#STICKS HIS TONGUE OUT AND THEN THE WAY HE WAVES WITH HIS LITTLE FINGERS WAGGLING | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nanamiya3 · 9 months

Note

Hello! As an SA survivor, I really appreciated your story with Naoya. My comfort character is Nanami and I was wondering if you could write something similar? Where reader has an anxiety attack bc of her trauma and finally tells nanami about it? She’s worried that he won’t accept her and nanami reminds her he’ll never do that. It’s a heavy topic so I completely understand if you want to pass on this! I appreciate your writing regardless so thank you for taking the time to write & post these stories :)

hii! i'm sorry it's taken me so long to respond (can you believe my last post was almost half a year ago :0) but thank you for the ask! i made this absurdly long because i love backstories but i hope you like it :)

nanami x fem reader (she/her pronouns used) - fluff & comfort - pet names (darling, sweetheart, baby) - wc. 7.7k

please note that there are mentions of SA (nothing explicit/graphic) after the little "exhibit" sections are over. if you aren't comfortable with mentions of past SA (ex: nanami asking if someone has "hurt" reader) please don't read past the little "exhibit" scenarios or don't read/expand the post at all :) again, it's pure fluff in the "exhibit a, b, c" parts, after that SA is discussed/alluded to

Nanami Kento is an exceedingly patient man.

Exhibit A: The time you were an hour late to your first date.

—

“Come on, just trust me on this one!” Shoko exclaims as she pelts you with blueberries—your blueberries.

“Hey!” You glare at your best friend, snatching the bowl of fruit away before any more berries end up on the floor. “Do you know how much blueberries cost these days? They’re not in season right now and—”

“Blah blah,” Shoko sticks her tongue out at you. “I’m not saying you have to marry him.. It’s just one date!” She pauses, tone becoming uncharacteristically serious. “I’ve been friends with him since high school… He’s a really nice guy, very respectful.”

“Oh?” You quirk an eyebrow at your roommate, laughter bubbling over your lips. “Very respectful,” you’re giggling now, “I’m sure he’s veryy respectful.”

Shoko groans, hands scrubbing at her face. “You’re unbelievable—I need a cigarette,” she mutters.

“You’re unbelievable! You’re a med student who smokes!” you cry out, flinging an accusatory finger at her.

Shoko just snorts, waving a dismissive hand in your direction as she pats at her pockets for her lighter. “I’m serious though, I think he would be good for you.”

“Sure, he’s exactly what I need,” you reply dryly. “What was his name again? Nanami something—”

“Kento,” Shoko chimes in.

“—Nanami Kento,” you finish, twirling a blueberry between your thumb and index finger. “I’m sure he’s a great person. But you know there’s a reason why I’m never home when your guy friends are over…” You trail off, shrugging as if you’re unbothered, but Shoko sees the way your brows furrow and lips tremble. “Plus, I’m too busy with my dissertation and research to try to have a life,” you huff, easing the tension with some lighthearted humor, popping the berry into your mouth.

Shoko rolls her eyes at you good-naturedly, waggling her brows as she tries to lift your spirits. “What if I showed you a picture of him?”

Two photos, a not-so-slick mention of Nanami’s height by Shoko, and a sworn testament to his upstanding character later, you fold.

You, 6:47 PM

hey! i’m running late right now, there was an emergency at the lab. can we push the date from 7 to 8? i’m really sorry :(

Nanami Kento, 6:50 PM

Yes, of course. I hope everything is okay, take as long as you need.

You, 6:51 PM

thank you so much! again, i’m really sorry. i should be there by 8 :)

Nanami reads your text, slipping his phone into his pocket as he sighs. He had already arrived at the restaurant by the time he saw your first message—it’s too late to leave and come back now. He takes a seat in the waiting area, glancing at the bouquet in his lap. Shoko had threatened to break both his legs if he so much as breathed at you wrong tonight—he hopes you won’t find the flowers too much for a first date.

Nanami thinks back to what he knows about you. He remembers the first time he was at Shoko’s place: you were nowhere in sight (much to the dismay of Gojo, who kept asking Shoko to play matchmaker for him), but Shoko just explained that you were studying late at the library. Every time after that, it was another excuse: Shoko’s roommate can’t come because she’s busy in the lab, busy at the library, busy writing her dissertation, busy running simulations, busy reading papers, busy being a TA, busy meeting with her advisor. He’s only seen you once while at your apartment, and that was because he accidentally walked into your room thinking it was the bathroom: You’d been hunched over your desk, back to the door, and Nanami had immediately walked right back out into the hallway upon his realization that bathrooms didn’t usually contain beds and desks, shutting the door as quickly as possible so as to not disturb you. You hadn’t even turned around by the time he was gone.

That was the first and last time Nanami Kento ever saw you. At least until last week, when he received a text from Shoko detailing your contact info and a winky face, phone lighting up with a call from your roommate moments later.

“Hello?”

“Kentoooo!!! Guess what??” Shoko’s voice is all high pitched and giggly, barely containing her excitement.

Nanami thinks he knows exactly what she’s up to. “What is it?” he ventures.

“My roommate just agreed to go on a date! With you!!” Shoko’s glee is apparent, even through the tinny speaker on Nanami’s phone. “I just sent—”

“I never asked her out,” Nanami cuts in. He’s frowning slightly: not entirely opposed to the idea, just hoping Shoko hasn’t gone and planned your marriage without his knowledge.

Shoko’s sigh echoes loudly over the line, and Nanami winces at the earful he’s sure to be in for. “I know,” she’s rolling her eyes now. “That’s why—if you would just let me finish my sentence—I sent you her number so you could ask her yourself.”

Nanami’s quiet for a moment, thinking it over before he asks, “Why are you doing this?”

Shoko doesn’t miss a beat. “Because you’re both losers with no lives,” she laughs a little at her own joke, then slowly considers her next words. “And… I think you would treat her well—I know you would be good to her, and she deserves that.”

Nanami can tell how much Shoko cares about you, from the way she spoke about you to the way she threatened to buy 51% of his start up’s shares and tank the company if he ever hurt you. Yeah, he really hopes you don’t think he’s coming on too strong with the flowers.

So, Nanami sits in the restaurant patiently, checking his phone ever so often to make sure he hasn’t missed any messages from you, smiling and telling the hostess he’d like to wait a while longer to be seated. And when you do show up—17 minutes earlier than expected—he’s all smiles and reassurances. You’re feeling (and looking) frazzled, apologies spilling out from your mouth like a dam let loose as you follow him and the hostess to your table. But Nanami’s the quintessential gentleman: waving away your guilt and apologetic expression, pulling your chair out for you, handing you the beautiful arrangement of flowers, pouring you a glass of water to help calm you down, insisting you call him Kento.

And though most people wince and attempt to change the topic when you talk research, Kento’s patient as he listens to your ramblings on the roadblocks you face, the students you have to teach, the lack of common sense in the lab. He makes a point to ask questions about your research, finding it interesting because you find it interesting, loving the way your face lights up when you get to describe the implications of your findings.

You hate to admit it, already hearing Shoko’s “I told you so!” in your head as you think to yourself, but Nanami Kento might just be exactly what you need.

—

Exhibit B: The time you spent 4 consecutive days with your head in a toilet bowl.

—

Shoko Ieri, 1:58 PM

dude, what the hell are you doing right now???

Nanami Kento, 2:01 PM

What do you mean? I’m working.

Shoko Ieri, 2:01 PM

what could possibly be so important with your company that you’d be working right now??

Nanami Kento, 2:02 PM

It’s 2 PM on a Monday… Am I not supposed to be working right now?

Shoko Ieri, 2:02 PM

you’re so fucking dense you would sink in the dead sea. your girlfriend has been throwing up all day and you’re WORKING?

Nanami Kento, 2:02 PM

Throwing up? What do you mean??

**Incoming call from Nanami Kento**

“Hey assho—”

“What do you mean she’s been throwing up all day?” Kento’s voice is tinged with urgency and worry. “Is she okay? Are you there with her? Can you check her temperature? I’ll be there in—”

“Dude,” Shoko cuts in, “Don’t act like you didn’t know. There’s no way you didn’t know—I mean she’s been hurling like crazy since this morning, and you’re an asshole for not checking up on her.”

Kento’s shocked, and still extremely worried, trying to just get Shoko to focus so he can make sure you’re okay. “I really didn’t know, Ieri, she hasn’t texted me at all today.” His voice is strained, concern evident in his tone. “Please tell me you’re at home with her—is she okay?”

“Well…” Shoko considers how to best put your condition so as to not cause Kento a heart attack, a little confused on why you didn’t tell him anything. “She’s been throwing up pretty steadily throughout the day and she’s got a pretty bad fever.”

“How bad are we talking? I’m driving over right now.”

“104 degrees… 104.6 last I checked,” Shoko winces as she says it, knowing how bad it sounds.

“Oh my god.” The absolute terror in Kento’s voice makes Shoko wince even harder. “Ieri, we need to get her to a hospital—this is serious.”

Shoko shakes her head, reporting dejectedly, “She won’t go. I tried a couple hours ago but she said she doesn’t get paid enough by the school to afford an emergency visit.”

Kento’s at a loss for words.

“She said she’ll be fine since I’m ‘basically a doctor,’” Shoko finishes bitterly.

“T-that’s not… You’re not… Y-you’re just a med student—that’s not the same thing—” Kento thinks he might have a heart attack.

“I know, I know,” Shoko sighs. “But, I don’t think it’s anything too bad. She isn’t throwing up blood, her breath and heart rate are both pretty stable, and she was conscious enough to talk back to me when I tried to get her to the hospital.”

“Okay,” Kento says as he takes deep breaths, trying to not think about you dying or suffering or—“Okay. Okay. Okay. I’ll be there soon, then. We can talk later.”

“Alright. Drive safe—I don’t need another patient to look after,” Shoko jokes before hanging up.

5 minutes later, a stressed Nanami Kento is on your doorstep, rushing in as soon as Shoko answers the door, barely listening to what she’s saying as he moves towards your room. And then he’s inside, kneeling before your bed as his eyes dart over your figure, murmuring a gentle, “Hi baby, how are you feeling?”

You blink your eyes open, trying to pull yourself out of that feverish fog blanketing your mind as you slowly register who’s in your line of sight. No… It can’t be. How did he find out? He’s not supposed to be here—you didn’t tell him for a reason.

“Ken?…” You rub at your eyes, sitting up with a whimper as a wave of nausea hits you square in the stomach. “W-why are you here?”

“Because somebody told me you have a 104 fever, and it wasn’t you,” Kento tuts, tone disapproving but eyes gentle.

“Ieri…” you mumble, shaking your head slightly.

“Ieri,” he confirms, shaking his own head—this time at you. “We’ll talk more about that later… Right now, I need to make sure my darling is feeling okay.”

Your mind is still foggy, but your lips quirk up into a small smile as you tease in a small voice, “Your darling is feeling superb.” You give him a weak thumbs up and cheesy grin. “I feel great.”

“Really? Because there’s a bit of vomit on your chin right now,” Kento deadpans, secretly relieved you’re feeling well enough to joke.

And then you cry out in mock outrage, regretting it almost immediately as you clutch at your middle, the outburst costing you a fit of spasms and pain in your stomach. Kento’s mood sobers instantly as he gently rubs at your back, asks if there’s anything he can do for you, adjusting the pillows behind you to help ease you into a more comfortable position.

“You should go,” you whisper as you reach up to grip his hand.

“Now why would I do that?” Kento asks, smiling softly as he feels your hold on his hand tighten.

You turn your face into the pillows, mumbling out a muffled, “I’m sick… and gross. I can’t let you see me like this.” You groan, turning your head back to look at your boyfriend as you caution, “And you’re going to get sick.”

Kento just smiles as he cups your hand between his own. “You never look gross, and I won’t get sick because I don’t overwork myself.”

You huff out a tired sigh, weakly swatting at the hands wrapped around your own as you slur, “It’s rude to torment the sick and dying,” and turn on your side to face the wall—away from your amused caretaker.

For the next three days, Kento—with the help of Shoko, (not quite) M.D.—looks after you as you miraculously manage to regurgitate every bit of sustenance you consume. He’s cleaned that metal “throw-up” bowl on your nightstand—meant to be used in case you couldn’t get to the bathroom in time—more times that he can count. He’s changed your sheets, helped you to the bathroom, and dutifully cooked light soups and stews, spooning them into your mouth before inevitably patting your back reassuringly as you throw it up into the toilet. Most of all, he’s poked and prodded you with that goddamn thermometer: if you had the strength to, you’d steal it right out of his hands and tell him to quit being a mother hen.

But Kento just can’t help his worrying. To take care of you, he’s been staying the night over, sleeping on that couch in the living room he’s definitely too large for. Even Shoko feels a little bad for him, watching him dutifully set alarms for every other hour so he can check up on you throughout the night. The two of them work in tandem to make sure you’re okay, combining the power of Shoko’s education with Kento’s sheer stress to maximize your care.

And when you finally come to—when the haze clouding your thoughts finally clears—he’s just as patient and gentle as he has been over the past few days.

“You’ve gotta stop overworking yourself, sweetheart,” Kento murmurs into the top of your head.

“I can rest when I’m dead,” you protest, twisting from your position on his chest to make a show out of the dramatic wink you send his way.

Kento groans. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he says with a sigh, helping you curl back up on top of him.

You giggle, breath fanning out against his collarbone, amused by Kento’s exasperation. “Thanks for taking care of me though, Ken. You’re the best,” you whisper softly, turning to pressing a kiss against his neck.

“Of course, darling,” he replies quietly, voice full of love. Then, louder, feigning nonchalance, Kento announces, “But if you don’t start taking better care of yourself, you’ll be on your own, and I’ll just watch from a distance and say ‘I told you so’ when you get sick.”

“You wouldn’t do that to me!” you pout, frowning at the thought of him purposely ignoring you.

Kento sighs, pretending to be upset, “You’re right. I wouldn’t do that.” He reports dejectedly, “I just love you too much,” practically able to feel your smile at his words against his skin. “But—” he leans down and tilts your head up to look at him, thumb and forefinger holding your chin in place to maintain steady eye contact. “—the next time you’re sick or in need of help, you’ll tell me directly.” His voice is serious, as firm as his grip on your chin and it makes you nervous, like you’re in trouble, eyes darting around to avoid his gaze. “No trying to hide it, no making me worry. I shouldn’t have found out about your fever from Ieri—you should have told me yourself. I don’t want you hiding things from me, especially if it’s about your health and well-being. Got it?”

You’ve tensed up against Kento, heart hammering in your throat as you feel a wave of guilt wash over you. His free hand moves to soothe your back—trying to show that he’s not angry with you—as he drops his hand from your chin, eyes tracking the way you hang your head to avoid looking at him.

And then, after a bout of anxiousness, you nod, stealing a glance up at Kento to gauge his mood as you start, “I’m sorry, Ken, I didn’t mean to worry you.” You take a deep breath before you continue, “I just didn’t want to bother you. I knew you’d drop everything if you heard I was sick and it wouldn’t have been fair for me to take advantage of you like that.” You pick at a piece of lint on his shirt, avoiding catching his eye and aiming for humor as you add, “And nobody wants to watch their partner throw up, it’s gross. I couldn’t let you fall out of love with me like that.”

Kento cracks a smile. “Darling, if you think throwing up in front of me is going to make me stop loving you, I need to do a much better job of showing you how much you mean to me.”

You huff out a laugh at that, but he’s not done, cupping your hands with his own as he looks down at you. “And you’re never a bother, baby, ever. I’m never going to be upset with you for letting me know you’re not feeling well—and you won’t be ‘taking advantage’ of me by letting me know. It’s my own choice to take care of you and it makes me happy to do it.”

You’re looking down at where Kento’s hands are wrapped around your own, but you nod, letting his words sink in as you duck your head back down into the crook of his neck. “Thanks, Ken,” you whisper, trying to hide how relieved and emotional him saying that makes you feel. “That means… a lot to me. I’ll promise I won’t hide things from you anymore.”

Your boyfriend smiles, replying with a soft “good girl” as he runs his thumb along the back of your hand. He’s glad you’re opening up, and as you doze off on him, exhausted from your past couple of days and lulled to sleep by the comfortable silence and gentle caresses, he feels a surge of affection settle over his heart.

—

Exhibit C: The time you he won a stuffed lion at the fair.

—

Today is a special day. There are no papers to grade, no students to teach, no presentations or talks to prepare, and your research has reached a point where you can confidently take a few days off to rest. Naturally, you decide to optimize this golden opportunity by doing only the essentials: Scheduling a long overdue doctor’s appointment, deep cleaning your apartment, spending as much time with Kento as possible, going to the fair…. Just the essentials!

So—essentially—you’re at the fair with Kento, ignoring your ever growing list of responsibilities in favor of overpriced food and rigged carnival games. Kento’s already sporting a large tote on one shoulder, ready to collect all the prizes you’re eager to win.

Three hours, six stuffed animals, a pizza, two churros, a basket of fries, five rides, and a petting zoo later, you find yourself surveying the prizes on display in front of the cursed ring toss.

“Awww, Ken look at that one!” You’re pointing to a stuffed lion sitting amongst the prizes. “It kinda looks like you, don’t you think?”

The face Kento’s making right now can only be described as… distaste. “No… Love, I don’t see the resemblance.”

“No, no, no, look at the color! It looks just like your hair,” you exclaim, gasping and pointing once more as you realize, “Hey! It even has a little frown on its face! Do you see it Ken?”

“I don’t frown that often,” Kento says with a frown. “I’m quite happy when I’m with you.”

You burst into a fit of laughter, wishing he could have watched himself say that. “Sure, Ken,” you drawl, patting him on the shoulder as you get in line for the game, set on winning his lion-lookalike.

However, after 4 tries and an absurd amount of money, you decide to call for backup.

"Kennn," you singsong as you turn to look at him with big, pleading eyes. "Can you help me win this game?"

Kento's heart sinks, feeling conflicted. On the one hand, he'd do anything to make you happy. On the other hand, if he helps you win the lion, he'll spend the rest of his days hearing "Awww.. Isn't he just so cute?? He looks just like you, baby!" about a stuffed, over-evolved house cat.

But, in the end, the little angel on his shoulder (with a voice that sounds suspiciously similar to yours) wins. As Kento steps up for his try, he half considers putting no effort in and losing the game just so you won’t be able to correlate his good looks to a stuffed animal. Then, he (or maybe the little angel up there) decides he can’t do that to you—it would just be too cruel.

So, Kento gets ready for his turn: rolling his sleeves up, passing you the bag on his shoulder, and sighing without meaning to.

His first try is a failure. Each of the 5 rings supplied magically bounced off the bottlenecks, frustrating him to no end. “This game is rigged, sweetheart. We should find something else to play,” Kento grumbles, turning away from the booth with an irritated expression.

You shake your head, insisting, “But this is the only game we’ve seen that has that stuffed lion!” Then, you bring out the big guns, clasping your hands together and widening your eyes, begging, “Please, Ken..”

Aaaand…. He’s a goner, always so soft and willing when it comes to you.

Reinvigorated by your pleading and determined to make you happy, your boyfriend sets out on a mission to win you that stuffed lion.

After his first try, Kento sighs so hard you think you might physically feel the wind from it tickling at your forehead.

After his second try, Kento turns to you and drops a sweet little kiss on your nose to remind himself why he’s subjecting himself to this frustrating torture.

After his third try, Kento runs a hand through his hair, readjusting his sleeves with more force than necessary as he squints menacingly at the table of glass bottles.

After his fourth try, you tug at his wrist, telling him, “You don’t have to keep trying, Ken. It’s okay.” You feel guilty watching him get more and more frustrated, but he smiles, patting the back of your hand as he tells you it’s okay.

After his fifth try, Kento looks up at the stuffed lion as he takes a deep, calming breath, trying to stay focused on winning the prize and not how annoying this blatantly rigged game is.

After his sixth try, you’re seriously impressed by Kento’s ability to remain calm. You practically had steam coming out of your ears with each of your missed throws, but he’s taking this like a champ—maybe you’ll read some of his self help books to learn his ways.

After his seventh try, Kento curses under his breath, beginning to lose his cool.

After his eighth try, Kento thinks it might be time to start believing in a deity: Maybe he would have won on his first or second try with divine intervention on his side.

And then! After returning to purchase almost ten consecutive attempts and officially creeping out the worker managing the booth, Kento’s fourth ring finally finds its place around the neck of a bottle!!

You jump up and down and clap in celebration, elated by Kento’s victory. He immediately turns toward you, excitement written across his features as he wraps you up in a hug. You’re giggling and pressing kisses onto his cheek, murmuring thank you’s against his skin as you both grin ear to ear—both entirely too old to be so elated over a win at the carnival.

And even as you tease him, holding the stuffed toy up next to his face in comparison, he thinks his patience may have just paid off.

—

Nanami Kento is an exceedingly patient man.

That’s why, as you break down in front of him, he’s patient.

Just minutes ago, you’d been okay—you’d been more than okay. Seated on Kento’s lap, breath heavy as he scattered kisses across your face—moving from cheek to nose to lips to forehead—you’d been beyond okay.

Nothing had been too out of the ordinary: though Kento wasn’t a voracious and demanding lover, the two of you had shared more than a fair amount of kisses and “makeout sessions.” And you enjoyed these kisses, these “sessions,” but you also enjoyed keeping it at that, never progressing further than a few wandering touches and a lost shirt or two. Kento, always happy to follow your lead, to respect your boundaries, would never press further when you’d break away and ask to go to bed, to watch the movie, to cook dinner together.

Tonight, you planned on spending the night together at Kento’s apartment. Falling asleep and waking up next to Kento might be one of your favorite things in the world: his hair is always perfectly mussed, voice deep and raspy, and touch gentle and loving. You always wake up happy and warm all over when you feel his arm around your middle, breath hot on your ear as he murmurs a low “Good morning, darling.”

So, you show up at Kento’s place at around 6, a bag of groceries on your arm, just like usual. The two of you work together in the kitchen, each spoon feeding the other small taste-tests, just like usual. Dinner is a quiet, romantic affair, intimate and sweet, just like usual. After the wining and dining, you two curl up in bed and watch an episode of that show you’re slowly making your way through together, just like usual.

And when you end up straddling him, TV already shut off, fingers gently twisting in his soft, golden hair, Kento thinks he can get used to this being added to your usual. His hands are splayed out across your back, keeping you close to his chest as he smiles into your swollen, kiss-bitten lips. And when he starts dropping sweet little kisses—like a saint delivering small blessings—all over your face, who are you to hold back that little whimper in the back of your throat? Who is Kento to deny the surge of desire flaring low in his stomach at your reactions? His hands slip underneath your shirt, playing with the band of your bra as you squirm against him and tilt your head up to kiss him again. He moves further—further than he’s ever gone with you—and runs a finger along the underside of the waistband of your pants, brushing a knuckle against the soft skin of your pelvis.

That’s when everything changes.

The second you feel Kento touch you lower than your stomach you freeze up, jerking away from the soft kiss you’d been caught up in. Your eyes go wide and you scramble off of his lap, breath frantic as you try to calm the spike of panic blurring your senses. You’re trying to keep an eye on Kento—on his movements and expressions and demeanor—but it’s hard with how suddenly you’ve become overwhelmed and it makes you feel scared, the way you don’t know what exactly he’s going to do next.

It was just one touch, it’s okay. He doesn’t know, he didn’t mean it, he wasn’t trying to... It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s—

“Sweetheart? Are you okay? I’m not gonna hurt you, it’s okay,” Kento tries to soothe you, but you look at him like you’re… scared of him and he hates himself for frightening you so bad.

What happened?

He thinks he might have an idea of what may have set you off, and as your breathing becomes more and more erratic, he begins to worry.

“Baby,” Kento starts, tone gentle. “Has someone ever… hurt you like this? By touching you?”

The way you flinch at his words is enough to confirm his suspicions, but Kento stays quiet, waiting for you to respond.

You don’t want to tell him. Your eyes keep darting around, nervous gaze cast down onto the blanket as you think about how you should lie—

But, wait. You promised Kento that you wouldn’t hide things from him, that you’d tell him things about your health and well-being. You really shouldn’t lie to him, not about this, but you really don’t want to tell him.

You don’t want to tell him because you don’t want him to say that it was your fault, that maybe you deserved it. You don’t want to tell him because you don’t want him to start treating you like you’re dirty or shameful, like an embarrassing secret. You don’t want to tell him because you don’t want him to get angry at you for not telling him sooner, because maybe he wouldn’t have loved you all this time—wasted all this time—if he knew. You don’t want to tell him because you don’t want him to tell you that it isn’t a big deal, that you don’t have a right to be so upset over something like this, that you’re overreacting. You don’t want to tell him because you don’t want to ruin this peaceful little thing between you and him with your own issues and nightmares. You don’t want to tell him because—

Crap. You’ve been stuck in your own head for too long. The air feels thick with an awkwardly long silence as you scramble to mash together an appropriate response, but Kento’s patient and he waits without judgement, kind eyes filled with worry.

And you really don’t want to tell him, eyes welling up with tears because you’re stressed and anxious and not sure about what you’re supposed to do.

Finally, you decide to just lie, choking out a pained, “No—” as hot tears spill over your cheeks. You feel horrible and guilty for lying, knowing that Kento has never been anything but upfront and honest with you, but you’ve never been as good and brave as him so you let the lie spread its wings and shield you.

Your breath is coming out in short, stuttered pants as you try to fight the wave of anxiety attempting to drown you, hands coming up to cover your mouth in an attempt to muffle your choked sobs.

You feel horrible.

You feel horrible for lying.

You feel horrible because you ruined the moment of fun you were having with Kento.

You feel horrible for this breakdown, even if you know you can’t help it, because Kento doesn’t deserve to have to deal with this baggage he didn’t ask for.

You feel horrible because being with Kento has helped you come so far out of your shell, but now it feels like it’s all been ruined, like no matter how much progress you make, you’ll never be able to fully heal, fully escape.

You feel horrible because you can’t get those memories out of your head.

You feel horrible because you keep thinking about the last time someone touched you where Kento did.

You feel horrible for ever correlating Kento and his goodness to that person, even if it’s just in your head, even if you can’t help it, even if it’s involuntary because you’re scared.

You just feel horrible. You feel horrible about everything. And when Kento reaches for you, moving to try and gently tug at your wrist, worried about your frantic breathing and the way you seem to be trying to stop your breathing altogether with your shaking hands, you feel even worse.

When you see Kento’s hand move toward your face, you flinch so hard you choke, gasping behind your palm as you squeeze your eyes shut, shoulders tightening up with fear. You’re so on edge right now and your vision is too blurry with tears to properly gauge if he’s angry at you or not, so you just figure he is. You figure he’s seen through your lie and he’s upset with you, upset for a multitude of reasons that just overwhelm you further. You figure that if your tears dried you’d look up and find an angry Kento looming above you, brows pulled low and lips stretched into a disgusted sneer.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Kento gently murmurs, pulling his hand back, interrupting your self-destructive thoughts. “I need you to take a few deep breaths with me—think you can do that for me baby?”

Numbly, through all the noise in your mind, you follow Kento’s voice like a lifeline, nodding with an uncoordinated jerk of your neck.

“Good girl,” he praises you kindly. “Now I’m gonna need you to move your hands away from your mouth,” Kento instructs, adding softly, “Gotta stop holding your breath sweetheart, gotta let yourself breathe, even if your breathing isn’t quite right yet.”

Taking a shuddering breath, you nod again, dropping your hands from your mouth. But, once your hands drop, you stop trying to control your gasping breathing and begin to panic at the heavy heaving of your chest. Now, you’re breathing too irregularly and awkwardly: inhaling when you need to exhale and exhaling over your exhales and struggling to just take a solid breath in because your lungs won’t listen.

Because you’re breathing too rapidly, you’re simultaneously suffocating and breathing too much, escalating your panic. You’re scared and getting lightheaded and it’s too much—one hand comes up to muffle your mouth again almost immediately.

However, this time Kento is prepared, and his voice pulls you back to reality as he murmurs, “Ohhh, baby. It’s okay, it’s okay.” His voice is low and sweet and it makes you pause, instinctively wanting to listen. “I know it’s scary, but you have to keep your hand away from your mouth. Don’t try to restrict your breathing—there you go, there’s my good girl.”

You’ve tugged your hand away again, placing it in your lap as you blink up at Kento through watery lashes.

“Alright, sweetheart, now I want you to focus on your breathing. I’m going to take a few deep breaths and I want you to try to match your breathing with mine,” he says gently. “Does that sound okay?”

You nod shakily, panic ebbing slightly as you listen to his familiar voice and begin to follow the slow rhythm he sets.

“Inhale…. Exhale…”

“Inhale…” Exhale.

Inhale… Exhale….

“Good girl, that was perfect. You’re doing amazing, love,” he praises. You know he’s just being kind—your breath is stuttering and you’re involuntarily mixing up the inhales and exhales—but Kento’s reassurance makes you feel safe and calm regardless.

After a few more cycles of breath, the dizziness fades and oxygen begins steadily flowing through your lungs as you follow Kento’s lead.

Inhale… “Exhale…”

“Inhale… Exhale…”

Inhale… Exhale….

As you continue to try to control your breathing, you reach out to pick up his hand, trying to silently bridge the gap between you two, making the small first move to show him that you’re slowly becoming more comfortable and grounded. He lets you lace your hand in his, thumb comfortingly brushing against the skin of your hand, the touch gently reassuring you that you’re safe.

Soon, you feel confident enough to wordlessly move towards Kento, letting him wrap you up in a comforting embrace. Being in his arms always makes you feel better, and now that you’ve calmed down enough to realize that he’s not going to hurt you, you press yourself into his chest, searching for his steady patience and gentle manner. Your breathing has evened out, and your mind has cleared enough for you to begin flipping back on what just happened. Kento stays quiet, letting you sort through the cascade of emotions you just experienced, but the silence doesn’t feel hostile—it’s welcoming and patient.

You were kissing Kento, and then he.. he touched you and it freaked you out, and then he was talking to you and… And then he asked you a question. He asked if… He wanted to know if—

Oh my god. You lied to him.

Oh god. You need to apologize—own up to what you did and tell him the truth. But as you think about what to do, your breath begins to stumble over itself again and your heart rate picks up, anxiety taking over your senses.

Your eyes fill up with tears and you look up at Kento, saying in a small voice, “Ken? I… I lied to you… earlier.” Your words are continually interrupted by an emerging pattern of involuntary breaths and hiccups, but you continue on, “I… When y-you asked… S-someone has hurt—hurt me.. before… I lied to—to you.”

You’re fully crying now, and Kento tries calming you down, rubbing your back carefully, heart sinking at your tears and the way your breathing begins to turn into struggling gasps again.

“Oh, darling. I’m so sorry,” he murmurs into the top of your head, continuing to gently soothe your back. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Thank you for telling me—my brave, brave girl.”

Kento’s heart hurts. It hurts knowing that you’ve been hurt in the past, that you’re sobbing in his arms because someone hurt you. It hurts knowing that you felt too scared to tell him the truth, and it hurts even more knowing that you feel scared to admit that you lied. He wants you to feel comfortable with him—to know that you should never be scared of him.

“I-Im,” you choke out through gasping breaths, “‘m sorry—I’m sorry, so—sorry. I’m sorry, K-Ken.”

You’re not sure what you’re apologizing for, you just know that you need to be apologizing for something. Maybe you’re apologizing for lying. Maybe you’re apologizing for having been assaulted. Maybe you’re apologizing to try to appease Kento so he won’t be as angry with you for your betrayal—for not being the person he thought you were. Maybe you’re apologizing for not letting him continue to touch you—for stopping before you’re hurt again.

But Kento just shakes his head kindly, patting your back good-naturedly in response. “It’s okay sweetheart. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. Shhhh, shhhhhh, you’re okay, it’s okay, shhhhh,” he coaxes gently.

“I’m sorry—sorry, ‘m really sorry f-for lying to you.” You keep apologizing, barely registering his words to you. All of your guilt from everything has cumulated, and though you’re apologizing for lying, deep down you’re apologizing for much, much more.

“It’s okay, darling,” Kento tells you quietly, ever so patient as you choke on sob after sob. “I’m not upset with you, it’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong, I’m not angry, baby.”

His voice is so achingly gentle, and the way he rubs circles into your back makes your heart break and shatter. How can a person be filled with so much good? You expected anger and rejection, but Kento is being so accepting and sweet it makes you break down into tears. After being mistreated for so long, it feels odd to be embraced so wholly and kindly, and you feel like you don’t deserve to be treated with so much care.

Kento, however, is on a mission to make you feel better. He gracefully waves off your apologies, insisting that it’s okay, that you have nothing to be sorry for. Instead, he apologizes, bowing his head as he begs your forgiveness for overstepping your boundaries. When you shake your head vehemently, insisting he didn’t do anything wrong, he just scolds you gently, “You don’t need to take the blame for everything—it’s okay to give yourself a break. I know I hurt you, and I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I want you to know that I’m deeply sorry. I pushed you past what you were comfortable with and it’s not your fault, it’s mine.”

That makes you go quiet, the silence split only by your uneven and choppy breathing—remnants of the tears still sporadically tumbling from your lashes. Kento’s apology is earnest, and his insistence that you not blame yourself makes you see the situation in a new light.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s okay for you to give yourself a break once in a while. Maybe you didn’t do anything wrong and you’re just so used to being told it was your fault that you’ve come to believe it. Maybe, even if he didn’t mean you any harm, he still hurt you, and you deserved his apology for the way it scared you.

You’re silent for a little while longer, but then you reach up and pat him on the head, fluffy strands of hair ruffled by the act of affection.

“Thank you, Ken,” you tell him with a sweet, forgiving smile. “Thank you for apologizing, but I don’t blame you for what happened. You didn’t know my exact boundaries and you didn’t mean to hurt me. It’s okay, really.”

However, there’s still one more thing in the back of your mind bothering you.

“But… Do you still.. want to be with me? I mean, does it bother you that—that—” You break off, unable to finish your sentence.

“Hey, hey, hey. Look at me, love.” Kento pulls back slightly, one arm cradling your back as the other moves to wipe at a stray tear on your cheek. “This doesn’t change anything, okay? You’re still the same person I fell in love with, and I’m not ‘bothered’ by anything about you. Nothing about this is your fault, and I would never treat it as such.”

You nod, relief written all over your face as you breathe out, “Okay, okay.”

“Seriously,” he huffs. “Where are you getting these silly ideas from? I would never leave you, especially not over this.”

Kento seems almost offended that you think he’d stoop so low, tapping your nose as he clucks his tongue in disapproval. You just shrug self-consciously, a little flustered by how sincere he’s being.

“Okay, then,” you sigh dramatically, scrubbing away at the last of your tears. “I guess I’ll have to just take one for the team and stay with you forever—since you’re obviously so obsessed with me.”

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. “You’re quite generous, entertaining this obsession.”

“Yup,” you confirm, waving a dismissive hand as you continue in a conspiratorial whisper, “It’s your lucky day. I’m running a one-night special where I grant the favors of my fans.” A grin is slowly making its way onto your face, and your smile bleeds into your tone when you tease, “Don’t get too excited though—I know it’s big news.”

Kento has the most lovesick look on his face as he looks down at you, shaking his head in amusement. “Well, I’m certainly one lucky fan.”

And you giggle at that, wrapping your arms around his middle as you snuggle into his hold. “You’re my favorite fan,” you mumble into his shirt, pressing your cheek against his chest to listen to his steady heartbeat.

“Hey, does that mean you have other fans you like?”

—

bonus:

“What are you watching?” You ask, poking your head over Kento’s shoulder to peek at the video he’s watching on his phone.

He jumps up, shutting off the screen immediately, stuttering, “N-nothing, darling.”

You’re unconvinced, reaching for his phone as you squint at him. “Really? You seem awfully jumpy for someone doing ‘nothing,’” you deadpan. Then, you narrow your eyes, accusing, “You better not be watching extra episodes of that kdrama you said you hated without me. I know you secretly love it—it’s okay, you can admit it!”

You’ve got a smug grin on your face and Kento doesn’t even try to fight it as you enter the passcode to his phone (your birthday, of course), accepting defeat and rubbing at his temples as the screen unlocks to the Youtube video he’d been watching. He’d rather endure the teasing than try to wrestle the device away from you and accidentally hurt or scare you in the process.

“‘Helping Someone Who Is Having A Panic Attack,’” you read out loud, glancing up at your boyfriend as your eyes widen, grin slowly fading. You click on his watch history, jaw dropping as you see his recently played videos.

What Is A Panic Attack?

How To Help Your Friend During A Panic Attack

Signs Of Hyperventilation And How To Stop Hyperventilating

Best Breathing Technique To Calm Panic Attacks And Anxiety

What NOT To Say To Someone Who Is Having An Anxiety Attack

“Oh my.. Oh my god. Oh my god, Ken.” Your eyes have welled up with tears. You can’t believe he’s been researching how to help you—you don’t even have words to describe how emotional this makes you feel.

Kento has a sheepish look on his face, a little embarrassed you caught him binging those videos. “Yeah… I uh..” He clears his throat awkwardly. “Just wanted to… yknow…” He shrugs, and it’s pathetic and lame and it makes you love him that much more. “Wanted to make sure I was doing the right thing… Just in case you ever get… scared.. again.” He coughs a little, looking self-conscious. “Not—not that I think it’ll happen again but—”

You cut him off before he can get another word in, practically suffocating him as you wrap him up in a tight hug. Your arms around his neck are squeezing, but Kento doesn’t make any moves to stop you. Instead, he wraps his arms around your waist, turning his head to press a kiss to your cheek as you whisper, “Thank you,” voice thick with emotion.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

—

if you've made it this far: thank you for reading :) please take care of yourself, and for all of my survivors out there, please know that it's not your fault, never will be your fault, and never has been your fault!! i love you all and i hope everybody has a great rest of their summer :D

#nanami kento #kento nanami #nanami kento x reader #nanami x reader #jjk fluff #jjk comfort #jjk fluff & comfort #nanami fanfic #nanami fluff #kento nanami fluff #jujutsu kaisen nanami #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jjk nanami #nanami x you #nanami x fem!reader #nanami kento fluff #nanami kento x you #jujutsu kaisen nanami kento #jujutsu kaisen comfort

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ronearoundblindly · 2 years

Text

Fools Rush In (Oct 28th)

Flufftober Day Twenty-Eight-- picnic

drabble for steve rogers x wife!reader (series)

no warnings, just fluffy WC 688

“Joseph—“ you rummage farther into the book bag “—James Rogers, where is your inhaler? You know you aren’t supposed to leave without it.”

Little bud doesn’t seem to care as he squats, engrossed by the body movements of an earthworm in the dirt at the tree line of the river.

Steve huffs out a laugh. “I put the spare in the basket,” he leans in to whisper.

You can’t help but give him the ‘that’s not the point’ eyes.

“Well, thank goodness I keep an epipen in here anyway.” You shield your eyes in the sunlight, full and almost satisfied after a lovely picnic with your family. You decide to quit fussing for a minute, taking in the sights and sounds of your happy husband and giggling son on this final day before JJ goes to preschool.

Steve smiles at you, bright and beautiful, golden in the rays. “He’ll be fine, love.”

“Mommy,” your boy yells, rushing over with a heaping pile of soil in his hand, not just the worm. “Look!”

“Ooooo. Wow, bud. Can you do that dance?” You tickle his side. “Maybe that’s why we call you wiggle worm, huh?” Another tickle has JJ dropping the dirt on your lap and laughing.

Steve reaches over to pluck the worm and its cousin off your skirt and delivers them to safety behind him. He jumps up onto his feet. “Right. Should we show Mommy your wiggle worm dance?”

He laces two fingers into JJ’s tiny hands to raise his arms up and wobble the boy forward and backwards.

“Like this?”

JJ nearly dissolves in giggles, body morphing to jello against his father’s grip.

“What about this?” Steve dances JJ from side to side instead.

You latch your tickle fingers to your son’s tummy again. “I don’t know, not wormy enough.”

JJ lifts his legs up, and you’re careful to stop there to avoid an asthma attack. He’s just so darn cute when he’s this happy—Steve and JJ both. You try not to get misty-eyed for the second time today, thinking about the long hours your son will be in school, coupled with the few more you’ll be at work.

Steve hefts the boy’s skinny body up into the air, swinging him high. Maybe JJ isn’t gifted with strength from the serum, but he’s happy and healthy enough. Steve worries, you know, because he remembers all the time his own mother spent caring for his many ailments, but as you’ve assured many times, some things are just part of life. We can’t all be super, Sketch.

“Let’s help Mom pack up, ok? Then we can watch a movie tonight. How’s that sound?”

You waggle a finger. “Uh-uhn, boys, not with those dirty hands.” It’s basically 'peel up the blanket and toss it in the bag' anyway. No big deal. “You two head back and wash up. Pick out the movie—“

“ALADDIN,” JJ shrieks.

“Big surprise there,” Steve mutters.

“Aladdin it is, then. You know—“ you lift up without planting your palms in the dirt “—maybe one day you’ll meet Mommy’s friend, Michael, because he’s got blue skin, too. How’s that sound?”

“Yay!!!”

Steve face falls, and you barely suppress your own laugh. Teasing him over his one jealous outburst in nearly a decade is just way too fun to pass up.

You stick out your tongue in mockery, and Steve tries to swoop in to kiss you while it’s still poking out. He doesn’t quite make it, but the kiss is nice enough. He’s a good sport.

“Daddy, pick me up. I want a ride.”

Steve immediately obeys, adjusting JJ’s legs around his neck until settled.

“Again,” he turns back to you, “big surprise.”

“Oh yes, he’s an enigma, that one…”

Steve makes JJ wave from ‘all the way up there’ and say he loves you, and maybe your kid is still young enough to not completely comprehend, but you feel truly loved when both your boys look at you, framed by the light of late afternoon glistening off the Hudson.

It’s the same as everything with Steve has been: not perfect but still absolutely perfect.

divider by @silkholland, challenge details @flufftober

[Day Twenty-Seven, Day Twenty-Nine]

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

@im-a-slut-for-fluff @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @fangirl-swagg @georgeweaslysgirl @austynparksandpizza @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes

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steddieficrecs · 1 year

Text

Best of Steddie

5/?

previous / next

waiting for that feeling by manycoloureddays

Eddie sticks his head out the window, tongue hanging out like a dog. Steve’s hand leaves the wheel to yank him back into the car, and Eddie just cackles, howling at the moon in the pale evening sky, before letting himself be rescued. Not from certain death this time, just the high chance of bug swallowing.

“You’re a maniac,” Steve says, and it should be disgusting, the fondness dripping from his voice. But seven years is a long time, and Steve’s sappiness has yet to make him sick. In fact, he thinks he might have been infected by it. Turned into a big old sap himself.

[It's 1993. Eddie and Steve go back to Hawkins for Erica's graduation and make some plans for their own future]

Future Fic | Established Relationship

don't go on the patio (beware of the pool) by alchemystique

“Hey, what is it called if I like people without boobies?” And that is – well that’s just not fair, is it? Because Robin had spent years fighting herself about it before she was willing to even entertain the idea that she was super not into boys, and even now she panics if some one so much as hints about a predilection that might not be super straight, and Steve is just looking at her with earnest eyes like one cuddle with a dude while some shirtless actor on the TV beat some commies up is all it took for him to come to terms with his sexuality and how is that fair?

“Do you want to tell me something?”

“Yeah, but answer the question first.”

---

Robin gets a front row seat to the Steve and Eddie experience and works through a few hang ups of her own in the process

Robin POV | Getting Together

i wave goodbye to the end of beginning (goodbye) by steveharringtoned

Eddie Munson has been going steady with Steve Harrington for a little while now. He’s learned to expect the occasional disturbance.

In which he observes:

5 times Steve helps the kids, +1 time they help him.

Established Relationship | 5+1 Things

there's blood in my ears (and a fool in the mirror) by fastcardotmp3

“Max! You need a ride home today?”

It might be endearing, the way Steve looks sidelong at Eddie in that overprotective way that seems to sit steady on his shoulders, if it wasn’t also vaguely offensive, but Max heaves out a breath as she places her headphones back on her ears and clicks Bowie back to play.

“Fucking two of you now, can’t escape it,” she mutters under her breath, turns on her heel, and trudges away from them both.

Steve makes a face where he stands at his car.

Eddie waggles his fingers at him with a sly smile until he rolls his eyes, slips back into the front seat, and drives away.

–

A parallel look at the time leading up to Spring Break of ‘86 and everything that happens after Eddie Munson watches his own dying body be dragged through a gate, leaving the rest of him trapped in the Upside Down. Alone. Or mostly.

Post-S3 | Slow Burn

i've been having a horrible time pulling myself together by deadratz

The last thing Eddie thinks as he draws his final breath is that Henderson is gonna need a shit ton of therapy.

But then, Eddie wakes up, gasping for air, and miraculously, he's being rescued.

Now he has to figure out how to live.

Fix-It | Getting Together

#steddie #steddie fic recs #best of steddie

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tears-and-smiles-ao3 · 1 year

Text

The real treasure

Geraskier, Geralt and family, rated M for implied references to chastity, implied/referenced sex but basically family feels

"Oh, come on, Geralt, it'll be fun," Jaskier pleads, all doe eyes as he waves a hand-drawn treasure map around in the air.

Geralt watches him from his seat on the sofa and purposefully ignores what his lover is saying.

Instead, he takes in the outfit Jaskier has chosen to wear. His white frilly shirt is left partially open, showing off his gorgeous chest hair. His open burgundy waistcoat drapes down just inches from where Geralt knows his sensitive nipples lie.

The gold chain Jaskier always wears glistens in the morning light shining through the curtains of their apartment as he stalks over to him. His prowling also shows off how tight his striped pants are, clinging in just the right way to his legs.

When Jaskier marches over and stands before him, Geralt can’t resist raising an eyebrow.

"That's not how you convince me,” he insists, even as Jaskier sits down on his lap. Sighing, Geralt presses pause on his game and sets down the controller in the empty space by his left.

He turns back to Jaskier, giving him his whole attention as the world zeroes in on the pleasant weight of his lover on his thighs.

"Look, you'll love it. You might even get an extra reward," Jaskier encourages, waggling his eyebrows.

"Hmm, and yet we could just skip straight to that part," Geralt suggests, gripping tight onto Jaskier's hips and pulling him flush against him.

Jaskier groans, responding by grinding down for a moment, but then seems to remember his goal. He tuts, putting a hand against Geralt’s chest and pushing himself back to create space between them.

"No sex unless you find all four keys,” he chastises.

He's pouting, and Geralt wants to curse himself with how easily Jaskier can wrap him around his fingers.

"Fine,” he sighs again, “but give me a kiss before you send me on my quest, my prince."

“I’m not a prince, I’m a pirate.”

Despite Geralt getting it wrong, Jaskier smiles, beaming like the sun. His cheeks glow and his eyes gleam. He's magnificent, breathtaking.

His lover leans down, forcing Geralt to lie his head against the back of the sofa. Jaskier’s arms bracket each side and Geralt lets out a soft gasp. He’s being teased and he loves it.

At an achingly slow pace, Jaskier moves towards him. Geralt feels like he can't breathe as inch by inch Jaskier's lips get closer.

The world around them disappears as Jaskier presses his lips against his. They move slowly, building in intensity, and Geralt tries to keep still, warring with his desire to lift Jaskier up and carry him to bed.

Patience. He needs to be patient.

Instead he focuses on the way Jaskier tastes sweet like an apple as he licks inside his mouth.

Geralt growls and Jaskier chuckles in that way he does. It’s so intoxicating and Geralt doesn’t want this to end. When Jaskier pulls back, his mouth tries to follow that delicious taste.

“Uh, uh,” his lover reprimands, picking up the map once again. “You take this, look over it, and then wait 10 minutes for me to get a head start. When you find me, you can have me.”

Geralt whines a little, and Jaskier laughs again.

“Just look at it. Get into the spirit. Oh, and you might want to get changed out of your sweats.”

“Fine,” Geralt grumbles. The quicker they get this over with, the quicker he gets what he wants.

Trust Jaskier to use the promise of sex to get him to behave. He must be so predictable.

Sighing, he looks down at the piece of paper. Jaskier had spent many hours last night drawing it. Geralt thought he’d looked so cute with his tongue sticking out as he worked that he’d tried to kiss Jaskier but his lover swatted at him till he left him alone.

It seems these squiggles are the result, and Geralt’s eyes dart up and down as he tries to figure it out.

A dotted line meanders through a town map. It connects various things: a round plump green hairy berry, a white goat, a black cat and a castle on a mountain. Scratching his head, Geralt stares at the map for longer than he would ever admit.

Then suddenly, his eyes widen and he realises. Scrambling up out of his seat, he rushes to change into black jeans and a tight-fitting top. Then he grabs his jacket and keys, letting the front door slam shut behind him.

Yennefer’s eyes crinkle as she opens the door, watching Geralt barge in without so much as a hello.

“What am I meant to pick up from here?” he demands, already marching towards the sofa and plucking up cushions, tossing them on the floor.

“Geralt, I won’t have you making a mess because you’re annoyed at Jaskier’s game.”

He whips around like a bullet, and sees how she’s standing, one clenched fist leaning against the doorframe and with a sharp look in her eye.

“Fine,” he grumbles, not for the first time today. “But please put me out of my misery.”

“I know for a fact I am your first stop. You’re just tetchy. Stop it.”

Sighing, he lets his shoulder drop. He’s not going to get the answer from Yennefer by demanding it.

He bends over and picks up the cushions, settling them down on the sofa randomly. He’ll never get them into the right order, so why bother.

Yennefer must know he’s at least making an effort because she nods and then jerks her head toward the kitchen.

He pads behind her, like a dog with its tail between his legs. Her purple dress trails across the floor.

She walks up to the teas and busies herself, scooping out several spoonfuls of chopped green leaves into a teapot, then fills it with water.

She sets it on the stove, then turns around and rummages in a cupboard till she finds two matching cups and saucers.

Yennefer always did like being fancy. Adding to the ambience, or whatever she claimed.

“So,” she begins, “how are things?”

He shrugs. “Fine. Same as always.”

“Does Jaskier always send you off on treasure hunts?”

Grunting, Geralt decides he’s not going to answer that. Silence really is the better option most of the time.

The water must reach the desired temperature, because Yennefer wraps a towel around its handle and lifts it off the stove and onto a wooden tray.

“I’ve missed our chats,” Yennefer remarks, rearranging the cups even though there is no need to do it.

Geralt really doesn’t have time for this nonsense, but what else can he do? Stand here and think about how he’s going to pin Jaskier down as soon as he catches him?

It seems mildly inappropriate in front of his ex.

“You know, I was surprised that I’m your first visit, but maybe Jaskier likes toying with you as much as I do. You’re hilarious when you’re angry.”

“Am not,” Geralt huffs, folding his arms for a second, then realising just how it makes him look.

Jaskier is always teasing him for being stubborn. Damn him, he knows him too well.

“Well, maybe not,” Yennefer concedes. “Doesn’t matter why you’re here, I’m just glad to see you.”

She pours tea into both cups, then hands him one.

It smells bitter, acrid, but he’s drunk worse. He takes a few sips to be polite, then sets it down.

He really just wants to get the key and leave.

Just what is Jaskier playing at?

His skin is itching and he needs to move, so he begins pacing.

“I really thought we’d at least stay in touch more,” Yennefer admits.

“What?”

“It wasn’t all that bad, you know. And Jaskier still talks to me.”

He does? Geralt scrunches up his face, trying to figure out why.

“Oh, don’t be an idiot, Geralt. We’re not here bitching about you.”

He grunts, then sits down at the kitchen island. On it is a fruit bowl filled with apples and pears and he picks one up.

“What was the symbol drawn over my house again, Geralt?”

Huh? Geralt looks up at Yennefer and is about to shrug, then a thought hits him.

Gooseberries. They’re a fruit. This is a fruit bowl.

He drags the bowl towards him and immediately begins rummaging through the apples and pears.

He empties the full thing and, sure enough, there’s a small silver key lying at the bottom.

“Yen, what’s this?” he asks.

She turns, cup in hand, and smiles.

“Never could keep things hidden from you.”

He picks it up, turning it around between his finger and thumb.

Is it really that easy?

He looks at her for all of two seconds, then rushes out the room and towards the front door.

“Come visit again,” Yennefer yells after him.

Eskel is in his garage, rustling through his toolbox while Lil’ Bleater gripes at him. The tiny goat is wearing a small woollen pink sweater and jumps menacingly at the floor.

“Just let me find my hammer, Bleater, and we’ll get out and fix that fence together, alright.”

He’s wearing his red sweater and denim overalls, undone at the top so the straps hang around his waist. A screwdriver hangs out his pocket.

“And just where do I find the key Jaskier has hidden here?” Geralt asks, announcing his presence.

Eskel jumps at his voice, hitting his knuckles against the metal box with a clang.

“Fuck,” he swears, hissing as he pulls his hand out and sticks it under his other arm, putting pressure on it. “That really hurt, dickhead.”

Geralt coughs to cover a laugh, looking down at the floor as the tiny goat scrambles over to him on shaky legs, screaming loudly.

“She thinks you’re a dickhead, too.”

“Oh, I definitely am most of the time,” Geralt admits, looking up to see Eskel grinning at him.

He walks over to his brother and pulls him into a large hug. It had been a while since he’s visited, and he’d forgotten how nice it is just to be here with him.

“You should visit more,” Eskel chastises, as if reading his mind.

“I know,” Geralt agrees.

They’re about to pull back from each other when something small but strong bashes against their legs.

“Hey,” Eskel greets, reaching down and petting the little goat. “Let’s get you outside.”

It’s then that Geralt sees it. A small silver key hanging off of Lil’ Bleater’s collar.

“Jaskier, you cruel genius,” he states as he bends over and attempts to grab the key.

Lil’ Bleater has other ideas though, as she runs off, scampering towards the grass outside.

Laughing, Eskel claps Geralt on the shoulder.

“It was my idea. Bleater here needs exercise and you’ll do a fine job chasing her.”

Geralt glares at him, but can’t help the small smirk at the side of his lips.

“You’re welcome,” Eskel says, following his excitable pet out into the sun.

It takes almost an hour for Geralt to finally catch the damned goat, but she seems much happier with him now that she’s exhausted.

Eskel had fixed the fence ages ago and had watched his brother look like an idiot as he chased the small creature across the field.

“I think that’s the best idea I’ve had yet,” Eskel says, walking over to help Geralt get up. “Fancy a drink before you go?”

“Okay, yeah,” Geralt agrees, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Another hour later, Geralt is knocking on the door to Lambert and Aiden’s apartment.

He’s feeling much less keyed up now that he’s had a couple of beers. Perhaps that’s for the best.

Lambert could always antagonise him like no one else could.

Did Jaskier really plan out who to visit when, or is this just a coincidence?

He didn’t get to ponder it further because then the door opens and sees the blonde haired lover of his younger brother.

Aiden smiles, standing in the doorway in his blue shirt and pants, and waits for Geralt to say something.

“Hi, Aiden, can I come in?” Geralt asks.

He doesn’t know why Aiden makes him feel like a meek lamb. Is it the way he stands, arms gripping onto the doorframe? Maybe it’s his eyes that dart back and forth like he’s about to pounce?

Aiden smiles wider and Geralt sees those sharp fangs gleaming in the afternoon light.

“Sure,” he agrees, moving enough out of the way for Geralt to pass.

That’s when he notices a silver key hanging around Aiden’s neck, sitting on top of the golden one he’s always got there.

Geralt has never asked about that other key. He’d rather not get the answer he suspects it is.

Aiden smirks, and, fuck, Jaskier is going to pay for this later.

Probably in ways that he’d enjoy.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter because suddenly he’s walking into the main room and he sees Lambert on his hands and knees cleaning out the fireplace.

“Who was at the door?” his brother asks, still sweeping up burnt ash with a brush.

Geralt clears his throat, and Lambert flinches, turning around.

The pink apron he wears on top of his black t-shirt and slacks makes Geralt splutter, and Lambert scowls at him.

“Hey, asshole. Pretty boy going to help or just mock?”

“Now, darling,” Aiden intercedes before Geralt gets a chance to reply, “we don’t talk to guests in that way.”

For a second, Lambert looks like he isn’t going to back down, but then he sags and stands up, taking off his apron.

“Just going to wash my hands,” he explains as he walks out the room.

“Make sure to bring some scones back, darling,” Aiden calls out into the hall. Geralt doesn’t hear a reply, and Aiden doesn’t seem to care. He turns to Geralt and gestures towards one of two sofas.

Sitting down tentatively, Geralt drums his fingers against his leg while they wait.

Aiden lounges across the other sofa, with a smug look on his face, and folds one leg over the other.

It’s a tense five minutes until Lambert comes back into the room carrying a large tray packed full of scones, cream and jam.

“You didn’t need to,” Geralt begins to say, but Aiden interrupts him.

“Nonsense. This is our afternoon treat. We just assumed you’d be a bit later, is all.”

“What can I say, I always aim to disappoint.”

Lambert laughs at that. “Pretty boy’s got brains, it seems.”

“Tenacity,” Geralt corrects. He’s managed to get himself out of many a scrape in his time, but he wouldn’t call that anything other than street smarts.

“Modest, too,” Aiden chuckles as Lambert hands him a china plate. The scone on it is cut in two, piled high with jam and cream.

His brother hands him a similar plate, then settles down by Aiden’s feet and balances the last plate on his thigh.

The two of them start eating, and Geralt follows suit. All is quiet for a while, until Aiden breaks the silence, standing up.

“You can have the key, you know, after you and Lambert have a nice chat. That’s the deal. Keep your claws retracted.

Aiden gives Geralt a wink before he walks out the door, and then it’s just the two of them.

“Funny it takes our partners working in secret to get us together,” Lambert moans.

Geralt hums, then remembers Jaskier lecturing him about using his words.

Fuck, okay.

“How are you doing?” he asks his brother.

“Fine,” Lambert retorts. “You?”

“Alright, overall. Though this isn’t how I envisioned spending my day.”

“Because you hate visiting family?”

“Because I thought this hunt would involve a lot more running around than chatting.”

“Hmmm. You’ve given me a welcome reprieve from cleaning that, anyway,” Lambert says, pointing at the fireplace.

“Is the pink apron mandatory?” Geralt asks before he can stop himself.

“Hey, I like the colour,” Lambert exclaims, his face flaming.

Geralt shifts in his seat.

“Look, I’m sorry. I’m not a great conversationalist.”

“Well, how about this? You finish clearing out the fireplace and I’ll consider our chat completed.”

Lambert throws the pink apron at Geralt, who catches it and frowns.

“You’d really rather I clean instead of talking?”

Lambert growls, showing his teeth.

“Okay, okay, fine.”

An hour later, Aiden comes back into the room and the fireplace is sparkling.

“Well, that wasn’t too hard,” Aiden comments, holding out the small silver key towards him.

Geralt nods, taking the key and pocketing it.

“I’ll come back another time,” he says, nodding at Lambert before turning to walk out the room.

“I look forward to it, pretty boy,” Lambert teases, and Geralt laughs.

Some things would never change.

It’s been ages since he’d visited his foster dad’s place.

The castle, as Vesemir calls it, is an isolated shack at the base of a large hill. He likes to joke that his home is only for the hardy.

Even if Geralt can understand the desire to carve out his own space like this, it must be lonely sometimes.

His dad is at the door waiting on him, dressed in his usual brown sweater and blue jeans. He could never understand how Vesemir did it. Most people complained that Geralt always sneaked up on them, but his dad always knew when he’s nearby.

“Hello, son. It’s been a while,” Vesemir greets, opening his arms for a hug.

It feels nice, a comfort Geralt had forgotten about.

“I’m sorry,” he says into his dad’s shoulder.

“It’s fine. Not like I’ve been knocking down your door.”

Humming, Geralt lets his father release him of his guilt.

Vesemir pulls back and then nods towards the back yard.

“Come on,” he encourages, “We’ve got wood to chop.”

They both walk around the house, trailing a well worn path through the grass.

Out back, there’s a shed filled with branches and short logs, all ready to be chopped up into firewood.

Geralt heads towards it and grabs a few logs in his arms. He drops them beside the chopping block while Vesemir sits down and pulls out a hip flask.

“Want some?” he asks.

Geralt shakes his head. It’s been a long time since he’s chopped logs and he’s already had some alcohol, though the buzz has long since worn off.

It’s easy work and he gets into a steady rhythm, working through his pile quicker than he expects. He decides to collect a few handfuls so he can keep going for longer without stopping.

The sun is much lower in the sky by the time he finishes, and it leaves long shadows across the backyard.

He piles the last of the firewood into a basket, then rolls his shoulders to ease his aching muscles. He picks up the basket and takes it indoors, dropping it beside the fireplace.

“Thanks, son,” Vesemir says. He moves over to start working on a fire, but Geralt just chases him away.

“I’ll do that,” he states.

Vesemir raises his hands in defeat.

“Fine, fine. I’m going to get another drink. Will you have one with me?”

It’s getting late, but Geralt’s heart aches at the thought of leaving his dad all alone. How could he have put off visiting him for almost a year?

He gets the fire going quickly enough, and then he settles himself down in the chair beside his dad.

“How are things, son?”

“Good,” Geralt answers truthfully, twiddling the glass in his hands. “How’s you?”

“I’m doing alright. I love this place,” he states, gesturing around the room, “but it gets kinda too quiet after a while.”

“Yeah.”

“And life with Jaskier? Have you two made any plans for the future?”

“Marriage? No. No, we haven’t discussed it.”

“You don’t have to, you know. It’s enough to just be together.” Vesemir says quietly, looking down at his drink.

Just how lonely is he?

“Would you like a companion?” Geralt asks.

“Sometimes,” Vesemir admits. “But it’s okay when you boys come round.”

Geralt nods, feeling that pang of guilt in his stomach again. He finishes his drink in one last mouthful.

He’s about to get going when he remembers he’s supposed to find a key.

“Do you know where Jaskier…” Geralt starts asking, only for Vesemir to finish.

“Hid the key? Yes. It’s over on the table.”

“Thanks.” He gets up and clears away his glass, then pours his dad another large measure before he leaves.

“I promise to visit more often,” he vows.

“Next time bring Jaskier. He’s a breath of fresh air.”

Geralt nods, then puts his hand on his dad’s shoulder, squeezes once, then heads out the door.

It’s only when Geralt gets home that he realises he doesn’t know if this is where Jaskier wanted him to go.

He cracks open the door and sees there’s a single light on in their bedroom.

It’s late now, and Geralt has to stifle a yawn as he shuts the front door.

Sneaking across the creaky floorboards is easy. The door to their bedroom is ajar, and he peeks inside and sees the most adorable sight.

Jaskier is lying passed out across the bed covers, his breathing soft and even. He’s wearing bright yellow pyjama bottoms, nothing else, and his brown hair is all mussed up.

Geralt feels tired from his long day out, so he creeps in and undresses. He places the four keys down on the bedside table, then frowns at them.

What’s the point in all this if there is nothing to unlock?

It’s too late to think about it. Instead, he turns around and slowly rearranges Jaskier till he can get into bed with him.

He wraps his arm around him, snuggling his chin into Jaskier’s neck, and lets himself drift off to sleep.

In the morning, Geralt wakes to Jaskier placing kisses across his face.

“Hello, beautiful,” his lover greets, a sly smile on his lips. “Did you enjoy your treasure hunt?”

Geralt looks up at him, trying to get his brain to work. “I got the keys, but there was nothing to open.”

“Wasn’t there? Oh, well. I’ll just need to take back these restraints I bought.”

His eyes widen instantly, and then he grabs onto Jaskier and flips them.

“Hmmm, I’m going to enjoy this. But before you ravish me, did you have a good time yesterday?”

Geralt nods. It was nice seeing his family again. Even Yennefer had been pleasant enough to him.

“Good. That was the plan.”

Groaning, Geralt grabs Jaskier’s hands and holds them above his head. He leans down and kisses him hard.

His little minx is going to be thoroughly taken apart.

Witcher fic masterlist

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #witcher eskel #witcher lambert #witcher aiden #vesemir #for some reason not ciri and i've only just realised that #perhaps she is still with calanthe #the witcher fanfiction #geralt fanfic #geraskier fanfiction #the witcher fluff #tears-and-smiles-ao3 #my fanfiction #cw: implied chastity #cw: implied sex

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raindrenchedstories · 1 year

Text

“Fluffy”

Pam wasn’t sure where she woke up. But there was the smell of fresh organ meat, and fish. She sat up with the mother of all migraines to greet her. Doing a quick once over of herself, nothing was broken, she wasn’t bleeding all over the place, and she for the most part was fine. The leg still ached but nothing new there.

What did catch her off guard was the sight of two men hiding behind a chair, with the look of someone who’d just watched mortifying shit happen. Pam blinked owlishly, and glanced behind her. Nothing there. So she was clearly the source of the panic.

Now that she thought of it, why was she smelling organs and fish? And why was she sopping wet? Pam stood, much to the terror of the two men, and dusted off. They were in some kind of damp cave. It was oddly sporting small features like tables and such, but no more than that.

There was a bay like area, where she finally caught sight of the scent’s source. Fish like beings bobbed in little bits on the water’s surface, split open and partially devoured. It was odd, because she swore she could taste sushi in the back of her throat.

The men were whispering harshly to one another. They probably thought she couldn’t hear them. The blonde man hissed quickly. “Look, we don’t know if she’s going to stay placid. So just stay behind the chair idiot.”

The taller of the two waved his hands uselessly in front of him. “But... You know the stories, she probably doesn’t even remember doing it.” He mumbled back. Pam wracked her brain for the past events. She remembered going somewhere isolated to wait out the moon.

There was something about a very interesting stick. An odd calmness, she remembered two suns for some reason. After that, it was all blanks. Finally she threw her hands up.

“Can someone tell me what the hell happened?” She turned to the two men with nothing but confusion. The taller man flinched.

“W-well ma’am... You kind of... Well we- Ah....” He trailed off, and furrowed his brow. Finally he just flashed her the best smile he could. “Hi! I’m Richter, this is Neil. Those fish men kidnapped us. And apparently you.”

The blond one scoffed. “Yeah. Then you ate them.”

Well, that checked out. But the memories didn’t quite line up. “Alright alright. That... Makes sense as sick as it sounds. Do either of you remember two bright orbs, like suns or something? Like did these guys use any magic?”

Richter blinked and waggled a finger at her. “It could have been Ar-”

“DON’T Don’t you dare say his name. I just got out of his reach. Don’t go summoning him here.” Neil gripped his chair tighter to himself. Now cuddling it like a teddy bear. Again Pam was confused, but at this point she didn’t expect any clear answers.

Pam only really got her bearings when she realized there was no way she got underground on her own. Sure, she could technically burrow, but she’d never done it before. She couldn’t say there was no sign of a struggle, as there were claw marks, torn up furniture and torn up water monsters everywhere. But no chains, the rope the men had apparently been trapped in was too flimsy to hold her. And there was no cage anywhere.

“Was I here before or after you?” She scratched the back of her neck. Something felt familiar with the action, but she couldn’t put a finger on it. She was pretty sure someone had given her scritches when she was wolfed out now.

“You were here before us. The place was already a wreck. Then we got dragged in and... Well you didn’t eat us at least.” Richter rubbed his arms. Determined not to look too closely at the red stains on Pam’s hands.

“W- oh. No I don’t eat people. Typically.” Pam grimaced. She technically didn’t eat monster either. At least not all of them. There was a thought on the tip of her tongue. Suns, scritches, an ominous ‘him’. Pam was certain she was missing something, but honestly she didn’t have the time or patience to parse it out.

Now that she thought of it, she absolutely wreaked of earth and loam. Some kind of spice too. Cologne? Pam sniffed her arm casually, taking no heed to the spluttering of the men behind her. “Weird. I don’t smell like a swamp. Like I’m wet, but I don’t think that’s from being dragged here.”

Neil scoffed. He finally threw the chair down and approached the woman. “Yeah the clothes are a little odd too. What kind of werewolf just casually has clothes that fit?” He lifted her arm and examined the threads, then paled.

“Yeah. I don’t exactly remember buying these, but you make a good point. Comfy though.” Pam eyed the mans expression, he just backed away eyes blown to saucers.

Richter gave a long suffering sigh. “Neil. We’re familiars. It’s not like the big guys are just going to leave us to our own devices.” He took the former weapon against werewolves chair, and sat himself on it. “Archibald probably dragged her out of the woods. If I were a betting man, I’d say Bear was involved too.”

“I’d like to meet this ‘Archibald’.” Pam commented dryly, she wasn’t exactly fond of being described as ‘dragged out of the woods’. Nor was she a fan of being talked about without being spoken too.

As if on cue, the world beneath them shook. Richter just bubbled out a laugh with little concern as everything swelled up below the trio. Pam let out a yelp she’d later deny as they rose far above the cave system. She wasn’t sure how they were shielded any damage on the way up, but she appreciated it as boulders fell below.

The stone that didn’t fall looked to be attached to the monstrosity casually holding the trio of two humans and a werewolf. Golden, piercing eyes snapped to them, like burning suns. Pam pieced it all together from there.

“Richter. Flopsy... And I suppose you’d be Fluffy then miss.” The giant spread his palm for them to huddle on. The men had the comfortable air of being well used to this treatment, Pam on the other hand...

“PUT ME DOWN, PUT ME DOWN!” She scrambled for the edge and was only just caught by the men behind her.

“We’re sixty feet up furball! Where the hell are you going to go?” Neil spat.

“LAnd first and figure it out later.” Pam asserted.

“You see Arch, I said the gal wouldn’t take well to it. She’s got no memory of us.” A fourth, more collected voice spoke. Richter looked absolutely pleased to hear it. “Now put the werewolf down.”

{This was just a mental image, it felt like it needed to stop there. Archibald calls Pam ‘fluffy’ only because he doesn’t actually know her name.}

#G/t #Werewolves #giant #Archibald #Pam #My works #Richter #Bear #Neil

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whirlybirbs · 3 years

Note

"can you stop moving?" w/ cullen? i loved your other piece 🥺

; MAULING —

summary: the hunting party returns.

pairing: cullen rutherford / mage ! inquisitor (lavellan)

word count: 1.2k

a/n: i nearly scrapped this but the dialogue was too much fun, and i strongly enjoy cullen being reduced to a worried ball of anxiety over the herald so,,, y’know...... the other great feat in da:i beside corypheus....... bears

It’s Dorian’s voice that Cullen hears first — it’s a curt shout that cuts through the early spring air. Winter has lingered, and as Cullen pushes up from his bed and through the large doors to his quarters, he hears the desperate call for the healers.

The air is cold against his face. Bitterly so.

It’s early — the sun is just rising over the horizon and as he jumps into his boots, dressed in nothing more than his leathers and tunic, he can hear Sera trying desperately to keep someone’s attention.

Ser Cullen Rutherford can’t help the way his heart sinks.

You had set out with Dorian, Sera, and Bull two days prior — with the supply lines stretched thin after the battle at Haven, a ride through the Frostbacks may provide some game with spring slowing crawling into the days. There’d been chatter of some rams, fennec, and elk being spotted by scouting parties a week earlier. The entire Council had been thankful for this news — Cullen reasoned full bellies may result in an uptick in morale.

You’d been eager to take up the task, and...

“Sure, we can handle it, you said,” comes Bull’s voice, rising above the early morning fray that’s spilling into the courtyard, “Be enough meat for twenty men, you’d said!”

It’s dripping with sarcasm, the angry sort that works itself out of the Qunari under pressure — and as Cullen barrels down the battlements, into the cold air, he finds there’s plenty reason for it.

You’re slipping from the back of Dorian’s mount, into the arms of the healers, when he stumbles upon the scene.

“Oh good,” Dorian croaks, “Now, Cullen is here to witness the height of your stupidity, your worship. Isn’t that nice?”

Cullen’s eyes are wide — and almost immediately Sera has narrowed in on the flash of terrified concern at the gruesome scene before him. She notes that Cullen looks rather disheveled; that tunic of his leaves little to the imagination. Tight in all the right places as Dorian would say. Hm. He’s worried. Cully-wully looks a bit scared.

The trickster is laughing sheepishly, trying to step into the Commander’s view, when you speak up from the spot on the canvas stretcher. A bloodied finger waggles in the air as the healers shush you.

Maker, there’s mirth in your voice. “Worth it.”

“Was it, Inquisitor?” barks Dorian, moving to hand off the reigns of his horse as he rounds Cullen’s side, “Was it, really?”

“What in Andraste’s name happened?” comes Cullen’s voice, finally, as he spurs into action, pushing past Bull and Sera and Dorian to crouch by the healers. His hands are rasied, as if to silence the fray long enough to wrap his head around just why the Herald of Andraste is now laying amongst the mud.

You’re in horrid shape, and the amount of blood painting your robes is not lost on the Knight.

You, suddenly, find your pride has run off — and you feel small under Ser Cullen’s eyes for the first time ever. His hair, all wild blonde tresses that have been muddled with sleep, curls in the morning air. There’s worry etched into his expression and guilt is all that lands on your tongue in reply. It’s like cotton, and suddenly you feel sick.

(...Has he always been this handsome?)

You’re thankful Dorian is the one to respond in your stead.

“Her ‘holiness’ thought that a black bear might be a worthy opponent this morning,” he waves his hands, dark eyes looking incredulously at the woman he considers to be one of his closest friends — it would be almost laughable, the entire scenario, if the carnage wasn’t so horrible, “Something about pelts! And meat! And Maker knows what else!”

You cry out in pain — and Cullen’s gaze snaps quickly at the sight the peeled away bandages reveal. Bull or Sera or Dorian had done a good enough job patching you up, seeing as somehow you hadn’t bled out. The four long drags of a black bear’s claws run down your jaw, along the curve of your neck and shoulder. They’re deep. They’ve painted your tunic crimson.

You shiver. Bitterly, you avert your eyes from the lot of them hovering over you. “I hadn’t anticipated the mother —”

“The...!” Cullen’s mouth snaps shut, “Maker, just how many bears were there?”

At once, the whole party speaks. “Three.”

Cullen, really, can only shake his head and close his eyes. Maker preserve him. “I wish I hadn’t asked.”

“We have,” you inhale sharply as a healer, whose hands glow a warm orange, passes the magic over your cheek, “enough meat to feed the entire camp now.”

Bull tsks. “You almost became a kebab, kid. No use in serving up Inquisitor stew.”

“I —!”

Your voice drowns in the sudden flash of pain. This is a lesson. A rather nasty one. One that you’re hoping doesn’t scar, but... with the way the healers are chattering in hushed tones in Elvish has you imagining just how gnarly the wound is. It certainly felt like a lesson that would lay etched into your skin for months to come.

“Just rest, Inquisitor,” Cullen sighs, and you wonder how hard you’d hit your head on the way down — he looks nothing like his usual part, stripped of armor and furs. Now, in the morning sun, he’s no Knights Templar, no war-born Keeper of Mages, no lion crested Commander of the Second Inquisition.

He’s simply Cullen.

Exhausted, worried, and freezing Cullen.

“You’re going to need your beauty sleep now, my dear,” Dorian chirps, shaking his head, “Gone and ruined your beauty this has.”

Cullen frowns at that. You see it. It’s gone in a blink.

The tension you two had been playing upon for the last month is gone. Evaporated. In its stead, concern lingers. It snatches your breath.

Guilt, still, sits on your tongue.

“The meat...”

Your voice wanders off, finger hanging in the air — but, Cullen catches the meaning. He’ll have requisitions see to it. Sure enough, there’s an obscene amount being towed by Bull’s stead. In a make-shift, stick sled lay three enormous pelts and enough meat to keep everyone’s bellies full for the night.

Then this was not for nothing.

Cullen stands and you both avert your gazes.

“I’ll see to it that it’s cleaned and prepared, your worship,” and then, as he leans from one boot to the other and props his hands upon his hips, he speaks a bit amusedly, “And do get some beauty sleep.”

In the cold morning air, you sense a thaw. Not only of the ground but perhaps between the Knight-Commander and yourself.

And it’s not entirely unwelcome.

#cullen rutherford x inquisitor #cullen x lavellan #cullen x inquisitor #cullen rutherford x reader #cullen x female lavellan #hehe #dragon age imagine #dragon age reader insert #cullen rutherford x you

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teenwolffanclub-me · 4 years

Text

How Drunk Are You? (Stiles Stilinski x Reader)

Summary: You and your best friend, Stiles, can’t decide who’s more drunk after a night out with the pack. It doesn’t take long for your little competition to get out of hand.

Word count: 4,752

Warnings: drunk (but consensual) sexy times

Notes: I got this idea while drunk and may have gotten a little carried away but this one really just spoke to me so here ya go 😅

———————————————————————

You tumble out of the Uber, nearly falling flat on your face before a firm hand juts out of the car to steady you.

“Jesus Christ, Y/N.” Stiles chuckles from behind you as he steps out onto the sidewalk. “You’re way more fucked up than I thought.”

You twirl around to face him, nearly losing your balance for the second time. You furrow your brows and poke a finger into his chest harshly.

“You, sir, are wrong. I’m completely sober.” You wobble a bit in your heels, and he just rolls his eyes before slamming the car door shut and waving off your driver.

He takes only one step forward before his knees buckle, almost sending him crumpling to the ground beside you. He puts a hand on your shoulder to steady himself, breaking into a fit of giggles at his own intoxicated state. He’s trying to be the responsible one but honestly, he may be more gone than you.

You can’t help but laugh along with him as you help each other to your front door. Once there, you try turning the knob before realizing with a huff that you have to unlock it first. You let go of Stiles, who nearly loses his balance again, to rummage through your purse for the keys.

The bag suddenly seems endless as you shove receipts, sticks of gum, lip gloss, and other random shit out of the way to find your keychain. Finally, after what feels like several minutes to your drunk brain, you find them.

“Ah ha!” You call triumphantly and hold them up against your dim porch light.

“Hey. I’ll prove I’m more sober.” Stiles perks up with an idea, his caramel eyes dancing with amusement. “I bet I can unlock the door without looking.”

A laugh bubbles in your chest at the image of him doing that, and you instantly hand him the keys. You don’t think he’s actually coherent enough to succeed, but you know it’ll be entertaining to watch him try.

He waggles his eyebrows at you as he takes the keys and turns so that his back is to the door. He fumbles around blindly, chewing on his bottom lip in concentration. Your breathing slows as your eyes track the movement. You swallow thickly, feeling the familiar attraction you have for your best friend—that you usually keep tightly packed away—rise to the surface.

Admittedly, you’re a horny drunk. You can’t help but flirt with everyone and anyone you encounter while out partying, including your best friends that you’d never consider sleeping with, not even while intoxicated. But Stiles was a different story.

You’d been attracted to the spaz since you met him freshman year, although it was clear nothing was going to happen due to his obsession with a certain raven haired beauty. That was a couple years ago at this point, and he’d moved on, but the two of you were much too close to act on any lingering feelings now.

You laugh again as he continually fails to unlock the door, and decide to help him out. You lean forward, your chest only an inch away from his, and wrap your fingers around his hand. He stiffens against you, but you don’t notice through your drunk haze.

You peer over his shoulder and guide the key to where it needs to be, easily unlocking the door within seconds.

“You lose.” You quip, standing up straight to smirk at him before popping the door open and skipping inside.

What you don’t see is the way Stiles stands there for several moments collecting himself. You hadn’t even done anything, he thought. You’d barely touched him and here he was, clutching his chest in an effort to slow his racing heart. He was so screwed, being alone with you right now, but he was also way too drunk to do anything about it.

He clears his throat and finally walks inside, closing and locking the door behind him. Even while completely plastered, he knows a random supernatural creature could attack at any moment. Not that a wooden door would do much to keep them out, but the action was just muscle memory at this point.

He finds you lounging on the couch, your legs dangling over the armrest. He scratches at the side of his head as his eyes trail over you, trying his best not to make his simmering lust obvious. You were easily the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and that was when you were wearing sweats.

Right now, with you laying there, your skirt riding up and your breasts peaking out from the low neckline of your crop top, he was finding it hard to control his attraction.

“It’s my turn.” You push yourself up onto your elbows and let your eyes sweep around your living room and kitchen. “I bet I can make the fries I have in my freezer without burning the whole place down.”

Stiles groans excitedly at the idea. Anything greasy sounds like the absolute best thing he could put into his stomach right now. He nods encouragingly and you sway to your feet, giggling as you almost fall once again. You take a detour and slide your heels off at the front door, sighing with content as your feet finally relax.

He follows close behind you as you prance your way into the kitchen, telling himself it’s to keep you safe but knowing it’s actually because it gives him an amazing view of your ass. You preheat the oven and pop the freezer open before crouching down to rummage through your cabinets for a pan.

Stiles wants to avert his eyes. He wants to be a respectable young man and not openly gawk at his best friend, but he can see the edge of your red lacy panties with you bending over like that. He chews on his bottom lip and watches as you search for whatever it is you’re looking for. He can’t even remember what you’re supposed to be doing with your body on display like that.

You finally find the right pan for the job and pull it out with a triumphant smile before standing upright, much to Stiles’ dismay. You place the baking sheet on the stovetop and pour out a heaping pile of fries before resealing the bag and putting them away.

You turn on your heel to face your best friend, who was still somewhat in a daze, giving him jazz hands with a big grin.

“Ta-da!” You bounce your way over to the large island in the middle of your kitchen, proud of yourself for completing the first step of your bet.

Stiles’ hooded eyes follow you, his heart racing in his chest. He honestly can’t believe how lucky he is to call you his best friend. The two of you—along with the pack of course—had gone through so much the last few years. It was a miracle any of you were still alive, although not all of you were.

It was with the realization, that life is short and that he loves the shit out of you, that he decides to throw caution to the wind. You jump up onto the island, blissfully unaware of the breakthrough he just made. He gulps, the sight of you level with him now, your mini skirt all hiked up around your thighs and your tight crop top giving him a peak of midriff almost too much to handle.

He isn’t sure if he’ll regret this in the morning, but he’s also too drunk to care. Right now, he wants you more than he’s ever wanted anything. He walks toward you slowly, his eyes trailing up and down your form as if it’s the first time he’s seeing it.

Your brows furrow at his sudden change in demeanor, the darkness swirling in his caramel eyes too hard to decipher from this distance. You watch closely as he moves forward until he’s only a foot away. He leans down, still taller than you even while you’re sitting on the counter, each of his hands bracing against the marble beside your hips.

“Stiles...?” Your voice trials off in question as you search his face.

“I bet,” He swallows down the last bit of hesitation bubbling in his throat and lets his eyes flutter down to your lips. “You won’t kiss me right now.”

Your breath catches at his words. Your eyes widen and you aren’t even sure you heard him correctly. Your mind instantly starts racing with questions. Is he just saying this because he’s drunk? Or could he possibly return the feelings you’ve been harboring for years?

To be completely honest, you don’t really care. You’ve wanted him for so long, and he looks ridiculously enticing in his red flannel and black bomber jacket. It was the alcohol that made you do it, sure, but it was more so the fact that you’ve wanted to kiss this man since you met him.

You cup the sides of his face and jerk him down to you, closing those last few inches. Your lips wrestle with his and he stiffens against you as if surprised, despite being the one to initiate this. The kiss isn’t pretty. It’s messy and heated. A battle of tongues and teeth as both of you fight for dominance.

One of his hands moves to your exposed knee, the other gripping your waist firmly. He lets out a broken moan against you, his head tilting to give him more room to devour you. Your hands tangle in his hair and you arch into him as his long fingers tentatively slide beneath the edge of your crop top.

Internally, he’s freaking the fuck out. He didn’t think you’d actually do it. He fully expected you to laugh the bet off and move on, but here you are. Kissing the shit out of him. He knows that he will never be able to come back from this moment. No matter what happens after this, he has to have you.

You pull away first, breathless, not from the kiss itself but because it’s him. It’s Stiles. Your best friend. You’re honestly a little surprised that he’s such a good kisser. Sure, he’s had girlfriends over the years, but damn.

The two of you sit painfully still for several moments. Stiles is afraid that if he moves even an inch, he’ll break whatever spell had come over you. He leans forward minutely, desperately wanting to kiss you again, but you press a hand to his chest and practically shove him away.

His eyes widen as he stumbles back, nearly falling to the floor, panic tightening in his chest. Did he fuck up? You regret it already? Is everything ruined forever?

You chew on your bottom lip as you look at him. His hair is all wild, his cheeks are flushed, his lips are plump and glistening. He’s sex on legs, and you’ve barely even gotten a taste. That one kiss is all it took to ignite the lust that’d been simmering within you all night.

You pull in a shaky breath, knowing that if you’re ever going to make a move, it has to be right now.

“I bet,” You say slowly, your voice low and sultry as you watch his eyes flicker over your face. “I can make you hard without even touching you.”

Stiles sputters silently, brain short circuiting at your words. He’s frozen in place. He wants to pump a fist into the air because this is actually happening but his muscles won’t move. He just nods, his eyes wide and mouth agape.

You giggle at his dumbstruck expression as you jump down from the island, the food on the stove completely forgotten. The edge of your lips twitch up into a smirk when you take a small step toward him and he stiffens. A surge of confidence moves through you at the sight of unmistakable desire in his eyes.

You hold his gaze as you grip the edge of your top and peel it over your head slowly. You’re suddenly very grateful that past you chose to wear your favorite matching red lacy set. Stiles’ eyes instantly trail down your exposed torso, although they keep flickering back to your breasts as if unable to look away.

You run your hands slowly along your shoulders, over your chest, and down your stomach. Stiles watches every one of your movements like they’re supplying the air he needs to breathe. You push your thumbs into the waistband of your mini skirt and pull it down a fraction of an inch before letting it go with a snap against your skin.

Stiles jumps at the sound, his glazed eyes locked onto the place your hands had just been. You take a few steps toward him, swaying slightly, and can’t help but giggle. This situation really is pretty ridiculous. You’re in your kitchen, preforming a strip tease for your best friend. It’s not something you ever thought you’d do.

You don’t stop until you’re only inches away from his heaving chest. You bat your eyelashes up at him and turn around so your back is just a hairs length from him. You bend over slowly, flicking your hair over your shoulder to look up at him as you wiggle your hips sensually.

You hear his shaky intake of breath and can’t help but smirk. If you’d known the effect you had on him, you would’ve done this years ago. He’s absolutely itching to touch you. His fingers are twitching at his sides in anticipation, but he doesn’t want to overstep your boundaries.

He wants to take you. To claim you as his. Pull you back against him and ravish you like the goddess you are. But he holds himself back. The ball is in your court, and he’s going to let you have your fun until he’s sure you’re ready for him.

You stand up straight and turn to face him, eyes skimming down to the obvious bulge at the front of his jeans. A slow smile pulls at your lips.

“You lose again.” Your voice is barely above a whisper. You’re afraid that if you speak any louder, it’ll break this tension, this electricity between you.

It’s at this moment that he snaps, his earlier thoughts instantly forgotten. He just can’t take it anymore. He’s been restraining himself for years and right now, after the show you just gave him, he can’t wait even a second longer to have you.

At once, you’re in his arms. He leans forward and captures your lips with his, sliding his palms down the backs of your legs before hiking them up around his waist. You squeal against him and tighten your thighs to hold yourself up.

His hands are on your ass, kneading the soft flesh as he blindly walks both of you toward the stairs. He doesn’t need to look. He has the entire layout of your house memorized after being here almost daily for years. He clambers up to the second floor, staggering and pausing a few times to deepen your kisses.

You feel feverish. His skin on yours is causing some sort of reaction. You’re burning up, hot crackling desire twisting in your stomach. You don’t even realize that he shoves his way through your bedroom door until he tosses you onto your bed. You bounce a few times, bracing your hands on the soft mattress to keep yourself upright.

Your eyes widen at the sight of him at the foot of your bed. He’s looking at you with this heat, this need. It makes you want to give him anything he asks for. You’re his, whether he knows it yet or not. You’re completely gone for your spaz of a best friend.

He suddenly takes a step forward and grips your ankles in each of his hands. He jerks you toward him until your legs are dangling off the edge of the bed. He pulls them apart and stands between them before dropping to his knees. Your eyes widen knowingly, a spark of excitement igniting in your chest.

“I bet I can make you cum in less than five minutes.” He smirks at the awestruck expression overtaking your face.

You nod your head enthusiastically, wanting nothing more than for him to ease the throbbing need between your legs. He runs his fingers up your shins, torturously slow, before stopping to squeeze your thighs gently. His eyes never leave yours as he moves higher and higher, dangerously close to exactly where you want him.

Stiles leans up and connects your lips again, this time a languid kiss as he lightly guides you down to the bed. You prop yourself up onto your elbows as he peppers gentle kisses down the column of your throat. A shudder moves through you at the feeling of his hair brushing against your heated skin as he moves across your collarbone.

He traces a path down your chest, stopping at your breasts to lap at your hardened nipples. You moan loudly, the feeling of his warm breath against you, along with the course material of your lacy bra enough to make you cum on its own.

He moves lower and lower until his fingers slide beneath the waistband of your skirt. His lips never leave you as he tugs it down over your hips before discarding it somewhere on the floor behind him. Your panties quickly join the pile as you shiver on your bed, dripping core now exposed to the chilly air of your bedroom.

Stiles’ darkened eyes flicker up toward yours as he parts your thighs and dives between them. You cry out when his tongue expertly brushes your clit, throwing your head back against the mattress. One of his hands glides up to squeeze your hip, while the other teases your entrance.

A pitiful whimper escapes you when he inserts a finger. It’s so long and thick and wow you’re really doing this with your best friend. He groans against you, sending delicious vibrations through your body. One of your hands tangles in his hair, pulling harshly when he flicks his tongue against your sensitive bud again.

You steal a glance down toward him and feel your heart swell at the look he’s giving you. His eyes are shining with adoration as he laps at your core like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

Your eyes roll back when he pushes another finger inside you and starts pumping them quickly. You feel your stomach tightening already as his free hand snakes up to pinch your nipples delicately.

“Stiles...” You murmur breathlessly, back arching as another wave of pleasure crashes down onto you.

He nearly explodes in his jeans at the sound of his name on your lips like that. His eyes pinch shut as he tries to reel in his own desire so he can fully focus on you. He groans against you at the feeling of your core clenching around his fingers. He pulls them almost completely free before slamming them back inside, smirking at the way it makes you whine.

All it takes is one more lick against your clit, and you’re coming. You cry out, your body trembling from head to toe as intense waves of pleasure move through you. Stiles can’t help but moan at the sound as his free hand slides across your stomach to push you down against the bed.

He doesn’t stop until you sag against the mattress, completely spent. He finally pulls away, wiping his mouth clean with the back of his hand as a big grin overtakes his face. He’s been wanting to do that for way too long, and honestly can’t believe it just happened for real. He’s imagined it enough times to know it would be amazing, but that had exceeded his expectations.

You’re the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen. All sweaty, flushed chest heaving, pupils blown wide from pleasure that he gave you. A sense of pride swells in his chest at the fact that he was able to make you feel so good.

Once you snap out of your blissful haze, you sit upright and jerk him toward you. You hungrily devour his lips, not feeling the least bit satiated by that mind blowing orgasm. You want—no, need—him. Right now.

He clambers up onto the bed, one of his hands moving to cup the back of your head as he climbs on top of you. You slide your hands along his shoulders beneath his flannel and practically rip it from his body. Next comes his undershirt, followed by the belt around his waist.

Your shaky hands fumble with the button of his jeans for a few seconds before he bats them away to undo it himself. Within seconds they’re gone too, joining the pile of clothes on your carpeted floor. You drag your fingers down his broad chest, pausing over the small patch of hair between his pecks.

He shudders against you, lips leaving yours to suck and lick his way down your neck. You palm him through his boxers and he grunts lowly, stiffening at the feeling. A trembling sigh falls past your lips as you explore his hard length through the thin fabric.

Suddenly impatient, you use both hands to pull the barrier down, eyes widening as his cock springs free. It’s so much bigger than you imagined. You’d spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about your best friend’s dick, but it still hadn’t prepared you for the real thing.

You wrap your fingers around him and he freezes against you. He presses his forehead to your shoulder as you pump him slowly. A moan rumbles through your chest at the feeling of him so exposed, so primal on top of you.

All he can do is huff out a few quick gasps as just your fingers set his body ablaze. He honestly feels like he might combust with the way his heart is sputtering in his chest. It takes every ounce of his willpower to peel your fingers away from him. He knows he won’t last long and he desperately wants to be inside you.

“Can I...is it okay if...” He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say. He’s so tightly wound, so high off your presence that he can barely string his thoughts together.

“I have condoms.” You breathe, trying to convey with your eyes how much you want this. How much you want him.

He swallows thickly, hesitating for only a moment before sliding onto the floor to rummage through the bedside table you’d gestured toward. He pulls out a single foil packet and moves to sit next to you on the bed. He glances between his shaky hand and your eyes, suddenly needing reassurance.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” He breathes, heart clenching in his chest at the possibility of you saying no.

Even if you do, he has to give you this moment to decide. He’s painfully aware that both of you are very intoxicated and may regret this in the morning. But he also knows that he’s wanted you for years and it might just kill him to stop now.

You trail your fingers along the side of his face, eyes rounding at the respect he has for you. You really love the idiot sitting in front of you, a realization that makes you lean forward and close the distance between you.

“Stiles,” You mumble against his lips. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I’m going to lose my mind.”

His eyes widen in shock at your urgency and he chuckles, tearing the small package open and rolling the condom on quickly. He reconnects your lips and pushes you down onto the bed gently. You wrap your arms around his neck, playing with the hair at the base of his skull.

Your head tilts back, a long moan escaping you as he enters you in one swift motion. His eyes pinch shut tightly as he braces a hand against your headboard to steady himself. All he can do is grunt and gasp for air as your heat clenches around him. After only a few trusts, he knows he’s going to explode any minute.

He slides an arm under your arched back and turns you both so that he’s now laying on the mattress. Your knees settle on either side of his thighs and his brows furrow as he grips your hips tightly.

“Please...” Stiles groans, not even sure what he’s asking for. You’re everywhere. Around him, on top of him, your delicious smell is enveloping his every sense with his head on your pillow. It’s all too much.

You press your palms onto his chest and swirl your hips, pulling a broken moan from him. You lift yourself up before gliding back down slowly, wanting to see how long you can tease him before he’ll snap. The memory of the way he’d lost control earlier has your core clenching around him. You want to see that again.

“Y/N, I c-can’t...”

You lean down to steal a quick kiss, almost instantly reading his mind. He flips you over again, sliding his tongue along your bottom lip as he starts pounding into you, hard. Your head knocks into the headboard with each of his jerky movements, but you don’t care.

Your stomach tightens and you whimper, not expecting to cum again so quickly. None of your other partners had ever gotten you off more than once in a session. Stiles brings a hand down blindly to rub quick circles over your clit and you cry out against his lips.

Within seconds, you’re both tumbling over the edge, a chorus of moans and shaky breathing the only sound in your otherwise quiet bedroom.

He collapses onto the bed beside you, chest heaving as he tries to make sense of what the fuck just happened. The lustful haze is clearing from his mind as his orgasm fades away. He’s left laying there, his best friend—who he just fucked—only inches away.

He lets his eyes trail over to you slowly, honestly terrified of what he’ll find. He needs to know what you’re thinking. His eyes search yours, but they’re guarded. Unreadable. He instantly starts panicking, heart sputtering in his chest as he bolts upright and quickly discards the condom in your trash can.

Your brows furrow from your position beside him, surprised by his sudden movement. A wave of exhaustion comes over you. It’s a mixture of the alcohol and the mind blowing sex you just had, and all you want to do is sleep it off.

You reach forward to clasp a hand around Stiles’ wrist, stopping him just before he stands from the bed. “Where are you going?”

Your heart falls into your stomach at the thought of him trying to run away from what you’d just done. There wasn’t a single part of you that regretted it. You wanted to do that since you met the idiot, so there was no way you’d be going back on it now.

You honestly didn’t even care if the two of you ever slept together again. You just needed him in your life. You weren’t going to let him disappear on you just because you gave into a night of passion.

“Oh. I-I didn’t know if you...you know, would want...” He stammers, eyes widening at the frown on your face. Maybe he misread the situation.

“Of course I want you to stay, you big dork.” You chuckle, tugging on his arm again.

His lips twitch into a grin, relief washing over him. He crawls back into the bed, peeling your comforter away so that you can join him beneath the warmth. You instantly curl into his chest, his arms wrapping around you in a familiar gesture. You’d cuddled many times before, but never like this. Never naked.

Stiles tries thinking of anything else to fight off his growing erection. Now was not the time for round two. You were basically asleep against him, your breath slowing to an even rhythm. He pulls you in tighter and lets his eyes flutter closed, knowing there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

The last thought that flickers through his mind before he drifts off is that he could definitely get used to this new aspect of your relationship. He only hoped, come morning, that you’d feel the same.

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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years

Text

Fade

CW: Stab wound, descriptions of wound-packing and stitches, brief reference to child abuse, blood, passing out, talk of going into shock

Follow-up to Jake Being Stabbed

Everything smells like blood.

The smell of it is thick and sticks to the inside of his nose, coats his tongue with the memory of copper-salt-sweet, like when he lost a tooth as a kid by pulling it out, too impatient to wait. Every breath comes with an answering flush of agony radiating from the blurry handle he can see sticking out of his shoulder, he feels sick with pain down to his fingertips, out through his chest.

His heart beats in hammers, working too hard to keep pushing blood that doesn’t want to stay inside him.

His eyes are on the ceiling fan spinning lazily above his head. He needs to change those light bulbs, he thinks. Soon.

“Ne dvigaytes', Misha,” Antoni says, leaning over him, shaggy hair over distant dark brown eyes. Whatever Antoni sees, it’s far, far away from him. But his fingers move quickly, don’t press too hard. “Eto budet bol'no.”

Bol’no. Jake knows that one.

“H-hurt,” He repeats, eyebrows furrowing a little. The ceiling fan is starting to make him feel dizzy.

Or maybe that’s the blood loss.

“Hurt... p-painfully.”

“Da,” Antoni murmurs, emotionless, flat as the side of the knife, and Jake turns his head a little - oh, the world spins when he does that - and sees Antoni’s long fingers closing around the handle of the knife.

“Shit,” Jake whispers, realizing a half-second too late - or early, it doesn’t fucking matter, does it? - what Antoni is about to do. “Wait, Ant, don’t-”

“Nyet doktora, nyet bol’nitsy,” Antoni whispers. “Tol'ko brat'ya.”

“Oh, fuck, no.” Jake allows himself the whimper that escapes without his consent, he tells himself he allows it. His uninjured arm tenses as he closes his hand into a fist, closes his eyes, tries to shut out his knowledge. “Antoni, it’s gonna-... I’ll fucking b-bleed out-”

“Nyet,” Antoni mutters. “Etot byl slishkom napugan chtoby ubit' tebya, ya dumayu.” He pauses, and Jake cracks an eyelid to see Antoni holding out a cooking spoon, the handle horizontal in front of his face. “Bite down,” Antoni says in English, his accent heavier than Jake has ever heard.

But... he thinks... Chris has probably heard him speak like this.

He opens his mouth, obedient and terrified, and the wooden tastes odd against his tongue as he closes his teeth around it.

“This will hurt,” Antoni says, and picks up the towel again, hovering it over the knife he is gripped tightly onto. “Very much. Bite down.”

He pulls the knife out of Jake’s shoulder in one smooth motion.

Jake’s back arches off the floor, his head jammed back against the tile, as he screams around the spoon, veins standing out in his throat. Antoni jams the towel against the wound in nearly the same second the knife exits and the sharp pain of the blade is replaced by the overwhelming throb of cloth being forced not on but in to the bloodied gash.

Jake keeps screaming, eyes wide open now, vision white and gray and sparking every color there is and several he’s pretty sure he can’t usually see, as Antoni packs the wound with careful, precise, efficient speed.

“At first I think it go through,” Antoni says, almost idly, as if this is nothing more than the average Saturday night for him. “But I see now is blood from front pooling on floor. A good sign. Tonight we fail. What if you leave fingerprints, hm? What then?”

Jake’s screams taper off into grunts, forcing air through his nose, his hand in a fist beating ineffectually against the floor just to have something to do. He’s going to black out. He’s going to black out. He’s going to-

“Yeshche raz, Misha.”

Antoni pushes the cloth viciously further into the wound and Jake’s world goes dark.

He swims up from darkness to pain he can’t understand, that his mind simply sets aside and refuses to acknowledge. His shoulder burns like it’s being slowly torn off of his body and he whines, eyes still closed, afraid of the light that turns the backs of his eyelids red.

It was bound to happen eventually.

He’d gotten worse and worse.

They didn’t leave in time.

They can go now, though. Right? This will be enough, right? He shudders as his arm is jostled a little, tears running from the corners of his eyes to soak into the short hair by his ears, run further, drip to mix with the blood on the floor below.

This has to be enough to be worth leaving for good this time, right?

“Mom-... fuck, Mom, y-you okay? Shit, shit, h-hurts, Mom, we gotta go, we gotta go-... he’s gonna kill you-”

“Sssshhhh,” She whispers, running her fingers through his hair. Her voice is deeper, but he knows who it is, then. Where he is. When he is. “It’s okay, Jake. I’ve got you. Dr. Masood is here. It’s okay.”

Jake’s eyes open and her brown hair swings around, in waves, she must’ve taken her braid out before someone called her. Nat smiles down at him, concern written in the way her eyes travel over his face, in the tightness of her jaw and the way the lines of her face stand out more than ever, etched in stone.

“Nat-... h-he didn’t do it on p-purpose, he thought-”

“I know,” Nat says, softly. There’s a spike of pain and Jake turns his head to see the flash of light off a thin needle and unmistakable stiff black thread. He stares at it, barely able to comprehend what’s happening.

Dr. Masood doesn’t look at him. He is far to focused on stitching closed Jake’s shoulder. His own lips are a thin line, and there is nothing but determination in his dark eyes, in the swift motions of his hands, expert, unshaking.

“Chris told me,” Nat says, running fingers through his hair again, reaching to gently turn his eyes back to her. “That, um, he said his name is Jameson... thought you were someone else. I don’t care about that right now. Just look at me, Jake. You’re not going to bleed out, I don’t think, but you sure gave us a fright.”

“All... all in a day’s work,” Jake says hoarsely, and Nat smiles for him, shaking her head slightly. He blinks a few times - the sharp pain of the stitches is... less present, somehow. Less insistent. He feels a little distant from it, drifting somewhere just beside his own body, not really inside it.

That’s probably not good.

“Where-... where’s... Chris, Ant, everybody-...” He trails off, unable to find the energy to keep asking.

“Chris is in your room with Kauri,” Nat answers, reaching over to take his good hand, right hand, his uninjured arm, closing her fingers around his. He can barely feel her grip. “Ant... I don’t know. I think in the bathroom upstairs. Everyone else is in their rooms.”

“Kauri.” Jake tries to move, and then groans and collapses back to the floor again. “Kauri, shit, he must’ve come back and seen-”

“Kauri called me,” Nat says quietly, evenly. Her voice is careful, not exactly emotionless but not shaking, either. There’s nothing but warmth and certainty there, and Jake lets himself rest in it. “He wasn’t making much sense, and I got here as fast as I could. Chris filled me in once I did. He was-... having some trouble, but he got the words out. Dr. Masood is going to get you sewn up and stabilized.”

“Antoni did excellent work packing the wound,” The doctor is murmuring to himself. “Quality work. Fresh clean cloth, not sterile but better than anything else in your average household... this is shockingly clean for a stab wound, the assailant missed major... everything, really, what absolute good fortune-”

“Dr. Masood?” Nat raises her eyes, and the doctor pauses in his meticulous work to look at her. “His fingers are cold.”

“Numb,” Jake corrects her in a mumble.

“What?” Dr. Masood’s eyes move to Jake, now, but there is no change in his expression of focused scrutiny.

“M’fingers... numb. Can’t really feel Nat’s hand.”

“Hm.” Dr. Masood goes back to work. Jake thinks he’s working more quickly now. “Natalie, what is Jakob’s blood type?”

“Uh...”

“O positive,” Jake manages. He remembers having to know this for the hospital as a kid. “’M O positive.”

“Lucky you,” Dr. Masood says quietly, and then sits back on his heels, looking up at Nat. Looking at him to jake feels like looking through a campfire, everything wavy and woozy and strange. He feels drunk, and cold. And like he’s looking at himself from across the room.

He tries to waggle his fingers in a wave. Hey, me.

Dr. Masood is frowning now. “Go to my car and bring in the cooler you find there. It’s not too large, it shouldn’t be hard to carry.”

Oh, the white around his eyes is back, pushing in on his vision, wiping it clean. White and gray and black and red.

What’s red and black and white all over-

“Fuck,” Jake whispers. “Chris is... gonna freak out.”

“Too late for that,” Nat says, matter-of-fact. “We can handle that later. Doctor Masood, why-”

“Jakob needs blood,” Dr. Masood says simply. “And I have been told there will be no visit to a hospital. I can provide some care here. Call your friend who does EMT work, they will be better at emergency stabilization than I am.”

“They might be busy-”

“Then tell them to stop being busy. Jakob Stanton needs blood.” Dr. Masood’s eyes are on Jake’s face again, and his lips thin even more. “I do believe he needs it right now.”

Jake stares back at the doctor’s wavy, shivering face until his vision fades to black.

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @whump-tr0pes @raigash @moose-teeth @orchidscript @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @eatyourdamnpears @boxboysandotherwhump @vickytokio @whumpfigure @outofangband @downriver914 @justabitofwhump @thehopelessopus @butwhatifyouwrite @yet-another-heathen @nonsensical-whump @newandfiguringitout @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whumpiary @orchidscript @outofangband @endless-whump

#jake the shelter guy #stabbing #whump #blood tw #stitches tw #mild gore #wound packing tw #blade #knives tw #stab wound #passing out tw #injured caretaker #caretaker turned whumpee #box boy universe #bbu #natalie yoder: here to help the rescues #dr. masood #going into shock tw #dissociation tw

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guqin-and-flute · 3 years

Text

[You know how there’s a set of fics I promised to work on first? Apparently that was a lie! 😘 This is just epilogue, Post-Reconciliation fluff with teenage Jingyi--he’s probably 15-16 CW: Moderate descriptions of dead bodies and injuries in reference to a game they’re playing]

[3zun Raise Jingyi AU] [Main Fic][Ao3 Link]

“Are you you cold?”

“Oh yeah, very.”

“Are you animated?”

“No.”

“Do I know you?”

“Nope.”

“Hmm.” Yellow-Father flipped the page of the book he was examining, eyes still on his work. “Are there obvious wounds?”

“Yup, my organs are all chewed up, throat torn out, and...let’s say my nose is gone.” Jingyi thumped his chin into his hands, sticking his legs straight out under the low table in the middle of Yellow-Father’s office, idly waggling his feet.

Next to him at the table, Gray-Father looked like he was falling asleep, his cheek all smushed against his propped up fist, eyes mostly closed, but he still grunted, “Shape of the teeth marks?”

Jingyi squinted into space and wrinkled his nose, considering. “Oblong?”

Yellow-Father twitched a half smirk without looking up from what he was signing. “Oblong teeth?”

“No, oblong...jaw shape or whatever,” Jingyi waved his hand dismissively, wiping away his previous words before drawing a long, thin U-shape in the air with his index finger.

Gray-Father cracked one eye open to take in the sketch, then closed it again. “Not a fierce corpse, then.”

With an air of exaggerated mystery, Jingyi shrugged, then sprawled backward on the floor so he took up the rest of the walkway in front of the door. “Whoooo’s to say? Is that your guess?”

“Boy, I said it wasn’t a fierce corpse, why would that be my guess?”

“Well, you’re trying to fish for unauthorized information, Chifeng-zun, you gotta play by the rules,” Jingyi shot back sternly, jabbing a serious and admonishing finger in his direction.

Though his eyes were closed, it was very clear that Gray-Father rolled them.

Yellow-Father heaved a sigh and drummed his fingers idly on his desk, gaze roving over the piles of paper as he sucked on his teeth in thought--though, Jingyi had to admit, probably not just about their game. Yellow-Father seemed to operate on several levels at once at all times. “Are there deep puncture marks?”

“Uhhh...sort of?”

Finally, Yellow-Father looked up to shoot him an amused glance over his desk edge. “’Sort of?’ That’s hardly fair or specific.” Rising, he gathered a stack of scrolls and came around his desk, stepping easily over Jingyi’s supine form before rapping smartly on the door with his knuckles.

“Like...teeth marks are technically puncture marks.”

After a moment, the door slid open and a harried looking Jin courier took the pile without a word and disappeared down the hall. Yellow-Father closed the door and turned back. “Yes, I suppose. I’m asking specifically about fangs.”

Lolling his head over, Jingyi watched as he stepped back over him without even looking, robe hem brushing over his belly. He barely fought the sudden urge to grab his ankles as he might have when he was younger. He managed not to--but it was definitely a close thing. “It’s not a snake.”

“What?” Gray-Father demanded, sounding offended.

Jingyi lolled his head back to see his eyes open, glaring at him in mock reproach. “You’ll tell him it’s not a snake but you can’t confirm it’s not a fierce corpse without threatening to take away my guess? How is that playing by the rules?”

“Aha,” Jingyi raised his finger straight into the air again as he proclaimed, “But it is.” Then, he pointed back down at himself. “Because I make the rules.”

Gray-Father gave a derisive huff through his nose, but smiled. “Yeah, that was cute when you were 5. Not so much anymore.”

“Um, whatever, I’m adorable. Dieeee, are you done yet? I’m bored. When is Blue-die done with his meeting? I wanna gooo.”

“Patience, Jingyi, I need to clean up. And he’s coming.” Yellow-Father rustled about on his desk, neatly packing everything away into drawers and piles that Jingyi thought were a little excessive--like, why did it need to be that clean? “Where did we find you, again?”

With an exaggerated scoff, Jingyi shook his head slowly, feeling the hard floor beginning to dig into the knob at the back of his skull. He’d have to sit up soon. “Wooow, you find a dead body and you don’t even care enough to remember your surroundings. This must be just any other day to you.”

“In the woods, he said,” Gray-Father betrayed him easily, so Jingyi raised his head to shoot him a glare, but his eyes were closed again. Wriggling closer, he punched the side of his rock of a thigh, earning him a chuckle and Gray-Father leaning down to flip the ends of his fanned out hair over his face.

“Woods, thin, oblong jaws, deep tooth marks, throat torn out, organs and nose gone--or at least chewed on,” Yellow-Father ticked off precisely down an imaginary list as he turned from shelving to continue puttering around. “I’m guessing; wolves.”

Heaving himself upright, Jingyi crashed his hands together just as the gold, white, and blue painted door slid open once again and he bellowed. “GUAAAUAUAUANG!”

Framed in the doorway, Blue-Father stopped short and blinked at the sudden noise but smiled in amusement. “’Guaaaung?’” When Jingyi thrust out his hands demandingly, he stepped in and obligingly gave him custody of one of his arms. “Hello.”

“Almost done, Er-ge,” floated Yellow-Father’s voice from the closet.

“Clearly, it’s a gong noise.” Jingyi used his arm to haul himself to his feet--Blue-Father didn’t even sway. “They won; I was murdered by wolves.”

At this pronouncement, his blue father cocked his head down at him, smile turning quizzical as Jingyi dusted off the seat of his robes. “...Ah?”

Gray-Father blew out a breath and shook himself awake, unfolding slowly from the table. “We were playing Dead Body while we waited for you and A-Yao to be done,” he explained, then gave a hugely expansive stretch, scrunching his face up. “I was thinking it was wolves, but I was waiting for the usual twist.”

Yellow-Father emerged from the closet with a smug smile and murmured, “Mmm, of course you were,” to which Gray-Father leaned over the desk and swatted at his butt--he easily dodged.

“The twist was that there was no twist, this time,” Jingyi said sagely, hands on his hips. “Are we good to go? Finally?”

“I...yes.” Blue-Father still had on that ‘I still don’t know what’s going on here’ smile as Yellow-Father closed the shutters against the streaming sun and joined them. “How does one play Dead Body, exactly?” he asked curiously as he leaned down to let Yellow-Father kiss his cheek hello just before they made their way out into the hall.

Pretending to hold back barf was something Jingyi did less because he cared about them kissing and more because it was his job as annoying teenage son to do things like that. In any case, he was rewarded by Gray-Father wrapping him in a casual headlock, then ignoring him when he flailed to escape as Yellow-Father locked up his office. “You mean you’ve never played Dead Body with him?”

“Mm, not that I recall--and I feel like I would remember something like that.”

From his chaotic and squished vantage point, he saw Yellow-Father look down at him--all captured and partially strangled and sputtering under Gray-Father’s arm. He rolled his eyes, and fondly scolded, “Let him breathe, Da-ge.”

Easily, Gray-Father complied. Wonderful, blessed air flooded back into Jingyi’s lungs--which he immediately used for retaliation by leaping onto Gray-Father’s back like a monster spider and wrapping him in a headlock of his own. Yellow-Father winced and hissed, “Mind Baxia, Fufu, for gods’ sake--”

“Dead Body isn’t a Lan game,” Jingyi panted dismissively, tightening his grip and bracing himself when Gray-Father planted his feet to take stock of the situation.

His other 2 fathers continued to walk on, out of range of Such Antics. It was a good thing, too, because in a whirl of walls and ceiling, Gray-Father managed to very neatly flip him over his shoulder onto the ground. With a smack, all the breath stuck in his lungs for a few agonizing moments while his horrible, rotten Gray-Father grinned down at him and laughed, “You little ass. What did you think was going to happen?”

“Vengeance,” Jingyi wheezed back several seconds later when he could breathe again again. The ring in his ears hadn’t completely left, yet.

“--and then you have to diagnose what killed him. It was very popular back when he was around 7 years old,” Yellow-Father was explaining to Blue-Father ahead of them, ignoring the intense drama of betrayal and revenge happening just up the hall. “Though, what on earth makes it not a ‘Lan game’ is beyond me.”

Staggering to his feet with the grudgingly accepted hand of his gray father, Jingyi caught up to them 2 of them. “Right, like shu-gong would want me lying around shouting about my limbs being torn off. He doesn’t even like me yelling about normal things; I would get so many lines.” He flopped down onto his yellow Father’s shoulders and leaned as they walked, even though he was just a little taller, now (and oooh, didn’t Yellow-Father hate it).

Automatically, his father reached up and pet his head, even as he said, “You’re crushing me, Fufu.”

Transferring over to Blue-Father, he hung from his shoulders when he patiently slowed to allow him to do so. “You find a body,” Jingyi intoned, dramatically. “It’s Lianfang-zun.” He spread his other hand wide as if painting the scene. “He’s folded up like a letter in the halls of Koi Tower! Cause of death?”

“A ridiculous son,” Gray-Father chuckled from behind them, and Jingyi twisted to kick up a foot and stuck out his tongue.

“Wrong.”

“Usually, there was a lot more posing, as a child,” Yellow-Father informed Blue-Father in a heavy tone over Jingyi’s head. “And props. It was a whole ordeal. I’m forever grateful it’s now entirely theoretical.”

“Ahh, I see,” Blue-Father shook his head and put a steadying arm around his shoulder as Jingyi hopped along on one foot, waggling his other one behind him as bait for Gray-Father to take amused, cursory swipes at. “Is there a reason I never got to play Dead Body?”

With exaggerated patience, Jingyi put both feet on the ground and reached up to pat his blue father’s cheek, smiling sympathetically. “Die, whenever I wanted to play war, you always asked if there was a peaceful solution--and I just wanted to stab people.”

All 3 fathers burst out laughing as they rounded the corner of the hallway, the sun shining warmly over their sides from the garden windows. “Oh, so you decided that I just didn’t have the stomach for it, is that it?” Blue-Father asked with a grin.

Jingyi heaved himself off, spinning around to walk backward in front of all of them. “I mean, sort of? I think maybe I figured it would make you too sad to imagine me dead?”

At this, Gray-Father’s eyebrows shot up with a sharp, incredulous laugh and Yellow-Father reared his head back in offended bafflement, demanding, “Oh, and for some reason we wouldn’t be sad to imagine you dead?!”

Shrugging aggressively, Jingyi held up his hands in defense. “I dunno! He seemed like he would handle it worse! I was 7, what do you want from me? It doesn’t have to make sense, I was an idiot!”

“Oh, you were not an idiot,” Blue-Father protested, tilting his head and crinkling him a smile. “You were wonderful.”

“You were 7,” Yellow-Father agreed with Jingyi’s first statement, darkly. Apparently, he was still highly offended, because he muttered, “’Handle it worse’...” under his breath before saying, “You’re about to run into a vase, Jingyi, turn around.”

Instead of obeying, Jingyi just veered away from the obstacle and continued to shrug at him when he sighed and looked to his blue father for help. Before it could come, Gray-Father nudged Blue-Father with his shoulder, teasing, “Congratulations on being the only one to actually care about our son, apparently.”

“Holy hell, fine, if it’s going to be A Thing, we’ll all play and mourn my death together. Happy?” As he rolled his eyes, Jingyi nearly ran into the wall as the last corridor before the outside door ended, but Yellow-Father caught his sleeve and steered him right with feigned annoyance in his pursed lips.

Blue-Father laughed, the light sparking off his spikey guan when he shook his head fondly. “Alright, I’ll play if you turn around. What do we find?”

Obediently, Jingyi spun back around and waited to fall into step with them, pondering the details of his gruesome demise. Beside him, Yellow-Father rolled his eyes to the ceiling with one dimple showing and Gray-Father shook his head with a grin. Then, Jingyi snapped his fingers and spread his hands theatrically just as they all rounded the corner of the hallway. “Alright, so, I’m face down in a river and I’m covered in boils--”

#3zun raise jingyi au #3zun raise jingyi au content #I swear I am also working on the other things I promised #But this just jumped straight into my head and started writing itself so #3zun #my stuff #my fic #Oh yeah you know what's gonna happen ;) I'm gonna post this and find 10 things I hate about it ;) and wish I had proofread better.#RIP Future me but I'm different [presses post]

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palbabor-writes · 3 years

Text

Unknown.

Pairing: Shigaraki Tomura x puppy!girl OC

For: @kazooli

Warnings: sex pollen, tw.dubcon, tw.unbalanced relationship, tw.blood/gore, unrequited feelings, puppy!reader, established OC, NSFW/18+only

Word Count: 3681

Notes: the is part of the Evil Exchange! i had a lot of fun with this concept & am so glad i got to take part! this fic does have an established OC & while she is not named, she does have physical descriptions that are not neutral.

[ 2:15 am, Monday morning ]

He shouldn’t have taken you along. You don’t belong here.

Your quirk isn’t equipped to deal with something like this [ or is it perfect? since all of your senses are acutely attuned to him, your lips open, tongue heavy between your teeth, drool pooling under your jaw and down your neck, your eyes gleaming with an unnatural sheen as you try to hump against his leg like a bitch in heat ] and you have little in the way of melee attacks, or a true defense. No, all you have is your pretty blonde hair, floppy ears that prick each time you hear him, and that incessantly wagging tail that sticks out from your pert little ass, like a goddamn antenna. You’re absolutely too pure for this, too fucking saccharine, and too damn nice to be here.

Fuck. This was a mistake.

[ 72 hours before the mission ]

“It’s in that old warehouse, the one by the docks.”

“Which one? The images that we have show multiple buildings.”

“The fuck do I know? You only wanted me to ask around about the place. If you wanted me to do the damn job for you, you should have said.”

Shigaraki narrows his eyes at Dabi’s hunched back, doing his best to remind himself that they’re already low on funds, on members, and they can’t afford to lose anything else. Not now, when they’re literally scraping along the bottom of the barrel, yanking out whatever dregs they can find and trying desperately to make them stick.

“Did they give you a time?”

“For the exchange? Yeah, said they’re gonna be down there around 1am.”

“And the date?”

“Date?” Dabi questions, whipping his dark head back to Shigaraki’s impassive face, arching one dark brow.

“Yeah,” Shigaraki intones, a half concealed snarl lifting his cracked lips. “The date for when this is all going to take place. We can’t send someone down there every night, hoping it’s the correct time. They’ll be noticed.”

“Said they wanted it to be this Monday, something about shelf life. Apparently this shit is better when it’s fresh. Sells quicker, is more effective.”

“How much did they agree to hand over?”

“Fucking–look man, I didn’t grab a cup of coffee with them, or ask if they wanted to go get some lunch. I told them our terms, they agreed and gave me the location, ‘date’ and time. What did you want me to do? Paint their nails? Suck em’ off? If you’re wanting to get into the drug trade, maybe ask a few more questions yourself. Not leave them to middlemen. You act like you wanna be a leader, so fucking act like–”

A quiet knocking breaks Dabi’s tirade and both men turn toward the closed door.

“What?” Shigaraki snaps, raising a hand to his neck, scritching his long nails against the scars that he finds. It’s a shitty habit, and he knows it gives his agitation away, but he doesn’t care. The sooner Dabi loses his temper and fucks back off to the streets, the better.

The door creaks open and your golden head pops around the corner, hair falling into the empty air as your dog like ears waggle, listening, testing the safety of the room. Your eyes shift from Dabi’s bristled form to Shigaraki and the moment they alight on his stony expression, you smile.

“M-mister Tomura, um, the others… well, we were talking and heard Dabi shouting… uh, they… I mean… I was wondering if you’ve assigned anyone to the new mission? The one you mentioned the other day?”

Dabi snorts and you toss his lanky frame a glare, ears flattening along the side of your head. “Yeah, I bet you wanna know who’s going with Mister Tomura. Got news for you girly, it’s prolly not gonna be you.”

Your quivering pink lips are about to form a retort when Shigaraki’s voice croaks out. “Enough. Tell the others we’ll discuss this later. Dabi, don’t you have some recruits that you’re supposed to show me?”

The flame user waves a lackadaisical hand and stands, inky head cocked toward your pouting face, letting his sharp gaze linger against your angry expression. “Soon boss. Told you already, quality takes time. Not that you know that, since all you seem to attract is freaks, like this one.”

[ 21 hours before the mission ]

“You’re really taking her?” Toga asks, twirling a small knife between her splayed fingers. “I mean, isn’t she kinda lacking in… experience?”

“She’s the only one who can smell out any fakes. I don’t trust these guys. They might try to offload a lower grade product to us.” Shigaraki explains, tucking the battered case of quirk destroying bullets back into his jacket pocket. In the last 24 hours things have gone from bad to worse, what with the news that Twice couldn’t replicate the serum, and the potential, permanent loss of Kurogiri. He’s not about to add double crossed by some two bit drug dealers to that list.

“You want me to give her some weapons? A knife or something? I’ve got plenty of extra. Can’t ever have too many and besides, I like her. And I know she’ll bring them back, safe and sound. She’s such an obedient girl.”

Obedient.

That’s an apt word for you. Maybe it’s an after effect of your quirk, or the puppy-like way you act around him [ with that permanently blissed out smile and thumping tail of yours ] but your swift, unquestioning compliance always makes him think of an over eager pet.

“She’s malleable, and that’s what I need on this mission.”

“Ah! You saying I wouldn’t be?”

“Tch. You wouldn’t even try.”

[ 7 hours before the mission ]

He’s taking you.

It hadn’t been some kind of dream, he’d really shown up in your doorway, with his red eyes glowing in the low light, his sharp jaw tensed, and told you that you’d be accompanying him. Just you and him, together, alone, on a mission where he’d need to rely on you. Could trust you, would talk with you.

As soon as he left, you’d flopped back against the ratty mattress that sat in the middle of your room, trembling fingers already shoving the elastic lining of your shorts down, letting you thumb a quick circle over your throbbing, distended clit. In seconds you’re leaking all over your hand, mind whirring, picturing how he’ll look as he walks beside you, listening for the bite of his voice, imagining him telling you what a good girl you are. He’ll be so pleased, so happy with you. Oh, the things he’ll say to you.

Look at you, you did so well.

Thank you. Thank you for coming on this with me.

I can’t wait to take you [ bend you over and ] with me again.

I can’t wait to [ fuck your little pussy until you’re screaming for me ] get you home safely.

You did such a good job.

I wouldn’t have [ until you’re cumming all over my cock ] been able to do it without you.

You’d make the perfect apprentice, you know?

You really [ such a greedy little bitch ] would.

You’re perfect [ look at how you’re taking me. i’m gonna fuck you stupid, you dirty slut ] and I’m happy that you’re here with me.

That I found you.

Your release builds swiftly. Making your feathery tail ripple over the tattered sheets and your ears tremble in the chilly air. You feel you’re catching alight. It’s too much, and you hate that you’re not taking your time, but you can’t hear his voice as well now.

The memory of it is fading as Mister Tomura pads away from you, down the long hallway that leads to his room.

You remind yourself to listen more, as your fingers pinch and twist at your shuddering clit, to memorize every detail of him. You want to see him every time you close your eyelids and be able to picture him again each morning. To wash yourself in that hazy vermillion of his eyes and the timbre of his voice.

It’s too soon, but your toes are already curling, your back is arching, welcoming the rush of wetness that slips between your shaking thighs. You feel lightheaded, but your dulled senses does nothing to mask the giddiness that keeps bubbling its way out of your chest.

Tomorrow. Mister Tomura is taking you with him tomorrow.

[ Mission begins: 1 am, Monday morning ]

“Um, Mister Tomura… do you want me to go in first? That way you can–”

“No, they know I’m coming.”

“Oooh! So there’s no need for surprise!”

“Correct.”

The dark buildings along the wharf are slowly peeking into view and Shigaraki peers over at your grinning face, his red eyes watchful under the dark hood of his jacket. You look happy, a little too happy. You’re the best choice for this mission, but he can’t shake that uneasy feeling that keeps nagging at the back of his mind.

Eager is one thing, but you’re practically vibrating with excitement. That tail of yours won’t stop lashing back and forth and each time he sees your ears twitch and your head snap up to his, he’s reminded that you’ll need to be looked after on this. Unlike the others, you don’t have an affinity for combat or a quirk that gives you any kind of advantage in a fight. Nevertheless, you’re a member of the league and that connection affords you certain privileges.

Unless he has no other option, he won’t abandon you.

As the two of you step toward the fifth warehouse, you lean closer to him, your shoulder brushing against his obsidian jacket, a quiet huff of air falling from your parted lips. “This is it,” you tell him, mismatched eyes blinking up at his impassive expression.

When he says good, you almost snatch at his arm, and you try to hold back your panting breaths, to not let them slip out, but you know he can see, he can tell. He always can. You feel his sharp gaze passing over you, and sense his blistering annoyance when you subconsciously lean into him a little harder, rubbing your clothed shoulder against his.

“You ready Mister Tomura?” The question leaves you on a whisper and you bite your lower lip into your mouth, wanting him to say yes, wanting him to tell you what a good job you’ve done, finding the location like this. That he’s ready for anything as long as you’re by his side.

“Step back,” he murmurs, lifting three fingers to the door as he shoves it open, the metal wheels screeching into the static quiet of the night.

[ 1:45 am, Monday morning ]

“What’s wrong with her?” Shigaraki demands, releasing the throat of the leader of this de facto gang, sending him crashing across the grimy floor of the warehouse.

“I– koff, koff, I d-don’t… fucking know! She just… shit… sniffed the stuff and started shaking.”

“What’s in it? I’ll give you five seconds.” There’s no time for this and if you’re having some kind of reaction to the drugs, he’s honestly not sure what he’s going to do with you. A villain hospital is out of the question and sensei’s doctor can’t be located. Shit.

“It’s… it’s got some kinda quirk enhancing property… I don’t think that–”

“Five,” Shigaraki begins, stepping over the gristled remains of the others, his red shoes bright against the pools of darkening blood.

“What!? You can’t be serious! Look, man, I’m not the one who manufactured them! I–”

“Four.”

“Oh my God, oh m-my…. look, he said something about increasing the instincts. Making the user less–”

“Three.”

“Libido! It increases libido! I think… no! No! Please! Don’t you–Keep the fuck away from me, you freak! Don’t–I’m trying to tell you! Come on! Please! I don’t–”

Shigaraki lets the man struggle, watching his fruitless scramble across the floor; hands flapping against the gritty concrete with loud smacks, and feet slipping. He looks like a fish on a line.

“None of those things let me know what’s in the drug,” he informs his prey, blood slicked shoes stepping down, trapping the man under his heel, halting his frantic motions.

“That’s not… not… Y-you said you’d give me until five?”

“Did I?” Shigaraki asks, a wide grin cracking over his face, one hand lowering, fingers splayed, reaching. “Looks like I lied.”

The man’s shrieks quickly turn into deep throated garbles as the decay of Shigaraki’s quirk races up his body, reducing him to a mass of shattered bones, hollowed teeth and gushing ichor. Pity, Shigaraki thinks, wiping his bloodied hand against his dark pants and twisting back to your trembling form.

You’re whimpering, your voice catching as you try to gulp down a few breaths and your tail is flat, its usual golden hanging lusterless in the darkness. When he steps closer, your head lifts and he can see the hopeful prick of your floppy ears. Your cheeks and the line of your neck are flushed, creating a burst of dusty pink that blends perfectly with your flaxen hair. You look like a doll, tiny and shivering in the cold, your puppy-like features wilted under the weight of the drug that’s coursing through your bloodstream.

“M-Mister T-T-T-omura,” you whine, one hand lifting, straining for him. “I-I feel… I feel… hot. It… it’s too warm. I think I’m… I don’t know if… if I–”

“Can you walk?” He cuts right to the chase, not liking that shimmering line of desperation that’s laced within your words. You look like you’re about to fall to pieces, but he needs more information. He can’t help you, he reasons, pushing down that inner voice that’s screaming for him to step away from your curled body, if he doesn’t know what’s wrong.

“D-dunno…” you stammer, licking your pastel tongue across your lips, making them slick, pouting them forward. “I don’t… I don’t feel so good.”

“I know,” he reminds you, kneeling in front of you, placing himself within your reach.

In hindsight, it was a stupid move. He knows better. It could have been avoided. He should have paid more attention, not underestimated your tenacity, your want.

Your fingers are under his shirt before he can blink, and before he can breathe, you’re coiling your way into his lap, forcing him to fall to the ground, pressing against him until he’s sure there’s nothing else of you he can hold. “M-Mister… please… p-please! Mister Tomura! Make it go away!”

He tries to shove you off, carefully lifting fingers away, pushing at you with eight digits, hoping you’ll stop squirming. But it doesn’t work and the wet lap of your tongue catches him utterly by surprise. He stiffens under you, his arms falling to his sides, neck rigid, vermillion eyes wide, but you don’t care.

Mister Tomura smells so nice this close.

It’s a musty scent, sticky and clammy, but oh, there’s something else under there. Something that makes you think of slickening skin, the rub of your fingers, and the tacky drip that sometimes falls from between your legs. It’s too much; it’s making you feel woozy and your hands shake as they reach for his face, but you want more. You need more.

“Is this ok? I-Is this alright Mister Tomura? Can I pet you? Please?”

There’s no reply. So you continue, lacing your hands into his pearlescent hair and lowering his lips to yours. He feels rough against your soft lips, so you dip your tongue out to loosen him up, poking until he gives you a halfhearted press, the hot exhale of his nose passing over your pink tinted cheek. “That’s right Mister,” you repeat, encouraging him to let you taste more, rutting your hips against the stiffened plane of his upper thigh. “Let me take care of you, Mister Tomura. Can I be your good girl? Hmm?”

When your fingers pad over his crotch, he groans and his back arches. You pull away, awed by his reaction, hoping he’ll be looking at you, imagining how pretty his eyes will look when they’re lit up with the want of you. But his head is turned and his jaw is set in a foreboding clench. “Mist–Mister Tomura?” you blurt out, hands grabbing at the sides of his face, forcing him back to you.

The dark look he fixes you with makes your heart pound and you can tell your tail is wagging furiously behind you. You like it when he looks at you like that. He likely thinks it’s cold, uncaring, but you know. You know the truth, that he wants you.

Everything inside of you is clattering, rattling at you, screaming out that he wants this.

“I see,” you begin, your hips picking up their pace, hoping he’ll let you slip your rapidly dampening pants off. “You want me too, right? You want me to help you with that.” Here you pause, lowering one hand to trace up the curve of his clothed cock, cupping at it until he’s gritting his teeth, showing you a bright line of white. “I can do that, Mister. I’ll do anything for you, anything. Just let me be your good girl, ‘kay?”

[ 2:24 am, Monday morning ]

He’s pushed you back, but not too far. Not far enough that your delicate toes can’t reach him.

It hadn’t taken much to work his black jeans open, just a quick flick of your wrist and a sharp tug and then there he was, his tip red, beads of pre-cum frothing against his slit, weeping downward. Delicious, is all that you could think, and your lips were around him before he could stutter forward. He makes the cutest sounds when he’s shoving past the ring of your mouth, but it’s gotta hurt his hands when he’s clawing them along the ground like that.

He should relax.

Once you’d worked him over, hungrily slathering over his dripping cock head, and greedily felt him pulse against the flat of your tongue, you’d shifted off of him. He gasped when you let go, and you thoroughly enjoyed the pop that all that wetness made in the still air.

When you slid your pants over the curve of your hips he’d stood, but maybe this drug had given you some kinda super strength besides that fire that was thrumming in your veins, because after you’d trapped him between your spread knees, he hadn’t struggled since.

Maybe he’ll like this? Or this?

It’s really just a guessing game now, and even though Mister Tomura isn’t the most enthusiastic player, he is a reactive one.

The mess of your saliva quickly lubricated the arch of your foot and his copious pre-cum and you run it up and down his straining length, pressing the other forward when you hear him grunting, his hips bucking upwards, helping you.

“You like this Mister Tomura?”

You’re still waiting on your good girl and you hope you’ll do something that ekes it from his clamped lips. But you can wait, after all Mister Tomura likes when you work hard, when you do your best for him.

He lets out a yelp when you speed up and you laugh, so happy that he’s happy.

[ 2:56 am, Monday morning ]

“Mister! Mister Tomura, please! It… ah… it hurts again. C-can you p-put it… mmm… in… inside me?”

It’s the third time you’ve asked him that question, but he’s not listening to you anymore. Instead, he’s shoving you down, lifting the round globes of your red smacked ass and tracing the heavy tip of his cock over your leaking slit. He presses forward and back, slicking himself with your milky release, tacking your arousal all over him. At some point, something broke within him and you’re still exalting in the heady feel of him over you.

“M-Mister Tomu–”

“Shut up. If you call me that one more time, I’ll stop right now. Just leave you here, naked, all alone and unprotected,” Shigaraki threatens, reaching around for your swollen clit and giving it a sharp pinch. You quake under his hands and he watches as your puppy ears fall and your tail brushes against his sweat slicked chest. “Imagine what would happen if someone came along and saw you like this? Saw you panting and humping the floor. You look like a fucking dog. Like some loose bitch who can’t think of anything other than the feel of someone’s dick. You want this? Huh?”

He grabs at your golden hair and pulls you upwards, forcing your spine into a u shape, watching as your tongue flops out of your mouth, as your drool falls down your chest. The tiny buds of your breasts do little to catch the saliva, so most fall on your trembling hands and you let out a piteous whine, hoping he’ll show you some mercy. Hoping he’ll fuck you until you can’t think.

“Answer me.” His voice is iron and you shudder, ass wiggling as you gasp out his name and a chorus of yeses. When his tip aligns with your entrance, it sends a jolt of electricity across your heated skin.

“Want me to call you a good girl?” he asks, pushing until his bulbous head is just tucked inside that first ring of pink muscle, grunting as you try to take him deeper, your cunt ravenously clamping around him.

“Y-yes! C-C-Call m-me that! T-Tell meee!”

“Then promise me you’ll never touch me again. Promise me you’ll never come near me. Tell me I’ll never have to look at that simpering face of yours and I’ll tell you what you want to hear.”

“B-But Mister… I mean… but… T-Tomu-Tomura. I-I can’t do that. I l-love you!”

“That’s too bad,” Shigaraki hums, jerking his hips forward, feeding you another tantalizing inch of his cock, watching as your viscid arousal gushes outward, coating the flesh of your inner thighs and staining his curled thatch of pubic hair.

“Because I don’t love you.”

#evil exchange #tw: blood #tw: gore #tw: dubcon #tw: unhealthy relationship #tw: unrequited feelings #tomura shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x oc #puppygirl #sex pollen #bnha smut #tomura shigaraki #shigaraki tomura #kazooli

270 notes · View notes

dw-writes · 3 years

Text

Resonate - Reggie Peters x GN!Reader

Hello hello yes its a little late to post this but you know what, whatever. this is...well, I wish i could’ve had someone to help me when i was little and listening to my parents fight and argue when they were on the verge of divorce. so here is this!!! i hope you guys enjoy!!!

(kinda long so the rest is under the read more)

More Reggie Peters: Bookstore Harmony

More Julie and the Phantoms: Phantasmic Depression || Bookstore Harmony || Sunset Harmony || Hollywood Harmony || Candied Harmony || Resonate

You couldn’t remember where you were going but you knew that it wasn’t home. You couldn’t deal with that anymore, with them, with the yelling and the screaming and the breaking of things. Your bag bounced against your back as you hurried down the stone steps, gripping the straps so tight that you knuckles hurt. You raced down to the garage and yanked open the door. You pulled it closed and thumped your head against it.

Your bag slid down your arms and swung around to smack the door. You crouched and covered your head with your arms. You dug at your fingers with your barely grown thumb nail as you tried not to break down into sobs.

You didn’t register the music petering out behind you.

The Phantoms all exchanged glances. They hadn’t been expecting you to come over – at least not yet. You would’ve made your way there eventually, to talk with Julie, to talk with them while they practiced – to flirt with Reggie while he flirted back. It’d become a habit ever since Julie introduced you to them after they met Flynn. And even more so after their performance at the Orpheum, when whatever Caleb had done to them backfired so badly, that even you could see them when they weren’t performing and feel them if they focused hard enough.

Luke hiccupped. Alex shot him a look, shaking his head, mouthing the word ‘don’t’ at their lead guitarist. Luke slapped a hand over his mouth and waved in your direction, then in Reggie’s. Reggie’s chin trembled. Alex pointed his sticks at them both and stood, shaking his head even more, mouthing ‘no’ and ‘stop’ as his friends scrunched their faces.

Alex loudly called your name.

You jumped, spinning around on the balls of your feet so fast that you fell back on your rear. Luke turned away, scrubbing vigorously at his face. Reggie wiped at his eyes with the backs of his hands.

“Are you okay?” asked Alex.

You scooted back against the wall, your fingers traveling up to tug at the dry skin of your lip. You looked at the door. “Um,” you sniffed.

Reggie frowned. He remembered the feeling of pulling skin that wasn’t meant to be pulled, of tearing nails down to the bed and below. He watched the blood well over your lip and set his bass down.

“Hey, don’t,” he started, yanking a tissue from the box on the coffee table. You sucked your lip into your mouth. He knelt in front of you, between your feet. “Don’t do that,” he whispered. He held the tissue out to you. “’s just gonna hurt more.”

You took it. Your fingers shook.

Reggie folded his legs under him, pulling his knees up awkwardly to keep from completely invading your space. You stretched one leg out underneath him and pulled the other close. He relaxed. “How long have they been fighting?” he whispered.

You pressed the tissue to your mouth. “It’s been at its worst the last few months,” you murmured, “I’ve been applying to colleges. It’s—” you snorted and lifted your fingers to provide air quotes, “Been putting them under stress.”

His reply was almost a whisper when he said, “You know that’s not true, right?”

You nodded. “Still hurts,” you replied.

He squeezed your knee. You stared at his hand.

Luke slid across the floor, collapsing across Reggie’s shoulders with a bright grin. “Hey, you can stay here!” he exclaimed, “We’ve all done it!”

Alex draped over Luke, twirling a drum stick between his fingers. “Yeah, I think there’s still a bed in the loft. Haven’t really looked,” he added.

“I lived here when I ran off,” Luke said, setting his hand on Reggie’s head, “And Reggie here would come and stay over when his folks were fighting.”

“I pretty much lived here when I told my parents I was gay,” Alex said with a sagely nodded, “And, like, c’mon, Julie would be totally cool with it.”

“And you’d get to be with us all the time,” Reggie said. He groaned. “Guys, you both weigh a ton!” He folded forward, pressing his forehead against your leg. “Crushing me. I’m dying. Crushed.” He poked his tongue out. “Bleh.”

You giggled, wadding the tissue up to dab at your eyes. “You guys wouldn’t mind me sticking around here for a few days?” you mumbled.

Luke waggled his eyebrows. “I know Reginald wouldn’t,” he cooed. Reggie shoved his hands under him, trying to sit up. “He would be soooooo excited.”

“Oh, beyond excited,” Alex said, “Just absolutely thrilled!”

“Guys, shuddup!” Reggie whined.

Your face warmed as a smile tugged up your lips. The raw skin stung at the movement. You dabbed it with the tissue. “Sure,” you mumbled, “I wouldn’t mind that at all.”

Luke shoved himself from the pile and jumped over Reggie as Alex sprawled over the ground. “I’ll go ask Julie!” he shouted, disappearing through the door. Alex scrambled after him, shouting at Luke to wait, that he wanted to go with him. Their voices faded away the further from the garage they got.

You dabbed at your lip. It wasn’t bleeding too much anymore. “I don’t have to stay here,” you murmured. Reggie set his head on your knee and sprawled out, threading a leg beneath your bent one. “I can stay up in Julie’s room. Or over at Flynn’s.”

“Don’t even think about it,” he replied. You looked down at him. He held up a hand. You took it, feeling the warmth creeping back into your cheeks. “You’re staying here.” He squeezed your fingers. “Mostly so I eat pizza vicariously through you,” he said. You snorted and ducked your head to smother your giggles. “But also so we can all hug you whenever it really starts to hit you,” he added.

You smiled. “Promise?” you asked.

He nodded. “Double promise.”

#reggie peters #julie and the phantoms #reggie peters x reader #reggie peters/reader #jatp #jatp fanfiction #reggie peters fanfictions

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i-call-me-clarence · 3 years

Text

Life’s a Cemetery (Dig It)

Kevin and Jack get their hands dirty on grave duty.

Rated G

Suptober Day 6: Cemetery Boys

Fic below the cut

----

“You sure you’re good?” Dean asks for the third time.

“Kevin is here, and if anything happens we have angel blades and silver bullets,” Jack answers, making a little wave motion at Kevin who’s silently asking him how much longer he’s going to be on the phone. Kevin rolls his eyes and goes back to leaning on his shovel, refusing to start digging until Jack joins him. Jack doesn’t want to keep him waiting any longer, “Dean, I’m sorry, but I have to--”

“And you’ve got the iron poker, right? And the holy water?”

“We still have everything in the pack you left us.”

“But did you double-check? A real hunter always double checks, triple even--”

Before Jack can respond Kevin is taking the phone from Jack’s hands, “Believe it or not the ex-god and current prophet know what they’re doing. Bye.” and he hangs up the phone.

Jack gives Kevin an apologetic shrug of his mouth as Kevin hands back the phone, slapping it into Jack’s hand. “He’s protective.”

“He’s turned into a helicopter parent. If I wanted that I’d just go back home.”

“But that would put your mother at risk.” Jack tilts his head in confusion.

Kevin rolls his eyes and tosses Jack a shovel, “Come on. Let’s get this done before the sun goes down.”

---

Three hours after sunset and they’re still digging. Jack started feeling lightheaded thirty minutes ago, and it’s gotten to the point where he needs to sit down.

“I’m sorry, I have to--” Jack ends up thunking down on his butt before he can finish.

“Hey, are you okay?” Kevin asks warily, stopping his digging and leaning against his shovel, “Is the talisman wearing off or something?”

“I--I don’t have a talisman,” Jack’s body is shaking and he’s starting to feel nauseous. Perhaps he should have listened to his body hours ago when it screamed at him to rest. But Kevin had kept going and he’d said he wouldn’t dig alone so…

“You don’t have an energy talisman?!” Kevin gaps at him and drops his shovel, “Are you kidding me?! You do realize you’re basically human now?”

How could Jack forget? Being human was so difficult that it was impossible not to be reminded of it constantly. Even when he slept. He didn’t use to sleep as a Nephilim...or as God. But Amara’s taking care of that now. Letting Jack have a ‘normal childhood’ as she’d said. Something she was envious of and didn’t want Jack to miss. ‘Even Chuck let himself have one. After he invented the concept.’ when she’d told him that it was clear she was hiding a deep sadness. Jack had decided after his childhood was over, he’d take over as God again so she could have one too.

“How are you even standing?!”

“I’m...not.”

Kevin looks at Jack, taking notice of the way he was starting to sway a little. Before cursing and getting down on his knees next to Jack.

He grabs a hold of both sides of the necklace his talisman was supposedly attached to, “I’m going to regret this,” Kevin groans, before taking off the necklace and holding it out to Jack. A green light pulses from Kevin’s chest, swirling around his arm, before being sucked into the little medallion hanging from the golden chain in Kevin’s outstretched hand.

Jack quickly takes the necklace, seeing the sudden strain in Kevin. As soon as he has it, Kevin lays back with a dull thud as his body hits the earth.

“Oh my god,” he gasps, suddenly breathing very heavily. “Worst part about that talisman,” he pants, “After you take it off, you feel every bit of exertion. All at once. Oh, I’m gonna die.”

Jack puts on the talisman and instantly feels better. Better than he’d felt since turning human. He wonders what would happen if you kept the necklace on all the time--

“And if you’re tingling from the charm and wondering ‘why can’t I wear this all the time,’” Kevin says in a deep mocking voice that sounded suspiciously like Dean, “Just look at me after five hours. Imagine a week, or even just a whole day.”

“It kills you?”

“It kills you.”

“I can finish this alone.”

“Yeah, but first,” Kevin tried to sit up, grunting in pain, “Help me out of this damn hole.”

---

It had been an hour since Jack started digging by himself, making a grand total of eight hours. Just a constant monotony of stab scrape shovel. At least Jack felt pretty good with this talisman, and at least they were almost done.

Stab, scrape, shovel. Stab scrape shovel. Stab--THUD!

Jack gasps in surprise, and Kevin leans over the opening of the hole to look down at Jack equally surprised, and elated.

“Oh my god,” he laughs, falling back on the grass, “We finally did it,” Jack hears him say. And then he groans, “But now I have to move.”

“If I were still God I could read this. Or create new eyes that could,” Jack notes, scrapes the remaining dirt off the coffin with his hands.

“If you were still God we probably wouldn’t even need this spell. And if we did, you could just teleport the tome out without all this bullshit.”

A reneged sector of angels, lead by the angel Inias, had decided to declare war on all remaining prophets. They thought they could use them to find a way to spy on Amara and overthrow her from, well, Goddesshood. This was the grave of a prophet, and inside was a tome they were buried with that held a spell to make prophets invisible to angels and demons. Probably how she lived long enough to die of old age. At first Jack had been sad, thinking this would mean he wouldn’t get to see Kevin anymore. But Sam said he was pretty sure that he could rework the spell so any angels or demons that gave of their blood in the ceremony would be able to still see prophets.

Jack hopes so.

Kevin leans his head over the grave again, wincing. “Wow, now that you’ve uncovered it, those sigils are really bright.”

Jack agrees, though what seemed like blue glowing sigils to them wouldn’t appear at all to normal humans.

Jack opens his mouth to say so but is cut off by his phone ringing in his pocket.

“Is that Dean again?” Kevin asks tersely.

Jack checks the caller ID and nods.

“Hand it here,” Kevin says, lunging his arm forward and down.

Jack hands over the phone and Kevin rolls back over with it, out of sight.

“Dean?” Jack hears him say. “Bring burgers and water.” A pause where Kevin must have been about to hang up because he says, “Oh, and get your asses over here.” and Jack hears a beep from the call ending.

“Here you go,” Kevin dangles his arm over into the grave, phone in hand.

-----

They eat inside the impala--Kevin mostly chugs water at first--with the engine idling and cabin lights on. Kevin and Jack are both filthy, but Dean doesn’t mind. ‘Part of bein’ a Hunter’ he’d said. Back in the old times, Cas or Jack would clean everybody up. But seeing as they were both human now, he and Kevin were doomed to be dirt-covered.

“How did it go?” Castiel asks from the front seat, mouth half full of burger, “You didn’t run into any problems?” Castiel had been wearing his regular suit before he’d left but was now wearing a space cats hoodie he’d gotten for himself when he took Jack to Hot Topic. He must have brought it with him in the car.

Kevin stops chugging water to answer, “No ghouls, no cops, no cemetery keepers or grieving loved ones, though that last one would be unlikely seeing as she was buried three hundred years ago. Where’s my burger?”

“Got you four,” Dean grins and waggles his eyebrows.

“I may just be able to eat that many.”

“Yeah and I’ll finish whatever you don’t. That goes for everybody.” Dean continues.

“Didn’t you just get back from a dinner date?” Kevin asks suspiciously, “Actually, if you didn’t, don’t answer, I don’t wanna know.”

“We did just get back from dinner…” Cas starts slowly. “It was, uh...fancy.”

“Too fancy,” Dean grumbles.

“Ah. Small portion sizes.” Kevin nods, but then pauses, “Aren’t you supposed to have fifteen courses or something?”

“Yeah well, we got a call three courses in to deliver some emergency burgers.” Dean shrugs, “Prefer the burgers anyway.”

“Jack, are you wearing an amulet?”

Jack jerks as he realizes he forgot to take it off, “Uh oh,” he says, setting down his burger. “I think I’ve made a mistake.”

“What’s happening?” Dean asks looking around the cabin, panicked.

“Jack left an energy talisman on too long.” Cas sighs, looking sorry.

“Ohoho buddy,” Dean says into the air, smiling but also looking kind of sorry too, and even more so when he meets Jack’s eyes. He pauses. “Yeah bud, uh, that’s gonna be a bitch to take off.” He frowns.

Jack grabs the golden chain--

“Woah, man, what are you doing?” Kevin gasps after having grabbed Jack’s arm and stopping him from taking off the talisman.

“Will it kill me?” Jack asks everybody, suddenly nervous.

“Well, no,” Dean begins, winces, “It’s just gonna hurt like a bitch.”

“Then shouldn’t I get it over with?” Jack asks, confused.

“You might pass out,” Castiel warns gently.

“You’re probably gonna wanna go with the passing out,” Kevin says, putting a bracing arm on Jack’s shoulder “It’ll suck less.”

Kevin nods at him and Jack takes that as a sign it’s time to take the talisman off. He lifts the chain up and off, and then something strange happens.

A green light swirls from both Jack and Kevin’s chests and swirls into the amulet.

Both of them double over.

“Woah! You kids alright?” Dean asks, lunging a hand over the backseat to touch Jack’s back, as Castiel quickly spins out of the car and back in at Kevin’s door, holding him up, checking his eyes and tongue, he goes to stick his finger in Kevin’s ear to take his temperature before remembering he can’t do that anymore.

“Kevin? Are you okay? Jack! Jack, are you okay?” Castiel asks urgently.

“Goddammit,” Kevin sighs, “Twice in one night, oh man I’m really gonna die.” then he looks at Castiel before reassuring, “Really, it wasn’t that bad.” Kevin turns to Jack, “How do you feel?”

“...Not that bad,” he answers truthfully.

“Hot damn.” Dean is smiling, leaning back into his seat, “Well now we know that’s a thing!”

“It could potentially save lives,” Castiel agreed. “I’ll have Sam tell the other hunters...though this may just be a situational occurrence between a prophet and a Nephilim. Who knows really.”

“It was still pretty cool,” Dean defends.

Castiel gets back into the car.

“And I’m not denying that. Why do you always jump to conclusions?”

“What are you talking about ‘always?’” Dean grunts back and starts up the car, pulling out of the cemetery parking lot.

Kevin and Jack tune Dean and Cas out.

“That was pretty cool,” Kevin says.

“Yeah,” Jack frowns, looking at his friend. “We’re going to perform the ceremony when we get back.” This may be one of the last times he ever sees or hears him again.

Kevin puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder, “It’s going to be okay. Even if we have to do it by proxy for a little while, I won’t stop being your friend. Okay?”

Jack smiled, putting a hand on Kevin’s shoulder too, which may have been weird or awkward but seemed like the thing to do.

Kevin smiles at Jack before patting his shoulder and saying “I’m going to pass out now.”

Jack nods and Kevin immediately drops his head back onto his seat and starts snoring.

Jack leans back in his own seat, feeling exhausted as well. Dean and Cas have stopped arguing and put the radio on low, laughing at j=okes here and there as they talk softly.

The running engine and metronome light of street lamps going by, and the familiar classic rock playing all seemed to be in some sort of competition with who could lull Jack to sleep first. The sound of the impala won.

The End

#suptober21 #spn fic #kevin tran and jack kline #suptober day 6

15 notes · View notes

peaceoutofthepieces · 3 years

Text

Sink Or Swim

tag list: @cleocc @feeling-kinda-so-so @hopelessromanticvirgo @dreamy-slytherin @adora8 @lockerfivethreefive @painfully-oblivious @poeticinemaa @jjustonemorething @sassy-sara @wedarkacademia @coolguyssyndrome @hischbabe @suckerforsobbe @tayspots @starmansander @theah0lt @zoenneforever @invisibleme @chibibanane @odi-et-amo85 @watermelonlover-123 @xiaomailab

Warning for panic attack near the end of the scene (after Lucas reads the messages).

~^~

Tuesday, 18:47

Songs: nilu - Are You With Me; Michael Schulte - Falling Apart

“No, no, wait, why is it doing that?” Jens whines from the screen, delicately brushing his thumb under Lucas’s eye to wipe away the dark smudge. “Why the fuck does eyeliner drip?”

“It’s liquid, man, what do you expect?”

Lucas skips ahead as Jens groans in the background and the camera moves to Sander. He plays it again when Moyo does a close up of his own face, the eyeliner now perfectly neat, and making the blue of his eyes stark. The on-screen version of him laughs at Moyo’s dramatic sounds of awe, and then there’s a close up of Jens. His tongue sticks out at the corner of his lips, brow just slightly furrowed, intensely concentrated as he paints on a light layer of lipstick. His eyes flick to the camera, and he falters just slightly, lips twitching. He manages to hold onto his focus for another few seconds before his lips crack in a smile and then into laughter, and he quickly draws his hand away from Lucas.

“Give me peace, asshole,” he says, leaving the camera shaking as he shoves Moyo back and another laugh rings out.

Robbe has sent him the completed vlog, that they haven’t posted yet. Lucas is currently watching it for the fourth time, with the volume raised to be heard over the bartering of rain against his window. By now he’s able to fast-forward to the specific shots of Jens that he likes most. He has Instagram open in the background, where his chat with Jens still remains quiet.

He rubs his hands over his face as Moyo zooms in on Jens puckering his lips, initially indicating for Lucas to do the same and ending up blowing a kiss to the camera. Talking to him yesterday hadn’t helped as Lucas had hoped it would. The few moments of contact had helped ease some of his worry, but the gaping hole in the chest that Jens usually takes up has only grown. He had hoped he would get the chance to convince Jens to come home to him, and then the connection cut out and Lucas had to hang up on Robbe before falling into a panicked state of despair.

Sander curses from the screen and then rapidly apologises as Robbe moans a complaint. “Isn’t this almost over?”

Lucas wonders the same thing as the shot cuts back to Jens and shows him leaning back with hands raised, a grin on his face as he announces he’s done. Lucas pauses on the image, chest tightening and jaw clenching.

There’s a knock on his bedroom door and he quickly shuts his laptop before his father peeks his head in. “Can I come in for a second?”

Lucas nods, setting his laptop aside as Hugo walks in and hovers by the bed as he holds an object out to Lucas.

His phone.

Lucas examines the spotless screen with wide eyes before shooting his eyes up to his father’s, which are crinkled at the corners with his smile. He waggles the object at Lucas, and Lucas takes it carefully, running his fingers around the edges. He holds in the power button and after a few seconds, it lights up.

“The guy in the shop charged it a little so he could make sure it’s working, but you’ll probably need to charge it yourself now,” Hugo says. “It look alright?”

It’s still in his old, worn, blue case, and when it finally comes to life, his favourite image of him and Kes appears on the lock-screen. He hovers his thumb over it as it shakes in his hand. Slowly, he nods. “Yeah, it’s perfect. I didn’t even know you’d taken it.”

“Well, you need your phone. Even I can’t contact you without it. Consider it an additional late birthday present, huh? Better than those old albums I got you.”

Lucas shakes his head. “The albums are good. And the art supplies are expensive, I know that. You didn’t have to…”

“Shush,” Hugo waves a hand at him. “I don’t expect you to pay for things like that yourself. No matter how many jokes I make about you being an adult now.”

Lucas smiles slightly, though his eyes are misty as he turns his phone over on his palm. “Thank you.”

His father smiles back at him, then seems to hesitate again. “I also wanted to talk to you about this weekend. I organised a trip for the youth center. A few days away, where they can all hang out and do stuff together, can really help them out at this time of year. It just means you’ll be left here on your own.”

This would usually come as a relief. Now it makes anxiety churn in Lucas’s chest, and he has to quickly bite down on his lip. Otherwise he’ll do something ridiculous, like beg his father to stay. He’s overreacting. He’ll be fine for a couple of days on his own. “So, you’ll be going on Friday?”

“Yeah. The girls are taking them on the bus and I’ll drive down to meet them in the evening.”

“Where are you going?”

“It’s some kind of adventure center. One of the kids themselves suggested it. We’re staying at a motel nearby.”

Lucas nods slowly. “Then you’ll be back on Sunday?”

“Yeah.” Hugo seems only mildly confused by the questioning, at Lucas’s unusual show of interest. “Should be back in the afternoon. So you’ll be alright? You can call me now if you need me.”

Lucas hums.

“If you want to, you can invite one of your friends over to keep you company. Maybe Jens.”

He says it cheerfully, proud of himself for remembering the name Lucas had let slip weeks ago. He seems oblivious to the pain it causes Lucas, so Lucas tries for a smile. “Yeah, maybe.”

Hugo sets a hand on his shoulder and gives a squeeze. “Okay. Give your mom a call too when you can, alright? She keeps bugging me about you.”

“Have you been talking to her?”

“Ah, now, Luc, I still talk to your mother. Is that a new hoodie?”

Lucas blinks and looks down at himself, not understanding, until he sees the red. He’d forgotten he was even wearing Jens’s hoodie. It doesn’t smell like him anymore, aside from the faintest trace if Lucas moves in just the right way. He simply shakes his head as he looks back up at his dad.

Hugo purses his lips, nodding slightly as he shrugs. “Suits you. Alright, everything else okay with you?”

It takes a moment for Lucas to gain enough composure to smile and nod, and his father squeezes his shoulder once more before leaving him alone again.

Lucas takes a moment to breathe, then moves to his desk to find his charger, phone still clutched in his hand. He finds it hidden under a stack of papers and moves back to his bed, plugging the charger into the wall. He has to sit close to the edge so the lead will reach, but he manages, and soon he’s facing a flood of missed notifications.

Jens is right at the top.

It’s only after taking another long moment to breathe that Lucas is able to open the messages. There are a whole string from the weekend he’d left, easily two dozen, and guilt churns in his stomach once more as he reads through Jens’s concern. There’s even a selfie of him and Moyo from that Saturday, with both of them pouting at the camera, eyes slightly red. Obviously high. Lucas’s chest tightens further. He scrolls further down, through Jens’s more insistent questioning, where the frustration begins to truly slip in.

Then he makes it to the end, where he has a message from Sunday morning, sent just minutes before he had messaged Jens from Kes’s phone.

I’m getting really freaked out and I didn’t even think that was something that happens to me, but I really miss you Luc and I’m worried. please just message me. I love you

He reads it, then reads it again, over and over until the words blur and a single mantra runs through his mind.

I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.

Lucas internalises the words, letting them fill up his chest until he can’t breathe.

Jens loves him. Lucas had no idea. Jens loves him and Lucas had left him. Jens loves him and Lucas had hurt him. Jens loves him and he’s being punished for it. Jens loves him and he isn’t here.

Lucas loves Jens, and he can’t breathe.

Air finally comes out in gasps, then heaves. The world around him has blurred. He’s being flung on the floor, dropped like a ragdoll, frozen in place, and then the slap. Over and over in an endless reel. Hands are shoving him, two pairs at once. His favourite brown eyes are unfamiliar, cold and distant, unreachable. He’s running away and running away and running away.

He’s staying and making it worse.

Jens has done nothing but love him, and Lucas has done nothing but hurt him. It’s his fault. His fault that Jens is in this position in the first place. His fault that Jens felt the need to try so hard and endanger himself. His fault that Jens is hurt. His fault that Jens is gone. His fault that Jens doesn’t know.

Lucas loves him, and Jens doesn’t know, and he can’t breathe.

He tucks his head between his knees and tries his usual method. He has to drop his phone to tangle his hands in his hair as he counts in for four, holds for four, breathes out for four. Except he can’t manage it. His breaths are short stutters, insufficient, and his ring catches in his curls and he sobs.

When he feels like he is going to suffocate, he drags himself to his feet. He stops once he gets there, having to stave off the urge to curl down into himself. His hands grapple at air, curled into claws at his sides as choked sounds continue to spill from his throat. It takes him three tries to repeatedly force himself into enough motion to open his door. From there he’s overcome with urgency, and he speeds down the hall, into the kitchen where his father is sat with a newspaper at the table.

“Dad,” he croaks.

Hugo looks up, brows raised. His expression falls instantly into concern as he stands from the chair and rounds the table. “Lucas? Hey, buddy, what’s wrong?”

Lucas lets out another sob. “I can’t—“

He cuts himself off as his knees give out. His father catches him as he sinks towards the floor, drawing him into his arms and providing a sturdy support. Lucas relinquishes all his weight and lets the man hold him up, kneeling on the floor alongside him.

“Hey, Luc. It’s okay, you’re okay,” he soothes, gently rocking him back and forth, hand petting through his hair in a gesture Lucas hasn’t experienced since he was a child half his current size.

“Can you help?” Lucas pleads. “Please, can you help, can you help me?” He feels his father nod, feels a kiss pressed to the crown of his head, and he lets out a shaky breath.

Hugo holds him and guides him through it, regulating his own breaths until Lucas’s heartbeat feels just manageable. “I’ve got you, buddy. I’ll do whatever you need. Do you hear me? I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

#van der stoffels #vds #wtfock #skam nl #sink or swim #vds season fic #sos clip #i just really love hugo #so sorry i didn’t add the warning before #i’d forgotten what actually happens in this scene!

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elisaphoenix13 · 3 years

Text

Malibu Vacation

Waves crashing, salty sea air that sent a light breeze over him, his kids laughing and talking...and one of them gurgling nearby. It was a change in scenery they all desperately needed, as well as the warmer weather. Every once in a while a furry tail would brush against his leg since Athena laid next to him as he dozed on the cabana bed. Of course Tony had one on their private beach. They weren't much for sticking their toes in the sand but they did so every once in a while. More likely than not to indulge their children.

"Juice?"

Stephen opens his eyes and looks to the side to find Valerie standing next to his bed in her one piece light blue bathing suit and her feet covered in sand. She smiles and lightly pats Athena's head who yawns and wags her tail a little faster as Stephen sits up. Before the sorcerer could wonder why Valerie was disturbing him instead of Tony (besides the obvious), he looked over and found him busy with Lucy.

Diaper change.

Better Tony than him.

"What kind of juice darling?" Stephen asks as he gets up and walks over to the ice chest.

"Apple."

The sorcerer digs through the ice chest as quickly as possible to fish out the box of apple juice and then closes it. The less time his hands were in ice, the better. Fortunately they didn't flare up in pain from the cold exposure and he was even able to stick the straw in the box for Valerie before giving it to her. She thanks him softly as she sits on the steps and Stephen stands next to her to look out at the other kids. Thomas and William were helping Diana build a sandcastle, and Harley and Peter were in the middle of a splash war with Cassie. She asked if she could join them when they went to Malibu and of course he and Tony said yes. Cassie even made the joke that it would give her parents time to get some of their...horniness out of their systems.

Tony laughed and told her that was impossible.

"Think it's about time to head back to the house?" Tony asks as he stands next to Stephen and wraps his free arm around his waist.

"Probably best. Peter and Thomas will be complaining that they're hungry soon." Stephen nods and closes his eyes when his husband kisses his temple. "I think I'll order pizza. It's a little too hot to cook and I'm feeling lazy."

Tony laughs. "As you wish, Duchess." He gently takes Lucy's hand when it reaches for his sunglasses. "No Lulu. I still have to order more. I have no idea what you do with them once you get a hold of them."

"Maybe she eats them." Stephen laughs and looks back at the other kids. "Time to call it a day!" He calls out.

"Up." Valerie says and holds her arms up to Stephen and he picks her up.

The rest of the kids grab their things and follow Tony and Stephen back to the mansion. The moment they get inside, Stephen carries Valerie up the stairs while Tony puts Lucy in her swing. The kids were told to shower to try and get as much sand off as possible, and Stephen got Valerie in the bath. It didn't take too long, but they still had to take turns, and by the time they were all going back downstairs, the pizza had arrived.

"Ugh. I think I still have some sand on my--"

"Harley!" William interrupts with a blush.

"You could have helped you know." Harley waggles his eyebrows and William pushes his face away.

"You're going to ruin everyone's appetites. No one wants to hear about that." Peter makes a face of disgust before shoving a slice of pizza into his mouth.

"At least leave that talk for when there aren't small ears around and your parents can't hear you." Stephen says and puts their drinks on the table.

"Don't worry honey, we'll be getting our own later." Tony winks and Cassie makes a face.

"You know I was trying to get away from that." She groans. "You know I have to cover my eyes every time I open a door?"

Tony cackles. "The laundry room too?"

"Especially the laundry room! I'm going to start banning certain activities in certain rooms!"

"What? You mean you haven't yet?" Stephen asks with a snort.

"I love my dads. Unfortunately the only time they don't act like adults is when they have 'fun'." Cassie then shrugs. "I don't really mind all that much to be honest. They deserve to destress however they can with all they do."

"So do we." Tony says.

They all nod in agreement and finish their dinner, and Harley and Thomas do the dishes while Peter and William clean up the table. Cassie takes Diana to the living room after grabbing some things from the newly minted craft room which used to be Tony's rarely used office, and Stephen walks over to the piano once Valerie's hands are wiped clean. He hardly had time to play with how busy he always was, but he tried to use the piano back in New York to help improve movement in his fingers. It was sometimes a little painful to play, but he missed it so much that he powered through any pain he may have.

Today was not one of those days. His pain was always there but it was minimal when he sat on the bench and opened the fallboard. Stephen was able to play with no problem and he enjoyed the music that filled the air. He did look over in surprise when Valerie crawled up on the bench next to him and watched intently as he played. She even gave in to her curiosity and reached out to play a few notes herself and Stephen chuckles.

"Do you want to play too?" He asks and she nods.

Stephen showed her as much as he could in a way that a two year old would understand and eventually they stopped playing and Valerie looked behind them at the indoor pond. It was a lot like the indoor waterfall Tony had in the previous floorplan years ago but he made some adjustments so they could have a koi pond at the bottom of the waterfall. Valerie loved feeding the fish whenever they came to Malibu, and of course Tony thought of the children's safety so there was a feature that Friday activated in case a baby got too close without supervision. He also built an automatic feeder for when they weren't there and someone only had to come every once in a while to refill it.

"Go find Daddy and see where he put the food." Stephen smiles as Valerie climbs down from the bench and runs off to find Tony.

While he waits, Stephen closes the fallboard and gets up to stand next to the pond where Athena joins him. She sits next to him and watches the fish with him and rumbles happily when he pets her head.

"Are you done nannying the cubs?" He jokes and she wuffs in response. "Did you clean Lucy's ears?" Another wuff. "That's not sanitary you know."

"Mama!" Valerie runs back over to him with a bag of fish food. "Fish eat?"

"Yes. Just like I showed you."

He sits on the edge of the pond and she hands him the bag of food so she can take out a handful while he holds it. Valerie turns to face the pond and tosses the handful of food into it and she giggles when the koi swim around frantically to eat it. Stephen decided she was ready to try something new and carefully poured some more food into her hand.

"Don't throw this. Here." He gently leads her hand toward the water and smiles when she whines nervously. "It's okay. They won't hurt you."

Once the fish realize that Valerie is holding the food, they all gather around her hand and eat straight out of it.

"Tickles!" She giggles again.

When the fish finish and start swimming away, Stephen closes the bag and hands it to Valerie after having her dry her hands. "Go take that back to Daddy so we can feed them tomorrow."

"Kay. 'Thena! Come!" She walks away and Athena follows dutifully much to Stephen's amusement.

"Don't worry Duchess. She'll be back to warm your feet tonight like always." Tony chuckles as he takes the bag of fish food from Valerie when she holds it up.

"I'm not worried." Stephen rolls his eyes and gets up to join Tony at the couch when he sits after putting the bag away and watches Cassie and Diana with their crafts.

More like hobbies. Diana was painting on a small canvas and Cassie was embroidering. Stephen didn't know why Diana wasn't painting in the craft room but he figured since they had put some plastic on the floor as a precaution, he wasn't going to say anything.

"You're improving." Tony compliments and throws an arm around Stephen's shoulders. "I remember when you stumbled. Now it's like your hands don't tremble."

Stephen smiles. "I think part of that has to do with the fact that I'm having a good day."

"I've heard you play on a not so good day. You're still playing great."

"It's true." Peter says as he sits on Tony's other side eating an apple.

"Are you eating again?!" Cassie asks.

"It's just an apple. Pre-dessert." Peter grins.

"He eats like a hobbit." Thomas laughs.

"So do you." William says and Thomas sticks his tongue out.

"This family alone eats like a small army." Stephen huffs.

"This family is a small army Mom." Harley points out.

He had a point.

"Maybe you boys should take a page out of the girls book and try crafting something." Tony says.

"Hey, I have my Legos." Peter says. "Speaking of, I have a new model to build." He tosses his apple core in the trash on his way to the stairs.

Harley and the twins shrug and walk into the craft room to find something to do and Stephen looks over at Lucy when she starts babbling and playing with her plastic keys. They were her favorite toy since she liked swinging things around that made noise. She even liked her little activity chair with the toys built in. If she wasn't "helping" Tony in the lab, she was in the chair. Now she was in the swing. It was a way to help her wind down and get ready for bed later.

"Telling a story there Lulu?" Tony asks and the baby looks up at him as she drools on the keys she put in her mouth.

"Bah!" She responds loudly and tosses her keys with surprising force.

They land with a splat in Diana's paint, sending splotches of it everywhere and making Tony laugh. Both Cassie and Diana were covered in reds, yellows, and greens and they sat in surprise until Diana finally sighed heavily and used her magic to clean up the mess.

"I think we found our pitcher." Tony laughs.

"Here Daddy." Diana holds out the plastic keys and he takes them as he gets up. "It's a good thing I can rewind time."

"Yeah, well, you know you have to be careful with that--" he replies but Diana sighs dramatically.

"I know. Mommy and Uncle Wong tell me all the time!"

"We do." Stephen confirms as Tony walks over and retrieves Lucy from her swing.

"We still need one more kid to make a baseball team." Cassie says as she works on her embroidery. "Unless the Barton's come over."

Tony smirks. "Just give Mom a little longer. He's already jealous that Lucy likes me more. His baby fever will kick in soon enough."

"Yeah, probably." Cassie shrugs and Stephen gapes.

"Don't agree with him! You're grounded!"

"From what exactly?"

Stephen stares at her for a few seconds and finally gets up.

"I'm getting my sling ring. I'm sending you back home to your parents."

Cassie's eyes widened. "Oh my god! Please, no! Last time I went home unannounced, I saw more of Papa than I wanted to!"

"Now you know how I feel!" Peter yells from upstairs and Tony bursts into laughter.

"I completely forgot about that."

#ironstrange #stephen strange #supremefamily #tony stark #mama bear stephen strange #mama bear au

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