#and then I get too chilly anyway so I just throw on the socks | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lihikainanea · 2 years

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Hello Lei! Hope you are feeling better!! Can you write about Bill being too swedish for Tiger's liking? AHAHAH I crave Tiger being so done with Bill's swedishness

omg, but how cute is this?!

Listen, there's a LOT about Bill's inherent Swedish-ness that tiger likes. His, you know, height. The slight Swedish lilt his voice still takes on when he's really tired. His impeccable taste in interior design.

But there's also a lot that either confuses her, or downright pisses her off. And if I can interject a small bit of self here, I am incredibly fascinated by my Scandinavian boos and their lack of...stuff. They have stuff, but they just don't have as much stuff as everyone else seems to have because they don't think they need it.

For instance--I live in a 1500 square foot apartment. In this apartment, I have 6 closets.

Every single goddamn closet is filled with clothes--winter clothes, summer clothes, work clothes, casual clothes.

Then I go to Copenhagen and spend a few days with my pals there, mostly two dudes who are the most adorable couple. And they are fashionable.

And their clothes? Between the two of them, they have one small closet in the bedroom, and one small mobile rack thingy that has maybe 14 items of clothing neatly hung on it.

That's....it.

If you open a drawer at Casa Lei, you risk not being able to close it again. Stuff is crammed everywhere, but I also maximize storage because I hate SEEING stuff, I hate clutter.

But my dudes in Scandinavia? Not only do they seemingly not really have any storage, they also just...THEY DON'T HAVE STUFF.

It's really incredible.

So maybe my girl tiger can get real pissed sometimes at just how minimalist Bill is, how neat he is, how UNCLUTTERED his entire existence is. Bill is never too tired to put something where it belongs. He gets home from a long ass day--he's hungry, he's tired, he's irritable--and tiger watches in amazement as he takes off his coat and hangs it up instead of throwing it on the couch. He toes off his shoes and puts them in their place on the shoe rack in the hallway closet. He takes his watch off and puts it in the drawer where he keeps his watches (laid out in a neat row), he takes his shirt off and hangs it up in the section of his closet of clothes to be steamed before they’re worn again. He takes off his socks, folds them into a ball, and puts them in the hamper.

Tiger is relatively convinced he's not human.

And I think it's exactly that, sometimes, that pisses her off. It's the same thing that brings her such comfort, sometimes--it's his balance. Bill is never too much, nor too little. And tiger usually finds solace in that, in his evenness, his calmness--but sometimes it just downright pisses her off.

His sense of balance that says a small plate of food is just enough--lagom. No need to stuff yourself. Meanwhile, tiger's bad day has her on her 3rd cheeseburger with a side of chilli fries.

His sense of balance that says a clean house is a happy house, and that you should put something away and not just put it down, that way you never really have to "tidy up".

Meanwhile, tiger comes in like a hurricane and Bill narrowly misses a stiletto being flung right at his head.

And like, it's one of those things that usually tiger really enjoys about him, but when she's having a week where everything is wrong, it's the thing that annoys her the fucking most.

Maybe like, right in the middle of this rage, right--she's PMSing, work has been shit, she hasn't seen her Big Dude much, it's Friday night--tiger wants some very specific things. She wants an entire Chinese dinner for 4, for one. She wants a whole bottle of wine, to wash down her martini. She wants a hot fudge sundae for dessert.

And Bill doesn't say much, because when it comes to food, he knows tiger isn't to be fucked with--particularly not when she knows exactly what she wants. But he just manages to piss her right the hell off anyway, with his Swedishness.

"Go for it kid," he says with a loving squeeze to her feet. They're on the couch, her feet in his lap, tiger's fingers scrolling through UberEats at an alarming pace. She chugged her dirty martini down in about 2 gulps while Bill has a crisp, albeit very reasonable, small glass of Chardonnay in his hand.

"What'll you have?" she asks. He curls his lip.

"Lots of restaurant food this week, I miss my kitchen," he mumbles, "Might just cook something small."

"Knock yourself out."

Tiger loves Bill's cooking, but now is Not The Time™.

So he gets up, busies himself in the kitchen (but not before he pours her a huge, fishbowl glass of wine) and she watches trash TV. He hears her laughing from the living room while he pulls some wild salmon out of the freezer, has a look at the vegetable tray. He plucks some asparagus, some mushrooms. Whatever herbs are there that won't make it past another few days. He checks the cupboard, finds some wild rice.

And of course, Bill is efficient. When he cooks, it's an art. There is never a dish that is dirtied if it needn't be, and dishes or bowls serve multiple purposes.

By the time tiger's 3 bulging, fragrant bags of Chinese food arrive, Bill has cooked himself quite the delicious and balanced little supper.

The kitchen table is a great place for meals, but not on a Friday night. Tiger is already in just his t-shirt and her panties, and she starts unpacking her feast right there in the living room on one of the tiny (stylish) coffee tables.

"Chopsticks please!" she hollers, all warbled, half an egg roll already in her mouth. Bill chuckles, grabbing some from a drawer.

He heads to the living room and tiger is sitting cross-legged on the floor, her feast in front of her--chow mein, two different kinds. Egg rolls. Beef macaroni. General Tso. Sesame Chicken. Fried rice. Everything and anything, it's there in front of her.

Bill sits on the couch, swings a long leg on either side of her. Tiger--a whole ass egg roll still half in her mouth--peeks at his dish. His immaculate, perfectly balance, healthy dish--poached salmon, fresh herbs, roasted veggies, wild rice. And the most insulting part is that after his very modest glass of wine, he went and poured himself a tall glass of....water.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" she asks, but it's barely intelligible because she still has that egg roll in her mouth. Bill cocks a brow.

"Chew," he says calmly. She does.

"Swallow," he says. She winks.

"That's what she--"

"Don't."

Tiger grabs her chop sticks and shoves about 3 fried wontons in her mouth.

"I said," she chews with her mouth open, pointing to his dish "Are you fucking kidding me?"

He shrugs.

"It's good," he says, "I ate a lot of crap this week."

Tiger eyes him, mildly in disgust.

"I'm not sharing," she snaps.

"I didn't ask you to."

"You want to be ridiculous, then you be ridiculous," she continues.

"I'll remember that in an hour when you're whining for someone to rub your belly after all that," he juts his chin to the feast in front of her.

Tiger just grunts.

But like, sometimes it's everything, you know? It's how Bill only has two pairs of jeans--the exact same jeans. It's how tiger will spend weeks agonizing over paint colours, furniture choices, etc. when she wants a change and somehow when Bill wants a different look to his office, within 3 hours it'll be revamped and look like something right out of an interior decorating magazine.

But her number one pet peeve, about his Swedishness? His sheer inability to allow himself to indulge in a job very, very well done without insisting that it is due to like, a million other people. Maybe her Good Dude is up for an award--maybe a lot of them. Big awards. Career-changing awards. And every time tiger gets giddy, every time she's so proud of him, he just insists that all he did was learn his lines and that everyone else is deserving of it.

#BFF!Bill #bill skarsgard #bill skarsgard drabble #bill skarsgard fanfic #bill skarsgard fic #bill skarsgard fiction #bill skarsgard fanfiction

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inkyquince · 2 years

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I don't know if you write for him but Wren + Crossdressing

Nothing he loved more than a cute little thing at poker. You were a really nice bit of eye candy, a pert beauty who grinned at him with malice every time you won a hand. Though this time... This time Wren was making sure you would finally end the game on his cock. He's waited so long for it.

Male!Reader

You were down to your underwear, bra hiding those cute little tits he was dying to see. Wren had nabbed your skirt, fingers curled tight around it, smug to have another article of your clothes. I mean, he might toss you out nude, but he wouldn't actually throw your clothes in the trash!

His friends leered hungrily at you, but your pretty eyes focused on him, chin tilted just a bit in defiance. Wren gave you his most endearing smirk and tossed his cards down, seeing the tell tale drop of your mouth. He won again. You sighed and dropped your cards, beginning to roll down your thigh highs but Wren quickly caught your wrist. He leaned in close, whispering against your ear.

"It's chilly out there tonight, sweetheart. You can keep the socks but lose the underwear. I'm a thigh man anyway." He let go of your wrist and leaned back in his chair, smirking.

Instead of blushing like a bride, your eyes brightened. You rose slowly and hooked your thumbs into your panties, lazily rocking your hips side to side before sliding them down. Wren's stomach tightened. Fuck. His cock had been half-chub, slowly getting more and more interested ever since you walked in, but now he was harder than a fucking rock.

A similarly interested cock sprung up from your panties, tell-tale spot of pre-cum soaked into the fabric. Your dick was the prettiest thing about you, standing tall and smacking lightly against your stomach with each movement.

Wren pretended not to stare, saliva pooling on his tongue, and shuffled the cards again, before shelving out your hand. You hummed in thanks and picked the cards up. One of his friends ducked her head under the table to continue gaping at your cock, sneakily sliding her hand down her trousers.

Wren had a perfect hand and he smirked, throwing down his cards once more before you could hit again. 21, loud and clear. You sighed and dropped your cards again, a measly 9.

You reached behind yourself to unclasp your bra but Wren gripped the armrests of your chair and forcefully wrenched you over, making you yelp.

"Nuh uh, princess." You could feel Wren's breath fluttering over your cockhead and before you could react, he was sucking on your cockhead, burying his face into your lap. He had always been thirsty for you, but now he was dying for a drink of your cum, going to milk your cock, the cock you so selfishly hid from him, totally dry.

His friends cheered as the game was forgotten, Wren bobbing as he sucked you off, your fingers knotted in his hair.

Female!Reader

You were down to your underwear, undershirt and boxers doing nothing to protect you from the slight chill in the room. You scowled at Wren and he just grinned right back at you, eyes flicking to your ass, ready to see those cheeks bare and ready for his tongue. Ain't no way he was letting you go again without showing it all to him and falling apart on his cock.

You bit your lip as you looked at the cards before sighing and tossing them down. 17. Something risky and yet so safe. Wren, however, whooped and tossed his hand down. 18. Get fucked, boy.

You scowled and stood, your socks already long discarded, and tugged your undershirt off. Wren's eyes were trained on your chest, hoping to see a cute set of nipples but faced with a... Chest Wrap?

Wren knotted his eyebrows but shuffled the cards again, distracted by the extra piece of fabric hiding your chest from him, too busy to notice one of his friends sneakily reaching over and gripping the loose end of the fabric, unravelling the hastily wrapped present.

You yelped and turned swiftly to punch him before your face flushed and instead you hid the finest pair of tits Wren's ever seen behind your hands.

Quicker than the devil, he gripped one of your wrists, smiling insidiously at you.

"Against the rules. Show em."

"But she-"

Wren shushed you and stood, bare cock already erect between his thighs, too thick and heavy to stand to its full height. He stepped closer and with you being seated, his erection brushed over the valley between your breasts. He gripped your other wrist to and slowly tugged your hands away, letting all eyes in the room gaze at your chest, hungry.

"Penalty for breaking the rules." Wren's voice quivered with excitement. "Give me a tit job."

You stared for just a moment before slowly cupping your breasts, objective of disrupting Remy's forces waylaid and forgotten, memory wiped clean by the throbbing of the cock pressing against your skin.

Slightly clumsily, you pressed your tits together, around him and began to slowly move them along his length, his friends shivering as they watched.

Wren exhaled slowly, reaching out to stroke your hair as his cock dribbled precum over your sternum.

"I'm going to cum over those pretty tits, then I'm going to sink into that pussy, and you're going to thank me when you're bouncing on my cock."

You bit your lip and nodded, before ducking your head and suckling on the tip of his cock, the taste of his precum making your cunt drip already.

Event Closed!

#wren the smuggler #nsft #dol #degrees of lewdity #quincekinkyshit

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theskywaslookingback · 3 years

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hands

“Somehow I thought the place would have been smaller,” Martin says, bag slung over his shoulder as he looks up at the cottage. “It’s nicer than I would have given Daisy credit for.”

Jon hums, pulling his bag out of the boot of the car they’d borrowed from Basira and letting the lid fall shut with a heavy thunk. The cottage sits nestled at the base of a large hill, surrounded by lush green grass and the last vestiges of summer flowers. Far off in the distance a couple of cows graze lazily, just small dark shapes in the dying sunlight. Bugs hum in the air around them. It’s small and quiet, just the kind of place Jon thinks Daisy might have liked, actually.

The cottage itself is stone painted a stark white, with dark blue, peeling shutters closed tight to the windows. One of the shutters lies broken on the ground, and the glass it had been protecting is spider-webbed with cracks. Two terra cotta flower pots sit on either side of the front door, both empty. There was no evidence that a welcome mat had ever been laid between them. To the left of the door was a box filled with what had once been firewood but was now damp with mist and rot. Jon shuddered to think about creatures they might find lurking in the bottom of that box.

“Charming,” Jon says, the corner of his mouth turned down in distaste. He finds the key in a false rock on the right side of the cottage, just where Basira had said it would be, and lets them inside.

It’s clear from the moment they step inside that Daisy had not visited this particular safe house in quite some time. The air inside the cottage is thick and unpleasantly cold, smelling of dust and age. Dust motes catch in the dim light of the bulb as Jon turns on the light, and he’s displeased to see cobwebs sitting stubbornly in the corners of the room. The wood floor looks old and worn, scratchy looking area rugs dotted along like haphazard patchwork quilt. Jon loathes to take his shoes off.

“Well,” Martin says from behind him, crowding in close, “at least the electric is working.”

Jon shoots a withering glare over his shoulder and steps inside, letting Martin close the door behind them. He drops his bag next to the uncomfortable mound of fabric that someone generous might have once called a settee and goes to check on the rest of the place.

Jon checks the taps in the kitchen and is relieved to find the water running. There’s an expired box of Tetley’s in the pantry that will have to make do until they can make their way down to the village to do a proper bit of shopping, and a couple cans of peaches that might be passable as dinner or breakfast if he can convince Martin to eat them.

He can hear Martin moving about in the sitting room, the creak of the windows and shutters as Martin pushes them open to get the place aired out a bit. “Might be a bit chilly with the windows open,” Jon says.

“There’s a radiator,” Martin replies, “I’ll see about getting it on.”

“Right.”

The hall light flickers when he turns it on, but it gives him enough light to see by. The cottage itself has only four rooms - kitchen, sitting room, one bedroom, and one bath - and Jon can’t bring himself to be surprised that the only bed appears to be a full size. He checks the dresser drawers and finds them empty, thankfully, no nesting mice or other visitors.

The bed is a utilitarian thing. One pillow, though he’s frankly surprised it even has that, white sheets with tight tucked corners, and a navy blue duvet. Jon pulls it off the bed to shake off the dust and sneezes, his eyes watering. He opens the single window with a little difficulty, having to stand on his tip-toes to get it all the way open, and unlocks the shutters. Night has settled quickly over the little valley, but the moon is bright and nearly full, pouring silver light into the room.

When Jon makes his way back into the sitting room Martin is crouched in front of the radiator and frowning, the sleeves of his button down shirt rolled up to show the light brown skin of his forearm. He has a birthmark on his left arm, nestled next to the crease where his arm bends, a dark spot like a smudge of dirt that Jon wants to press his mouth to.

Jon clears his throat, the tips of his ears burning a little. “Any luck?”

Martin jerks a little, swinging his head up to look at him. Jon feels his mouth go a little dry at the sight if he’s honest. Martin’s dark hair sweeping over his forehead, those sleeves rolled back on those thick arms. He likes the look of Martin at work, those calm dark eyes fixed on a problem that Jon knows he’ll find a solution for. Martin sweeps his eyes over Jon, head to toe, before looking back at the radiator. “I don’t know what Daisy did to this thing, but I think it’s well and truly dead.”

“Did you try plugging it in?”

Martin gives Jon a glare worthy of one of his own and Jon feels his lips turn up into a grin without his permission. “It’s a gas radiator, Jon.” He sighs, “Hopefully the gas is just turned off and it’ll be an easy fix, but we’ll be stuck without it tonight.”

“That’s...not ideal.”

Martin hums in agreement.

Silence settles between them, a not unwelcome weight that Jon’s been getting used to the last few days. “Tea?” Jon asks after a moment for lack of anything more helpful to do.

“That would be lovely, actually. Did you find some?”

“Daisy had some in the pantry, it’s likely ancient, but--”

“Tea is tea.”

Jon wrinkles his nose but doesn’t outwardly disagree.

“I’ll just get some things put away then,” Martin says, picking his bag back up off the floor. “Do you want me to take yours?”

“Leave it. I’ll get it later.”

“Alright.”

Jon finds Daisy’s kettle under the sink and starts to wash it out when he hears Martin say something from down the hall. He turns off the water. “What?”

Martin appears in the entry, biting his lip. “There’s er, there’s only one bed.”

Jon furrows his eyebrows. “I’m aware. I saw the bedroom, Martin.”

“Yeah it’s just--“ Martin trails off, his cheeks flushing. “How are...how are we going to sleep?”

Jon remembers the two days they’d spent in his flat, sleeping in the same bed, their hands tangled together even when sleeping because the thought of being separated was too much to bear. But that had been right after Jon had walked Martin out of the Lonely, so he supposes those were extenuating circumstances, Martin needing an anchor to find himself again. It should be a relief that Martin feels safe enough to want a little distance again, but mostly it just sets off a dull ache in his chest.

Jon feels a sharp pain in his jaw and realizes he’s been clenching his teeth and makes an effort to relax, though his shoulders feel pinned next to his ears. Jon goes back to washing out the kettle, filling it with cool water to boil. He avoids Martin’s eyes and says, “I think there might be some spare linens in the closet. I can take the couch.”

Martin shifts, the old wood floor creaking under his foot. “Are you sure? It doesn’t look very comfortable.”

Jon shrugs. “I’ve slept on worse, when I do manage to sleep. It’ll be fine Martin.”

“Alright. If you’re sure.”

“I am.” Jon says with a finality he doesn’t feel.

He finds a couple of mugs in the cupboard that he rinses out before filling with water and letting the tea bags steep. He brings the mugs back into the sitting room and sets Martin’s down on the table. He takes a sip of his own and grimaces. It’s vile, but far from the worst tea he’s ever had so he makes himself drink it.

Martin appears a minute later from the bedroom and takes his tea with a grateful little thanks before taking a sip and making a face.

“Tea is tea.” Jon mumbles.

“I’m not sure this still qualifies.” Martin says but drinks it anyway.

They drink the rest of their tea in silence. Martin volunteers to do the washing up while Jon gets his own things put away.

Martin has left him half the dresser for his clothes and made a space for him on the bathroom counter. It feels almost too intimate, their toothbrushes resting side by side, their clothes in the same drawer. Jon tries desperately not to think about it as he changes his clothes for bed and rifles through the little linen closet for a set of sheets.

He finds a set of dark gray sheets and a threadbare red throw blanket that he drags back out into the sitting room. The settee is as uncomfortable as it is ugly, hardly more than a couple of boulders masquerading as a sofa; Although, Jon has spent many a night sleeping on the floor or bent over his desk at the Archives, so maybe he has no real right to complain.

Martin turns off the kitchen light and waits awkwardly for him to finish, hovering around the edges like he wants to say something but doesn’t have the words. “Are you going to be warm enough?” He finally asks, eyes locked onto the throw blanket. The fabric is almost sheer in spots from wear and dotted with holes along one edge.

The chill is almost impossible to ignore, but Jon just shrugs, a jerky up and down motion of his shoulders. “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, if you’re--“ Martin bites his lip, “Okay. Good night, Jon.”

“Good night, Martin.”

Martin disappears into the bedroom, turning the hall light off, and Jon lets out a shaky breath when he shuts the door behind him with an audible click.

Moonlight seeps in through the open windows, the chirp of crickets ringing along the countryside, a chill settling across the fields as if to prove winter will be along soon. Even in his long sleeve and trackie bottoms, two pairs of socks pulled up over his feet, Jon shivers. He keeps staring at the ceiling, tracing along crisscrossing cracks with his eyes. He kicks his feet and wraps the blanket further up his shoulder and tries to relax. The walls creak and shudder, old pipes groaning and settling inside the wall. Jon throws an arm over his eyes and tries not to think about it. He’s almost asleep when he hears the floorboards start to creak, the soft padding of footsteps coming from the hall.

“Jon?” Martin’s voice is soft, a little strained and raspy like he’s anxious, “Are you still awake?”

Jon sits up, rubbing a hand down the side of his face. “Yes, I’m still awake.”

“Oh,” Martin says. Jon can’t quite see him, can just make out the shape of him, long legs and broad shoulders. His arms wrapped around himself like he can’t keep warm. “It’s...it’s cold, isn’t it.”

“Yes.”

“Might--” Martin clears his throat, “Might be easier if we slept together, yeah? Until we get the heating back up.”

“Are you--” Jon pauses, picking at a loose thread on the blanket, “Would you be okay with that?”

“Would I?” Martin blurts, “I, uh, would you? Be okay with that?”

“Of course. We shared before.”

“Yeah we…” Martin takes a step further into the room. The edges of him blur just a bit, and what Jon can make out of his face looks exhausted. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“It doesn’t, it--” Jon chokes on his own honestly, the lump of it hard and solid in his throat, “It’s okay when it’s you.”

Martin’s mouth drops open into a little ‘o’, a shocked exhale of breath coming from him.

Jon immediately wants to take it back. It’s too much, Jon knows, he’s always been too much at exactly the wrong time. He curls his fists into the blanket pooled at his waist, fighting back the sharp wave of panic that ‘this is it, this time he’s ruined it for good’.

“Okay,” Martin says softly, his lips turning up into a small smile that’s both soft and a little sad, “come on then, maybe we can still get a few hours in before sunrise.”

Jon swallows hard. The panic sits there in his chest, silent and waiting. “Okay,” He chokes out, “alright, let me just--” He gets up and takes the blanket with him, just to have something to do with his hands and follows Martin into the bedroom.

It’s just as cold in here as the rest of the house, but the way Jon’s fingers are trembling has nothing to do with the cold. He picks the side closer to the window, if only so he has something to stare at when he can’t sleep. Martin curls up next to him. The bed is so much smaller than his own back in London. Martin has to draw his legs up just to fit on the mattress, too tall and wide for the little bed. Jon fits just fine, but he’s a little worried about rolling off the mattress during the night. They’re perched precariously, sharing the same pillow, Martin’s warm breath at the back of Jon’s neck.

Eventually Martin sighs. “Here,” He says, shuffling a little behind Jon, “Can I--?” He hovers his hand over Jon’s waist.

It doesn’t-- it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just that the bed is too small for two grown men, despite one being below average height, and it’s cold besides. That doesn’t stop Jon’s heart from beating hard and loud in his chest though, as he slowly nods.

Martin’s hands are large and strong and lovely. Jon’s breath catches when Martin’s arm curls around his waist and he’s pulled back against Martin’s chest. He can feel Martin’s heart beating against his back, thudding almost as loud and hard as his own. Martin’s fingers settle over his stomach, splaying out. Jon thinks his hand could almost cover it completely and it sets off another round of shivering in him that has nothing at all to do with the cold.

“Alright?” Martin whispers.

“Yes.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m-- it’s cold, Martin.”

Martin hums thoughtfully and lets go of Jon for just a moment, long enough to pull the duvet up higher around them before settling his hand back against Jon’s stomach. Jon curls his own hands in front of his face and grabs the blanket so hard his knuckles ache.

“Night, Jon.”

“Good night, Martin.”

Jon is sure there’s no way he could fall asleep like that, pressed so close to Martin that he can feel the warmth of him all along his body, but eventually he does.

[READ THE REST ON AO3]

#fic #my fic #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #these are the ways that i love you

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prettynxsty · 3 years

Text

Just a Pinch

Sub!Jungkook x Domme!Reader

Warnings: Sweat, nipple clamps, gratuitous nipple play, jungkook has a pussy, biting, sweat, small top/big bottom, futa/girlcock, sadists will get a good kick out of this, squirting, crying from pleasure

Summary: Instead of the overplayed “sub wears vibrator out in public”, it’s the sub wears nipple clamps while working out.

AN: This is a nasty one as usual my friends, enjoy. It’s damn near pwp, honestly.

Your teeth ground into your bottom lip, flicking your thumb back and forth as quickly as possible even though your knuckle was beginning to cramp. You take in a deep breath and your chest puffs up before slowly deflating with a sharp sigh.

“Fuck, yes.” You growled slamming your fist against the bed at your side.

Jungkook’s eyes rolled back with a groan from deep in his gut. “Oh my god, please.”

“Fuck me, fuck me, fuckmefuckmefuckme!” His voice rose into a squeal as his head dips forward.

A deeper growl rumbles in your chest before cutting short with a whoop of excitement. You threw the controller down beside where you were sitting, jumping off of the bed and onto your feet. “Yes! Now you need to make good on your end of the bargain baby!”

He covers his face with his hands, sighing before falling into a small fit of nervous giggled. “You can’t be serious babe.”

“Of course I am, it won’t be for that long anyway, you’ll be okay.” You tittered lightly, practically skipping toward your closet. “Go ahead and get ready, the faster you do it, the faster it’ll be over.

”He scratches the back of his neck, planting his feet on the floor and slinking toward the dresser across the room.

He peels his shirt up and over his head before balling it up and tossing it toward the hamper in the corner. He glances at his reflection in the mirror, running a hand over his pecs and down the planes of his rippling stomach. His fingers slip over his adonis belt, wiggling just slightly under the waistband of his black sweatpants.

He takes in a quick sigh, clenching around nothing. A spike of heat bursts and spreads in his stomach, he wondered if he should have been turned on before anything happened. He steps back from the dresser, hooking his fingers under the garment and works it down the swell of his thighs until it falls and piles up around his ankles.

He wiggles a socked foot out of the first leg hole and steps on it to free the other. This too sails through the air and lands in the hamper with a soft thump. He takes another glance at himself in the mirror.

He was a lovely shade of coffee with a few splashes of milk. He kissed his tan lines goodbye since your regularly scheduled maintenance days with him. In your days of boredom, you took it upon yourself to buy a nice waxing pot and clean his cunt of hair in places he had to (literally) bend over backwards to reach.

He thought you were going to do it somewhere like the bedroom or bathroom, but you figured that you may as well get good use of the rooftop. His pussy is easily nestled in between his tanned thighs, brown outer lips just barely hiding his sweet inner pink.

He hated that you refused to touch him until the next day, he could feel everything when you were done. Now that same time of the month was his favorite time for grooming.

Jungkook blinks, shaking himself from the vivid thought and pulls open the drawer. His underwear was neatly rolled up beside yours. He decides on a simple gray high cut thong, stretching it, stepping into it and slipping it up to his hips.

Normally he preferred to wear nothing, but he needed an extra barrier of protection for today. He pushes the drawer closed and pulls open the ones on the right and left of it. Simply, he grabs a sleeveless tee and pair of shorts. He dresses himself quickly and parks himself on the edge of the bed.

You return from the closet with a giddy smile, swinging something shiny around your fingers. Nipple clamps.

“Don’t look so happy to torture me,” he pouts.

“That’s your favorite part of it though, Junggoo~.” You made your way around the end of the bed and sat on his knees.

You reach up and cradle his cheeks, kissing him. The tension melts from his shoulders with the first and hang comfortably over his frame with the second.

“Now let’s see what’s under the hood,” your joke sails straight over his head and out of the window. He shakes his head, placing his hands on your thighs. You lift the bottom of his shirt and twist it under the collar, placing your hands over his chest.

Your fingertips trace over the swell of his taut mounds, goosebumps raise over his skin as you near his nipples. You hovered the tips of your thumbs over his nipples, admiring the rich rosy brown of his little areolas.

A moan rises in his throat, swallowed away noisily. Heat rises and exchanges between your bodies, you shift in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure on your dick. His fingers curl around your thighs pulling you even closer to him. Your dick fit snugly against his lower belly and it was starting to drive you crazy.

He leans forward, slipping his head over the juncture of your shoulder and neck. His slow breaths crawl up your skin in a way that tempts you to shiver. Jungkook was familiar with the shadow inside of you, he knew how to make it burn. His lips press over the swell of your shoulder, sending shocks zipping through your body. You should’ve known better than to wear that tank top today.

You graze your thumbs over the hardened tips of his nipples. He moans against your skin, you played with them so much that he felt like he could feel each ridge in your prints. He seals his lips around the base of your neck, gently suckling and grinding his tongue against your skin. You pinch his nipples in between the length of your index fingers and thumbs harshly, tugging.

He jerks slightly, his teeth sinking into your flesh. You hiss, arching your back before releasing his nipples and pushing against his chest. Jungkook pulls back with a whine, eyes wide.

“What’s wrong?”

You could hardly hide the fact that you were already breathless. “No, you aren’t going to weasel your way out of this one baby boy.”

The darker side of your mind was pleading for you to give in and make a mess of the bed sheets. But you knew that it’d make things filthier if you put him up to this.

You press a kiss to his pouting mouth, pulling back before he could deepen it. His brow knits together, he was already horny. He may as well make sure he didn’t get too far ahead of himself, it’d be harder to work out if he got wetter than he was now.

You slip the short chain from your knuckles, pinching open the first clamp. He seemed to be holding his breath as you pressed the chilly metal to his flesh before slowly releasing it. Jungkook throws his head back, gasping and biting down on his bottom lip. It was like a thick cloud rose and surrounded his brain, it was getting harder and harder to figure out what he was thinking.

You drag your tongue over your bottom lip with a dry swallow, you could already imagine the feeling of his pussy flexing around you. You lift the other end, the fire in your belly consumes you further when he twitches at the slightest shift of the first clip. You gently pinch the other clamp open and close it around his other nipple. He responds immediately with a drawn out breathy moan that makes your head spin.

You reach up slowly, unravelling his shirt from his collar and allow it to fall over his midsection. He looks down at you with these dark, cloudy eyes. “Can’t.. Can’t we..” He babbles as if the wind was knocked out of him.

“Come on, I’ll- I’ll go fill up your water bottle.” You tried to shake the slurring from your voice, planting your hand on the mattress and wiggling out of his grip.

The cold air of the hallway hits you like a freight train, bringing more cognizance to your mind. The heaviness between your legs was making you crazy, you hadn’t a clue how either of you would workout in this state.

You cross the way into your kitchen, it looked like the floor was blending into the walls. Grabbing your water bottles off of the drying rack, you fill them to the brim with ice and water.

Eventually Jungkook shuffles out of your bedroom with a dizzy, distant air in his eyes. He was red from his cheeks to his ears, and the sides of his neck. It was like he was wasted already, he seemed to be moving slowly to reduce the friction of the shirt over his nipples. The chain sat just right, as it didn’t really jingle as he walked.

He must’ve struggled to slip on the backpack, stopping beside you. You’d make it a little easier on him, choosing to carry your drinks instead of adding more weight to the bag on his back.

“Let’s go, we’ll be home the faster we go.”

He nods slowly, heading toward the door.

During your short walk around the corner to the gym, he spoke up suddenly. “I won’t have to do everything, will I?”

“Everything but squats, the bench, and deadlifts, I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

He huffs, looking down at you like a kicked puppy. You didn’t miss how his eyes gained a glassy tinge.

“I’ll do everything you want me to when we get home, my pretty boy.” You muttered low enough for him to hear, pushing open the door with your shoulder.

“How are you doing, baby?” You coo into his ear, wrapping your arms around his waist. Not a soul wandered the locker room aside the dust and water droplets where they weren’t supposed to be.

“I’ll give you a treat,” you whispered. Your work your hand under his shorts, pushing your fingers past his thong easily. He makes a soft, pretty noise when you cup his pussy.

He leans his weight back against you, jerking with a grunt when your thumb grazes over the sticky hood of his clit and passes over his blood swollen love button.

“Just want you to fuck me,” he whines, trying to squirm away from your rough thumb. It was too much for him, he could cum right now.

“Too much?” You ask gently, receiving a nod in response. You knew better than to let up now, pinching his hood and jerking the little pink sleeve. He made a noise like he was punched in the gut, hands clutching your forearms. His hands were shaking, but he was too desperate to push them away.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cu- unh!” He pants, thrashing his head against your shoulder as you pinch it. You take a deep breath in, retracting your hand and licking your fingertips.

He slumps back against you with a disappointed groan, struggling to catch his breath.

“Let’s go, I need to reward you.” Your voice was dark, moving to take the backpack out of the locker. You helped him ease it onto his shoulders and dragged him out of the locker room. You were given a few funny looks, but you hardly noticed them through the haze settling around your mind.

He all but wobbled his way to the bedroom by himself, leaving a trail of things behind him. Jungkook absolutely needed out of everything on his body at that moment. You followed him into the bedroom, watching from the doorway as he clumsily peeled off his sopping wet panties and nearly fell during the process.

“Take them off,” his voice breaks with a shiver crawling up his waist and shaking his shoulders. He makes a pitiful noise, squeezing his thighs together as he clumsily sits on the end of the bed. The thin chain lightly sways with the motion of his poor attempts to control his breath.

You wondered if you should try this more often, he never broke this quickly. You move across the room to sit on his knees as you had before. It felt like Jungkook’s skin was on fire, the slightest sensation made his hair stand up even straighter. His nails clumsily scratch at your skin, shoving his hands over the waistband of your shorts.

He couldn’t be bothered to fumble with anything, whining with a sob as the mesh of your clothing brushes over his thighs. “Off, off please!” He fusses in a strained voice.

You rose as quickly as you began to lower yourself, he was enveloping you in the same haze as before. Your lower belly spasms with a particularly aggressive twitch of your cock.

”Shit,” you growl under your breath. You yank away your shorts and nearly deflate with relief when your dick springs to full attention. Your sanity dissolved into ash bit by bit from feeling your glans scrubbing against the waistband when you moved around.

Jungkook clutches handfuls of the sheets under him, he couldn’t touch himself if he wanted. He’d scream because it was too much. His bottom lip trembled. It looked like he was practically flushed from head to toe, a heavy tear escaping the barrier of his thick lower lashes. It splatters over his collarbone, it’d evaporate if his body was any warmer.

You yank your shirt over your head and kick it aside with your other clothes, rushing toward him. You began to lower yourself to your knees, stabilizing yourself with hands on his trembling thighs.

He made another high pitched noise to fuss at you, he was so far gone that he just couldn’t control himself. Jungkook leans forward, wrapping his hands around your hips before lifting you onto his lap. You make a noise of exclamation, placing your hands on his shoulders in a weak attempt to register what just happened.

He pushes his chest toward you, sniffling. Another tear slips from the corner of his eye, dancing over his cheekbone before slipping under his jaw.

“Baby,” you croon and stroke his hair. You gently curl a fingertip under the chain, lifting it slowly. This squeezes a few squeaks out of him, swelling into a squeal when you tug slightly.

You gently place your fingertips on the first clamp, squeezing it open and pulling it away from his stress. Jungkook’s forehead drops against your shoulder in relief, pressing weak kisses of gratitude over your breasts.

He grips your cock with both hands, slowly jerking your flesh up and down. You groan, resting one of your hands in the center of his pecs as you blindly feel around for the second clamp. Your fingertips cascade over his flushed bud, causing him to seize up. His grip tightens in a way that raises the gentle drip of your precum into a syrupy faucet.

You were likely already starting to drip over his fingers. His grip slowly relaxes, regaining his steady pattern. You press the tip of your thumb and index finger over the ends of the clamp, pinching it open and allowing the chain to drop between you.

You stroke your fingers over the back of his neck. “Let me see them,” you whisper with warmth and conviction. That tone of voice always sends his head into a spiral, he seemed to struggle to lift his head.

He shakily circles his thumb around your tip, spreading your precum all over his finger. You seize up, growling through clenched teeth. Jungkook quickly returns to stroking you firmly, he couldn’t stand the thought of you being unable to touch him.

You lean forward gingerly, dragging the tip of your nose through the cleft of his pecs. You tongue lolls out of your mouth, carefully resting on the edge of his areola before flicking upward.

He almost jerks away, sighing sharply. It was like you held the metal of a used lighter to his skin. It was enough to wipe what little thought remained in his head in a flash.

You tilt your head toward the other, slowly swirling the tip of your tongue toward the center of his nipple. He trembles below you, utilizing what strength remained to stay still.

“Want you to fuck me,” he croaks.

You glance up at him with a smile, nodding to oblige.

You plant a hand, carefully shifting yourself off of him and further onto the mattress. “Get on the middle of the bed, knees.

”He took his time to move, slowly twisting and crawling on. You reach to the left, yanking open the nightstand drawer with a flick of your wrist. You rip open the tube of lube, nearly breaking the loose plastic hinge of the cap. You squeeze a fat globule at the base of your cock, smearing the excess over the side of your lower belly before snapping it shut and shoving it back away.

You nearly forget to shut the drawer, pushing it closed with your ankle before crawling toward him. “Turn around.”

He plants his hands and crawls until he’s facing away from you, leaning back on his haunches.

Your dick prods the cleft of his ass as you seat yourself behind him, swiping your fingers through the thick, clear jelly. You do a messy job of lathering yourself up, leaning forward and slipping your dick under him.

You spread your index and middle fingers, smearing some of the lube over his pussy lips. He opened up like a pretty little flower, his cunt was already lush and puffy.

You drag the crook of your finger over his clit hood, coaxing a soft keen out of him. You press your fingers together, slipping them over his inner pink and press them into his hole. This time it was your turn to moan, his pussy swallowed your fingertips with ease.

He arches his back, molding against you with a whine. God, it felt so good but he wanted more. More than that. His inner velvet flutters around your fingers in a way that makes your toes curl already.

You work them in and out for a few strokes before you couldn’t stand it any longer. You wrap your hand around your cock, momentarily lowering yourself to press against his pussy. He slumps heavily against you with a coo when your cock begins to spread him open.

“Ooh,” you hiss, steadying yourself by moving your other hand to his stomach. Reaching the hilt, you shift your grip to clasp both of his forearms as leverage. The first thrust makes a filthy noise, excess lube squishing around your length.

To this, you lose yourself in him. You piston your hips forward, using him like the warm, wet hole he is. You fuck into him with reckless abandon. His voice is high, shaking with breathy and noisy squeals.

He does his best to refrain from squirming in your hold, thighs twitching with the urge to close. The room before him was a blur of shapeless splashes of color, it amazed him how you could get even deeper when he was on his back. Jungkook felt ridiculously full, his head dropping forward, babbling slurred expletives.

Your thighs burn, you knew he came by the way he started to flutter and squeeze around you. You could feel it barreling toward you, wrapping one of your arms over his hips to keep him steady.

You shift a hand, flicking your finger over his swollen nipple. His voice reaches a new pitch, thrashing his head around in a futile attempt to remain on this plane of existence.

“No! Gonna-” he tried to squeal, digging deep half moons into his thighs. You set your teeth tightly, your balls slap against his skin as you ground deeper. It felt like he was going to wring you dry.

You lean back for him to slump his weight against you fully and attack his other nipple with a harsh pinch. His shout catches in his throat, his head thumping against the thick of your shoulder.

Your control is carried away by the wind, the noise you make is ungodly when you cum. You couldn’t lose steam, his cum cakes up with yours as you plunge in. It felt like your sanity was melting out of your ears.

You roll the tips between your fingers, scrubbing them back and forth with your middle fingers. Something inside him broke, his jaw snapping shut as he began to shake uncontrollably.“Gnh, ah!” He grits out, his squirt splashing around your cock and splattering over the sheets.

Oh. Oh. You slow your thrusts with a breathless chuckle before allowing your softening cock to slip out of him with a wet plop. You’re met with a noisy sniffling, stroking your hands over his trembling stomach.

You shift your weight onto one knee and lay down behind him. “Shhh, shhh..” You continue to stroke your hand over his belly as the shocks become weaker and weaker.

The tension in his body takes a few minutes to melt away before he can fully sink into the mattress, timidly scooting back for you to fully spoon him.

“You okay?”

“Mhm.”

You hadn’t made a mess like that in a while, but you supposed he might have needed it as much as you. You’d soak in the bath later with him.

#sub junkook #sub bts #sub kpop #sub!jungkook #sub!bts #sub jungook x domme reader #sub!jungkook x domme!reader #dom reader #domme reader

364 notes · View notes

qitwrites · 3 years

Text

breaking ground

Fandom: boku no hero academia

Pairing: Kirishima Eijirou / Bakugou Katsuki

(AO3)

The thing about your best friend/roommate/long-time crush/probably the love of your life being in a coma is that it sucks. Like, a lot.

‘Kats, if you don’t wake up, I will hide a dirty sock somewhere in your room. Somewhere you’ll never find it. And you’ll just have to live with that.’

The machines beep in the back, like a ghastly metronome.

‘I will move your desk 3 inches to the left.’

The soft rise and fall of the blonde’s chest is uniform, lungs contracting and expanding and contracting over and over.

‘I will literally stop watering the orchid Kats, I swear to god.’

Bakugou’s hands are by his side, nails longer than he’d ever keep. Kirishima makes a mental note to trim and file them later.

‘Ok, that’s going too far. I’d never kill Lucy, at least not on purpose.’

Bakugou continues to breathe with the help of a machine too complicated for Kirishima to understand, and the redhead just wants his best friend back. Because it’s been 16 days of Bakugou being fed and kept alive by a machine, it’s been 16 days since he heard his voice, saw his feral smile, looked into his bright, bright, bright eyes. And Kirishima is so ready for this nightmare to be over.

‘Come on Kats,’ Kirishima mumbles, laying his head down on the hospital bed and gently lacing his fingers with Bakugou’s, ‘you gotta wake up man. Our kitchen misses you. Our plants miss you. The neighbour’s cat misses you. Your mom misses you. I- fuck, I miss you.’

The machines continue to beep, his chest rises and falls uniformly, and Kirishima really just wants his best friend back.

The Bakusquad (the official immortalized name of the gang) lets Kirishima stay in the hospital in 3 days bursts, following which they bodily throw him out. For fresh air and some sunlight, they say, like he’s a dying plant.

‘You need to shower in your own home,’ Kaminari grumbles, stuffing his dirty clothes in a bag.

Sero pulls a beanie over his head. ‘And also water the plants in the balcony.’

Ashido stuffs his wallet into his pant pocket and slips his phone into his hand. ‘Also, don’t forget to dust the bookshelves! And leave some fresh water for Queens.’ She pulls him down for a soft kiss on the cheek.

Jirou pulls the phone from his hand, fiddles with it for a moment before slipping it back into his palm. She places a pair of wireless Beats headphones over his beanie, and he hears the first notes of a piano piece, calm and really lovely.

‘Playlist is on there,’ Jirou says, pointing at his hand.

And so Kirishima goes home, the home he shares with Bakugou, and he waters their plants, and dusts the bookshelves, and does some laundry and cooks easy fried rice the blonde had drilled into his brain.

He doesn’t look at Bakugou’s room door, doesn’t venture inside, doesn’t touch his space. He sticks to the common areas and his own room, and he keeps it clean and tidy, the way Bakugou likes it.

He’ll get to the blonde’s room eventually, just not yet.

Red Riot and Ground Zero are a hero pair. What this means is that they work individually when they want, and they pair up for bigger, more difficult missions.

And what a pair they make.

Riot is a wall, a shield, an unbreakable defence, always the last man standing. And Ground Zero is an explosion, a burst of light, an offence so quick and forceful the villains never stand a chance. They’re one of the best pairs out there, and they’ve done some amazing work.

It's almost stupidly ironic that Bakugou gets hurt during one of their paired missions.

The case involved several strong villains that attacked schools, and between rescue and evacuation and dealing with villains, Red Riot and Ground Zero had their hands full. Riot was mostly with the civilians and Ground Zero was keeping the damage to a minimum, but before Kirishima could go to Bakugou’s side and assist him, the damage had been done.

Because the last villain Bakugou had to deal with had decided to implode, killing himself and taking Bakugou out with him.

The damage had been immense.

Several concussions and broken ribs, bruises and internal bleeding that could only be controlled with a mix of surgeries and healing quirks. And finally, a waiting game. Bakugou had to wake up, his body had to heal itself and decide when and if he was going to wake up again.

And so Kirishima waits with him, silently supporting him from the side, ever patient, brimming with love.

25 days after the attack, Kirishima finally walks into Bakugou’s room.

The air smells faintly like sugar, like his quirk. The walls are bare but for the few polaroids Kirishima tacks on the wall above his desk. The laptop and file folders are sitting atop his table, a thin layer of dust coating them, and the only messy thing is his unmade bed.

Kirishima crawls under his sheets, breaths in his scent, and for the first time since Bakugou had decided to be an ass and slip into a coma, the redhead cries. Giant sobs that seem to come from his core, fat tears rolling down his cheeks, snot dripping out his nose.

Kirishima cries with the force of a thousand suns, and falls asleep right there, twisted in Bakugou’s sheets, in his unmade bed, in the middle of a room covered in a thin, fine layer of dust, smelling only slightly like burnt, warm sugar.

A month after the attack, Kirishima finally cleans Bakugou’s room.

Mina had made a good point. ‘If you don’t clean his room, it’s like you’re saying he’s not coming back so there’s no point. So, clean his room Eijirou.’

He appreciates that they don’t offer to do it. It’s usually impossible to keep them out of their apartment, impossible to keep them from getting belligerently drunk and playing monopoly on the living room floor while blasting 2000’s hits and throwing pieces of pepperoni at each other. Impossible to not love them.

But right now, the apartment is off-limits, and they seem to understand this. And respect it. And they understand that he needs a push here, a nudge there, and a gentle shove here to get his ass moving, to do the things he’s scared of doing, the things that just need to be done anyway

Kirishima loves them, so so much.

And so, he cleans. He dusts everything, puts Bakugou’s sheets in the wash and hangs his comforter out to dry. He fluffs up the All Might plushie and makes the bed, vacuums the floor, and puts his folded laundry back where it belongs in the closet.

He finds the box when he’s reorganizing Bakugou’s hero gear drawer. It’s a black box, smooth to the touch, no bigger than Kirishima’s palm, with just 2 words printed on top.

Death Box.

Its existence isn’t shocking to Kirishima. After all, he has one of his own, tucked neatly under his hanging jackets, pushed to the very back.

A Death Box is a pro-hero thing. It’s no secret that the life of a hero is riddled with danger and that one bad day could be the end. Every pro knows this. And most pro-heroes have a Death Box.

The contents of the box vary from person to person. Some leave behind letters addressed to friends and family. Others leave wills and assets and final testaments. Some leave behind cryptic messages or dramatic last words.

Kirishima never wondered about Bakugou’s box, and Bakugou had never asked about his own. But today, 31 days after the attack, 31 days of no Bakugou, 31 days of waking up with an ache in his chest because Kirishima’s heart is literally breaking, he finds himself gently pulling the box out and sitting on Bakugou’s bed, turning it over in his hands.

It’s really simple- no patterns or designs or anything. It's black as midnight, the lettering orange. Kirishima gently pops the box open and inside lays a single pen-drive. Nothing else.

Kirishima stares at it for a long, long time. He almost puts the box back in the drawer with the pen drive safely nestled inside, he almost forgets what he ever saw, he almost acts like he’s fine.

But he’s not fine. He’s so far from fine he can’t even spell the word. And he misses his friend with a pain so sharp he feels it in his bones. So Kirishima picks the pen drive up and takes it to the laptop. He switches the system on, plugs the drive in and waits for the program to load up.

Surprisingly, it isn’t password protected. He skims over the contents briefly. There’s a folder named Will and Final Testaments that he ignores completely. There’s another folder named Personal Project that he also leaves alone. The third folder is titled for everyone, and Kirishima clicks on that.

The folder is filled with video files of varying lengths. Each video is named after a specific person, and Kirishima smiles when he sees one for Bakugou’s mom, his dad, each of the Bakusquad, one for All Might, and one for Midoriya. The Deku video is easily bigger than all the others, all except one.

Because the one titled Shitty Hair is close to 45 minutes long.

Kirishima inhales shakily, and for once, he hesitates. Because once he watches this, he knows Bakugou will well and truly kill him. These videos, this content, it’s meant to be consumed after he dies. Not when he’s in a coma, not when he’s alive and fighting for his life. Not when he’s doing his best to come back.

But here’s the thing- Kirishima isn’t watching this because he thinks Bakugou’s as good as gone. He doesn’t believe that one bit. No, Kirishima is watching this because he misses Bakugou so much, so much that his insides feel like they're shredding up into little bits and pieces, and Kirishima just wants to hear him bark out his ugly laugh, he wants to see his eyes dance with mirth, he wants to watch Bakugou dump too much chilli into the curry and wrap himself into a blanket burrito on their couch in the dead of winter, cursing the weather viciously. He never thought he’d miss the way someone said fuck so much in his life, yet here he is.

So Kirishima inhales shakily, breathes out in a whoosh and hits play.

2 years ago

Bakugou had put off recording Kirishima’s message for years.

The one to his parents was simple enough. Dad, thank you for being some kinda balance in the house, and for loving me ridiculously unconditionally. Hag, ma, we’ve always had our own issues and we love so violently, but I do love you. I always have. Thank you for making me the devil spawn I am, couldn’t have been so great if it weren’t for you.

The Bakusquad (ugh, what a dumb name) had a video each. They weren’t super long, but he loved them all, more than they’d ever know when he’s alive, and he thought they deserved to know if he ever died before getting around to drunkenly confessing it or something.

Sero, your stupid fucking jokes have made some shitty days so much better.

Jirou, you’re insanely strong and you’ve had my back on more occasions than I can count.

Mina, my girl, you’re the OG. Thank you for never giving up on me, for always pushing me to be part of the gang, for becoming my friend.

Kaminari, you’re always gonna be hella fucking stupid, but you’re my stupid friend, one of my closest buddies, and it was a pleasure knowing you.

He might actually die if they find this when he's alive, but that’s the whole point of Death Box- it's to say the things you can't when you're alive or to remind people of the things you felt after you’re gone.

Midoriya’s had been hard. Midoriya’s had been really hard.

Unpacking so many emotions, talking about the past, UA, the present; it made his blood boil but also made him immeasurably sad. After their first year, Midoriya and he had grown close. They still found it difficult to communicate like normal human beings, but they always had each other’s backs, no matter where or what. And even as pro-heroes, they worked together wonderfully, competed for #1 fiercely, pushed each other to incredible heights, and picked each other up after terrible missions.

Deku, I know so much of our past is water under the bridge for you, and that’s been great for us because it lets us have a sort of friendship. But I haven’t forgotten. I will never forgive myself and all I could do is be better.

For all the fucked up shit that we’ve been through, for how much I still get angry when I see you and how much I want to be better than you all the time, you are the brother I never had, the comrade that never left, the friend that I’ve never deserved.

Izuku, thank you. I’m sorry.

Admitting to most of these things isn’t difficultly because it’s all true. And honesty has always come easily to Bakugou. As an adult hero, he’s learned things about himself, his own feelings, his own version of love for the people around him. And he can’t bring himself to say those exact words to Izuku, but he hopes his actions (Bentos pressed into Midoriya’s hands after long patrols, sharing beers on rooftops, patching each other up after shitty missions) are message enough.

But Kirishima? How is he supposed to find the words to tell Kirishima how he feels? How much the redhead means to him? Where does he even begin?

Bakugou huffs and slaps himself on both cheeks. Kirishima is out for the day, taking Mina shopping at the mall and catching a movie with the gang, a plan Bakugou had gotten himself out of just so he could sit here, in the apartment he shares with the only person he has ever had the good fortune of being in love with, to record a final message. What a happy thought.

Bakugou thinks Fuck it, takes a seat in front of the camera, ruffles his hair, and hits record.

‘Hey Shitty Hair.’

Hey Shitty Hair.

There are handprints on Bakugou’s face. His hair is a ruffled mess, his bed is unmade behind him, and his face looks almost nervous.

Kirishima doesn’t think about any of that.

Because seeing Bakugou on-screen with his red eyes boring into Kirishima, and hearing his voice, rough and loud and well-worn feels like the first breath of fresh air the redhead has gulped down in a month. It feels like a well-placed punch to the gut, and Kirishima almost bowls over, overwhelmed beyond comprehension.

He misses him so much.

Fuck, making this video is fucking hard, I’m not even sure where to start. Also, you better not be crying like a baby Ei, I sweat to God, I might be dead, but you still need to go out there and kick ass cause someone needs to take care of all those shitty villains.

Kirishima makes an aborted sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, because this is his best friend in the entire universe, the man he knows better than he knows himself. This is his person.

Anyway, I made a bunch of other videos for all the other losers, but yours has been the biggest pain in my ass. I guess the closer you are to someone, the harder it is right?

First off, I need to say thank you. For like, so much shit. Thank you for taking those first few steps in our friendship. For constantly pestering me and inserting yourself into my life. For training with me, including me in all kinds of stupid activities, and getting me into the gang. My time at UA would never have been so fun, so memorable, so amazing without you. You made it great, despite all the shit that went wrong.

The blonde sucks in a deep breath and his eyes pierce straight through Kirishima, peering right into his soul.

We don’t talk about Kamino because there’s never been the words. Ei, I was so scared. Fuck, I was so scared I couldn’t stop shaking. And then there you were, flying above me, hand outstretched and yelling at the top of your goddamn lungs ‘Come!’ And that’s it. I knew I’d be ok. I knew I’d be just fine.

And yeah, I mean, the pros were there and maybe we could’ve figured something else out and maybe things would’ve worked out a different way. But you guys coming for me, YOU reaching out to me? It was the first time I felt like I had friends. I had comrades. I had people. Of course, my emotionally stunted ass refused to accept these feelings, but they took root then. And continued to grow.

Bakugou sighs deeply and sits back in his chair. He looks at the ceiling and continues.

I’m not sure I know what love is. As a feeling, I don’t know how to categorize when I’m feeling love and when I’m not. At least, I didn’t for the longest time.

Bakugou looks back at the camera, and Kirishima’s vision is starting to blur dangerously.

I know I love my parents, but it feels different than the love I feel for the idiot brigade. It’s different from what I feel for Izuku. And it sure as hell feels different from the love I feel for you.

Bakugou sighs again, and his face breaks into the softest smile Kirishima has ever seen and everything hurts.

A few years ago, I think weeks after we’d moved into this place, we were making breakfast and you looked me dead in the eye and said ‘I think the morning glories are trying to kill me.’ And I laughed out loud and you looked so proud of yourself and I thought, ‘Shit, Ei is such an idiot.’ That’s when it hit me.

Bakugou’s smile grows fonder.

I don’t call people by their names even in my head Ei. You were Shitty Hair for most of our first year at UA. Then you became Kirishima, and then somehow it became Kiri, and then Eijirou and then Ei. Nobody, and I mean absolutely nobody else, is the same. Not a single fucking person.

The first time I called you Ei in my head, that’s when I realized I was in love with you.

Kirishima hits pause immediately. He closes the window, safely ejects the pen drive, puts it back in the box and returns it to its spot. He shuts the laptop down, walks out of Bakugou’s room and sits on the couch in the living area, the same one they’ve passed out on countless times, the same one they bought together with their first paychecks, the same one that’s stained with coffee rings and spaghetti sauce and pepperoni grease.

He picks his phone up on autopilot and dials a familiar number.

‘Kiri?’ Mina sounds like a hot cup of coffee on a chilly Tuesday morning.

‘Please come home.’

He hears some rustling and yelling in the background before Mina says, ‘Stay right there, we’ll be over as soon as Midoriya gets here ok?’

Kirishima hums out an affirmative and hangs up. It’s time they come home.

67 days after the fight, Kirishima gets a call.

‘He’s awake.’

Red Riot is back on the streets, patrolling during the day, staying with Bakugou in the hospital at night and barely keeping his shit together. But it’s ok, it kinda works. Works well enough that he can do his job and do it well, and his friends are always there, picking up his pieces, keeping him sane.

Before Kirishima can say anything, Midoriya continues, ‘Chargebolt is almost at your location to relieve you, so go.’

He takes off running. His lungs burn and he can barely see where he’s going but he’s made this walk so many times he can do it in his sleep. He runs as fast as his legs can take him and makes them go faster.

Kirishima bursts into the hospital and takes the stairs 3 at a time. He finally gets to Bakugou’s floor and sprints to the door, and he can barely pull in enough air. He’s lightheaded, his heart is palpitating, and his vision is blurry but he slides the door open anyway.

Carmine eyes snap over to his and time just comes to a complete standstill. There are no doctors, no nurses. There’s no Bakugou Mitsuki, no beeping machines that breathe for him, no beeping machines that feed him, no white sterile walls and ugly hospital gowns. There is only Bakugou Katsuki, his bright, bright, bright eyes and a hand outstretched at Kirishima.

‘Ei-‘

And that’s it. One moment he’s standing in the doorway, the next he has Bakugou gathered in his arms, and he’s so warm and alive and it’s absolutely everything.

‘Kats,’ Kirishima mumbles. ‘Kats.’

‘Ei, if you start crying, I will smack the shit out of you.’

Kirishima’s laugh is watery. He pulls away and cups Bakugou’s face, smooshing his cheeks a little.

‘Kats, for once, shut the fuck up and let me feel my feelings. Do you have any idea how much the plants missed you?’

Bakugou’s mouth twists in a grimace but his eyes soften till they’re just liquid ruby and Kirishima falls a little more in love.

‘Just the plants?’

‘Shut the fuck up Kats.’ And Kirishima hugs him again, presses Bakugou’s face firmly into the crook of his neck. The blonde’s arms tighten around his middle, and the world feels whole again.

A week after they return from the hospital, Bakugou finds a white envelope in the morning glories, the very same ones that Kirishima had insisted were trying to kill him.

To Kats it says in Kirishima’s untidy scrawl. Bakugou puts the watering can down and picks the letter up gently, opening it with trembling hands.

Dear Katsuki,

My Death Box has a bunch of letters in them. I wrote one for mom, one for mama, one for all our friends, I wrote letters to all of them.

Yours was the hardest because even after writing and rewriting it 5 times, it was always the same- all I can write to you is a love letter.

Bakugou doesn’t read the rest, just snaps his head up and looks around wildly.

‘EIJIROU, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YO-‘

‘I love you Kats.’ Kirishima is right there, standing by the balcony door, eyes wide and hopeful. He’s wearing sweatpants low on his hips, and in each hand, he holds a mug of steaming hot chocolate spiked with chilli. Mexican cocoa. Bakugou’s favourite.

He puts the mugs down on the balcony ledge. ‘I’ve loved you for so long, I don’t remember what it’s like to not be in love with you.’

‘Eijirou-‘

‘I love you.’ Kirishima steps forward and frames Bakugou’s face with his warm, calloused hands, and smiles big. ‘What about you?’

Bakugou scoffs. ‘What do you think, Shitty Hair?’

‘Gotta hear you say it, Kats.’

‘You’re a pain in my ass.’

‘I know.’

‘You’re so annoying.’

‘I agree.’

‘Your hair still sucks.’

‘Your nose twitches when you lie.’

‘And I love you so much anyway.’ Bakugou finishes and places his hands over Kirishima’s and squeezes.

‘Don’t start crying Ei.’

‘Let me feel my feelings, Kats.’

‘I’m not kissing you if you’re covered in fucking snot.’

Kirishima laughs at that, pulling Bakugou close. ‘Your nose still twitches when you lie.’

Bakugou doesn’t deign that with a response, just smirks his trademark smirk, looks at Kirishima with those bright, bright, bright eyes and kisses him stupid.

‘Again,’ Kirishima mumbles.

Bakugou does just that.

#boku no hero academia #bnha #bnha fanfiction #mha #my hero fanfic #kiribaku #bakushima #bnha kirishima #bakugou katsuki #bakusquad #ashido mina #sero hanta #kaminari denki #THANKS TO MY BEST FRIEND FOR NAMING THE FIC AND READING IT ONE BILLION TIMES #so this story is hurt/comfort and so much fluff #I LOVE KIRIBAKU SO MUCH ITS ABSURD #hope you enjoy :D

116 notes · View notes

clubyukhei · 3 years

Photo

wayv react series: tiktok couple pranks

kun, ten, sicheng, dejun, kunhang, yangyang

genre: fluff

your apartment is quiet save for the sounds coming from the tv.

“now let’s catch some criminals.”

“to infinity and beyond!”

the scene changes and you hear a light giggle escape your boyfriend’s lips. you can’t help but notice the way his eyes curiously follow his newfound favourite characters on the tv screen, and it makes you smile.

you and yukhei are three movies into your pixar movie marathon now, and neither of you intend to move from the couch despite having lazed here all afternoon.

it’s not like you have plans for the day, anyway. not when it hasn’t stopped raining since this morning, not when the two of you are too safe and cozy at home.

you glance at the rain outside. it has calmed down into a light drizzle now, but the city remains gloomy and cold. even though you already turned off the ceiling fan, the wind seeping through the small gap between the opened windows is still a little too strong for you — it fills the living room with chilly air, making you shiver a little.

“you look cold.” yukhei frowns as he watches you rub your arms for a while now. he sits up sluggishly and removes his hoodie, pulling it over your head.

“thanks, bub.” you reply softly, watching him pull the long sleeves over your cold hands. he hums nonchalantly in response, readjusting his t-shirt before lying back down on the other end of the couch.

you revel in the layer of warmth and the scent of him that’s now wrapped around you for a moment. while your legs are still exposed to the cool air, at least you’re not shivering anymore.

but a cheeky idea quickly pops into your mind — a prank you saw on tiktok just recently. one that made you laugh and had you wondering how yukhei would react. there’s no harm testing it out on him, right?

“i’m still cold.” you mumble, hugging yourself pathetically.

“oh no.” yukhei frowns again, grabbing the tv remote to stop the movie. “wait here, baby.”

then he gets on his feet and disappears into your bedroom. there’s a moment of silence before you hear the faint sound of him opening your clothes drawer and shutting it. in less than a minute, he’s strolling back to you with your favourite sweatpants and a pair of fluffy socks.

you quickly wiggle out of your pyjama shorts as yukhei holds your sweatpants out.

“all better now?” your heart melts in affection when he slips the socks onto your feet.

“mmhmm. thank you.”

yukhei doesn’t even acknowledge your answer, but it’s alright. you know he’s dying to get back to woody and buzz lightyear’s adventures.

after he resumes the movie, you let him have another fifteen minutes of enjoyment before you toss and turn around dramatically, ending up in a position where you’re hugging your legs to your chest.

“cold? still?” yukhei asks, his eyes widening in concern. there’s a pout on his lips that you want to kiss away.

you nod in a sheepish manner.

and again, he grabs the tv remote to put the movie on pause. again, he rushes to your bedroom. but this time when he reappears, he’s carrying a knitted blanket.

“how are you not freezing?” you laugh, eyeing the thin pieces of clothing hanging off his body. with just a muscle tank and a pair of board shorts on, he looks as if he’s dressed for a day at the beach.

“i’m a strong man, baby.” yukhei replies confidently, a wicked grin forming on his lips. “i’m never cold. in fact, i only get hotter. don’t you know?”

“apparently not.” you snort and roll your eyes, already used to his antics.

when he sits back down, he throws almost the entire blanket over you, pulling a small portion of it over his legs in a discreet manner before un-pausing the movie.

the thick layers on you have you almost sighing in satisfaction, but you hold yourself back because you’re not done with your act yet.

“are you watching the movie or are you watching me?” yukhei chuckles, his gaze still fixed on the tv screen.

you’re observing every little reaction he makes as the movie progresses — the soft giggles and occasional “whoa”s he let out are enough to confirm your doubts that your twenty-two year old boyfriend is indeed the target audience for toy story 3.

when you don’t reply, yukhei stops the movie yet again, turning his full attention to you.

“don’t tell me you’re still cold!” he gasps.

you’re not cold, not at all — you’re just really craving for his touch and for the warmth of skin against yours.

“are you okay, baby?” yukhei hovers over you, pressing a hand to your forehead, then cupping your cheek. “does it feel like you’re getting sick? maybe you’re catching a cold.”

you shake your head, smiling in amusement.

“you’re starting to scare me.” he stares back at you in confusion and blinks, and you can practically see the question marks appearing above his head.

“hmm.” yukhei wonders out loud. he shifts you towards the edge of the couch, wiggling across the couch to lie right next to you before pushing the blanket onto the floor.

now pressed up against you, his hand circles around your waist in search for your own. when he finds it, he brings it to his lips where he blows hot air onto your palm, doing the same to your other hand.

“a really hot guy is hugging you right now.” he murmurs, placing a kiss on your temple and massaging your cold hands that are now clasped in his. “please tell me you’re okay.”

you giggle just as yukhei tangles his legs with yours, intertwining your bodies as much as possible so you’re snug in his body warmth.

it’s funny how you had expected a funny outcome or even being flat-out ignored by him, but you got a reminder of how much you love him — and how much he loves you — instead. all you can think of is how blessed you are to be cared for like this, and that makes you give up your prank entirely.

“i’m okay.” you whisper, tracing the veins on his arm with your fingertips as you sink into his embrace. “just stay like this, please?”

yukhei grins. “only because you said ‘please’.”

you pick up the tv remote and press the play button, a familiar couple appearing on the screen.

“she’s a barbie doll, ken. there’s a hundred million just like her.”

“not to me, there’s not.”

“that’s me with you.” yukhei whispers.

you pinch his arm and he giggles. “it’s true!”

287 notes · View notes

meat--grindr · 3 years

Note

I can request a story of Yandere Brahms with his reader, where Brahms kidnaps the reader by taking her inside the walls of the Mansion to be loved and protected. How did you come to this situation, maybe you can have a little NFSW?

Ahh, Brahms. How I love him so. I just wanted to let you know before we get into anything too serious, that this might be a little different than you were expecting, and for that I’m going to apologize right off the bat. I’ll admit I’m a massive weeb, but I never really saw the appeal of yanderes. Cringe, I know. So, I’m going to do my best here and take yandere more as ‘possessive’ if that’s alright? Also, I took some liberties with ‘kidnapping’ as you’ll see, just because I don’t want to walk too far into non-consensual territory when there’s NSFW involved. I don’t want to write anything explicitly non-consensual here, so it was a fine line to walk, but I think I found an okay solution. If this isn’t at all what you’re looking for, maybe drop me a PM and we can try to work something out? Anyway have like 5000-ish words of Brahms smut :)

Possessive (Yandere [?] Brahms (Female Reader) – NSFW

· Standing at the foot of the stairs, you are struck, though certainly not for the first time, by the beauty of the house in which you find yourself. The golden hue of the wood which panels the walls reflect and amplify the soft glow emanating from beneath frosted glass lampshades. The diffused amber glow is cast about the room, throwing elongated shadows against the walls and into the far corners. From your place at the very bottom of the stairwell, the ceiling, now several floors above you, is lost to the early darkness of a winter evening.

· Through the window, you can see the first soft flakes of snow drifting through the air. But here, inside, with your back braced against the newel post, you are warm. Tipping your head back, you gaze up into the yawning void above and cast your mind into it, losing yourself in daydreams of the beautiful rooms it conceals; your bedroom with its fourposter bed, all draped in velvet and silk—the dark, lacquered wood of the study, which still smells of cigar smoke, though as far as you can tell one hasn’t been lit in there for years—and, of course, the library.

· Dark shelves line the walls, so tall they stretch from the wooden floor to the moulded ceiling. They stand, filled nearly past capacity with volumes of every shape and size, from encyclopedias so large you can lift only one at a time, to pocket novellas no bigger than your palm. Pages and spines alike, embossed with gold and silver shimmer from both the shelves and the tables set beside each of the overstuffed armchairs. The plush rug which lies beneath those tables and chairs makes even the floor a comfortable place to stretch out and lose oneself in a book. And the smell. Old leather and paper, printing ink and glue, dust and the very passage of time itself. It’s like every crooked old bookstore you’ve ever entered tucked away in a cozy corner of your own home. Whether or not you remember having dreamt of owning a private library, you were quite sure you could never go back to life without one and find yourself contented.

· Even now, you long to curl up in one of those plush chairs and sink into another world until bedtime. You knew a soft blanket and a half-finished novel waited for you there, begging you to come back and see to them. And why shouldn’t you? What else was there to do on a chilly night such as this? The day’s chores were completed—the rat traps were checked (empty as always), the laundry was done, wood for the fire was stacked in the shed, and the supper dishes had been washed and put away. There is very little else that requires your attention. So why not?

· Your socked feet sink into the plush, green carpeting as you mount the stairs. The banister is pleasantly cool and smooth beneath your fingertips. As you ascend, the light from below begins to dim, unable to reach any further into the darkness above. The difference made by the two flights of stairs between the lighted foyer and the dark second floor leaves you light-blinded and blinking in the shadows.

· When again you regain your sight enough to behold it, even in partial darkness, the hallway that stretches before you is beautiful—the wooden paneling on the lower half of the walls takes on a sleek shine, while the deep green wallpaper above it fades into a stately and sober black. The paintings and portraits that line the walls are somber; muted without the proper lighting to show their colours, but they are no less impressive or imposing. A ship, barely visible, save for the canvas sails, is tossed on a rapidly darkening sea, lighting flashing far in the distance—a bright brushstroke of pure white, clear even in deep shadow. An old woman, her name rendered illegible in the gloom, stares down her nose at you in deep disapproval. Her eyes, like the rest of her, are severe and grey, and they seem, through either a trick of the light or the mastery of the painter, to follow you down the hall.

· It is very dark. A thin, watery light filters through a small window at the end of the hall, but it does little to help guide you. You suppose you could turn on one of the many lamps that line the long and ponderous hall, but you know you can find your way just find without one. You’d spent several adventurous afternoons and many restless nights exploring the house and grounds. Though in the beginning you could barely follow the straight hall from the front door to the kitchen without getting lost, these days, you rarely, if ever, found yourself wandering the halls with no idea where you were.

· You reach out, brushing the wallpaper with the tips of your fingers as you walk, grounding yourself in the darkness. It’s almost rough to the touch, stiff with age, though it’s clearly been well taken care of. In the daylight, there is little sign of aging at all - no scuffs or faded sections. You knew the house itself was well over a hundred years old, but it showed its age in astonishingly few places. Sure, the phones were ancient and the lack of wi-fi was irritating but—

· Thump.

· You freeze in place. You’re sure the sound had come from within the wall, just to the left of where you stood. There is something in there. The blood roars in your ear as you press it up against the wallpaper, straining to hear even a hint of movement, be it the shifting of the wood as the house settles, or the pitter-patter of something living. The seconds stretch on into minutes, but no further sounds come. You scrunch up your nose, feeling rather silly. It’s probably just a mouse…or maybe a rat. It sounded big. Perhaps those traps were good for something after all.

· Your gaze lingers on the spot for a moment longer, but still, there is nothing but silence. Maybe it had been the house creaking in the wind. Old houses were prone to groaning after all. Either way, it couldn’t hurt to move some of the traps further up into the house for a little bit, just to be on the safe side.

· You turn and continue down the hall, mind once again turning to the blanket, the book, and the comfy glow of the library. You press your palm flat against the wall as you walk, the whisper of your skin sliding over the wallpaper barely audible, even in the quiet that envelops the house at night.

· Then your fingers catch against something—an indentation in the wallpaper. It’s subtle, but definitely there. You stop to inspect it closer, worried that perhaps your assessment about the house not showing its age may have come a little hastily. Your fingers explore the seam with care, and you decide it’s not a crack—it’s too regular, too straight. It feels intentional in its design. And it’s practically invisible in the darkness—likely just as difficult to spot in daylight considering how frequently you find yourself in this hall and your failure to take notice of it before now.

· You crouch down, following the seam with your fingers. It stretches all the way down to the floor. Why…it’s almost like…a little door…

· Almost at the same moment this thought trickles into your mind, the little section of wall gives way beneath your touch, swinging inward on silent hinges.

· From within the inky darkness beyond, a pair of long, thin arms surge forth, snaking around your waist. The grip in which they envelop you is bruising as you are pulled back into the darkness beyond the secret door.

· It slams behind you hard enough to rattle the picture frames in the hall. You scream, long and hard, struggling against the arms that cage you. You flail your limbs, lashing out blindly with fists and feet and nails, hoping desperately to strike your attacker, or at least wriggle enough to squirm from their crushing grasp. But the grip around your midsection only tightens, squeezing the very air from your lungs.

· You lurch into motion, the figure in the darkness half-carrying, half-dragging you along a narrow passageway. You try to scream again but find you can’t get enough air to do so. Instead, you lash out, legs kicking against the walls, knees and shins colliding painfully with rough, wooden support beams and sharp corners.

· While rounding a particularly tight corner, you manage to kick the opposite wall hard enough to throw your attacker off balance. A hissing shower of dust and plaster rains down on the pair of you. The figure stumbles, grip relaxing for only a moment, but it’s enough. You wriggle from their crushing grasp and dart back the way you came.

· The figure recovers quickly, and you can hear them bolting after you in the darkness. It doesn’t take long before they’re on you again, one large hand fisted deep in your hair, wrenching your head back. You cry out in pain, stumbling back against the intruder. The hand in your hair doesn’t relinquish it’s hold as their other arm wraps around your chest, locking in place like an iron bar. You struggle uselessly, hot tears stinging the corners of your eyes as you’re dragged back the way you’d come, seemingly with even less regard for your physical well-being.

· Not far beyond the corner where you’d made your escape, you’re shoved to the ground unceremoniously. As you make to crawl away, the figure circles around you, blocking your path of escape. Even as your eyes adjust to the darkness, you can’t see much more than an outline. Even so, you can tell they’re much bigger than you. You feel a large hand sliding beneath your knees, and another on the small of your back and suddenly, the floor beneath you drops away. Instinctively, your arms shoot out, fumbling in the darkness for something solid to grab hold of. Your grasping hands find a fist-full of the intruder’s shirt. It’s soft and well-worn in your hands, and you clutch so tightly to it that you can feel your fingers beginning to cramp almost immediately. A soft rumble rolls through the figure, and after a moment, you realize they’re laughing at you. You want to let go, but the fear of tumbling backward into the darkness stills your hands.

· With the way you’re being jostled about, you get the distinct impression that you’re ascending a flight of stairs. Secret tunnels and staircases in the walls? Under any other circumstance, you would be ecstatic, ready to drop everything and explore them. But caught as you were, in the arms of a stranger, there is nothing but panic within you. Taking advantage of your new position, you take a deep breath, filling your lungs with the intention to scream, though you’re sure there’s no one around to hear you.

· “Don’t.” So, it’s a man? His voice is soft, a half-whisper that thrums through your body where it’s pressed up against his chest. There is a distinctly British tilt to his voice, and it’s oddly muffled, as though something was covering his mouth. You’re reminded of those old cartoon bandits who wore bandanas across their mouths. He doesn’t want to be identified. The though sends a cold chill through you. This isn’t good. “Scream and I’ll drop you.”

· The scream dies in your throat. While you certainly don’t like being caught in a strange man’s grip, the thought of lying broken at the bottom of a secret staircase no one else seems to know about hammers a worse kind of fear into your gut. You could die…or not and that might be the worse option: injured and completely at a stranger’s mercy. No. As it stands, if you follow his instructions, you remain unharmed, and the longer you remain unharmed, the better your chances of finding a way out.

· At the top of the steps, you find yourself in front of a rough wooden door. Here he readjusts his grip on you, bracing your weight against his hips as he taps the door open with a gentle kick.

· Suddenly, you’re bathed in a soft, golden light cast by the dozens of candles that lay scattered about the room. After so much time spent in the dark, the burst of light dazzles your eyes. In spite of your fear, you curl up against the strange man’s chest, turning away from the light that blinds and burns your eyes. It’s too much too soon.

· The man laughs again, bouncing you gently in his arms, like one would a small child, “No hiding.”

· His tone is light, but it is still a command. Sensing scant room for disobedience, you turn your face up towards his, cracking one eye open, then the other. You had been told not to, but in the flickering light, as you blink up at the face of your kidnapper, you can do nothing to stop the scream that builds in your throat.

· His face is hidden, not behind a bandana, but a porcelain mask. The pale white surface is littered with a spider’s web of thin cracks and what looks to be dried blood. Your eyes sweep over the soft curve of the mouth, the delicate nose which turns up at the end, and the empty spaces behind which dark, human eyes burn into your own.

· The moment the scream leaves you, ringing loud in the enclosed space, the man snarls, striding into the room with purpose. As he weaves through the maze of dusty old furniture, you beat your fists against his chest, squirming in his grip, trying with renewed desperation to escape his clutches. “Let me go! Let me go!!”

· Ignoring your pleas, he stalks to the far corner of the room, where a low-slung cot waits, tucked close against a rough brick wall. He dumps you none too gently onto it, and you scrabble backward, knocking your head against the wall behind you. Your ears ring with the force of the blow, but your eyes remain trained on the masked man as he clambers onto the cot with you.

· You jam yourself back into the corner, as far from the menacing figure as possible. He comes toward you slowly, laughing, as though this were all some silly game the pair of you were enjoying. You kick at him, and he swats your leg away, his shoulders shaking with laughter. His eyes, however, aren’t laughing. Where they peak out from beneath the mask, they blaze with only one thing: hunger.

· You kick out at him again, catching him, this time, on the jaw, just beneath the edge of his mask. And just like that he’s not laughing anymore. He goes frighteningly still, and there’s a change in the air. You know he’s done playing.

· He lunges for you, and you shriek, cowering back against the wall, the rough bricks digging into the flesh of your arms. His hands close around your ankles and he pulls you down toward him.

· He slots himself between your legs, pinning your thighs down with boney knees. You squirm beneath him, but he’s too heavy for you to shake off. He looms above you in the candlelight, breathing hard, his eyes flashing behind the mask. With a jolt, you realize he’s going to hurt you. You’re so sure, you flinch, cringing away from him as much as is possible, bracing for the pain that’s sure to come.

· But, when his knuckles brush against your cheek, it’s not in anger. It’s a gentle caress that jolts through you like an electric current. You turn to look at him, as he brushes the damp hair back from your forehead. He stares at you for a long moment, drinking in your shock, before leaning down to press cool porcelain lips against yours.

· The kindness of his gestures surprises you almost more than any blow he could have delivered. When he promised to play rough, he usually meant it. With shaking hands, you reach up to touch his face. Your fingers slip beneath the mask, brushing the hair and skin beneath with feather-light touches. You want to see his face, want kisses from his real lips, want—

· But the man’s fingers curl around your wrists, wrenching your hands from his face. “No.” There is force behind the word equal to the force with which he pins your wrists against the sheets, indenting the mattress beneath them. His voice, in that same soft whisper from before, rasps in your ear, “Not even when we’re playing, Love.”

· You swallow hard, all the pretenses of your little experiment dropping away in an instant. You realize you came dangerously close to crossing a line. “Okay. Brahms. I-I’m sorry.”

· You expect that he’ll want to stop now, and you wouldn’t blame him if he did, but he surprises you by nuzzling against your neck, “Not ‘Brahms.’”

· So, he still wants to play. You smile up at him. “Oh, right! Sorry.”

· He bends over your neck again, pressing porcelain kisses against your neck. You crane your head back, eager to make up for your misstep with the mask. There’s something about these kisses that makes your heart flutter—perhaps it’s simply the rush of a new sensation against sensitive flesh, or maybe it’s the knowledge that his real lips lay just beneath that hard surface, so close and yet completely out of reach.

· When he lets go of your left wrist, you’re so caught up in these kisses, that you barely register it. That is until you feel the mask slide in an unnatural direction against your skin, and you feel Brahms’ real lips against your neck for the first time. Your whole body jerks forward, pressing against him with a soft sigh on your lips. His mouth is softer and warmer than you ever could have imagined. Even his beard feels good where it scratches against you.

· His teeth scrape over your pulse, drawing another sound from you. You throw your arms around his neck and pull him down on top of you. His laugh rasps out against your throat, as he stamps warm kisses all across your collarbone.

· You roll your hips against his and he groans, the sound rumbling deep within his chest. He surges upward fixing his teeth into the meat of your neck as he grinds down against you, letting you feel just how badly he wants you. His name slips between your teeth as a hiss and you feel him smile against your neck. His tongue flickers over the mark he’s left, though it’s more to lay further claim than to soothe the ache his teeth pushed into your flesh.

· When he pulls back, he’s already pushing the mask back into place, though you catch a quick flash of the smirk that pulls at the corner of his mouth.

· He looks down at you, eyes sliding slow down your body, head cocked to the side like he’s thinking. He has that hungry look about him again and it lights a white-hot bolt of desire in your gut. You lift your hips, rolling them against his, relishing both the spark of pleasure that shoots through your stomach, and the shiver that rolls down his spine. A little whine escapes his lips, and you feel your heart leap. God, you’d do anything to hear that sound again. He meets the roll of your body with a stuttering jolt of his own.

· You can’t help but beam up at him. “What are you thinking about Brah—Mister?”

· He sighs deeply, running his hands down your chest, his fingers tracing along your ribs. “About all the things I could do to you…”

· A breathless puff of laughter escapes you, “Oh, yeah?” You guide his hands down to your hips, hoping he’ll take the hint. “Like what?”

· “Hm…let’s see. I could, hold you down,” His hands, still resting beneath yours tighten against your hips, pushing you down against the mattress. You try to buck up against him, but he holds you fast, “I don’t think so, Love.” He grips you hard, dipping his head to whisper into your ear, “I could just hold you here, and you’d have to take whatever I decide to give you.” His thumbs trace the seams of your hips. Even through your jeans it makes you shudder.

· “Or, I could give you very little at all,” He lets go of your hips in favour of ghosting a hand down your thigh. His other hand presses gently against your zipper. His fingers trail down the seam, until you feel the pressure against your clit and jerk against his hand. He pulls away, “Just enough to keep you interested, but not enough to satisfy you.”

· You whine, feeling a damp patch growing in your underwear. You know he’d get such a charge from dragging this out, teasing you until your arousal had soaked through the denim of your jeans. You could hear him now, ‘A few kisses and some dirty words…it’s that easy?' While you’d usually be willing to indulge him, you weren’t willing to give him that satisfaction today. He was already so uppity as it was. “Or you could just toss my legs over your shoulders and take what you want.” You toss an arm over your forehead in an attempt at playing toward his flair for the dramatic, “Look at me, baby. I’m defenseless.” You roll your hips against him again, nice and slow. You can tell by the hitch in his breathing that you’ve almost got him convinced. You can barely keep the smirk from your face as you arch your back, and whimper for him, “Please?”

· That one word is all it takes to break him. In a flash he’s slipped out of his cardigan and tossed it off into the darkness of the attic. His suspenders follow suit with a metallic clinking. It isn’t until he’s unbuttoning his trousers that you realize you have mere seconds to undo your own before Brahms falls upon you and tears them off himself. You’ve lost more than one good pair of jeans this way and you don’t intend to lose another if you can help it.

· Your shaking hands fumble with the button, managing to pop it only after a few tries. Taking them off from your position underneath Brahms is no small feat, especially considering his reluctance to move, now that his trousers rest about his knees and he’s rolling his hips against your still clothed thigh, his cock already leaking against the denim.

· “Want you now.” His voice is rough, breaking in time with the thrusting of his hips.

· “I know, baby. But you’ve gotta wait.”

· Brahms huffs in irritation. ‘Wait’ is not a word he likes to hear at the best of times, let alone when his dick is this hard.

· You tap his hip gently. “C’mon, up.”

· He drops his head against your shoulder with a petulant whimper, his hips stuttering against your thigh.

· “Brahms…” You sigh, half-frustrated, half-amused. You would be lying if you said you didn’t find it incredibly sexy when Brahms acted like a brat, but your pleasure was at stake here as well. “You can’t fuck me properly with my jeans on.”

· His hips slow for a moment, and he whines again.

· “C’mon, be a good boy for me.” You feel his cock pulse against your thigh, and he relents. He scoots back just enough for you to push your jeans and underwear down your thighs. Brahms takes care of the rest, tearing the offending fabric from your legs and tossing it from the bed to join his cardigan on the floor.

· His hands are on your shoulders in an instant, shoving you back against the mattress, all patience spent. You feel the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and barely have a time to take a breath before he’s pushing inside with a single, smooth stroke.

· “F-Fuuuck…”

· “Yeah, that’s the idea, baby.” Your hands are fisted tightly in the sheets, your voice tight as your body grows accustomed to the stretch once again. You’ve taken Brahms with little preparation before. You know you can handle it, but somehow the girth of him almost always comes as a surprise.

· To his credit, he does his best to keep still until you give him the ‘okay,’ though you can feel his hips shaking with the effort. He’s mouthy while he waits though, any trace of the gentleman within him his gone, replaced by a cursing, dirty-talking stranger, “Gonna pound you into this mattress, gonna fuck you like—fuck you’re so wet—like your my whore…mine, mine, ah fuck! Mine.”

· You roll your hips, testing the water, and he bites back a string of curses. His hips stutter forward unbidden, and you moan low in your throat.

· Behind the mask, you see his eyes roll back. He starts to beg then, changing his tune entirely, “Please, Love, let me fuck you, please, please, please. I promise I’ll be good. I will, just please!”

· You reach up, carding your fingers through his hair, “Show me what a good boy you are, make us feel good, baby.”

· Without missing a beat, Brahms’ hips take up a frantic rhythm, tearing a litany of pretty sounds from your throat. Your hands tangle themselves in his hair as he drops his head to press doll’s mouth kisses against your throat.

· Your hand slips between your bodies, spreading your lips to circle your clit. You buck against him, gasping his name as the pleasure courses through you two-fold.

· A strong hand grasps your wrist again pulling it away from your clit. “We mustn’t touch what isn’t ours.” You nearly whine in frustration, but your displeasure is quickly forgotten when you feel the soft pads of Brahms’ fingers against your sensitive flesh.

· “You,” he groans in pleasure, angling his hips to push deeper inside of you, “You belong to me.” He punctuates the sentiment with a sharp snap of his hips. “That means I am the only one who can make you feel good.” He presses his fingers hard against your clit, and your thighs begin to shake. “Tell me who you belong to.”

· It takes you a second to find your voice. “Y-You, Brahms.”

· “Yesss,” the rhythm of his thrusts is beginning to fall by the wayside as his hips buck and stutter. “Say it again.” His fingers circle your clit faster, and you can feel yourself teetering on the edge of orgasm.

· “Fuck, Brahms! I’m yours! A-All yours! You’re gonna make me cum.”

· “Mine.” You feel the mask slide to the side again and his lips are on your neck. You feel his teeth graze the bite mark he’d left. His teeth are in your throat, his fingers on your clit, his cock in your cunt, and you’re cumming. His name tumbles from your lips, the only coherent thought in your mind.

· He groans against your neck, trying to fuck you through it, but you’re too tight around him, forcing him into an agitated stillness. His fingers work your clit feverishly until you push his hand away, too oversensitive to stand another second of it.

· You’re still almost painfully tight around him when the rhythmic pulsing of your own orgasm begins to push him over the edge. He thrusts into you once, twice, thrice more, before pulling out and shaking apart, his cum painting your thighs and stomach. He whimpers and trembles, fisting his cock through the aftershocks of his orgasm, desperate to chase every last ounce of pleasure.

· Only when he’s well and truly spent, nearly sobbing from the agony of the overstimulation does he flop down on the cot beside you, panting heavily, cock still twitching against his thighs.

· He kicks off his trousers, and curls up by your side, throwing an arm around you. For the longest time, the only sound in the room is that of your breathing slowing in tandem as you each come down from your high.

· Brahms’ voice is small when he speaks up at last, “Did I do okay?”

· You turn to face him, laying on your side. You reach out a hand and readjust his mask, before pressing a soft kiss against the delicate bow of his lips. “You were perfect. Thank you, Brahms.”

· He nods once, but he doesn’t look convinced. There’s tension in his shoulders, and he won’t look you in the eyes.

· “What’s wrong, honey?”

· He shakes his head, burrowing against your side. “Nothing…”

· “It doesn’t look like nothing to me. It’s okay to talk to me about things like this, you know.”

· He’s silent for a little while longer, and you wonder if he needs a little more prodding to use his words. But then, he speaks, “I wasn’t…too rough? In the passages?”

· “No, baby. No. It was exactly like we talked about.”

· “Okay.” There’s a little touch of a frown in his voice, like he’s trying to puzzle something through in his mind. “I didn’t expect you to fight me so hard. It felt…real.”

· “I wanted to make it seem real. Did I upset you?”

· There’s a long pause, but when he speaks, he sounds genuine. “I don’t think so. It was a little…thrilling.”

· You can’t help the giggle that bubbles in your throat, “It was, wasn’t it? Where did you get an idea like that? Pretending to kidnap me and all that?”

· He’s quiet for a moment, as he remembers a time not so long ago, when the idea was meant to be more reality than fantasy. He was supposed to have that girl. He should have done better, should have fought for her harder, should have killed her and buried her in the yard with the others. He should have done a lot of things. The scar on his stomach burns with the memory of all the things he should have done. But they don’t matter now. She doesn’t matter now. He has you.

· He presses another kiss against your neck and lies, “Recreation of a scene from 'Jane Eyre.' You know how I adore that novel. And you being such a pretty lady, simply had to fill the role of the damsel in distress.”

· “If you say so.” You snuggle closer against his chest. He really was a very strange man. A yawn blossoms in the base of your jaw, but you do your best to fight it off. You know you’ll be sore later, but for now you’re happy and sated and perfectly content to doze in the arms of the man you love.

· Then a thought hits you, “Hold on, Jane Eyre doesn’t get kidnapped, Brahms.”

· He chuckles softly against your shoulder, “So you have been reading my books after all.”

#brahms heelsire x reader #brahms heelshire #the boy 2016 #slasher x reader #im so sorry this is so late #i couldnt figure out how to wrote brahms in a way that i liked :/#enjoy i hope #im off to bed #also ive never written het smut before so...i hope its alright #ripper fics

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topsytervy · 3 years

Text

Wisdom Teeth ~ JJ Maybank

Blurb: JJ takes care of you after you get your wisdom teeth out. Not gonna lie, this post is kind of a mess

Word Count: 1,890

Warnings: mentions of blood, swearing, small mention of alcohol/drinking, I think that’s it.

I’m just going to say that this is based off of my wisdom teeth experience. I didn’t get gassed or put under, my moms friend suggested me holding alcohol in my mouth cause she did that when she got hers out and it worked for her (it worked for me enough to let me sleep like the dead, and my mom kept laughing at me.

I aged JJ and the reader to 19 cause why not.

I also lowkey started thinking of JJ taking care of his kids after their wisdom teeth get pulled and thats shows in the ending.

anyway, small shoutout to @taylathornton who got me thinking about this after she said something about JJ or Rafe taking care of the reader when they get their wisdom teeth out.

~~~~

You walked out into the waiting room, gauze on either side of your mouth, your boyfriend standing by the counter as someone gave him the same rundown they gave you post-extraction.

JJ smiled as he saw you, not that you could see with the mask over the bottom half of his face, and pulled you into his side.

"Just remember that if you still feel pain while taking the prescription he gave you today, call back and he'll prescribe you something stronger." the lady said.

You nodded as you shoved the sheet filled with the instructions, prescriptions, and the extra gauze they gave you into JJ's hands. JJ said a quick thank you to the lady and then directed you to the door, every penny being covered by your insurance.

Thank God.

"How do you feel, princess?" He asked, intertwining your fingers together.

"You didn't tell me the extraction was such a violent process." You told him.

Well, attempted to tell him but the gauze in your mouth wasn't helping. The mask definitely added to muffling your voice.

JJ chuckled. "What?" He asked, unlocking the truck.

"You didn't tell me the extraction was such a violent process." You said slower, louder, and slightly more enunciated.

JJ helped you into the truck. "Didn't want to scare you, Y/N/N."

"I can do it myself. I wasn’t gassed or anything. Just numbed." You swatted his hand away as he went to buckle you in.

He held up his hands. "Alright. I'm sorry."

"Besides the lady said that I was surprisingly calm during the process." You informed him as you took off your mask.

"That's good." He closed the door and walked over to the driver’s side, climbing in as he also took off his mask. "Since you were so good during the process, how about you remind me in a week to take you to Dairy Queen and we'll get you some ice cream." He suggested, leaning over the center console and brushing some hair out of your face.

"Can I get chicken tenders too?" You asked, looking at your blonde boyfriend with the best puppy dog eyes you could muster.

JJ let out a laugh as he started the truck and began to pull out of the parking lot. "Yeah. You can get chicken tenders too, princess."

You smiled, reaching into your mouth to readjust the blood-soaked gauze only to have JJ swat your hand away. "Don't."

"But I feel like I’m swallowing the gauze every time I go to swallow my saliva." You whined.

JJ sighed. "That’s because the roof of your mouth is swollen so it makes it difficult to swallow the saliva. Just leave the gauze where it is."

You shot JJ a look before bringing your hand to your mouth again. JJ reached over and grabbed your wrist his eyes never leaving the road.

"Y/N." He warned.

"JJ." You imitated.

"I said don't touch it."

You took your wrist away from him and crossed your arms, looking out the window.

"Keep that up and you won’t get dairy queen next week. I'll get myself dairy queen and you can keep eating soup and mashed potatoes."

"You're so mean to me sometimes, J." You whispered.

"Only cause I love you and care about you, baby." He smiled, his hand going to your thigh and giving it a light squeeze.

You uncrossed your arms and took his hand in yours. "You're so sweet."

JJ shook his head. "Flip-floppy today, huh. 3 seconds ago I was mean and now I'm sweet."

You shrugged. "You're a flip-floppy guy. You threw me off the dock once when it was chilly outside and then gave me clothes to change into not even three minutes later."

"That's called being a gentleman." He smirked.

"No. It's called being an asshole with a heart."

JJ snorted as he pulled into the pharmacy parking lot, pulling into a parking space before throwing the truck in park and grabbed his wallet along with your prescriptions.

"Stay here. I’ll be back." He kissed your temple before putting his mask back on, adjusting it so it was over his nose.

You shot him a thumbs-up as you pulled out your phone, taking the time to reply to Kie and Sarah who wanted to check in on you. They both offered to come over and take care of you but you told them you were fine cause you had JJ with you.

Kie immediately replied with a 'that's why we're offering.'

You let out a small giggle before sending them an 'I'm sure JJ can handle it' before locking your phone and pulling down the sun visor to look in the mirror.

You opened your mouth and made a face as you looked at the inside of your mouth and saw the dried blood on your lips.

JJ opened the door and slid back into the driver’s seat, placing the bag with the two pill bottles in your lap. "You know, technically you’re supposed to keep pressure on the gauze for an hour so it clot and shit."

"You didn't tell me the inside of my mouth looks like it’s having its own little period. I smiled at you with my mouth looking like I took a baseball or something to the teeth." You scolded.

"Princess, and I mean this with all the love in my heart, you look like a hockey player who took a puck to the teeth." JJ laughed as he put the car in drive and made his way to the grocery store.

"JJ," you whined, not finding his comparison cute in the slightest.

"What? It's more accurate than the baseball comparison you said."

"Stop laughing at me, J. It's not funny."

"I'm sorry. You're just so whiney right now and it's adorable to me. Makes me want to bundle you up and hold you in my arms and protect you from all the evil in the world." JJ glanced at you. You crossed your arms over your chest and looked out the window. “Y/N, don’t be like this now.”

“You’re being mean to me.”

“I am not.”

“Yes, you are. I’m over here bleeding, preparing for the numbness to wear off and the pain to set in and you’re laughing at me.”

JJ grabbed your hand and pressed it to his lips. “I’m sorry, baby. Can you accept me buying you soup as my way of asking for your forgiveness?”

He stopped at a stop sign and looked over at you, giving you his best puppy dog eyes.

You sighed. "I suppose."

He grinned as he squeezed your hand lightly. “See, you can’t stay mad at me forever, Y/N/N.”

You rolled your eyes before leaning your head against the headrest. “It’s because I need you to take care of me while I’m healing.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm. As much as I love Kie and Sarah, I don’t think their cuddles can compare to yours.”

JJ nodded. “Fair enough. That’s all you need me for? Cuddles?”

You shrugged. “We’ll see.”

****

Within two hours, you were tearing up as the numbness wore off, the pain coming in at full force. You laid on the couch in the living room of the apartment you and JJ shared, a blanket thrown over your body.

JJ walked over with a glass of water and the pills you were prescribed. “Alright, here’s your amoxicillin, and here’s your ibuprofen.” He handed you the pills as you sat up.

You popped the two pills into your mouth, taking the glass of water from your boyfriend’s hand before taking a sip and swallowing the pills. JJ took the glass from you and set it on the end table as you sniffed.

“You know what might help?” JJ asked, walking over to one of the cabinets and opening it.

“What?”

“I know you’re not a big drinker, Y/N, but I remember Mr. Heyward telling me when I got my wisdom teeth out that, if you take vodka, whiskey, tequila, whatever, and kind of hold it in your mouth, tilting your head left and right, it’ll help with the pain. It almost renumbs it and because it’s alcohol, it also helps fight infections.” JJ explained, grabbing the bottle of vodka he had stashed away.

He grabbed a shot glass and filled it up before bringing it over to you.

“JJ, baby, I don’t think I should be having alcohol after taking a 600 mg ibuprofen and a 500 mg amoxicillin. Besides, I’m pretty sure that’s what the amoxicillin is for anyway.”

JJ sighed. “I know, princess, but I’m trying to help you out here. It hurts me to see you hurting.”

“And just two hours ago you were saying it was cute when I’m all whiney.” You joked.

“You are cute when you’re whiney and not in pain. Now you’re just in pain and I don’t like it.”

You looked at JJ with a frown. “How about we just cuddle for the rest of the day? Maybe take a nap because I’m all tuckered out.”

JJ smiled lightly, downing the shot of vodka before heading over to you and picking you up. You wrapped your legs around his waist as your arms snaked around his neck, him holding you up by your thighs. He carried you into your bedroom, taking one of his hands and pulling back the blankets before gently setting you down and tucking you in.

He climbed in on his side, gently pulling you into his side, putting a pillow on top of his upper arm so you weren’t resting on his arm, knowing that it wouldn’t help the pain at all.

“Comfortable, princess?” He asked.

You hummed in response, your arm draping across his stomach.

He kissed the top of your head, brushing your hair away from your face.

“I’m sorry in advance if I drool on you. I’m even more sorry if it’s bloody drool.” You muttered.

“It’s alright. You can drool on me whenever you want, bloody or not.”

You smiled. “And Kie and Sarah were worried about you taking care of me.”

JJ scoffed. “I always take care of you so Kie and Sarah can shove a sock in it.”

You giggled. “It’s okay, baby. I defended you and your ability to take care of me.”

“I would hope so. After all, I’m buying you Dairy Queen next week. I don’t buy Dairy Queen for anybody, you know.”

“I know.” You sighed.

It was quiet for a few minutes and you were almost asleep before JJ spoke again.

“You gotta eat your soup and mashed potatoes though or else you don’t get chicken tenders next week.”

You let out a laugh. “Oh my god, JJ. You sound like my dad when I had to go get shots.”

“That just means I’m prepared for when we have kids. The whole bribery part of parenting, in the bag.” JJ stated with a nod.

You nodded. “Alright, baby. I can’t wait to tell our kids how you knew you were ready to be a father because you told me a week after my wisdom teeth were removed, you were going to buy me chicken tenders and ice cream.”

JJ smiled. “And I can’t wait to be saying the same thing to them when they get their wisdom teeth out.”

~~~~~~

#jj outer banks #jj maybank #jj obx

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ihearthes · 3 years

Photo

Quarantine Christmas Part 1

Author: @ihearthes Pairing: Harry x y/n Rating: Fluff/Smut (Smut in Part 2) Word Count: 2826 (Part 1) Fiction Chalenge via @caitlin‘s fiction party via @sweetcreatureinthedark

December 23, 2020

My head spins as I haul my suitcase from the trunk, using two hands due to the heft of the dirty clothes inside. Setting it on the ground, I yank on the handle before grappling with the two shopping bags filled with presents, reaching back for the decorated Christmas tin that is filled with homemade cookies, fudge, and other delicacies baked by my colleagues at Apple Music.

Wrestling with my hands full, I close the trunk with an elbow, shivering in the chilly LA air. At the front door, I want to cry. Dammit. I could clearly remember that when Glenne had given me the code for the front door and the alarm, I placed them in my phone under her contact information.

“FUCK!” The primal scream is released from my lungs, likely scaring the neighbors if any of them are outside enjoying Christmas lights or having family celebrations on this Christmas Eve Eve. Balancing the tin of cookies on top of the suitcase, I set down the shopping bags to reach for my phone. My purse slips off my shoulder, knocking the container of sweets, and in the scramble to rescue them, I nearly fall head over heels into the bushes.

It isn’t until I punch in the numbers and drag my personal effects inside that it occurs to me that the alarm isn’t armed. Had Glenne and Jeffrey forgotten to punch in the code before they left for Palm Springs? Deciding I don’t care, I leave everything by the door as I drag my suitcase to the main floor laundry room, dumping everything in without regard to color or type of clothing. Since we’ve been working remotely the majority of the time for the last fucking nine months, “dressing up” encompasses blue jeans and the occasional blouse, but most of my clothing is sweatpants and t-shirts. Deciding washing the blue jeans and blouses with the sweatpants and t-shirts is the worst idea ever, I fish those out before pouring laundry detergent over the remaining garments and starting the washer.

Glancing down at the clothing currently on my body, it seems completely reasonable to drop them into the washer too. Stripping the t-shirt from my body, I toss it into the swirling water before adding my bra, socks, and leggings to the murky mix. Wearing only panties in the cool house makes my nipples bead.

Ha! I’m sure my nips are happy to get any action after almost a year with no dating of any sort because of the fucking pandemic. Which reminds me that I’ve forgotten my vibrator at home. Shit. Of all the things I don’t mind borrowing from Glenne, I do have a line I won’t cross.

Placing the tin of Christmas yummies on the kitchen counter, I grasp the handles of the two bags of gifts. It might be silly to put them under the tree since I’m the only one in the house, but it will make me feel better. More like I’m at home with my family in Indiana. Less like I’m stuck in quarantine in an empty house for my favorite holiday. Sniffling, I swipe at my nose with the back of my hand as I pad down the two steps into the living room to the tree.

Kneeling at the fake tree, I reach for the switch to turn on the lights. As the colors begin blinking, I carefully withdraw each present, reading the tag before gently placing the gift under the tree. Even my brother had sent a present through the mail which must mean he misses me his year. Right now, we should be challenging each other to the most ridiculous games to see who is the best. Inevitably, he would win some while I beat him at others until eventually we declare a tie. My mother would chastise us both with a grin on her face, implicitly encouraging us to continue our “reindeer games” as my father called them.

From behind me, I hear a shuffling sound. Hadn’t they taken Myles with them? No matter. I could use the company a dog would provide.

“Santa, you’ve changed!” a soft voice exclaims, and I jump, twisting around to find another human wearing sweatpants and a hoodie.

“It’s you!” Both voices exclaim simultaneously. “What the fuck are you doing here?” We both pause, “Stop saying what I’m saying!”

Out of breath, I stare at him. The Harry Styles. Fuck.

His eyes roam over my body, and it finally dawns on me that I’m wearing nothing but my Victoria’s Secret lace panties. Shit.

Pacing measuredly to the couch without openly cringing, I grasp a wool throw and wrap it around my chest regally like I’ve just exited the pool at some exotic locale near the equator. My shoulders straighten, and I face him openly.

“Are you joining Glenne and Jeffrey in Palm Springs?” My back is a board, and my tone is barely restrained.

“Nope.” His nonchalance combined with his truncated answer pisses me off, per usual.

“So you’re flying home, waiting here for your flight tonight?” The hopeful tone is obvious to me and probably to him as well.

“No.” Those green eyes of his rake over my nearly-naked body, and I shiver. From the cold of course. Jesus. Get your heads out of the gutter!

“Watering the plants prior to returning to the Soho?”

“Uh uh.”

Delayed dread begins to fill my stomach. “You mean --” I clear my throat -- “you’re staying here?”

“Yep.”

“Shit.” Running my hand through my hair, I ponder the impact and my next steps.

“You?” He asks politely, even though I know he doesn’t feel solicitude at this moment.

“Glenne told me I could stay here for a few days. I made arrangements for my place to be fumigated while I was in Indiana for Christmas.”

His raised eyebrow mocks me.

“I’m not going, though. Okay?”

“Why not?”

“Seriously? Where the fuck have you been, Styles? In case you didn’t know, there’s a global fucking pandemic, and all of Los Angeles is locked down. So no -- I am not getting on a plane with a bunch of potentially infected and contagious --” Emotion overwhelms me, and I have to stop and catch my breath. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I turn away from him so he can’t see the tears that form in my eyes.

“Whatever, Smith.”

“My name --” I draw myself up and gather my anger around me like a cloak -- “is not Smith.”

“Yeah, right. Which bedroom are you planning to sleep in?”

“Surely you’re not suggesting we both stay here?” Appalled, I stare at him with my mouth open. “I’ll get a hotel room.” When I realize my wardrobe is in the washing machine, I softly say, “As soon as my clothes are dry.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t be ridiculous, Smith. We’ll share the space. It’s only a couple of days.”

“Excuse me!?” Anger wells up. “Only the most important days in the entire year!” Superiority makes me stand up fully to him. “Besides, I’ve been quarantining for months. No way do I want to share germs with you!”

“Oh please! As if you’ve got a monopoly on quarantining! I’m perfectly safe. We get tested every morning before we film. When was the last time you were tested?”

“Two days ago!” She’s at her boiling point. “Look, if we're both staying here together, then we’re just going to have to avoid each other. It’s a big house. We can do that.”

“Maybe once you put some clothes on,” Harry comments, smirking in that way he has where the left side of his mouth tilts up.

Mortified, I glance down at myself. Briefly I consider scurrying for Glenne’s closet, but I pause. Why should I rush away? Because he’s male? Because he was here first? Because he’s sexy as fuck and my panties can’t take anymore?

“Fine,” I respond as I brush past him like the Queen of England. “I’ll find something to wear, and then we can hash out the details.”

“Great plan. I’m ordering something for dinner.”

My stomach growls, and I suddenly feel an irrational hatred for that part of my body. How I long to state that I’ve already eaten or that I plan to cook something! But alas, I’ve brought no food with me, and I’ve no clue what’s in the kitchen. If Glenne and Jeffrey even left anything.

“Does that mean you’d like some too?” He gloats, and as much as I would like to smack the grin off his face, I’ve not eaten since a quick bite for breakfast hours before.

Knowing I’m going to have to grovel, I face him. “I’m capable of ordering for myself.”

“Yes, but that’s not necessarily good for the environment, is it? Sending two drivers to the same address from different restaurants?” Pausing, he appears to swallow whatever snarky comment was forthcoming. “Can we agree on this one small thing? I’m thinking poke.”

Shit. Fuck. Goddammit. That’s exactly what I would have ordered. Fuck.

Casually, I shrug. “Yeah, whatever. I can choke down some poke.” As I saunter away, tucking the ends of the makeshift shroud under my armpits, I call back to him, “Spicy please.”

Quickly I make my way to Glenne’s closet, surveying the items there. Ripping down a pair of joggers and a Full Stop Management hoodie, I drop the covering I’ve been wearing and rapidly draw the clothes over my naked body. Nothing I can do about not having a bra, but the hoodie is roomy so I worry less.

In the bathroom, I run my fingers through my hair, combing out the curls as best I can in this environment. In no way do I want it to appear that I’m trying to look amazing for Harry. Biting my lip, I admit to myself that the opposite is true. I absolutely want him to fall at my feet.

Which isn’t going to happen, I remind myself. Give up the ghost of a fantasy.

Making eye contact in the mirror, I provide a pep talk for myself. “Listen,” I remind my reflection, “this is just one more fucked up situation in 2020. You’ve gotten through worse. It’s truly a giant house, so there’s no reason -- wait. Why is he staying here anyway?” For whatever reason, I had allowed him to dodge that incredibly simple question.

Tucking my hands into the hoodie’s front pocket, I amble to the kitchen where Harry is just disconnecting his phone.

“Food will be here in 45 minutes,” he promises.

“Why are you staying here again? I missed your answer earlier,” I prompt.

I’m confident I see a flash of embarrassment crossing his face as he lowers his head. “Wine?” He asks, gesturing towards the extensive rack of reds and then the chiller of whites.

Unsure as to whether I should allow the diversion or press, I examine him. His eyes look tired and sad. His clothes, while comfortable, aren’t upbeat. Nor is his current demeanor. Is he okay?

Planting his hands in his hoodie in an unconscious mimic of my pose, he glances at me before his eyes stray to the side, examining the marble countertop. That look tells me more than I need to know, and my empath side emerges as I toss him a life preserver.

“With poke? I think perhaps a Reisling.”

He nods, bending to look through the wines in the cooler before he extracts one, holding it up for me to inspect the label. My eyes start to widen at the vineyard, assuming the extravagant cost, but I calm my features. “Perf!” I declare.

Grasping the wine opener from a nearby drawer, Harry removes the cork as I snatch two wine glasses from the cabinet and place them near him. Carefully comparing the amount in each glass, he pours enough before recorking the bottle. Taking my glass, I move into the living room where I can view the tree. It’s Christmas Eve Eve after all, and I refuse to be deterred from watching the lights twinkle and celebrating the season.

Harry apparently has a similar idea as he fiddles with the sound system before a crackle of ‘Jingle Bell Drunk’ by RaeLynn starts playing which causes me to giggle.

I settle on one side of the sofa, and Harry plants himself on the other side. Separately, we each take a sip of the riesling. My tongue does a happy dance at the flavor on my tongue. “This sweetness will cut the spicy quite well. Excellent choice.”

“You made the selection,” Harry reminds me, and I cringe.

“Oh. Yeah.”

Silence descends as the song proclaims “I’ve been naughty. I’ve been nice.”

“If there was ever a year for this song, this is it.” I announce into the quiet.

“Yeah. It’s been quite the year.”

Sharply, I glance at him. Perhaps I had missed something? “Excuse me? You’ve had one hell of a year, Styles. Grammy nominations aside, there were how many music videos released during this global disaster? Plus a movie!”

“Agreed.” He’s quiet, his jaw clenched, and suddenly his words burst forth as though a gate at a dam has been opened. “But no tour. And almost no family time.”

Wait. Was this superstar feeling some of my emotions? He’d had a stellar year in anyone’s estimation. Maybe I could be more sympathetic.

“Yeah. I’m sorry about tour. I had tickets to Vegas and one of the LA shows.”

His head swivels to me more swiftly than an owl focusing on prey. “You had tickets?”

“HAVE.” I swallow. “Thanks for not canceling by the way. I cannot imagine the bloodbath for getting tickets in the future. You’ve become the ‘it celebrity’.”

A blush is followed by a sheepish smile. “You can always get tickets, Smith. Just ask.”

“I don’t do that.” My voice is filled with the prickles that I feel at his words.

“Do what?”

“Use my privilege to get tickets to shows.”

“Oh. I…” His words trailed off.

Suddenly, I feel less uncomfortable around him. Reaching out, I shove at his shoulder. “You’re a giant star, and you have a ton of fans who want to see you. Me? I’m just happy to be a member of the audience.”

“Really?” Incredulous is what I sense in that one word. “Why?”

“Seriously?” I’m appalled. “Do you not know what an amazing entertainer you are, Styles? Fuck. If I hadn’t been able to see your Fine Line show at the Forum last December, I probably would have cried. You know exactly what your audience wants, and you deliver it. Consistently.”

“But --”

“Hush. Don’t you dare negate your talent!” Taking another sip of wine, I reveal unabashedly, “Maybe it’s the wine talking, but I really enjoy your shows.”

“Smith?” He inquires, and my hand stalls with my wine glass halfway to my mouth.

“Yeah?”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you like my shows?”

Stalling, I run a finger through my hair and empty my wine glass before holding it out to him. “More please?”

He rises, but I can read his reluctance. Within moments, Harry is back at my side, handing me a second glass of the riesling. I can’t help but notice that he’s topped his own off too.

“Answer the question, Smith.”

“My name isn’t Smith. In fact, there’s not a single part of my name that’s related to Smith. Why do you call me that?”

“Tell me why you like my shows, and I’ll reveal the meaning behind the nickname.”

My head feels fuzzy from the wine and the headiness of being near Harry, and I watch the lights flashing on the tree for a few minutes while Meghan Patrick belts out her version of ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas’ over the sound system.

“You make your fans feel like they matter.”

“How?” His question comes rapidly, and I have to gather my thoughts.

“You...talk to them. Listen to them. Watch them. Appreciate them. It’s rare, Harry. I mean, I’m in this business too, you know. Not every artist does what you do.”

“False.”

“I’m fucking serious, you asshole.” I gulp down more of the wine. “You make your audience feel like they’re your closest friends. I wish more artists did that. Specifically the ones I represent.”

“Oh.” His single utterance is enough, and we sit in pure tranquility for several minutes as the lights blink and Ava Max sings “Christmas Without You”.

“Wanna watch the quintessential holiday movie?” I inquire, looking at him.

“Which is?”

“Die Hard, of course,” is my response. “What were you thinking?”

“It’s a Wonderful Life.”

“Nope. It’s pretty good. In the top five for sure.”

“Wait. What are your top five?”

“Oh, that’s easy. ‘Die Hard’, ‘Home Alone’, ‘A Christmas Story’, ‘The Santa Clause’, and ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’.

“You’re serious?”

“Deadly?” I giggle at the joke since ‘Die Hard’ is full of death.

“Fine. But we watch ‘Wonderful Life’ afterwards.”

“Deal.”

Part 2

#my writing #harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #caitlin's fic challenge #part1 #harry styles smut #harry styles imagine #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfic #original writing

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toosicktoocare · 4 years

Text

I’ve been kind of playing with this ATLA Benders College AU, so I’m just going to roll with it.

ATLA Benders College AU

Snippet 1: Warmth Beyond a Bonfire

Setting: Junior Year, Sokka and Zuko

“You what?” Katara spits out sharply, hand tightening around her fork that’s raised mid-bite.

Beside her, Aang’s jaw drop, almost comically, his mouth full of food now on proper display, and Sokka grimaces.

“I said,” Sokka starts, drawing out his words slowly as if to dumb down the language, “I invited—”

“—Zuko,” Katara finishes harshly, the name alone leaving a sour taste atop her tongue. “You invited Zuko. The same Zuko who terrorized Aang for an entire year.”

“Now, Katara,” Sokka starts, smiling sheepishly and pointedly ignoring Aang’s eyes burning a hole in his face, “terrorize is a bit of a stretch, don’t you think? He had his reasons—”

“—Family troubles don’t justify his behavior, Sokka! I still don’t understand why you even speak to him.”

“He’s my roommate, Katara,” Sokka sighs, abandoning his fork on his tray. He’ll admit, he was far from pleased when junior dorm assignments dropped online a few months ago, and Zuko’s name was typed up plain as the day itself beside his. He remembers a burning anger swelling in his stomach, and in the days leading up to move-in, he filed multiple complaints to the resident director, both written and verbally, with Katara and Aang always backing him up one hundred percent.

Though, each complaint was always answered with a sigh and a rehearsed explanation. “The dean wants to spread out the fire nation students. He thinks it will help with their location-born reputation.”

Sokka thought it was stupid, and his annoyance, and muted fear, carried over into move-in day, diminishing only when he kicked his dorm door open, multiple bags in hand, and was met with warm, golden eyes, and a soft, hesitant smile that flipped his heart sideways.

Since then, he and Zuko have discovered a balance around each other, and, much to Katara’s dismay, an unlikely bond, one that’s civilized, and one that carries a seemingly one-sided something else that Sokka refuses to bring up to anyone, himself included.

“Your point?” Katara snaps quickly. “Look, Sokka, I know Zuko came back from summer break with a new hairstyle, but that doesn’t change the fact that he—”

“—I think he should come.”

The table goes quiet, with only Aang’s nonchalant chewing filling the silence. He ignores the mirror-like looks Katara and Sokka are shooting him and offers a one shoulder shrug in response.

“Maybe Sokka’s right,” Aang starts around his food. “We don’t know what happened to Zuko, but he does seem different now that he’s spent the summer with his Uncle. He even apologized to me.”

“He did?”

“Well, he slipped me a note in AB History that said ‘sorry.’”

“That’s it?” Katara throws her hands up, a huff slipping past her lips. “Aang, you can’t be serious about this. He hit you and mocked you for an entire year, and I thought he was going to kill you during the Bender Tournament. Do you really think it’s a good idea to be within bending distance at a bonfire, where he will very easily have the upper hand?”

Shrugging, Aang carries his gaze across the cafeteria to a two-seater booth in the back corner where Zuko’s currently sitting, nose buried in some novel with a fire bender and a water bender on the front. Katara and Sokka follow Aang’s gaze, and Sokka unconsciously sighs, dropping his chin in his palm as his eyes drink in Zuko’s hunched over posture and his soft, intrigued eyes.

“I just think he’s different,” Aang says, adding, “for real this time. Maybe he’ll make some better friends if he comes tonight. I think it will be good for him.”

“That’s the spirit!” Sokka pries his gaze back toward Aang, pushing forth a wide, toothy smile as he leans across the table to clap Aang on the shoulder. “We’ll meet you there!” He makes to stand, to return his tray and sneak in some quick studying before his next class, but Katara reaches out, digging sharp fingers into his wrist, and he pauses, frowning.

“Katara?”

“If he so much as looks at Aang the wrong way tonight, I’ll wash him all the way back to the fire nation.”

“Noted,” Sokka says, swallowing thickly, and he tugs his wrist free and makes a beeline to the exit, completing forgetting the tray still in his hand.

***

“I just want to make sure I’m understanding everything clearly,” Zuko starts, one brow arching as he watches Sokka fling clothes out his dresser. “Your sister and Aang were… excited when you told them I was coming?”

They’ve gone through this four times now, and still, Zuko can’t seem to convince himself that Sokka’s story is valid, not even in the slightest. He crosses his arms and nudges a shirt off the edge of Sokka’s bed with his socked foot before drawing his knees to his chest, back resting against Sokka’s headboard.

“Okay, fine,” Sokka drags out, tone low and dramatic, one Zuko’s learned to know all too well. “Katara wasn’t happy about it.”

“And Aang?”

“Aang actually was the one who suggested it would be good that you come.”

Zuko can’t control the wince that pulls across his face, and for a brief moment, he’s lost in hot, burning memories shrouded in anger, frustration, and pain. He sucks in a slow, deliberate breath, one that swells coolly in his chest, and he exhales, breathing out the memory, leaving only the present right before his eyes.

“Why?” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat.

“It’s Aang,” Sokka says, tilting his head, studying Zuko’s posture and the way Zuko always makes himself look smaller than he is. “The kid’s got a heart of pure, unbreakable gold. The point is,” Sokka adds when Zuko remains passive on his bed, “you’re coming tonight. It’s going to be super fun, and I need you to stop pouting and help me pick out an outfit.”

“I wasn’t pouting,” Zuko grumbles as he slips off Sokka’s bed and starts nudging through a pile of clothes on the floor, fingers tightening around a long-sleeve navy sweater with an oversized collar that Sokka doesn’t wear nearly enough, in his opinion. He holds it up silently, and Sokka studies it, tilting his head from the left, to the right, index finger tapping at his chin.

“This could work,” he finally draws out. “Pair this with my black skinny jeans, and some converses, and I think I’ll look quite dashing.”

Zuko chokes back a laugh, trying, and failing miserably, to pass it off as a cough, and his cheeks burn a bright pink when Sokka claps a hand to his shoulder and offers a tight squeeze.

“Now, for you,” Sokka starts, slipping out of his room and down the small hall to Zuko’s room, “do you still have that red, long-sleeve Henley?”

***

Zuko grits his teeth through a small shudder as the chilly October breeze seems to slip right through his thin shirt. He should have grabbed his coat; he tried, but Sokka insisted that his outfit was perfect and that the coat would hide him too much. Still, he should have grabbed it anyway.

Regret feels cold now, and he digs his fingers into his arms and follows Sokka over to the large fire, politely declining a beer as he snags a lawn chair that’s pulled up pretty close to the roaring flames. He watches, amused, as Sokka strides from person to person naturally, but then he can feel a different kind of itching heat, and he pulls his gaze around until he locks eyes with Katara, who’s standing on the other side of the fire, glaring daggers at him. He holds her gaze, guilt coloring his eyes, and she suddenly jerks her gaze away with a low huff.

“Hey, Zuko!”

Jumping, Zuko whips a wild gaze to see Aang taking the seat beside him, an almost blinding smile painted across his lips.

“Aang…” He clears his throat. “Hey.”

“Glad you came!” Aang drops his hand on Zuko’s arm, his smile faltering, and Zuko wants to jerk his arm away, to shrink away from the sudden, blaring look of concern etching over Aang’s face.

“Um, are you okay?”

“Of course,” Zuko snaps, face falling almost immediately after the harsh words fly off his lips. “Sorry, yes. I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

Frowning, Zuko spares a glance down to see that he is, in fact, trembling softly. Beside him, Aang hops to his feet.

“I think someone has some blankets in the bed of their truck. I can get you one—”

“It’s fine,” Zuko spits out a little too quickly, halting Aang mid-step. “I mean, I’m fine. There’s no need.”

“You sure?” Aang’s hesitant, worry twisting ever-so faintly in his gut.

“I’m sure,” Zuko meets Aang’s gaze, and they stay like that, silent, for just a moment, before he’s the first to break away when he hears someone drop into a chair on the other side of him. “Thank you, though.”

“Of course,” Aang says quietly, gesturing over his shoulder. “I’ll just be… around. I really am glad you came tonight.”

Zuko nods, and his tense, squared shoulders slowly ease-up and unclench as Aang smiles and darts off toward a group of freshmen who seem to be far too confused and underdressed for an upper level bonfire.

He nudges his chair a little closer to the fire, an almost dangerous distance if he weren’t a fire bender, and he turns and falls into idle chatter with the person to his left, a freshman, he quickly learns, inquiring about FB 101.

***

“Sokka,” Aang elbows through a group of students surrounding Sokka, who’s mid-story about some absurd trip he and Katara took when they were in junior high. “Sokka!” he tries again, louder, muttering apologies as he slips toward the center, stumbling into Sokka’s side.

“Aang!” Sokka shouts, draping a heavy arm over Aang’s shoulder. “You guys, Aang is the most talented little dude. He’s literally the Avatar! I can’t believe I’m best friends with the Avatar!”

Aang smiles sheepishly at the shouts and catcalls that follow, and he slips away from Sokka’s heavy arm, latching onto it, instead, with strong fingers. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

“Well,” Sokka draws out, voice sloppy, drunken, “of course you can! Ladies and gentlemen, we shall continue this later!” He stumbles as Aang all but drags him away from the crowd, swaying and staggering all the way to a tree a little way away from the bonfire.

“Yo, Aang, what’s up?”

“I think you should take Zuko back to the dorms.”

“Why?” Sokka whines, blinking slowly. “He was just here.” He looks around, head heavy on his neck. “He’s having the time of his life. ‘S totally good for him here. He’s making tons of friends.”

“It’s not that,” Aang presses, gnawing at his bottom lip. He physically turns Sokka until they are both facing the bonfire, and Aang points toward Zuko, who’s standing frightening close to the fire, bouncing on the balls of his feet and rubbing his hands up and down his arms.

“Zuko’s fire nation, Sokka. I know it’s not that cold for us, but he’s freezing. He was already shivering when you guys got here, and it’s been three hours already.”

All at once, Sokka sobers up, forcing the alcohol that dulls his senses down to the very bottom of his stomach, and he frowns, brows furrowing, as he stares hard at Zuko. “I didn’t realize—”

“Not you fault,” Aang mutters distracted by the warm, tight, constricting hand of concern tugging at his chest. “Just… he really needs to be taken back. I took FB Analysis II. Their bodies don’t process lower temperatures because of their hotter climate. It can be dangerous…”

Sokka doesn’t stand around to hear more, already making his way toward Zuko, footsteps fast, fearfully deliberate, and in seconds, he’s at Zuko’s side, a guilty smile tugging at the corners of his lips when he gets a good look at Zuko’s pale face, paler than normal standards, and the tight clench of his jaw as if he’s physically trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

“Hey, Zuko. I’m beat. You ready to head back?” He goes for a casual route, knowing that Zuko will argue if he mentions they are leaving for Zuko’s sake and not of his own accord.

“It’s still a l-little early,” Zuko says, and Sokka doesn’t miss the small stutter.

“Yeah, too much alcohol makes me go all weird in the head. Not something I’m ready to unbag today.” He nudges Zuko’s arm, and Zuko holds his gaze, the two sharing a silent conversation despite the noise around them, and, after an endless minute, Zuko breaks the gaze with a nod.

“If you’re ready.”

Smiling, Sokka briefly slips away to say his goodbyes, and just minutes later, he and Zuko are starting on the five minute walk back to the dorms, the loud sounds of the party becoming nothing more than faint chatter and music in the distance the farther they walk.

Sokka stays close to Zuko’s side, eyes entranced as Zuko passes a small ball of fire from one palm to the other, the glow illuminating the cloudy puffs of breath in the cold air.

“That doesn’t burn your hands?” He finally asks, mentally wishing he opted for an interdisciplinary track so he could have taken more fire bending courses.

“It could,” Zuko says quietly. “But we’re trained to listen to how our skin reacts to the heat.” He drops the small ball of flames into his right palm and holds it there. “I can instantly feel the heat coat my palm, but it’s not unpleasant. I can hold it like this,” he pauses, raising his hand up a little higher, “until an almost icy prickle begins to stab at my skin. That’s when I know it’s been enough.” He brings his hand into a fist, extinguishing the flame, before he crosses his arms once more, absently rubbing his hands up and down to utilize the lingering heat from the fire.

Sokka drapes an arm around Zuko’s shoulders, playing it off as an easy gesture when really, he wants to offer Zuko as much warmth as he can the remainder of their walk. Worryingly, Zuko doesn’t scoff and pull away. Rather, he leans into Sokka’s side with a small shudder, and Sokka only tightens his arm.

“I’m glad you came tonight. Though, I’m sorry I vetoed the coat.”

Zuko huffs out a laugh that molds into a hiss as a chilly breeze slips across the two. “Nothing a hot shower won’t fix.”

“I give you full permission to take all of the hot water tonight.”

“Good,” Zuko says, a small smile creeping at his lips. “Because I wasn’t going to ask.”

***

Though the shower helped bite the edge of the cold off, Zuko still feels chilled through, even after standing under borderline scolding hot water for the better half of thirty minutes. He’s quick to change into something warm, a long-sleeve, thermal night shirt and a pair of sweat pants, and he snags Sokka’s hoodie off the back of his desk chair when he spots it, slipping it over his head as he walks into the living room.

He spots two mugs of steaming tea on the coffee table, and he eases himself onto the couch, craning his neck to see Sokka popping a back of popcorn in the microwave.

“Movie night?” He calls out, and Sokka whips around, a wide smile pulling at his lips.

“Figured since it’s still early, we could watch something. Your pick.” Sokka stops in front of the couch, head tilting, as he takes in Zuko’s still too pale skin. “How was your shower?”

“Fine,” Zuko says, swallowing back the urge to flinch when Sokka brings a hand up to his face. He closes his eyes, his mind pulling toward a war with the heart that’s thumping rapidly in his chest, but then Sokka just rests a warm palm to his cheek, and he almost reaches up to hold it there.

But, far too quickly, Sokka jerks his hand away, and it isn’t until the rather colorful string of cuss words that follow that Zuko opens his eyes, frowning.

“What—”

“You literally feel like a block of ice.” Sokka storms across their dorm suite, snagging blankets from both bedrooms, stopping at the thermostat on the wall twice.

“Sokka—”

“This is literally all my fault. I thought you looked way hotter without the coat, and now you feel like a fucking corpse.”

Hotter… Zuko’s eyes grow wide, but Sokka doesn’t seem to realize the true extent of any word currently slipping from his rapid tongue. He only blinks when Sokka drops both blankets on top of him, and he struggles to free himself from the tangled mess.

“Sokka, I’ll be fine.”

“You’re damn right you will,” Sokka snaps, slipping onto the couch and tugging Zuko until Zuko’s back is flush against his chest. “Because I will make sure of it.” He fumbles with the blankets, struggling to pull both over and around the two, and all the while, Zuko can’t seem to remember how words work, that he’s supposed to use some combination of his tongue, mouth, and vocal chords to produce sounds that form words.

After a few minutes of breathless rustling, Sokka’s content, rubbing his hands up and down Zuko’s arms from behind him, and Zuko’s stiff as a board, too afraid to move.

“Sokka, this isn’t necessary.”

“Are you starting to feel warmer?”

Zuko open’s his mouth to argue further, but at the question, he closes it. He still feels cold, colder than he’s felt in a while, but underneath the ice, he can feel a faint brush of warmth that’s threatening to crack the ice. Without really meaning to, he relaxes against Sokka’s chest, and he nods.

“Yeah, actually, I am.”

“Then,” Sokka mutters, “it’s necessary.”

#atla #avatar the last airbender #zukka #college au #modern au #fanfic #sokka #prince zuko #sokka/zuko #my writing #my atla writing #zuko #zuko/sokka #katara #aang #k so idk how anything works #i just ship these two #and i wanted to write a modern college au but bending was still a thing #will be happy to answer any questions about this mess lol

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melonsmessymusings · 3 years

Text

Jenny and Calendiles Headcanons

For those who don’t know, it’s Jenny Calendar Day so here are some of my headcanons from the vaults:

Giles sprawls out like a dead deer in bed. He’s a restless, irritating partner because he hogs all the space and it drives Jenny insane. They’ve talked about it, and she knows why he’s always so restless but he needs to pick a struggle. She constantly has to kick him and move his ridiculously long limbs out of the way so she has any space whatsoever. Sleeping next to him is also like sharing the bed with a space heater.

Jenny’s the type of girlfriend who would literally throw the duvet off her because she’s too hot but then complain because when she wakes up, Giles is wrapped up like a burrito while she’s just out here with her foot covered.

Buffy once bumped into Giles and Jenny in a supermarket with her mum and they both completely ignored each other until Jenny was like “oh hey Buffy.” And that’s how Joyce remembered who Giles was because he was with the hot computer teacher.

Jenny steals Giles’ clothes and wears them because “clothes are genderless Rupert”. It got a bit chilly at school one day and she pulled one of his jumpers out of a cupboard and put it on. It drowned her, and the sleeves were almost down to her knees, but it was a look. When Giles saw her, he found hit incredibly sexy and they made out like teenagers in between classes.

If Giles is being stupid, Jenny takes revenge by being inconveniently petty. She once went through his entire sock drawer making sure that each pair were odd. She turned all of his books around so the spines were at the back of the bookcase. She hid his favourite mug for a month because he was being snobby. Worse, she confiscated the Custard Creams in his desk drawer. “I don’t know Rupert, do the cookies have a sacred duty?”

Jenny tried to get Giles to play Sonic the Hedgehog on the Megadrive for date night but he ended up rage quitting because he failed to realise you were supposed to collect the rings to not die. Jenny now teases him mercilessly about it.

Buffy once ran out of class crying and decked Jenny in the corridor. Jenny ended up having no idea what to do but said, “Hey, I could use some coffee? Wanna come?” and they both ditched. It was hideously awkward but Buffy found it nice to be with someone who was just letting her do what she needed to instead of trying to get her to control herself. Ultimately, Buffy thanked Jenny and made a point of leaving her a pastry as a ‘thank you’.

Jenny caught Giles practicing asking her out and found it hilariously adorable. While no overt teasing occurs, she does make a point of asking if the chair would like to go out for dinner or stay in.

Giles secretly loves musicals and it’s all Jenny’s fault.

Jenny spent 6 months persuading Giles to sing for her after finding his guitar in the back of a cupboard. He eventually relented and sang ‘This Time Tomorrow’ by the Kinks. Jenny launched herself at him and they didn’t even make it to the bedroom...

For all Giles can make a perfect cup of tea, he can’t make coffee to save his life. His idea is literally instant coffee and boiling water which DISGUSTS Jenny. Out of the blue, he surprised her with a gorgeous cup of coffee and it turns out that he’d been practicing and learning so he could make her happy.

Giles puts mayonnaise on his chips (fries) and Jenny threatened to break up with him if he persisted. He refused to stop and they technically broke up for like two days. Jenny called him a freak very loudly in the corridor and now the students are convinced that it was about sex. Jenny eventually made up with him after hearing the rumours circulating about how he was ‘too kinky for her’ and decided that it was bullshit because she literally was arguing with him about condiments. They made up and Giles already knew that they weren’t actually split up, despite her insistence that they had been.

Giles made a point of learning some computer jargon so he could follow conversations better. Jenny found it adorable.

They are the chaotic duo in staff meetings (that’s canon anyway tbh). Started off because Jenny stood on Giles’ foot. and he was not impressed so retaliated.

Jenny once joined Giles and Buffy on patrol. Buffy wasn’t overly keen. She and Jenny spent the evening competing for Giles’ attention which nearly gave him a stroke. Jenny was using all methods of distracting him from Buffy much to Buffy’s disgust. Predictably, Giles got knocked out and Jenny went absolutely FERAL, dusting the vampire responsible with her shoe and spent the next month apologising to Giles and Buffy for distracting them. Buffy has a new level of respect for Ms. Calendar after that.

#btvs #jenny calendar #rupert giles #buffy summers #jenny calendar day

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coldcocoamilk · 3 years

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hey y'all lousy Levihan lovers - I got a new laptop, which means I can finally write comfortably again. we know what that means - a new fic.

as always, this fic is available on archive of our own at this link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32169334/chapters/79707976

Title: I Went to College and All I Got Was This Lousy Degree

Summary: At the start of Hange's senior year, she's told that she must tutor the ill-tempered Levi Ackerman in Biology if he wants to graduate and keep his baseball scholarship. From that point forward, she does everything she can to keep it strictly business with Levi - until they keep running into each other, everywhere. It takes a little time and some self-discovery, but eventually, she finds herself falling for that baseball boy in the midst of her college career.

chapter 1 under the cut :)

1580.

The numbers were bold against her computer screen and seemed to be burning permanently into her retinas. What was that, like, two questions? It wasn’t fair.

“What did you get this time, honey?”

She turned the laptop to face her mother, who frowned. “It’s a ten point increase, at least.”

“I wanted a perfect score,” Hange moaned. “I hate the College Board. This is some crap.”

“Well, that’s three out of three. You’ve still done better than anyone I’ve ever seen,” her mother reassured her. “Can I take these cups?”

Hange looked over her desk at the array of cups, old bowls, and soiled paper plates. “Yeah, but I want the orange one. I’ll help you bring all this down – sorry about the mess.”

“You’ve been studying hard,” her mom reassured her. “I just don’t want any roaches to be drawn in.”

The warmth from the soapy dish water was soothing on her aching hands. Ever since eight that morning, Hange had been either typing, writing, or highlighting, and when her hands weren’t in use, her eyes flew across text resulting in the typical tension headache she felt directly behind her eyes. Now that it was six, and dinner was almost ready? Done. She was done. Hange thought that senior year would be the worst year for her, but so far, junior year was setting the bar pretty high with the combination of exams, state testing, entrance exams, and college applications.

“Leave the water in the sink. I made you some veggies,” her mom told her.

Perhaps it was weird, but one of the few things that Hange enjoyed out of her mom’s cooking was vegetables. Everything else was either too bland or too salty, too mushy or nearly burnt, but her vegetables were always well seasoned and just cooked right. Going vegetarian had been easy for Hange, especially since it was pretty much all she ate at home anyways.

“Are you going to Nanaba’s after dinner still?” Her mom asked as they ate their dinner together.

“Yeah, I’ll probably sleep there tonight, if you don’t mind,” Hange replied between forkfuls of carrots. “By the way, when does dad come back?”

“Wednesday morning, so you’ll have to take the truck into school, okay? And that’s fine, just check in with me at some point. Go ahead and take the truck tonight, too.”

“Yup, gotcha,” Hange replied, finishing her plate. “Thank you for the food – I really like that new sauce you’re using.”

Her mom beamed, a rare sight for her tired face. “I used balsamic dressing in it! I knew it’d be good.”

Hange grabbed her bag from the bottom of the stairs on her way up. It was way too hefty for her plans tonight, and besides, she really didn’t need her calc II book at Nanaba’s, anyways. She packed the usual: laptop, jeans, cute shirt, a long skirt, cardigan, flats, and some pajamas. Her deodorant and perfume got haphazardly thrown in there too, along with an extra hair tie and her chargers. On last thought, Hange reached for a couple of suspiciously heavy balled-up sock pairs, throwing them in there too. Nanaba would appreciate that.

The truck keys were on the counter next to Hange’s wallet, and she clipped them onto her belt loop on the way out. Everyone in the house had ended up with her trusty carabiner trick: can’t lose your keys if they’re always attached to your pants. Her logic was that if you lose your pants somehow, you’ve got more issues than your keys.

“See ya mom!” Hange called out to the house. Her mom’s jazz music was already audible from the bedroom, and the dishes from dinner sat soaking in the sink. It was always much more laid back when her dad was out on a business trip, and a nice treat in comparison to his uptight antics.

Dusk in southern California during April was always nice – it wasn’t chilly enough to warrant a decent coat, but it was warm enough that you could get away with a dress. Sure, the daytime was utter hell, but at night, her dad’s hoodie on the passenger side of the bench seat in his truck was a welcome blanket on her lap as she drove to Nanaba’s house just fifteen minutes away.

Nanaba had been Hange’s best friend since the sixth grade, and they weren’t planning on changing that any time soon. Once upon a chilly November evening, school had just let out and they sat waiting for their parents to pick them up. Fifteen minutes passed, then half an hour, then a full hour – somehow, the two had ended up being “those kids.” You know the type. Mom fell asleep or lost track of time, child has to try their hardest to remember the house phone number, mom freaks out and arrives in a panic. In that span of an hour, the two started an inseparable bond over Pokémon Sapphire on Hange’s Gameboy Advance.

Hange let herself in with the key under the mat, making her way quietly through the house and up the stairs to Nanaba’s room. She found her with a clear plastic bonnet on her head, cross-legged at the head of the bed on her laptop, and the room reeked of chemicals. “Yo,” she announced herself, dropping her bookbag on the bed and flopping down on it. “That time of the month again?”

“You make it sound like I’ve got my period,” Nanaba complained. “What score did you get?”

“A fifteen eighty,” Hange replied. “You?”

“Fifteen thirty,” Nanaba beamed. “My highest yet!”

“Yooooo!” Hange shot up. “I’m proud of you! That’s, what, a seventy-point improvement? You studied!”

“I took your advice and had my dad buy me that SAT prep book you kept talking about. It really did work, thank you so much,” Nanaba gushed. “I feel like I can finally relax, just a little. Next weeks is finals, but in a couple hours, it’ll be Sunday, which means I’m not studying for a whole twenty-four hours.”

Hange flopped back down on the bed. “Preach. You feel like going out tonight?”

Nanaba leaned against the headboard of her bed, the plastic cap on her head crinkling against the wall. “Nah, I don’t think anything is happening. Besides, I’m doing my hair. I need you to help me touch up the sides again.”

“All right,” Hange replied. “How long do you have left?”

“Ten minutes,” Nanaba closed her laptop and stretched before swinging her legs off the side of the bed. “We’re not going out tonight, but I do have a bottle, if you wanna.”

“I brought shooters!” Hange shot back up, immediately digging through her bag and extracting the balled-up socks. “Some different ones this time, for us to try. What did you get this time?”

Nanaba walked across the room and opened her closet, pulling a bottle of liquor out from a box labelled WINTER. “Eddy orange this time. Haven’t tried it yet, but I thought we’ve abused the lemon enough.” Glass clinked as she pulled out two shot glasses: one shaped like a miniature beaker, and a normal one that simply said BOOBS.

“Beautiful,” Hange grinned. “Today we’re trying… uhh… UV Blue, Jägermeister, and this weird peanut butter whiskey stuff.”

“Did you shoplift again?” Nanaba gave her a glance. “You know, it’s one thing to buy with a fake. It’s another to shoplift entirely.”

“Does it count as shoplifting if your parents don’t drink but keep getting gifted weird alcohol gift baskets from my dad’s customers so it all just ends up sitting in the liquor cabinet for years anyways?”

“God, your dad’s job is weird.”

“Yeah, I know.”

#levihan #my writing #levi x hange #levi x hanji #attack on titan #aot #snk #shingeki no kyojin #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #stoplookinghere

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onedivinemisfit · 3 years

Photo

During my recovery, this has been my biggest project, no kidding. I looked but couldn’t find Obi’s witcher!AU body template so I sketched some Bruxa!yuki designs instead. <w< I’ll finalize and colour them when I’m well, or so I hope, unless I forget XD

Pls forgive any mistakes I’m not 100% yet. ^^;

Explanations below the cut~

AnS (c) Akizuki Sorata Witcher (c) Andrzej Sapkowski TW3 models (c) CDPR Art: Me

Disclaimer: I am not a tailor and as such all my opinions are based on preference and evt pushing rules in my favour XD

The main idea with her wardrobe was to underline that whatever she’s doing, Shirayuki is feminine, and wants to present feminine, hence the skirts and ribbons and embroidery. She’s also a person fond of utility, so belts, pockets, and layers that can be added or removed as she fancied, was also an important facet to add. But she’s also bruxae, monster species, so she’s got a few blind spots, so to speak, regarding what is and isn’t proper to wear in human society. But most of all, her clothes make it easy for her to use her bruxa powers to move around swiftly, silently, and with purpose

Around half of these were referenced from the witcher 3 game, with me picking my favourite garb, and what made more sense for her in different situations.

1. Huntress Outfit - this one I made myself, using only some of the basic wardrobe notes from tw3. I’ve a softness for overdresses/kaftans with splits, especially if they’re combined with tights/buckskins. Shirayuki is a poor bruxa living in the woods outside a small human settlement, so she doesn’t have access to a tailor other than on market day, or when peddlers arrive, hence she often has to redesign old/too-small clothing for new purposes. Another point was to reinforce her sleeves, to make it easier to brush away branches and undergrowth, and adding the Skelligan waist shawl, a gift from her half-sister, as recurring themes.

2. Winter Outfit - another I made myself, because I was dying to design something that included a sheepskin jerkin. The waist shawl helps redefine the jerkin and give it a feminine twist, and the wrapped sleeves both reduce noise and keeps her cuffs from leaking precious warmth. The wool tunic could have been a dress, but I wanted to focus on showing off her fur-tucked winter boots and knitted long socks. Shirayuki probably knitted them herself.

3. High Summer Outfit - another self-made design. Made so as to underline her non-humanness, borrowing heavily from witcher elven aesthetics, with lots of exposed skin, crossed fabric, and asymmetrical cuts. This is what she wears when the weather *won’t* allow you to dress decently or you get purged by the sun, basically. Again, since Shirayuki’s often short of fabric, a lot of refashioning going on.

4. Commoner Outfit - A very basic woman’s dress, very presentable, very respectable, especially since Shirayuki is trying to sell the lie that she’s a normal human woman. It’s her go-to outfit for visiting human settlements, or for performing simple chores around the house, such as cooking, sewing, or spinning. Things that keep her in or around her homestead, and not gallivanting in the woods at midnight looking for prey.

5. Relaxing Outfit - merely a dusty day dress pulled over her nightgown, for those chilly nights where Shirayuki doesn’t want to undress for bed until she’s halfway under the covers. When the chores are done and all that’s left to do is sip a cup of blood, read a book beside the hearth and wait for Ryuu to return from his late night wandering, she likes to shed all those layers and relax.

6. Throw-together Outfit - referenced from the game, almost entirely (Keira Metz’ witch model) - save the shoes and headband. After the loss of her home and her more presentable clothing thanks to witcher Obi (who will later admit that yes he does in fact owe her a new dress... and blouse... and apron...) this outfit was assembled through raiding an abandoned witch’s hut. Anything that could suffice as clothing, basically, even the old curtains. Shirayuki doesn’t personally care that some of her *assets* are pretty much on display, but she would like some linen anyway, the cotton does chafe a bit. Aside from the pearl necklace, nothing she’s wearing actually belonged to her in the first place.

7. Formal Commoner Outfit - reffed from the game, (Keira Metz’ second model) the shoes being the sole exception. A dress for special occassions, perhaps May Day, Equinox celebrations, etc. Not that Shirayuki often dared participate in such events, due to the amount of people who show up even in small villages to throw tankards together and dance around bonfires. But she does pilfer the dress from the abandoned witch’s hut anyway, thinking maybe, afterall, since it’s so pretty and it had matching sleeves to go with it... keeping it wasn’t such a dumb idea.

8. Pants Outfit - reffed from the game (juggler npc) A cross between a traveler and a city dweller, a light-weight yet very elegant outfit for strolling in the human cities. The top is presentable enough that she doesn’t look poor as a pauper, while the pants give the impression of someone on the move, a stranger. It also provides the most comfortable riding experience, the few times she does ride, as she has no need for a lady’s saddle.

9. High-Class Outfit - reffed from the game/one of my favourite tw3 modders, (New Sorceress models by Roksa) I only added the shoes and circlet. When Zen has the dress made for her, it is by FAR the most expensive thing she’s ever worn. Not a single thread of the dress isn’t well-made, the dyes are the brightest and most even-coloured, and the silk is light as a touch on her skin. While the dress itself is a demure, feminine dream, what sets the ensemble apart are the dark cat’s eye gems, just hinting at Shirayuki’s darker secrets. They’re set in gold, for obvious, unspoken reasons, as she reacts to silver much like being set on fire...

10. Evening Outfit - reffed from the game, I just changed the necklace (Ida Eméan’s Gwent card art) another very expensive dress, but surprisingly one that Shirayuki tolerates better. No stiff, itchy velvet, no heavy damask, just sheer silk with gold thread (again for reasons obvious to a bruxa) some simple sleeves, and a chain of stones, no gilded jewellry that could empty a bank vault if sold to the right people. She probably takes a fancy to this dress while attempting to woo a certain witcher, which explains the understated beauty, the most daring of cuts, one that screams “look at me, only me” and the simple-at-a-glance design. Much like Shirayuki herself.

11. Skellige Outfit - inspired by the viking-esque game design for Skellige fashion, this dress is for when Shirayuki and her family stay in the Isles, following her sister’s suggestion. A dress that signifies the matron head of a household with its pewter clasps and apron, follows Skellige fashion demanding you wear a shawl with your clan colors (Shirayuki, although clan-less, was given one by Torou) and layers. And armguards. And a split overdress. To show that this is Shirayuki’s choice wear afterall.

#akagami no shirayukihime #ans #snow white with the red hair #shirayuki #witcher!au #in which shirayuki is a bruxa #a sort of all-female vampire #and obi is the witcher #listen I have only been able to sketch so it was only a matter of time before I fell down into the rabbit hole of outfit designs again XD #let's hope I remember to render them later lolol #myart #I also tried to hint to time passing between her outfits #by using different hairstyles #idk if it worked ahahaha

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