me.
“You could’ve told me. I could’ve help you.” I nodded my head, feeling guilty.
“Your a good man...” He chuckled a bit. “I should’ve known. It always felt like you were really listening to what I was saying. And you always did what you were told.” A giggle escaped your lips.
“You are the man of the house after all.”
He put his hand on mine, making me flinch and quickly look up at him. “I’ll help you and you can get back on your feet.” I never thought I would meet someone like him. He was so kind and gentle, so down to earth and honest. It made my heart flutter. I was so happy to have met him but... in a way, I was sad that one day we might part. I hoped, that even after he’s given me all the help me can give, that we can stay friends. He truly saved my life.
- Masterlist -
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Day 02 of @remadoramicrofics - Cat
“Alright,” Remus said as he, Tonks, and Teddy stepped back into the daylight streaming through Diagon Alley, “all that’s left is a magical companion.”
Tonks clapped her hands excitedly. “Perfect, we’ll get you an owl and then take an ice cream break at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour!” 
“Mum, I want a cat,” Teddy said for what felt like the thousandth time.
“We understand, but an owl would, perhaps, be a little more useful,” Remus tried.
“You know your father and I will have an endless supply of letters to send you,” Tonks added.
“I won’t need an owl for that!” Teddy protested, “Dad will be there everyday. Nan said that I could get whatever I wanted.”
“We know,” Remus sighed, “but a cat is a lot of responsibility. Hogwarts will tend for an owl, but you’d be entirely responsible for a cat – on top of being responsible for your studies.” 
“I’m not a little kid any more, I know!” 
Remus wanted to point out that eleven was far from an adult, but decided to bite down on that fact. 
“What if you’re allergic?” Tonks tried.
Teddy folded his arms in front of himself. “I’ll have to get one first to find out.”
In truth, Remus didn’t think a cat would be a terrible amount of responsibility, nor did they have any reason to believe Teddy to be allergic. Rather, Remus Lupin for the first time in eleven years feared that someone he loved would be irreversibly impacted by his disease. When Teddy had first mentioned getting a cat, he and Tonks had discussed it at length. Most of the conversations involved Tonks taking Teddy’s side while Remus worried that his condition would lead to the cat running off or displaying some other behavioral issues.
This fear had then, rapidly, morphed into the fear that his son would hate him for his condition. And of course, the ever-present fear that Teddy would find himself ostracized or ridiculed for his lineage reared its ugly head. Tonks had spent the last week insisting that was ridiculous, but Remus felt the familiar, isolating anxiety clawing at him now, in a busy street with the two people he loved most in the world.
Teddy folded his arms in front of himself, his roots tinging a deep burgundy color. “Why don’t you want me to get a cat?” 
Tonks, bless her heart, tried to come up with an argument that they hadn’t already rehearsed and given him, but Remus just sighed; he never wanted his son to think his parents were liars. “Teddy, I know you want a cat, and you’re right, I’m sure things would go fine at Hogwarts, but the cat will have to live at home, too and…well, pets and werewolves, especially cats and werewolves don’t always mix. I wouldn’t want to –”
“How do you know?” his son asked.
“Well, I…I just – it’s, what do you mean?”
“We’ve never had a cat, Dad, so how do you know all cats don’t like you?”
“It’s like the old adage – cat’s and dogs, you know,” Tonks said as she rested a hand on their son’s shoulder.
“But some cats and dogs get along and Dad isn’t a dog. Harry said that Uncle James’s anigamus form was a stag and those aren’t typically friends with wolves.”
“That was a little different, Teddy.”
“Well, can’t we just see? I mean, maybe we could meet a few cats before you outlaw one entirely.”
Remus nodded. “Alright, and maybe you could ask Nan about letting the cat stay there during holidays.”
Teddy rolled his eyes at Remus and Remus was struck, not for the first time, at just how much like his mother he looked. “I won’t get a cat that doesn’t like you, Dad.”
“Well, it’s good to have options,” Remus said, though he didn’t miss the look his son and wife shared as he led them to the magical menagerie. 
There wasn’t much room inside. Every inch of wall was hidden by cages. Remus, with his heightened smell and hearing, found the place to be quite overwhelming because the occupants of these cages were all squeaking, squawking, jabbering or hissing.
“What about this one?” Teddy said as he pointed to a tabby orange thing flopped onto its back. “I’d name him Gideon.”
“Because Gideon Crumb is a ginger?” Remus ventured.
“I knew you liked the Weird Sisters,” Tonks said enthusiastically.
“Just because I know a member’s name does not mean I enjoy listening to the two of you belt out the lyrics off-key.” That wasn’t entirely true; while Remus didn’t think either of them had a musical career ahead of them, he did quite enjoy the moments where they’d be cleaning their home and Dora and Teddy would turn every song into a duet.
“Can we see that one?” Remus asked the attendant. She wore heavy black spectacles and looked him up and down warily. 
“It’s his first year and he’s picking out a companion,” Tonks said as she set a hand on Teddy’s shoulder.
“Yeah, he doesn’t really show any prowess,” she said duly as she pulled the cat from the cage and plopped it, rather ungracefully into Teddy’s arms. He immediately morphed his hair to match.
“You have to admit,” Tonks whispered as Teddy headed to one of the sectioned off areas, “They’re rather cute together.”
“He’d be cute next to a boggart, Dora,” Remus returned fondly.
“Mum, Dad, come meet Gideon.”
Remus took a deep breath and held it as he reached his hand out to the orange tabby. To his surprise, Gideon immediately butted his head into Remus’s palm. “I think he likes you,” Tonks said with a grin as she ruffled Teddy’s hair. “So, now that that’s settled, who’s ready for ice cream?”
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specsthespectraldragon · 10 months
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How To Protect Your Koi From Predators While Still Looking Aesthetically Pleasing
requested by @gallusrostromegalus
Firstly, a quick point about netting before I start. Netting is a bad idea. Several predators (raccoons, herons, and otters) will simply pull it up and get in anyways, and depending on the mesh size you're likely to injure and kill juvenile koi, frogs, and other animals that you do want in and around your ponds. Also, leaves caught in it in the fall can impede water flow and create stagnant areas, damaging plants, preventing oxygen circulation, and providing breeding grounds for mosquitoes. Finally, you're very likely to have to cut out injured or killed predators from it; the last thing you want is to have to remove a very angry, half-decapitated cottonmouth from your pond. Netting is a bad idea, don't do it.
With that said, let's dive in!
Aerial predators (seagulls, kingfisher, osprey, herons, idiot teenage bald eagles, etc.)
The best defense against aerial predators is making sure they can't see the pond in the first place.
Evergreen trees that can be trained to spread branches out over the pond, and aren't prone to fighting each other for space or breaking into the plumbing with their root systems, are good choices for year-round pond protection. Just make sure you know how big the root system is going to become and prepare accordingly- just because california redwoods can work for this purpose does not mean you will necessarily have a pond in 20 years if you use them!
This does mean that you're going to get needles, twigs, cones, and the occasional branch in your pond. With biofalls and a good filtration system, these shouldn't be too much of a problem as long as you're taking the time daily to clean things out (excepting mature redwood, but that's really just another reason not to use that species). You'll want to pick species that don't produce fruit or cones that the koi want to eat, because they will, even in winter when they can't digest food properly. Uncontrolled fruit bacchanals in spring and summer aren't necessarily harmful on their own, but will lead to massive spikes in ammonia and other waste products, which will in turn make your filter sad and give you a massive headache.
2. Land predators (cats, raccoons, foxes, also herons because it's complicated, etc.)
You're not going to be able to hide your pond in any meaningful way from these guys, so the goal is to make the koi as inaccessible to them as possible. A planted ledge before a sheer "drop" into the rest of the pond provides a lovely viewing point while keeping predators from having an area to hunt from. Ponds should be about three to four feet deep; as a rule of thumb, you want to be six or more inches below the frost line, or three feet, whichever is deeper. If you've got great blue herons, you want to be four feet deep at least, because they're lanky bastards.
Speaking of plantings, lily pads, irises, and cattails make beautiful additions to a pond while giving the koi hiding places. Planting cabomba on mesh shelters hides the appearance of the mesh, gives the koi a tasty treat, and provides shelter all in one go. And of course, smaller bamboo tubes or a nice plastic skull give the fry hiding places as well. You can also try duckweed, but many people don't find the appearance attractive, and koi are very good at de-establishing duckweed by eating all of it.
Otters, while land predators, are an exception here because the little bastards can dive and have hands. If you are getting otters in your pond, your problem is far larger than anything landscaping can help you with.
3. Aquatic predators (snapping turtles, water snakes, alligators, etc.)
Offer your koi plenty of hiding places. Otherwise? If you see one of these guys in your pond, you are just going to have to remove them. Put them in your car, drive them to a body of water you deem far enough away, and release them. That's all you can do.
This brings us back to the above point about netting; snakes will wriggle under or through the netting or kill themselves trying, and snapping turtles will just bull right through it. I don't know if netting helps against alligators, but I would not want to take that bet.
Bullfrogs are often considered aquatic predators. They will indeed eat juvenile koi. However, they're no more likely to than the adult koi, and the koi will eat juvenile bullfrogs, so my personal consideration is that it evens out. If you're breeding koi, your calculations are going to be different, but you should have a separate pond or indoor tank for raising the fry anyways.
(bullfrogs will also stop eating the juvenile koi if given regular meals of koi food, but I'm not sure this is healthy for them. I also haven't figured out how to prevent jeremiah from eating the koi food, so it's probably a moot point.)
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the-illiterate-pirate · 8 months
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I L O V E McQueen. He’s so cutesy! Could I request him eating his s/o for the first time? I don’t imagine him having gotten much action but i think he’d be really excited
HI SRRY FOR THE LONG WAIT! I SUCK!!
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Shook Me All Night Long
Notes: NSFW, reader has afab parts but no specified gender, consensual somno, kinda short sorry :(
Some days McQueen thought he would've been better just staying at Green Dolphin. Not much has changed since he was let free, only moving from one place to another. He wasn't sweeping down corridors in the Aquarium, but instead he was bussing tables and cleaning floors at a high-end restaurant a couple blocks away from his apartment. His "cell" was a little bit bigger, and the bathroom was a little more private. But McQueen had a hard time adjusting to life outside prison walls, and something rooted deep inside of him was near constantly telling him he needed to go back.
He had to remind himself of the smaller things in life. Sometimes he had to ignore the bigger picture to find and appreciate the little details, like in a painting. He had you to help remind him of that. Maybe life wasn't perfect like in the movies, but there were still things to find and appreciate.
You, for an example. McQueen loves you, deeply. He wouldn't have met you if he stayed in Green Dolphin. His bed was insanely comfortable. It didn't matter how long he was stuck closing at work, in under a minute he could kiss the sheets of his bed and he'd be out like a light, always waking up refreshed. He didn't have much access to music in prison, but now he loved to listen to the radio every morning. There was the little garden hanging from your bedroom window that he loved to tend to. Sometimes he'd find a bumblebee, and on a rare chance he could scoop one up in his hand.
There were a lot of things he missed about prison. But there was a whole lot more he enjoyed about the real world. Like coming home from a long night's work. That familiar ache in his back was present, but it would disappear after once he woke up. McQueen thanked his lucky stars you both had tomorrow off, that gave him the opportunity to sleep in with you until afternoon.
Normally you'd still be awake to greet him. But because he was kept overtime you were probably already asleep. That made him sad, but McQueen would manage. He was too tired to eat, so he put what leftovers you kept out just for him in the fridge, he'd eat them for breakfast tomorrow, most likely. A shower could wait. He didn't stink too bad, he'd do that tomorrow morning, too. He trudged down the hallway to your waiting room, ready to collapse into your arms and doze off. But McQueen suddenly stopped right in his tracks when he saw you.
Oh, sweet, perfect you. The summer heat kept you from enjoying the soft embrace of the blankets, you were down to the bare essentials; tiny shorts and an oversized shirt that left so much to the imagination, but McQueen didn't have to imagine. He's seen every inch of you there was, he knew what you looked like under it all.
You weren't in any peculiar position, you were simply huddled into yourself, one of his pillows wrapped in your arms. McQueen stares for a while longer, slowly getting more jealous of the pillow by the second.
Suddenly, he wasn't too tired to eat, or hose off, but McQueen didn't want to do any of that. He only had one thing on his mind.
He peeled off his clothes, his cat like eyes never leaving your gorgeous body while he stripped down to his briefs. He had your sweet voice stuck in his mind, echoing like a mantra. Something you both talked about long ago, something the blond had completely forgotten about until now.
How your gentle arms encapsulated his frame, your sweet voice talking in his ear. Praising him for how good he was doing at work, and how pent up he must be after such long shifts, breaking his back to please his mean, old boss and terrible customers.
Originally McQueen didn't like the idea of taking advantage of you like that. Love was so very important to him, he didn't want to experience the moment without you. But with your body tempting him so, sultry thoughts invading his mind, and armed with the knowledge that he had your consent, McQueen decided tonight was the night he was going to indulge in something devious.
He snuck into bed near your side, he gently moved your arms away from his pillow, throwing it away to the corner of the room. He threw his arms off you after McQueen heard you mumble in your sleep. Without the comfort of anything in your arms, you subconsciously flopped onto your back, giving your boyfriend the perfect opportunity to your body.
His big, warm hands traveled up your legs to your knees, parting them so he could fit his big self between them. Those hands went lower, cupping your soft thighs, rubbing them gently from underneath your shorts. McQueen felt like he could start drooling the longer he stared at between your legs. He finally pulled off your shorts, never pulling his eyes away from your sopping wet core.
Shit... You were already so wet. Did you have a good dream..? That stirred something inside him even worse.
McQueen didn't think he'd go all the way tonight, not while you were still asleep. But he wanted a taste. God, he really, really wanted a taste. He was ready to suffocate himself with you, but he forced himself not to. He'd never done this with you before, it'd be best to start off slow, right?
He wasn't sure how to start, he began with a long lick, the taste of you was like lightning on his tongue. One drop and he was hooked. Carelessly your legs were thrown over his shoulders, subconsciously flexing around his skull with every fat lick to your core.
Underneath his fingers and his rough palms, McQueen felt how the muscles in your thighs jumped and squeezed. From above he watched you squirm. That pretty mouth of yours was parted, silent, heavy breaths rocking your chest up and down.
He decided to leave your hole, spreading your slick and his saliva across everything, eventually finding your clit. Just the tiniest brush made you whimper, and McQueen knew immediately what he had to do. His mouth attached itself to the little ball of nerves, suckling and licking at your clit, making obscene noises from between your legs. The sudden pressure on your most sensitive parts finally got the reaction McQueen wanted. Your head was thrown back into your pillows, hands reaching down to your boyfriend's head to keep him there while he pleased you. A loud moan escaped your mouth, while he just kept sucking.
Between the pressure of your thick thighs around his skull and your hands pulling at his hair and the taste of you in his mouth, McQueen was in heaven. He couldn't understand why he'd never done this before. The noises you were making went straight to his cock, he could feel it growing harder in his boxers by the minute.
Two of his fingers found their way inside you while McQueen's mouth was busy with your clit. They pumped in and out of you at a nice pace, not too fast and not too slow.
Your noises picked up in sound with his pumps. His ear was just able to pick up the soft "yes, yes, yes" that he was able to squeeze out of you.
You whine and keen, humping his face closer to the parts of you that needed him most. Everything was still a daze. Waking up to absolute pleasure, and oh so close to a wonderful orgasm. Your thighs threatened to crack open his head while your nails dug deeper into his scalp. You chanted your boyfriend's name in a heavenly voice, asking for him to let you cum in his mouth, begging, sounding so needy. McQueen couldn't refuse.
He quickened his pace, sucking on your clit in time with his fingers thrusting inside you. It happened all at once, before McQueen even realized. Just a long wanton call of his name before he felt your cum drench his hand. Of course he immediately lapped it up, like a thirsty dog, licking your cunt up until it was clean.
He set back on his haunches, dutifully cleaning the cum off his hands while he allowed you to settle from your high. The mattress underneath was rubbing against his crotch, it felt too good. He was so pent up from eating you out, he felt like he was about to explode. He kept rocking back and forth. You took notice, taking sweet breaths, eyes floating down to the painfully obvious boner.
You let loose a shuddering sigh. "Well. That's one hell of a way to get woken up."
"You're not upset, are you?"
"'Course not. You were pretty good, I should make you eat me out more often." You chuckle lightly at the beginning blush on his cheeks. He cuddled closer, pressing his lips against yours. You could taste yourself on his lips, but didn't really mind. McQueen lowered you back into the sheets, caressing your body while his caged you in. You parted for a moment, eyes drifting between his and his crotch.
"Say... Why don't you give me the real deal before we hit the hay?" You say before attacking his neck with soft bites.
He was just able to stutter out his response. "Are you sure? Don't you want to go back to sleep?"
"And leave you like this? No way." You kissed him again, and again, and again, leaving him breathless. "My darling McQueen, you deserve to use me however you want after working so late..." He didn't try to fight it anymore, allowing himself to indulge in your body again.
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vegasandhishedgehog · 11 months
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Okay friends of the MDZS/The Untamed fandom
If you've seen my previous post about making lotus root and pork rib soup, you know the journey I've been on. If you'd like to try making the soup yourself, a link to the recipe is toward the end of the OG post. That one got a little long with all the additions and extra advice from friends, but since I've made it again I'm reporting the results. Why I feel the need to do so is beyond me but this is the only genuine cooking I do and I deserve to be proud of every attempt, so if this annoys you, imagine these faces:
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I will give a disclaimer that I had meant to make this soup a week and a half earlier but the mental illness was too strong, so yesterday I forced myself to push through the mental illness anyway so I wouldn't waste too many ingredients (we still wasted some 😔). So, alas, this soup had no ginger and half as much lotus root as desired, plus I forgot to read how much seaweed I was actually supposed to use (way less than what I used), and completely omitted the chopped scallion even though I had it ready because I just. Forgot to actually add it.
We carry on.
In all of my past versions of this soup, I didn't include the rehydrated seaweed. I was advised to give it a go this time and ...well. 😅
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That bowl is a good 9 inches in diameter and 3 inches deep. And I took that photo AFTER adding a liberal amount of seaweed to the pot. Yes, I rehydrated the whole package. I didn't think about anything other than, "I'm finally adding the final step to this recipe I've been following!" and entirely missed that it only calls for 1 cup. [Hold on. Googling how long rehydrated seaweed be stored right now. OMG YOU CAN FREEZE IT THANK HEAVEN.]
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This is me scooping out all the fuckin seaweed that entirely took over the soup 😅😅😅😅😅😅
Remember how I said there was half as much lotus root? Yeah, this is seaweed soup with a hint of pork now. Good luck finding any slices of lotus root.
I had also assumed that this seaweed would be salted (the packaging was NOT in English, but honestly I can't blame the label for this). I had certainly added what I thought was already a generous amount of salt but let's remind ourselves that I am barely a cook by any means. This girl doesn't know shit about how much salt should go into 12 quarts of water to add enough taste. I did go heavy on the goji berries though.
This resulted in the broth being mainly pork and goji berry water :/ if I'd had the motivation to go out and buy fresh ginger and remembered the scallion I'm sure it would've been better (and more salt obviously), but hopefully I'll be in better spirits next time I make an attempt. I learned a lot from this one.
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The one thing I am proud of though?
Look at how clear that broth is. The oily bubbles are from the meat, and I also apologize I don't know if it's my phone's camera or my photography skills, but if it doesn't look clear to you I promise it does irl! I didn't use any of the cooking wine or soaking the meat with the ginger like @of-sevenseas suggested, but just by following the process in the recipe and making extra sure I washed the meat well this time, it seemed to work out!
Lessons learned:
Making soup while having a bad mental illness day is not a failed endeavor, but watch out.
Don't do this without ginger. What are you doing. That soup is wet stuff in hot water.
ADD MORE SALT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, YOU CANNOT BE THIS WHITE.
Read the recipe including measurements. Cooking is, of course, more improvisational than baking, but there's a reason we follow guidelines. Especially when we're rookies, still.
Next time we're gonna try the cooking wine and ginger thing with the meat. It sounds like an adventure.
Celebrate your wins!!!! I did have a success in this attempt!
I also did very well keeping the cat away from this whole 7 hour process, which is the greatest success of all.
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(Obligatory kitty pic, since I mentioned her. Meet Lucy everyone. She's hiding under my blankets from the loud scary generator outside my window.)
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levmada · 2 years
Note
i absolutely forgot to mention congratulations on 1k!!! you deserve them and more, gee :)
okay, everything i’m saying is always gonna be with levi 😅 how about "This is gonna hurt like a bitch, but I have to stitch up that wound." and canon? maybe where they get left behind during an expedition and levi has some aid saved up somehow?
I LOVED WRITING THIS REQUEST AN INDESCRIBABLE AMOUNT!!!!! thank u❤️❤️
content/warnings: search&rescue, descriptions of blood+gore+injuries, Levi pining HARD, some hurt/comfort, Scout!Reader
wc: ~2.8k
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Levi knows an expedition is going to shit when not only the flanking squads get wiped out, but the injured wagons, too.
Or at least this one.
He rises up from a crouch, coughing into his elbow. Human rot has a tendency to stick to nostrils, but especially the hard iron stench of blood, and this scene is gory.
He deduced what happened quickly. It wasn't enough that the wagon flipped when it was chased through a forest like this—the path unkempt, and cramped with trees packed in like sardines—the Titans had to have a field day with the medics in white, and those who were already close to death.
He hopes it was quick.
The ashy black plume of smoke from his flare swims in the sky. It’s nauseating, but he needs to stay longer to scavenge; additional supplies will be these Scouts’ last contribution to humanity.
It’s dirty work bordering on disrespectful, looting bodies, but the rest of the formation will need all the help it can get in order to make it back home in relatively one piece.
Levi kneels in front of the crevice beneath the wagon. The way it crashed, it leans haphazardly on heavy, exposed roots littered all throughout this area. A fat cat could comfortably lay underneath.
Then he sees a cape shrouded in the darkness. Another body.
Wait.
His eyes widen. Is that you?
He pauses with his hand braced on the splintered wood, faced with a choice.
If it is you, then, it’ll show in the missing reports when he rejoins the formation. Part of him, a part that he can’t face head-on out here, doesn’t want to figure it out for himself.
At any rate, he needs the supplies. And in case it is you, he can at least take the wings on your jacket for your family back home. For your family.
He sighs softly through his nose.
Levi takes a look at the wagon itself. Without taking the horses into account, these things aren’t too heavy for him to lift, and thanks to its near-sideways landing, it’s even less.
He spreads his knees to brace himself, takes a breath to brace his mind, and then hikes the wagon’s end up on both arms with a heavy grunt. With it above his head, he inches underneath, closer, until—
It is you. Sprawled on your side like a limp doll, featureless. Blood spots your face, and dyes your cape.
A harsh, strained breath leaves through his grit teeth. He doesn't want to do this, but he doesn't have the luxury of choice—or the opportunity to mourn, for that matter.
A light ache begins to sneak down his arms. With his planted his feet beneath himself in a tight crouch, he frees one in order to catch your waist and put you into a better position to drag you out. Your… corpse, isn’t pinned down anywhere.
Where is palm lands is warm and slathered in blood. This turns into the least of his problems when, like flipping a switch, your head snaps back with a soft wail.
He yanks his bloody hand away with a gasp.
“Hey!” His one arm is cursing at him while he rocks your quivering shoulder. “If you can, you need to crawl out. I can't hold this forever.”
You don't seem to register who he is, just the command, which has your arms reaching, then tearing into the loose tarp.
You cry out from so little progress, your hand snapping down to your side.
Dread feathers his stomach. You may be dead anyway.
“Now!” Levi shouts.
Grass rips. He can’t see the expression you’re making when you whimper, “Captain. Help.”
He’s quicker using both his hands. Near the edge of sunlight, he snags your arm, and pulls.
Your jaw grates, and you cough out another cry.
It doesn’t seem you’re about to nod out on him at least, and good. That means you’re not in shock, or it passed before he got here, considering how long it’s been since the wagon crashed.
“Grab my arm and keep bracing your side,” he orders. His hand slides down along your forearm, and you mimic him.
Once your fingertips are digging in, he pulls, pulls, and pulls until your booted feet safely rest in the crevice when it drops back with a heavy thump.
His palm that never moved from the wood is bright red, screaming at him, but he barely feels it.
You end up on your back, panting so hard your hands bracing the wound on your side almost bounce
“I’m in the 8th Defense Squad,” you hiss out. “I was sent t-to check the injured, emergency flare.”
He already knows your place in the formation, not that he would admit to you that he scans the hunk of pages, the roster, for your name on every trip into Titan country. As if... that keeps you safer. Obviously it didn’t this time.
His lips part, but you’re still debriefing: “Everyone was dead, but Titans were nearby,” you cough, “T-Two hours ago? Broke my ODM—”
He can see that.
“Shut up for a second. Calm down.” He takes a hold of your shoulders to stop your wracking.
Tears glitter in your eyes. He doubts, this time, that they’re because of the pain.
“I don’t taste blood,” you go on. Meaning, the bleeding isn’t internal. “You’re pr-probably needed elsewhere. Leave me.”
Even though it’s probably the exact opposite of what you need in this moment, he scoffs scathingly, and takes one of your bloody hands. He plants your palm flat on his chest, where his heart beats underneath.
“If I leave you, you’re going to die anyway. You’re going copy my breaths and calm down. Can you feel my heartbeat?”
Your eyes shut again. “This is selfish. Others are at stake.”
“Answer me.”
“Yes.”
You are always so selfless. A part of your character that Levi has learned to both admire, and loathe.
“Every life matters,” he tells you calmly. Your breathing stutters to copy his.
But some are more important than others, he wants to say.
“I’m making a choice,” he says instead. “Tell me what happened.”
You were forced to fight a group of three Abnormals on your own, that's what happened. The last one—something glowed in him knowing you managed to fell two—was smart enough to snag your wire. On the way down, something hard and blunt tore into your side. The only reason you lived was your hiding spot underneath the wagon.
The last part surprises him. Normally, Titans wouldn’t let a hiding spot stop them; you got lucky that this Abnormal was particularly stupid.
Before you can get off the forest floor (it’s not safe this low to the ground), your wound had to be cleaned and the blood controlled.
Upon tugging the blood rag that used to be your uniform shirt up and over your navel, his lips press in sympathy. The messy laceration cut deeply, but at least it’s small.
With a flask of water off his belt, Levi does the job quickly and methodically. Your hands joins his in pressing down with thick gauze, cool relief dripping into his stomach when no red finds its way to soak into bright white.
“Not bad,” he mutters.
You continue to press down while he works around the buckles of your broken ODM. The gear is worthless at this point.
He asks, “Can you stand?”
Now that most of the adrenaline has ebbed away, the empty space leaves room for the exhaustion to creep in… And the short-lived grief, the gratitude that he found you alive. He ignores those.
He can’t imagine how you must feel.
You brace your elbows behind your back without replying. It seems that even if you think you know the answer, you’re going to try.
You struggle. When bright blood seeps onto the gauze, and you whimper, he stops you with a hand on your shoulder.
“Forget it. Here.” He leans down. “W-Wrap your arms around me, I’ve got you.”
Then he adds, “That’s an order.”
Your eyes are wide, bringing out the brightest of their color in sunset like this, but you link your arms over his shoulders and do as he says.
Lifting you is effortless, but maneuvering high-up onto one of the thickest oaks is much more of a challenge. Somehow you manage.
As soon as you’re safe so the mess below looks like a fleeting bad dream, Levi leaves you briefly to tie up his horse.
He takes his time with the latter. He doesn’t want to know what you think of his actions so far, because if you were any other soldier, he would have rejoined the formation as soon as he had what the rest needed.
Taking action for the good of the whole was the hardest lesson Levi had to learn about being a Scout.
His leathers creak as he crouches back down beside you, the scuffed first-aid kid bumping his waist where it’s tied.
“How is it?” he asks, not looking you in the eye.
“Hurts, but thank you. For staying.”
Without replying, he takes a handkerchief from his jacket and wipes your hands of the blood slathering them. It looks like you dipped them in a can of paint.
“Seems unnecessary,” you murmur. Your eyes are only half-lidded.
“Stay awake. We’re leaving after nightfall, so if you can fall asleep on horseback, sleep then.”
Your eyes are closed the next time he looks, so he scoops up your chin and gives your cheek a light slap. That adrenaline is turning his blood into electricity all over again.
“Stay awake, I said!” Your eyes flutter. “Eyes on me. And keep them there. Yes or no.”
“Yes,” you manage. Your hand squeezes at his forearm.
“Good. I’m gonna take another look. Is it…” Admittedly, he is no medic. “Does it feel worse?”
You laugh under your breath, almost drunkenly. “Levi. The adrenaline has worn off.”
He tuts, then slowly peels the gauze back. As your breath jumps, your grip tightens.
This is what he was worried about. He meets your eyes, which are still on his. “This is gonna hurt like a bitch, but I have to stitch up that wound.”
“Okay,” you reply, all too quickly. “Give me something to bite on, sir.”
He wishes you would cut that shit out when no one’s listening to reprimand you.
Doesn’t matter. He settles at your side, unclipping the kit from the belt on his waist. “Does one of your belts work for you?”
Nod.
He unbuckles the one across your chest so one half sags. The other is tucked between your teeth, and your jaw locks on it.
As he threads the needle, Levi is, as is becoming the trend today, much less put-together than his steady hands portray. He has stitched his own wounds before, a few for others, but he’s still no medic. And he will have to listen to you whimper and mewl in pain. Plus, there is always a chance, later, that you could get an infection; despite all this effort, you could still die and it will have been for nothing.
He can’t think about that.
You adjust the bit. “Relax. I trust you.”
That’s partly why he’s overthinking this so much.
“I am relaxed,” he says, lies. “Don’t focus on talking, focus on me.”
The first thread is always the worst, but it’s not like the rest is much better. It’s like comparing burning in hell to drowning in lava.
Your grip chokes his bicep with the first thread, a strained shout grating the leather.
“Keep it together,” he will sometimes say, and secretly, not just for your sake.
“Good job staying still. I’m almost halfway.”
“That’s it, eyes on me.”
“This is the last one,” he murmurs to the needle, and in response he feels your squeeze turn bruising for a heartbeat. His arm is tingling, but in truth you could crush it if that guaranteed your peace of mind; he’s not the one suffering the most, here.
Your neck rolls with a thinly-contained sob of agony as he pulls the stitches tight, and begins to tie.
The wretched sound twists something inside him that makes him want to do the same, but his hands never waver, simply because he can’t afford to let them.
However, once the thread is snipped free, it’s like breaking a damn.
His breath shakes as he leans back, and touches your flaming cheek gently. You whine.
“I’m done,” he tells you gently. His voice wavers slightly. “You don’t need this anymore.”
Grunting, you let the bit go, but then your dry lips tremble as they part. “Alcohol,” you rasp. “Need to clean it, Levi.”
He can’t help the face he makes this time and it must show, because you shake your head.
“I can—”
“It’s fine,” he replies, plucks the bottle from where it’s been staring at him this whole time, and inwardly curses himself for being so forgetful. He shouldn’t have given himself, especially you, false hope like that.
He can’t muster any emotion in his voice this time. “Bite down for me.”
You do, and hold his arm.
He hikes his knee up on your upper thigh before he does this, and braces your sternum. No matter anyone’s mental fortitude, your body is going to thrash away from this liquid torture by nature.
It’s quick, but it’s hell. He feels, through his leathers and undershirt, five nails dig into his arm. The severe bowing your spine does in efforts to get away is joined by the scream that rips through the bit.
Clear—Why does it have to be invisible?—alcohol seeps between every stitch before he plants it aside.
He doesn’t know what to do for you. Your chest is finally wracking with genuine sobs, and fuck, he knows how much it hurts, wishes he could take it away as easily as stopping your bleeding, but he…
“I know it hurts.” He breathes harshly through his nose, and cups your cheek, which is wet. “But that was the worst of it. I’m done,” he thumbs hot tears away, “I promise this time.”
You keen high in your throat, and squeeze. It isn’t a surprise that after you’re properly bandaged, and he’s tipped the rest of his water into your mouth, that you doze off.
For a few minutes, he can be busy: re-organizing the kit and discarding the waste, attaching the kit back to his belt, lowering the lantern, strapping your belt back across your chest…
Now, he scrubs his hands down his face with the feeling bouncing around inside him that he still has things to do, but without any idea what they are exactly.
The rest of the formation. Levi knows where camp will be tonight, and he can get the two of you there, but after putting you through this, it would be unfair not to give you at least a few minutes to recoup. You’re going to be in pain no matter what.
He silently asks no one why they don’t bring fucking painkillers out in the field. This shit would be so much easier on you.
His hands touch the handles of his blades indiscriminately. He’s restless; the night is too quiet aside from the chirp of crickets and the occasional bird.
Finally, he glances towards your soft features, now clean of grit, tears, and blood, and the urgent feeling grows.
He slides back on the branch until he’s cross-legged behind your head. With a tap to your cheek, you just barely rouse.
“Lean up for a second. Nothing’s wrong.”
You do, so he doesn’t have to awkwardly maneuver your head onto the cloak, his cloak, in his lap.
“Figured you could use a pillow,” he tells you, lies again. He, a nervous wreck, wants to be able to check up on you more easily. “Just don’t get comfortable. We leave in a few minutes.”
Maybe a half-hour.
You grunt in lieu of any coherent reply. The same part of him that cringed with you when he poured on the alcohol hopes you didn’t really comprehend anything he just said.
At least… He lets his eyes drift shut briefly to collect himself. At least he did this right, that by sheer chance he found you, and no one else. Levi almost sent Eld to do this job for him.
He’s sure they’re all freaking out looking for him, which is why he trusts Erwin to keep all the squads together.
And he will get the two of you back—he intends to. If only he could promise that.
What could happen always sticks to his mind. As habit, he ignores it, just as easily as how he feels for you.
Stupid, he thinks bitterly. Wait until you’re back behind the Walls, at least.
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Enter the event here!
taglist: @ackermandick | @midtwenties-angst | @sckerman | @halloweenmedic | @katty | @jayteacups | @notgoodforlife | @peace-for-levii | @chaotic-nick | @b-o-n-e-daddy | @levisbrat25 | @oh-my-bakura-akefia | @happybird16 | + link to sign up
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allythemuse · 2 years
Text
NIGHTMARE -
☣️ ALBERT WESKER ☣️
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Pitch black
The eerie silence was deafening
How did I get here?
In the middle of nowhere
A single dirt path illuminated by the moon
Lead into a dark abyss
A forest it seems
Compelled by an unknown force
I entered the woods
Aimlessly walking deeper and deeper
I came to my senses
What was I doing?
Who or what was behind that force beckoning me here?
Fear and anxiety crept up my body
It was too quiet
I need to get out of here
Before it’s too late
A sudden rustle broke me from my thoughts
What the fuck was that?
Left, right
There was nothing
Slowly lifting my gaze
Heart beating out of my chest
Pure, unfiltered terror chilled my bones
Red cat-like eyes stared intensely into my very soul
What was this feeling?
Fight or Flight?
Wanting to scream, attack or just running the fuck away
Whatever it was, I couldn’t move
Not even an inch
Frozen by oncoming danger
What was THAT?
An ravenous creature or human?
It’s coming closer!
Crunch, crunch
A lanky male figure appeared
Suited out in full onyx
Was he wearing sunglasses in the dark?
That was far from normal
Whoever he was, his intentions were not good
Laughed out in a baritone voice,
With a hint of an accent
“I have finally found you.”
Neither meeting someone like him or sought eyes on him before
One thing came rushing into my mind
RUN
Bolting down the same narrow and winding path
Adrenaline fueling my body
What was up with his eyes?
Is he really human?
Whoever no,
Whatever he was I need to leave this place
But how did I get here though?
“There is NO point in running sweetheart!”
Tripping over a root and barely recovering
I was met with a cluster of trees near a cliff
No more dirt paths
A dead end
“No, no, no!”
Sobbing loudly, feeling hopeless
Big, fat tears obscuring my vision
Was I going to be killed by a weirdo?
Who wears sunglasses in the middle of the night
“Oh, there you are. Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused?”
He was literally right in front of me
With a needle filled with strange liquid
Which he injected into my neck
I blacked out before I could say anything
Shot up out of bed
Crying and shaking
That was too damn realistic to be a dream,
A nightmare
Sighing, sinking back into bed
Darkness greeted me again
It was just a nightmare
OR WAS IT?
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A/N : Hey guys!!! I’m a bit under the weather but I really wanted to post this piece for all the Resident Evil fans and people who simp for Wesker or are down bad for this guy. Love yah ✨✨✨
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candiedspit · 2 years
Text
Hypochondria
Tomorrow it will be all champagne and light and that deep undercarriage of a voluptuous sadness; a forever pang. Tomorrow my tide will turn into oblivion and I will walk as I was meant to walk with the others snubbed by time. Tomorrow it will all be over with. Tomorrow, thirty. I say it with a touch of my teeth.
I have built a little life for myself; a light box. 
I have black, gnarly cigars in the afternoon as I read The Post, pretending I am a business man waiting on a very important call. Any minute, the white house. My mouth tastes of rye and soot. And in the evenings, I pair my cigarettes with a tall, beaming glass of hot milk. I spend my time well. I go out on the rooftop naked as a seal as my laundry hangs from pink plastic clips and dries in the upheavals of a great wind. Nobody sees me aside from the sun, that glorious bastards in his spins of heaven. I walk from corner to corner beneath a pair of violet sunglasses; I love only mangled hearts. My latest rose was an inmate at the penitentiary. His name was Mark. In photos he sent, he is dark haired and tall and with the face of someone who would walk on a tightrope for the chance to be held. That Bukowski nose. He loved honey bees, the glean of a sharpened knife and the idea of me. 
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I spritzed my letters with vanilla perfume and admitted my sins in ballpoint. I’m a bad whore, I confessed once. Just the muddied technicolor slick coating the streets once the rain has passed. A dream you had as a child, sick in bed with dengue. 
Do you ever get so sad you can’t walk? He asked in return. 
I never replied again. 
I taped the letter up above my bed where it still rests. He sent one last letter a few weeks later which simply read: Darling? I couldn’t bring myself to answer him, his glaring question. I often dreamt of him and I in a tugboat. In the dreams, we danced against the backdrop of a wondrous moonlight, free as animals. I miss him as one misses childhood. But to the plains you can never return. He touched me with his ink. But we could not have lasted. He was in for fifteen more years. He never told me what he had done. Just something awful. 
In the photos I sent him, my hair is bleached and cut three inches above my shoulders. I stare into the camera as though it could love me. But nothing ever does. I don’t deserve him. Or anything much. I’m a Leviathan, a creep. In the very pit of my soul is a desire for carnage. I would hurt you given the chance. And I would not look back. As a child, my mother told me I ought to be a starlet. But I have nothing to offer. She must have mistaken this cruelty for attraction. If you scooped your hand into my skull, you would come back up with a fist full of dirt. So, I keep myself away, tucked in corners nobody can reach. 
For the last ten years, I have worked as a telephone girl, someone men call when they are unable or unwilling to allow themselves the grace of touch. When a mere voice is enough. I am fast, quick and easy. I say all the right things. No hang ups, apologies or arguments. I speak, tease and hang up. I call them sweetheart and leave. My hours are from ten in the evening to four in the morning. The sea of men beckons through the night: Fonda, Fonda, Fonda! My name is the sound the mind makes in a silent room. 
My apartment is speckled with porcelain cats and bras and orange wigs and sheer curtains and seashells and emptied pill bottles. I drink from long glasses. I do not do the dishes. 
Ruby wants to take me out tonight. 
Ruby is my only friend, someone I met at a karaoke bar at eighteen when I was all pleated skirts and lipsticks and mangos. When I hadn’t yet realized how deep my black root ran. Ruby is a beautiful person. She works in a cafe, has many friends and does many things. But each week she carves out hours for me. Sometimes we talk shit for hours, the words babbling over themselves. Other times, we sit in front of the television like infants, dumb and silent and content with light and noise. 
Ruby is due to arrive soon. 
I put out my burning cigarette and rise from the velvet of the couch and put on a fresh pot of coffee. I dress myself in a simplistic black dress with stretched stockings covering my pink, smooth legs. Chandeliers hang from my ears. As I straighten my hair again, the doorbell rings out a penetrative aria. And suddenly — Ruby is there in an olive green dress coating her body like the prettiest of cellophane. Her hair is especially red, burning through the daylight like the first fire from which humanity was birthed. In which humans realized exactly what they were and imagined what they could be. Her naked shoulders are exposed and smattered with freckles. I kiss her on the mouth and she steps inside.
We are going to the ballet. For a few hours, we will sit in the midst of a crowd and watch the thin, elegant dancers twirl and leap and stagger through the bliss of music and lace. Mozart will play overhead like some kind of dream. And in the morning, the world will be over with.
Let some light in for Christs’ sake, Ruby says, getting up to split the curtains open. Sunlight blasts through the room like the shine of an atom bomb. 
I should not have let myself live. 
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31st3rd30th · 6 months
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I'm watching Sheraseven and I must agree with her mentality about life and her advice about manipulation and non emotion in relationships IF you want to remain in control when in a financially dependent relationship. like I know I won't follow the bullshit but shes right about emotions and relationships especially when women show all their cards and start to feel comfortable, that's usually when the rug gets pulled. it's mainly in cishet relationships that there's this dynamic of powerstruggle of who likes who more even if there's a wanting of true equal love. like equality in het relationships just aren't equal because of societally ingrained biases of women and men. I do think of her ideas are rooted in misogyny and patriarchal standards of women BUT that's the reality of the situation - she didn't start this, she's just spreading the message that you have to put yourself first so I can't hate her for it. obviously it's not all women, but there's this trend of women becoming sahms and then getting blindsided by their husband cheating or having another life when the sahms were completely invested in the marriage and home life - AND then they're kicked out and forced to find a job or start over most of the times with children or theyre forced to endure the cheating and double life. it's gruesome to hear or read about but it happens because these women are tricked by these delusions of grandeur about ideal love and traditional life.
I do disagree about her concepts about latching onto someone for marriage and financial gains. I think financial independence is important for women in any relationship, but constantly playing the cat and mouse game with a husband, is emotionally draining unless you're in constant jigsaw let's a play game sociopath mode 24/7. tbh she thinks alot like madams of brothels where you have to dupe the trick to get the money but her methods are long term manipulation. getting a sugar daddy is probably more viable than being married to someone you have to entice every second or pretend around. Shera kind of approaches it like be an elusive mannequin. Be there, be attractive but don't ever give an inch of yourself because the idea that you're alive and have needs is boring to men.
It's definitely misogynistic but it's interesting because her view of men stands as selfish, easily bored cheaters that take advantage the minute you let them, so you need to con them into giving before they take. But her view on how women need to approach these relationships is to act like a man: selfish, manipulative and self-serving. So it's loike.. Idk. Its like 1960s type shit. Whatever - She's an interesting character in the hypergamy world.
anyways, yeah, point is, choose financial independence, don't abandon yourself for relationships, maintain strong boundaries and propritize your own happiness. like that's the only way it works out without you having to sacrifice your sanity to pretend to be the feminine energy soft girl perfect goddess for a man.
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happyhornqvist · 1 year
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thots on the pens @ cats game 3/4/2023
this was my first pens game in 4 years (since the 2019 playoffs!) and my first game since hörny was tragically traded. here are my thots:
-dumo tried so very hard to give a kid the puck at warmups, he fumbled a bit but he got that kid the puck eventually!!
-jarry hung out inches from me at warmups and god. he is even more breathtakingly pretty in person. it’s unfair to the rest of us.
-tanger was constantly showing the other dudes his ass during warmups. like, constantly bending over. i have no explanation for it (i don’t think he was in pain?) and sadly only have one bad pic but have it anyway:
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-an older gentleman at warmups asked me how hörny was doing with the cats (i was wearing a pens hörny jersey) and we commiserated about him no longer being a penguin. another pens fan, as i was walking the concourse before the game, said nothing to me but patted my shoulder and smiled sadly in what i am choosing to see as commiseration as well. we all mourn hörny!
-i was sitting in a mostly cats fan section, and the cats fans near me had season tix. they were lovely, and even nicer when i told them i’m a cats fan for any other game. best experience with fans of a home team i rooted against that i’ve had in any hockey arena i’ve been to, bar none.
-sid got MIGHTILY SQUISHED against the boards right in front of me. the face of utter dorkiness he made in that split second will haunt me forever. thanks, sid!
-the pens were SO PISSED OFF. like, every time someone skated by, you could tell by the look on their face. i wish i’d gotten a picture of geno skating by once because he had murder in his eyes and it was sexy scary.
-my uber driver home was incredibly florida-stereotypical homophobic, somehow not realizing he had a whole-ass hockey dyke in his car?? honestly it was more funny than offensive by the end
-i want to end this on a happy note so i will just say that even though they lost and desmith was in net, there is absolutely nothing like watching penguins hockey live and i’m so glad i’m back into hockey again!
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pantakichi · 2 years
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FIRST BATCH OF CLONES FOR THE BLOG
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Name: Blu Gender: Male Age (Adult/Child): Adult Size (Giant/Normal/Tiny): Idk what you call normal Ringo size... so normal? Clone DNA: Tom, Ringo Abnormality: Being a cat Appearance: Pic below Personality: unhappy and grumpy Tom in a blue cat body. Nobody can pick him up ever. Hates hugs. Background: Escaped from room 53 a few times, though avoided Tords and Edds. Used to get along with some clones, but something happened to make him hate everyone. Is capable of human speech but mews out of spite. Extra Info: Has attached a pen to his tail, and combs his fur over it for a nasty surprise Relationships: Only one he will be remotely kind to is Teddy. After that, he hates all clones and people. Inspiration: Cats from PowerEdd
made by @phantom-howl
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Name: Bomberry Gender: Male Age (Adult/Child): Adult Size (Giant/Normal/Tiny): Normal Clone DNA: Bing and Tord, although more Bing Abnormality: DNA mix/Personally/Behavior Appearance: Pic below (although since his shoes aren’t shown they’re like a reddish brown boots and he only has half an eyebrow (the right one) and he’s got tiny ass hair horns somewhere in his hair) Personality: Bomberry is very quote unquote “violent” but he’s just very excited and really loves bombs and exploding things and has a very small attention span because he’s got a lot of energy and needs to release it so EXPLODING STUFF TIME- Background: Bomberry started out as a Bing clone that accidentally got some Tord DNA in his makeup, and he looked like a Bing with long hair with Tord hair colored roots and tiny hair horns, but very soon after creation he was like very bored with everything and soon discovered explosions and bombs which of course led to this guy becoming how he is now like he ditched the Bing outfit for his current one and doing his hair the way it is now plus the makeup bshshsh Extra Info: He hides bombs in his hair (ponytail specifically), Bing doesn’t like him much because he causes most of the destruction with his bombs, he’s immune to loud booming sounds hell they actually make him excited, and he knows how to make bombs cause I don’t see how he’d get his hands on them any other way Relationships: He normally flips off fellow Bing clones but he likes to stick to the Tords because he tends to like them and he doesn’t normally like Toms but he gets past PomTom and Teddy because he finds Teddy adorable and Tbf who doesn’t like Teddy (Looking at you Little Tilly >:|) and he likes PomTom cause he’s the only one who has energy that even comes kind of close to Bomberrys Inspiration: He’s a bit inspired by Cherry Cookie from Cookie Run
@made by @randompurplepanthergorl
and my 5 babies made by @pantakichi
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info on my 3 are here
Name:Eddol Gender: he/they/she Size: 6'7 Clone DNA: Edd Abnormality: strangely addicted to the spotlight and LOVES attention Personality: attention seeking loud cheery tries to give motivational speeches at breakfast time most the time ignored hehe Background: An empty edd clone was put in a ray of light for more than 5 minutes Relationships: none currently Inspiration: n/aName:
Tordipie Gender: he/they Size: 5'0 Clone DNA: Tord Abnormality: always looks super tired and finds it difficult to turn away from their screen Personality: chill laid-back great listener even though they do not give eye contact Background: the mario64 theme tune played while they were being created Relationships: none currently Inspiration: n/a Extra info: Their horns work like gamers headphones and speakers xd they can receive potential communications from anyone who wants to game with them They are chill till they play with other clones then they get competitive
Name: Tot Gender and pronouns: Male he/they Size: 10 inches Clone DNA: Tord Abnormality: very small and addicted to shiny objects Personality: sneaky and cunning Background: Tot was just a tiny clone Extra info: hangs out with rogue Relationships: partners in crime with rogue Inspiration: n/a
Name: Troom Gender and pronouns:Male pronouns he/him Size: 6'5 Clone DNA: Tord Abnormality: physically incapable of whispering Personality: Loud and very excitable however they express their happiness by violence Background: Troom was set on fire when made Extra info: Can make bombs out of anything Relationships: has a crush on 8 ball doesn't know how to tell them Inspiration: that spare episode but instead of trigger happy he is bomb happy
Name: Tuck. Gender and pronouns: Male he/they. Age: adult. Size: 7'5. Clone DNA: Tord and is believed to have a little edd abnormality: Can only experience bad luck and they always look rather sad Personality Quiet likes to keep away from any potential trouble but as they can only experience bad luck they can't always. Background: when they were being created a lightning bolt struck them Extra info: tuck always has a cut or scrape on them somewhere Relationships: likes the scribble clones they believe the drawings they did came to life Inspiration: Eddsworld the end/ punishing legacy Tord but made Tuck too likeable oops (edited)
with collaboration with @ask-the-64-rejects
DO NOT SEND ASKD FOR ANY CLONES THAT ARENT MINE TO MY PRIVATE BLOG SEND EM TO @rejectsoftherejects
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the-coping-dragon · 7 months
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It's been a long time since I've had a chance to really look at the roots of her hair. I'm not given the honor of brushing or washing her hair because I can't figure out how to be gentle enough. And when we stand, she is taller than me. And when she lays on my chest, it's always in our bedroom with comfortable, dim lighting.
There are so many more grays and whites.
I remember we celebrated when we found the first one. Cried. God, what a blissful mark of the passage of time, proof that she had survived long enough to have a gray hair, despite it all.
There are so many more. One is a fluke. Three is a curiosity and a gift. But these are different. She is so sick. She has been so sick, waiting for appointments, waiting for so long. Maybe my eyes are tricking me.
No. A single snow-white hair ensnares my gaze. I gently shift her hair around, following the white one from its root to its tip. It's about 3 inches long. What happened? Why did this hair loose pigment? Why couldn't it just be a joy of the gift of aging? Why did it have to threaten to be a symptom?
Life has felt ethereal and strange lately. It feels convoluted and tangled and chaotic--and it feels blisteringly simple, like the simplicity of a pot of scalding water: transparent, obvious, a rolling boil warning your eyes and ears, withholding no burns as it lets you know exactly what it is, turning flesh into meat without any concern for a stealthy power or a subtle violence.
I always found beauty in white hair. Most people in my life had short hair once it turned white. Balding men, and women with short cuts. In elementary school, I saw long white hair for the first time. It looked like silver silk and it looked too pleasant to be real. It looked the way something might look in another universe, like a dress you would expect to see on an elven princess who had legendary silversmiths and tailors at beck and call. I was excited to see if my own hair would become so beautiful with age. Yeah, as an elementary schoolkid. I also wanted to grow up to have a house full of cats, and no husband. These things don't generate my queerness, but they add a pleasant and nostalgic note.
I saw a gray hair on my wife. We lived together. We even had a pet cat. It was my entire fantasy--unconditional love from someone I loved just as much, safety and security, companionship and family. I found three before I trusted my eyes, before I let my heart soar, before we cried happily at the realization that we were going to grow old together.
The color leached. Blank. Empty. Where did the color go? Where is the personality, the soul? Of course these things fade. The fading is its own personality and soul. A sign of age. A sign of age. A sign of age.
Where were the years that slowly soaked up the color? Where were the complimentary beauties--laugh lines, scars from silly things, wrinkling skin that isn't even close to giving up and falling off the bone? The hairs are white like bleached bones. They have none of the softness of fresh snow, falling slowly, turning from a dusting to a blanket to an unrecognizable world. They are matte, not shiny. They give no indication of their shape, beyond a length. They could be round, or hammered flat. I can't see which. I don't know.
Another night of drawing a line across my brain, of dedicating one half to fixate on her breathing, and trying to salvage sentience from the other half. Who am I? Why do I suffer? The burden of gentleness grows heavy. The constants of normalcy rust. I know why I suffer. How can I protect her from suffering, though?
I am short-tempered with myself because I can't build the things I need. My hands never stop fidgeting and tinkering. I can make a lot of things from scraps and trash and lucky finds. I made a life, after all. A happy one. Why can't I make an MRI machine? I am bitterly disappointed in myself.
I feel like a cold fire. I'd be teasing myself for saying such a thing, if I had the energy. I don't. I'm tired and I feel like a cold fire. I feel like scalding water. Something complex and impossible; something obvious and simple. I feel like the cracks in metal and glass that come from drastic temperature changes. I feel something. Several things. They're all unpleasant and fragmenting and obfuscating and exhausting.
I am quivering like a songbird who overestimated the strength of winter and prolonged migration too long. I don't know why her hair is white. Is it cold as snow? Or as a bone? I am cold down to my bones. It isn't an answer. It isn't even a direction to go.
I long for the warming days of spring and the new foliage obscuring the winter's kills. I long to see a flower bloom.
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