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palbabor-writes · 3 years

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Practicum

Pairing: Shigaraki Tomura x Fem!Reader

Warnings: SMUT/18+ only, unbalanced/unhealthy relationships, student/teacher sex, tw.dubcon, tw.sub/dom dynamics, brat taming, fingering, masturbation, a table is pretty roughed up in this, so pls hold a brief moment of silence for it

Words: 12,857

“So, you just want me to read from the book?”

“Yes.”

“And...answer questions?”

“That’s what I said,” Shigaraki smirks, already reaching toward his bookshelf, tugging the heavy Intro to Biology text out and shifting it into his large hands.

You bite at your lip again and pass your gaze from his amused expression to the bland cover of the textbook, debating your next move, trying to walk yourself through all the ups and downs. It’s too simple; too easy. It’s not like him. He’s got something else in mind, why else would he fucking look like that? It’s not a bad look. No, it’s a look that makes your stomach flip and head spin.

“Stop being so suspicious,” Shigaraki scolds, drawing your wandering attention back to him. “I don’t bite, that is, unless you want me to.”

Notes: the title was selected because it’s got the word cum in it. ahhh, the things that crack me up. anyhow.

this is part of the BNHA Degeneracy server’s 9 to 5 collaboration! i had a ton of fun participating in this and thank you guys for making this so freaking awesome! special shoutout & thanks to @albinoburrito & @kugutsuu for their beta edits! this was a departure from what i usually write about and i appreciate all of your notes and help!

Practicum prac·ti·cum /ˈpraktəkəm/ noun a practical section of a course of study

It’s your senior year, they said. Live a little, they advised. Stop and take a breather, you’re practically home free! Take some easier classes. Focus on what’s in front of you, it’ll be over before you know it! On and on and on.

Spring semester is almost here. You’ve applied for graduation, the cap and gown ordered, and you have a shiny class ring sitting on your pinky. It’s in the bag. Just breeze through four more classes and you’re out. Well, it would be an easy shot, if you hadn’t put off this one class.

It always popped up, so it’s not like you could plead ignorance. Your advisor warned you, each quarterly meeting, that you needed to get it out of the way. Take it seriously, he cautioned, clacking out his notes, typing down that you’d failed to heed his sage advice, again. If you wait too long, you’re not going to get the professor that you want.

That was the other problem. You’re a procrastination superstar. If there was some kinda award for putting off assignments, you’d have won it ten times over. You liked the heart pounding race to the deadline, the sleepy boasts that you’d tackled the project within hours of its due date.

It’s a stupid habit. Every semester you promise yourself that you’ll do better. You won’t wait, you’ll tackle things one assignment at a time and turn them before the hard cut off at 11:59 pm. Who the fuck did you think you were kidding? Certainly not your friends, or your advisor. He could read you like a book. Hell, he’d even sent warnings.

‘Don’t forget about the deadline for senior registration!’

‘You don’t want to be on a waitlist. You especially don’t want to take one of the harder professors. These are freshman level classes, they’re designed to flunk undergrads. Don’t forget (Y/N), chew them up and spit them out tactics are employed.’

But you had. You’d set an alarm on your phone, then neglected to give it a title, so you’d only chuckled and smacked the chirping into silence that morning, snoozing the all important deadline away.

Fuck.

Most of the classes for biology are wait-listed. No, scratch that, all the classes for Intro to Genetic Biology are wait-listed. You opt into the waitlist for all of them, just in case, and a week later your phone alerts you that one has an open seat. Actually, it has several open seats, too many open seats to be natural. However, you’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, so for now, you’re enrolled in BIO 1208: Principles of Cell and Organismal Physiology - For Non-Science majors.

Perfect.

Yeah, no. You’d looked up the professor, since the whole open seat thing was still giving you the heebie-jeebies, and your heart dropped. You’ve heard of him, most of the student body has. His classes are notoriously small. Not because the university limited them, or planned for smaller class sizes. No, his classes are tiny because he is infamous for failing students.

Most, when they realize they’re scheduled for his bio classes, frantically drop, taking the withdrawal and praying for better luck next semester. Others, brave souls who think they can come out unscathed, attempt to grit their teeth and push through. But, by midterms, they’re war torn and haggard, shaking their heads and praying for a ‘C’, at best. Fewer still, pass.

This pedagogy isn’t a sign of good teaching; quite the opposite, in fact. You don’t want your student body failing. Yet, year after year, Professor Tomura Shigaraki keeps teaching the same Intro to Bio class. It boggles the mind, but you’ve never had to worry about it. Well, until now.

When you’d received the notification that you’re enrolled in the B section and spied the name Shigaraki under the professor listing, you’d scarfed down your suddenly flavorless lunch and dashed up the steps to the student advising hall, praying there was some way you could wiggle your way out of this growing disaster.

“I’m pretty sure I told you to take it earlier and to take it in the fall when there are more freshman level classes available. I swear I said that to you. And, AND, I even sent you emails, several times if my sent inbox is to be believed, to NOT forget when senior registration ends.”

Your advisor is peeved. You don’t blame him. He’s right, this is your fault, but there’s gotta be some kinda loophole. Something, fuck, anything, that can pull you from this mess.

“I know, I know! I’m so sorry. You’re right. But, I mean, can’t I just hold off for another week? See if the waitlist clears?”

The man that you’ve known for four years, that’s seen you progress from freshman to senior, steeples his long fingers and purses his lips, likely debating on a tactful scolding, or a firm rebuttal. He takes a deep breath and you can’t help but sink into the soft cushioning of the chair, your nose wrinkled and brow furrowed, mentally preparing yourself for the worst.

“Do you know how many students we require to take BIO 1208?”

“No,” you gulp, nibbling on your lower lip nervously.

“Over 7,000. Do you want to hear the statistics that would need to shake out in your favor for you to miraculously avoid taking this specific class? Nothing is going to open for you, it is this class, or no class.”

You sigh, and your advisor nods, pushing his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose. “Well then, I suggest you brush up on your study skills. Find a classmate that you can compare notes with, join a study group, go to the student union and ask for a tutor. I would hate to see you back here for the summer semester. You’re scheduled to walk the stage this spring and you’ve worked hard for this, so don’t fuck it up, okay?”

You’ve attended this university for four years, but the first day of term always gives you the jitters. It doesn’t matter that you know your way around, or that you know ten professors by name, and bump into several friends on the way to your next building, you’re always buried in your phone, checking and double checking the next class’ room number.

Despite all that caution, you’re lost.

In your defense, it’s your first time stepping foot in the Graduate & Research building and the whole concrete block is a fucking maze. There must be a basement because the numbers don’t match up with the floors and they seem to jumble further every time you round a corner. Like what the hell? How can this next room be GR 3.03.05 when this is clearly only the second floor and GR 2.03.11 was right down that other hallway?

Exasperated, you lean against the nearest wall and tug your phone out again. Shit. Class started ten minutes ago.

Part of you wants to call it a day, end the search here and try again on Wednesday. Maybe take a few extra minutes to scout out the building next time and have some idea of where you’re going before the start of class.

Ugh, why is this so stressful?

It’s the first day of classes. Surely Professor Shigaraki won’t mind if you’re a few minutes late; besides, if you’re lost, others must be too.

You tuck your phone back into your pocket and resume the hunt. Two hallway turns later, you find your mark.

Your hand pauses beside the heavy wood, and you take a steadying breath. Again, why are you so nervous? Just go in and take a seat, it’s easy, stop freaking out over nothing.

The door groans open, hinges protesting the sharp push, and you stumble into a darkened room. The low glow of the projector doesn’t help your blurry vision. Ah, shit, it’s one of those older rooms, so it’s built like a bad movie theater. Oh well, better get to a seat before he spots you.

Swiftly, you make your way toward the raised steps of the aisle and the second row of chairs, plopping into the first one you reach that’s empty. You’re too busy fiddling with the zipper of your backpack to notice that the speaker has stopped his rasping preamble, but as you pull your laptop out the ominous weight of that heavy silence hits you and you toss a hooded stare toward the front of the lecture hall.

Immediately, your eyes land on the professor’s and you feel a low shiver shake up your spine.

He’s watching you.

The gleam of the overhead projector makes his red eyes flash, and he openly scowls at your gaping expression, his lips curling into a dark sneer.

“Well, thank you for joining us, Miss…?”

He’s waiting for your response and you squeak out your last name, mindlessly rubbing your moistening palms against your thin skirt.

“Ah, Ms. (L/N). Now that you’ve graced the class with your belated presence, may I continue?”

“Uh,” you gasp out, your mouth dry, tongue sticking to your teeth, “I’m sorry. I got–”

“I didn’t ask for an explanation, or in your case, an excuse. Or are you now attempting to disrupt this class purposefully?”

“Wha– I-I’m–” your words stumble to a halt, voice failing under the intense glare that he’s giving you. “No,” you finish lamely, ducking your head, nails digging into your sweaty palms.

“Thank you. Do me a favor, stay after class.” His voice is gravel, threatening and low. You don’t like the edge in his tone. It makes your skin prickle and your knees knock. He sounds like the kind of guy that you don’t want to run into in a dark alleyway, or a classroom, for that matter. Even so, it’s not your fault, and despite your feelings of unease, you can’t tamp down your need to protest his unreasonableness.

“But, professor, I didn’t mean to–”

“If I need to repeat my insistence for silence, I’ll make things easier on both of us and fail you now.”

Stunned and fuming, you bite your tongue and lean back into your chair, crossing your arms and blinking back mounting tears of frustration. Great, just great. It’s the first fucking day of class and it looks like you’re already on his shit list. And for what? For being late on fucking syllabus day! What an ass.

You look over at him as you defiantly finish setting up your computer, hoping each pull of a zipper or screen reboot will grate under his stuck up skin. He’s not inordinately tall, or old. In fact, he looks like he might only be in early 30s. He has long white hair that’s pulled back into a low ponytail and, from what you can make out in the dim lighting, some kinda skin condition on his forehead. That, or he’s prematurely wrinkled, and let’s be honest, if he’s gone through life with that big of a stick up his ass, he deserves each and every pull on that mottled skin of his.

You linger in your seat when class is over, lips pulled into a thin line and legs crossed. Finally, when the last student has left the room, professor Shigaraki flips a switch beside his elevated podium, filling the lecture hall with a sharp, fluorescent light. He pauses by his raised computer system and clicks off the overhead projector, blanketing the massive room in an uncomfortable silence.

“Since you missed the part of class where I go over the syllabus, I’ll give you a brief rundown. Under no circumstances will I tolerate tardiness. If you do it once more I’ll mark you absent and three absences knock you down a full letter grade.”

Glumly, you cross your arms and peer up at him, finally able to get a good look at his face. Your first observation was correct. His skin is sharper around his forehead, but his wavy white hair does a pretty decent job of covering up the imperfections. He has two scars: one nicks across his right eye and the other splits down his rough lips, parting the skin and granting him an even more foreboding appearance than his already gruff demeanor does. He’s dressed in a dark pair of jeans and he’s wearing a low slung v neck shirt. It’s a brilliant red and it brings out that otherworldly glint of his red eyes. Shit, you think bitterly, while he’s not conventionally handsome, he’s not exactly hard on the eyes either.

You shake your head against these unproductive musings and curtly snap out a clipped, ok.

“What was that?” Shigaraki scoffs, tilting his head at your sullen figure. “Speak up.”

“I said,” you bristle, eyes narrowing and chin lifting, “Okay, I apologize for interrupting your lecture, it won’t happen again. But, in my defense, if I’m allowed to do that in this class, I’ve never been in this building before, and it’s not like–”

“You’re a senior, right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Then you’ve had four years to figure out the layout of this university. The excuse of ‘being lost,’ isn’t an option for you. You know the buildings and you’re fully capable of turning up early to sort out the rooms.”

You let out a long sigh and look away, mumbling vague protests. This guy is ridiculous. You’re not a science major and it’s not your job to know the ins and outs of each building. How fucking stupid. Who does he think he–

“Speak up. I won’t ask you again.”

You bite your lip and look back at him but he’s moved in that distracted moment, silently stepping down from his raised platform and is now leaning over the first row of chairs, looming over you. You can’t help your sudden flinch as you sink further into your chair, away from him.

“If you’re gonna complain, Ms. (L/N), I’d much rather hear it. Don’t you think It’s rude for you to mutter under your breath about me? You don’t see me doing that to you.”

“Fine,” you blurt out, turning away from his insistent, and all too close, gaze. “I was saying that I’m not a science major. I get that I’m a senior, but you can’t seriously expect me to know every nook and cranny of this campus.”

“No, but I can ask for you to be a little more thoughtful. I put time and effort into my lessons and I won’t have you undermining them by bouncing in here with those legs and that flouncy little skirt.”

You’re about to counter his little haughty speech on politeness when you finally process that final comment he’d breathed out. Flabbergasted, you raise your head back to his, but he’s already moving away, snatching up his shoulder bag and waving you a curt goodbye as he presses open the squeaky door. “Next class is at 10 am sharp, so be on time Ms. (L/N).”

You’re still slumped in your seat when the door glides shut again, your eyes wide and jaw no doubt comically unhinged.

Wait. Did…did he really just say that?

Obviously, for the next class, you’re early. You’re so early that you’re the first one in the lecture hall. You select a seat toward the back and fiddle with your computer, checking your messages, adjusting your brightness, replying to old emails, anything to keep your head down and attention occupied.

The door opens and, despite your best efforts, your head flies up, expectant and tense, ready to meet those red eyes of his head on, to show him you’re here and he better… oh. It’s not him. It’s two chattering freshmen. One of them gives you a quick smile, but they both quickly take their seats, a few rows over, and continue their soft conversation, leaving you to fall back onto your earlier distraction tactics. You twiddle with your phone and shoot off a few texts, change your wallpaper, accidentally close an app you meant to leave open, and then the lecture hall door reopens.

He steps in slowly, completely ignoring you and the other scattered students, opting to sort out a few papers and set up his login on the school computer. The minutes tick by and you can’t seem to jerk your eyes away from him, suddenly fascinated by his languid movements. He looks more relaxed than he did on Monday, looser and fluid, completely in his element. True to his word, at ten am on the dot he begins class.

Professor Shigaraki has an interesting voice. It’s low, calculated, bordering on a rasp. It’s one of those tones that makes you want to lean forward and listen up, even though he’s only discussing cellular biology. Which isn’t exactly the sexiest topic for that shockingly dulcet timbre of his.

Wait. Sexy?

Your pen falters against your notebook, and your eyes drift up to his frame. He’s switched the lights off again and the shine of the overhead projector is the only illumination in the hall. His white hair gleams in the dim lighting and his long hands animatedly illustrate his points, elegant fingers opening and closing, gesticulating about the intricate nature of the human genome. You’re so focused on watching his movements that your elbow partner has to push the slip of paper onto your collapsible desktop. You blink at the sheet, your pen nearly clattering from your hand, and you twist to peer at the unfamiliar student beside you.

“It’s the attendance sheet and, um, I think you’re the last one,” they whisper, careful to lean away after they finish their explanation, not wanting to draw professor Shigaraki’s ire. You maneuver the paper under your pen and scribble down your name, biting your lip and silently berating yourself for your poor selection in seating. Great, now you’ll have to take the paper down to him after class. What if he talks with you again? Shit.

At 11:25, class ends. You collect your things and plod down the steps, the attendance sheet clutched between your fingers. He’s just snapping the projector light off when you reach his podium.

“I, uhh, have the attendance. You want me to just leave it here, or…”

“I’ll take it,” his hand is extended toward you and those red eyes are fixed on you now. It’s not the same disgruntled stare he’d given you on Monday. No, this look is a little more curious. Again, you’re taken aback by your reaction to him. He’s not even saying anything, just patiently waiting for you to deposit the sheet into his open palm, but there’s something about him that’s making your heart race.

Maybe it’s those eyes of his.

They are an unusual color and they have a strange intensity to them. Right as they narrow, the vermillion shining under the sharp lights; you press the paper to him and he pulls it from you, studying the names that are listed.

You want to say something. Maybe toss him a quick, friendly, goodbye. Or apologize for the other day? Ugh. What can you even say? ‘Gosh, so glad I was on time today! All that fascinating information about the genetic code! So glad to be here!’ No, that sounds stupid and a little patronizing. Besides, why do you want to talk with him at all? He’s an ass, remember?

“Did you need something?”

His question snaps you out of your stupor and you numbly shake your head at him, already lowering your gaze, but his exhaled chuckle makes you pause, your fingers curling around your backpack straps.

“I know I upset you the other day, but I appreciate you taking the effort to correct your mistake.”

“Oh,” you breathe, your eyes finding their way back to his. “Yeah, well, like you said, I’m a senior. Gotta take responsibility for myself someday.”

“Ah,” he smirks, that long scar on his lip quirking upward. “Seems like you’ve got some determination after all. You might be more interesting than I gave you credit for.”

“God,” you scoff, popping out a hip and crossing your arms at the bemused leer on his face. “Just come right out and say you think I’m a bad student, why don’t you?”

“Don’t worry,” he amends, tucking the attendance sheet into his shoulder bag and snapping the clasps closed. “There’s plenty of time for you to end up right back at square one with me.”

He’s already halfway out the door by the time you right yourself from the shock of his last comment and you follow him, a string of low curses falling from your lips.

The spring semester always flies by, and before you realize it, a full month has bled away. You’ve kept that same seat in Shigaraki’s class and at the end of each session you head down to his little platform, attendance sheet outstretched. Each day of class has a different ebb and flow. Sometimes he chats with you and it’s gotten easier to talk with him, both of your eyes holding and lingering, lips raised into calculating smiles. Sometimes it almost feels like he’s flirting with you. Other days he only spares you a curt nod, his white hair curtaining his expression from your curious gaze. You’re not bothered by these silences, not when you’ve got your secret weapon.

The days that you like best, the ones that you plan, sorting through your closet until you’ve found the perfect choice, are the days when you wear one of your skirts. You’d even gone on some skirt shopping sprees as of late. On those days he doesn’t just make some sort of fleeting eye contact with you, no, on those days he stares.

At first, you’d tested out your theory, staggering your outfits, careful to not screw up your suspicions with a hasty miscalculation, but as they say, the third time’s the charm. How did he expect you not to notice? He never bothers to hide those sharp ogles and recently you’ve made a point of dramatically gathering your things when you wear these cute little ensembles, bopping down the steps so his eyes have to work to follow the line of your hips and the long paths of your bare legs. One rainy afternoon you’d worn over the knee stockings, that came to an abrupt halt over the plush skin of your upper thigh, under your mini skirt and he’d practically leapt over the podium to grab the sheet from you, his eyes hooded and dark, almost wild.

“Test, on Friday,” he warns, eyes finally rising to meet your bemused expression. “Don’t stay out too late tonight.”

“What makes you say that?” you ask, brushing at a rogue fold in your skirt, luring him back to your legs.

He scoffs at you, that jagged scar arching into a smirk. “Humph. You’re dressed up. Most of the students just wear the sweats, or pjs, and call it a day.”

“I like to put a little effort in all that I do,” you retort, grinning up at his vermillion stare.

“Yes, so I’ve noticed. You certainly look the part…and you’re keeping up with the workload of this course.”

“Ahhh,” you crow, clapping your hands excitedly. “Are you saying I might get an ‘A’ in this class? Be the first time someone’s done that in a while, from what I’ve heard around campus.”

Shigaraki sneers and tuts out an inaudible reply, leaning a little closer to you, making you inadvertently fall back a step. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Awe,” you pout, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m doing ok on all the quizzes and the classwork.”

“So far,” he taunts, his pearlescent hair falling over his broad shoulder.

“Tch. Don’t be like that. I’ve been studying.”

“Sometimes it takes more than that.”

“Oh?” you smile, raising your chin. “What else should I be doing, professor?”

“We’ll know that after Friday, won’t we?”

God.

You’d felt so confident when you’d turned in your test and that stupid, horrible, sexy little quirk of his lip scar that he sends you, when you’d handed him your papers, carries you on some strange, half aroused cloud all weekend. Maybe, just maybe, this class won’t be so bad after all.

The tests are handed back the following Friday, passed from row to row so everyone can fish out their papers and marked Scantrons. Yours, since you still occupy that final seat on the back row, is the last. Biting back a grin, you flip it over, so ready to see that A, that grade that you worked so fucking hard for, that… wait.

The gross flash of red across the top of your paper leaves you reeling, your breath catching against the back of your throat. It’s not a terrible grade, well, it wouldn’t be, but there are only three tests in this class, so it’s going to plummet you down to a B. One more fuck up will leave you with a C, or worse, an automatic failing grade.

No. No, no, no, no.

You can’t afford a bad grade, you honestly can’t even let yourself slip to a B. Your fucking cap and gown have just come in and with them that cord that you can wear around your neck at graduation. The one that marks you as honors cum laude. Fuck. You’re already pulling one B, in one of your other classes, because you’ve been focusing so much time and effort on this one. Another B will strip that cord from you, leaving you barren, with a less than ideal GPA.

God fucking damn it.

You glare up at Shigaraki, who’s busy taking the rest of the class through a review of genetic mutations, but you can’t hear him anymore, too incensed, too overwhelmed to even care about what he’s saying. The test crumples under your fingertips, the paper shaking in your hands, and you seethe, your teeth biting your lower lip to pieces.

It’s not fair. You’d paid attention. You’ve taken all the notes. Read all the chapters. Drilled and studied till your eyes had drooped, heavy with exhaustion. You’ve done it all right. Plus, he’d been so fucking flirty, so open with you. You’ve never chatted with a professor this way, never gone out of your way to wear clothes they like, that make them watch you, their eyes hungry pinpricks as you walk to them, mindful of the luscious sway of your hips.

No. Fuck him. Fuck this class.

Before your elbow classmate can leave, you ask for them to hand in the attendance sheet. You barely hear their response, too busy slamming your laptop into your backpack. As you storm past the podium, you can feel his eyes on you. The distant sensation of his gaze makes your flesh prickle, but you ignore your involuntary reaction and shove your way out the door.

“(Y/N), you can’t switch classes this late. It’s almost midterms. Besides, I don’t think anything has opened up and if you’re going to drop it, you’ve gotta get the signature of the professor,” your advisor tells you, blinking at your stony expression over his thick glasses. “I don’t get it. Why do you want to drop it? Your grades are alright and it’s just one test. You can always try–”

“Gimme the paperwork.”

Shigaraki’s office is on the top floor of the research building, tucked away down another winding and weaving hallway that once again requires your careful inspection to navigate. When you finally hit the right set of doors, you slowly make your way forward, counting the numbers up as you pass. His door is wide open, a yawning cavern that’s filled with the distant light of a lamp. You brush a hand down your skirt, smoothing away any wrinkles and steadying your nerves.

You’d tossed on the skirt this morning, before you’d gotten the grade, and you hadn’t thought to go home and change, too consumed by that simmering rage bubbling within you. And now, like this fucking class, this skirt felt like a mistake, something stupid and vapid that you wished you had time to change out of. He’d told you he liked your attire, liked that you put effort into your outfits. At the time, you’d been so thrilled and excited that he’d complimented you, but now you wish you were confronting him in baggy jeans or lazy sweats, anything that would turn that avid gaze of his away from you.

Lost in thought, you waver beside his open door, nibbling on your lips and tugging at your clothes. It’s now or never. No point in putting it off. What’s the worst that can happen? What can he do now? Or, a darker side of you whispers, what do you want him to do to you? What? That’s a stupid thought, you scold yourself, lifting a hand to the wall and rapping against the beige paint, announcing your presence.

When the sound fades away, swallowed up by the empty and darkened hallway, you poke your head around the corner, searching for him. His head is tilted quizzically, and he blinks twice when he spots you, that all too familiar smirk lifting his lips.

“Ah, Ms. (L/N), what can I do for you?”

His voice is softer than usual and your name sounds like honey, his tone resting on the syllables and consonants for a beat, almost as if he’s savoring their lift, their sound. You can’t help but swallow heavily at his appraisal. Suddenly this may be a terrible idea.

Ugh. Get a grip (Y/N).

“I-I need you to sign this withdrawal paperwork,” you finally reply, digging in your bag and tugging out the thin leaflet, holding it out to him. He’s silent after your demand, meditatively threading his fingers and peering up at you, his red eyes bright.

“Step inside and shut the door behind you,” he instructs, his gaze never falling from yours. Despite the simplicity of his request, you can’t help but bristle at his imperious tone. Why does he always have to sound like that? Like he’s seconds away from taking control of the situation, or of you? He’s always one stupid step ahead, and no doubt he’s going to try and talk you down. Or, he’ll sign it and say that he always knew you were a screw up, someone who only did things halfway, who could never match up to his lofty expectations. Humph, the sooner you’re outta here and out of his class, the better. So, you obey, closing the door and petulantly flopping into the unsteady chair that sits in front of his low desk.

He maintains that uneasy quiet, his red eyes whisking over your disgruntled face, waiting, watching. Unable to take this strange standoff, you push the university paperwork toward him, sliding it as close as you dare to his bent elbows. “I would like to withdraw from your class,” you repeat, lips setting into a thin line.

“Why?” he asks, cocking his head so his loose white hair falls a little further down his rough brow.

“Something came up.”

“Hmm, I can try to work with a new schedule, if it’s your job, or home life,” he counters, eyes narrowing as he sharpens his observations of your brittle expression.

“It’s not that,” you smart, crossing your arms. Great, he’s going to make this difficult.

“Then I suggest you tell me what’s on your mind,” Shigaraki replies, mirroring your movements and leaning back in his chair.

“I don’t think this class is working out for me.”

He exhales a soft laugh at your lie, and you watch that tiny mole at the edge of his chin lift in his quiet mirth. “This is a freshman level course and you’re a senior. You’re in my class because it’s likely the last pre-rec that you need to take before you graduate.”

“Um, yeah. But–”

“And now, you’re wanting to drop it because of one poor grade.”

You grind your teeth and fix him with a stark glower. “I–”

“There will be two other tests. If you read your syllabus, you’d know this.”

“I read the syllabus. Your tests are worth a stupid amount of points and it only takes one of them to tank my grade.”

“Frankly, you did better than most of the class. You only need to work on practical application. I said that the written portion would be a major component of the exam. I also provided you with a review and a rubric. So I’m not sure–”

“Your grade drops me to a ‘B’, and that ‘B’ pulls me from the honors list. And… well… I thought that…”

“Oh? What did you think?” he presses, his voice suddenly dropping to that lower octave it had drifted into when he said your last name.

“I thought I’d get a better grade,” you spit out, turning your head and biting at your lip again.

“Why?” he counters simply. His obtuseness is making your blood boil.

“What do you mean, why?” It takes all of your will to not slip a ‘jackass’ into that question.

“It’s not a hard thing to answer. I graded you fairly and according to my rubric. Why exactly do you feel you merit a different grade than the one you earned?”

You fall into a frustrated silence. You can hear your heart pounding against your ribs and you want to scream at him, to leap over his desk and shake him until his teeth fucking rattle. Your shoulders are rising and lowering disjointedly and his vermillion eyes are honed in on your face, shifting over your pinched expression with a distant interest. You can feel tears pricking at your eyes and you hastily rub a fist over them, brushing away any rogue drops of moisture.

“How can you ask me that? You think I didn’t notice you staring at my legs? Or that you always had something to say to me when I was wearing a skirt? What was I supposed to think, huh? I fucking thought shit like that was gonna help, ok? God, I’m so stupid. I can’t… fuck.”

Shigaraki arches forward when you finish, a deep sigh leaching through his parted lips. His teeth snap together when you look up at him, your eyes gaining back some of that earlier defiance, and he gives you a quick grin, clearly pleased by your shift in attitude and pushes your paper aside, fixing you with a dark look. “Here’s a thought, since you feel you’re so different, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you a chance to make up the score.”

“I don’t care about the score anymore. I wanna drop your class,” you snap, but it’s a halfhearted barb. Something has changed in his demeanor. He’s dropped the concerned professor act and is leaning so close you can hear his steady intakes of air. He’s only a few inches away; if you want, you could touch him.

“I doubt you want to attend a class in the summer. Besides, they won’t let you walk if you haven’t finished your freshman level courses. And you can’t tell me you don’t want to graduate, to earn that cord that lets you into the honor cum laude. So stop pouting and hear me out. I think you’ll like what I have in mind.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever like anything about you,” your voice is sharper than you mean it to be, but the challenge makes Shigaraki smile. As it crosses his cracked lips, it pulls that scar up and it makes those eyes of his glow. He looks like the cat that’s got the cream and you’re not sure how to respond, so you cross your legs and wait for him to make the next move.

“You sure about that? Well, I’ll have to change your tune then, won’t I? But that can wait, lemme tell you what my requirements are. I’ve got a copy of the textbook in here. I’ll have you review some of the major concepts, you’ll read the passages aloud so I’m sure you’re on the right track, you’ll hand the book back to me, and then I’ll verbally quiz you over the material. If you answer them correctly, I’ll bump you to an ‘A’ on your test.”

You have to actively work to keep your mouth closed. “So, you just want me to read from the book?”

“Yes.”

“And… answer questions?”

“That’s what I said,” Shigaraki smirks, already reaching toward his bookshelf, tugging the heavy Intro to Biology text out and shifting it into his large hands.

“Stop being so suspicious,” Shigaraki scolds, drawing your wandering attention back to him. “I don’t bite, that is, unless you want me to.”

Your eyes boggle and you have to clench your thighs tighter, your stomach churning, you feel light-headed and you can feel your core fluttering with your sudden arousal. “Wh-what did you just say?”

“Stop gaping at me like that, you’ll make me blush. Now come on.”

Your jaw snaps closed and you shake your head, trying to clear your mind from your whirling emotions. He takes this reaction as a surrender and stands, stepping toward a marred table that rests a little ways away from his desk. He licks his thumb pad and flips through a few pages before finally settling on an appealing section. Once he places it on the table, he twists back to you and crooks a finger your way. “Come here,” he orders, his voice deep and languid. Obediently, you rise on unsteady feet, hands tugging at the length of your skirt, careful to keep it pressed down as you walk toward him.

He makes space for you to stand in front of the book and shifts back, one hand resting on the table, propping him close to your bent figure. You look up at him, but he only nods his head toward the table, a wicked smile curling the corners of his lips. Blink a few times but finally, the words clear and you can see the block of text that’s in front of you. It’s passages on DNA encodes and RNA proteins, hefty stuff, things that you had to make flash cards for. This isn’t going to be easy. If anything, he’s picked some of the harder concepts, the ones that take steady knowledge in the foundations. Flustered, you look back to him, but he’s moved. He’s leaning against the wide window beside the table, a dark mark against the glass.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, a laugh bubbling in his tone.

“There’s no way…” you stammer, shaking your head at him.

“Want me to throw a curve in?”

“I should ask what kinda curve, but knowing you, it’s likely gonna be something terrible.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he rumbles, stepping away from the window and leaning close to your stiff form. “It just takes an open mind and some enthusiasm on your part.”

“Enthusiasm?” you question, trying your best to withstand his closeness. You can feel the heat radiating off of his broad shoulder and if you tilt a little nearer, you could graze against him, or feel his breath on your skin.

“You’re right,” he amends, his forearm contacting your side. You startle at the touch, a gasp falling from your lips, but you don’t pull away and you can’t stop staring up at him, your eyes wide. “Obedience is a better word. From here on out, whatever I tell you to do, I expect you to obey it, although it’s not exactly, ah, school approved.”

“You want me to suck you off or something?” you sneer, hoping to stumble him off his guard, even if it’s only for an instant. Too bad he’s always one step ahead.

“Don’t be vulgar. Think outside of the box, (Y/N). Do you think I’m going to go for something so short sighted when I could have you bending to my will? Obeying every little demand that I make? I’d much rather see if that skin of yours tastes as good as it looks, then simply have you on your knees. No, I want you to fucking scream for me while I stuff you full of my cock. But first, you need to put in some work. You should know that by now.”

Oxygen is suddenly very hard to come by and you can feel your mind hazing over as you stammer up at him, your mind flitting from word to word disjointedly. Shigaraki grants you a wolfish grin, and he dips his lips beside your ear, whispering over those tiny hairs that rest against your tender skin. “I’ll make this part easy. Nod and I’ll give you the first set of instructions.”

What did he say? Nod? What happens when you nod? Fuck, why are you letting him do this? Is your grade really worth it? Are you that desperate that… that…

Shigaraki is whispering other promises over you as you war with yourself, speaking his words gently, slowly, his breath hot as it fans over your neck. It’s like you’ve fallen under some kinda spell and before you realize it, your traitorous head is bobbing up and down, letting him know you want him to keep going.

“Perfect,” he sighs, his lips grazing over the shell of your ear, jerking a shiver from you. “Now, lean forward and put your hands against the table.”

You do as he says, but he’s not satisfied with your positioning, his fingers wrapping around your wrists and yanking you forward, jutting your ass out and pressing your chest down, maneuvering you until your nose is right above the pages of the textbook. “There we go,” he rasps, pulling away so he can admire your splayed form. “Hmm, your legs are too close together. Spread them.” Knees trembling, you obey, gasping when he runs a palm against the curve of your thighs.

“You’ve got such nice legs (Y/N), so let’s put them on display, shall we?” His fingers search against the top of your skirt and they still when he reaches his prize: the zipper. When he pulls it down, you let out a sharp squeak of protestation but he silences you with a swift pinch to your side.

“Now, now, don’t be like that. You nodded, remember? Besides, you could have left when I told you I’d give you a curve but you couldn’t help yourself could you? You want me to keep going and to do that, I need you to take this skirt off. No, don’t move. I’ll get rid of it for you. Why don’t you focus on the task at hand, hmm? Aren’t you supposed to be reading for me?”

You arch away from his fingers and he chuckles at your impudence, one large hand hooking under your chin and pulling you toward his face. His red eyes blaze as they find yours, the dark pupils threatening to swallow up that deep vermillion. “Let’s start with the second paragraph. If you do well, I might grant you a reprieve.”

Jerking your face from his grip, you twist back to the text, trying, and failing, to ignore his inquisitive fingers, unable to resist sighing as he works one up your inner thigh. He pauses when no words fall from your lips and you grumble out a few low curses before acquiescing to his silent demand.

“The flow of genetic information in cells from DNA to mRNA to protein is described by the Central Dogma, which states that genes specify the sequence of mRNAs, which specify the sequence of proteins. The decoding of one molecule… the… the… molecule… by spec-specific…”

He’s slipped your skirt down over the swell of your ass, but he’s taking his time, flexing out the front of the material and dipping his fingers over the bump of your lower stomach, kneading into the delicate flesh that’s stretched out for him. You can’t help the twitch of your spine and you involuntarily wiggle, palms slipping forward, dragging you further along the tabletop. Shigaraki chuckles above you, running his rough lips over the back of your neck.

“You’re so sensitive. I’ve barely touched you.”

He circles his hands back to your skirt and edges it along, lowering it sharply on one side and then giving the same treatment to the other. You’re doing your best to keep up with your stammering readings, but it’s difficult when he keeps sighing and running his long nails across your newly bared skin. Finally, he works the skirt down and it thumps against your bare ankles; the fabric tickling your skin.

Meanwhile, his other fingers skitter against the elastic band of your rapidly dampening panties. Once he hooks the lace under his hand, he yanks them along your legs, trailing them sinfully slowly, ensuring that they glide down the billow of your thighs. His teeth nip at your ear when you stumble to a halt in your recitation and your hands tense over the grains of wood beneath them, your nails pinching into your palms. “If you stop, I stop,” he warns, his head bumping against yours, his sharp nose pressing against your pulse.

“You’re not exactly making this easy,” you grumble, doing your best to ignore his renewed pets and strokes.

“Stop complaining,” he smirks, leaning away from your head to peer at your newly exposed flesh. “You better pay attention to what you’re reading or you’re not going to pass the questions I’ll be asking you.”

“Yeah, yeah, ow!” you squawk, whipping your head around to glare up at him. He fucking pinched you again! This time, he’d slipped his hand between your spread legs and tweaked your inner thigh, painfully.

“Read,” he repeats, running those guilty fingers upward, lingering beside the heat of your cunt, careful to not get too close. When you start on the next sentence, one of his hands tugs up the fabric of your shirt, snaking upward until he’s thumbing against the wire of your bra. Once again, you falter to a halt and exhale a wavering breath.

Goddamn it. This review is no review. You’ll be lucky if you can even recall what a cell is if he keeps this up. You hear his ominous intake of air and quickly resume your recitation, mumbling something about RNA and mRNA differences.

Wait. Didn’t you just…

“Looks like you’re having trouble listening to me. I told you to read aloud, not to repeat the same passages over and over.”

“Hey, at least I’ll have a firm grasp on those. You should ask me something about that s-section… ah–”

The hand that was resting under the cup of your bra has made its way underneath the lightly padded material, and his thumb and index fingers have trapped your peaked nipple between them. As soon as your snarky comment left your mouth, he’d twisted the bud, squeezing it until it throbbed.

“Pay attention,” he commands, shoving your bra upward, freeing the globes of your breasts and cupping both of his broad hands under them. Your abused nipple stings and the mixture of sharp pain and jarring arousal goes right through you, stoking that coil that pulsed within your core, and sending a tacky flush of your essence down your spread thighs.

The next few words are a struggle. The text keeps blurring and your breaths are coming in fast and heavy. Shigaraki is still feeling you up, keeping his lips close to your ears, rasping sharp commands to you and dealing out lightning fast rounds of pinches and squeezes each time you falter.

“I–I can’t… I don’t even know what I’m reading anymore,” you bemoan, your hips pressing against the edge of the table, legs trembling as you attempt to keep them apart. He’s deliberately ignoring your throbbing clit and a desperate edge is creeping into your voice.

“Are you always this whiny? Fine. I’ll give you a moment to read without any distractions.”

Thank God.

True to his word, he slips away from your back and you’re left shivering against his sudden absence. Despite your quaking, you’re determined to make the most of this chance and you quickly read out the paragraphs that are on the second page. As you ramble down to the last bit of text, you realize you can’t hear him anymore and when you finish the last sentence; you start to really wonder where he’s drifted off to. A tense silence follows your completion of the material and you arch up on the tips of your toes, jutting your ass out and stretching the stiffened muscles of your lower back.

“Didn’t say you could stop reading, and judging from all of your complaints, I don’t think you got some of those earlier concepts, so I’d suggest doing a quick review,” he taunts, the sudden rasp of his voice startling a low gasp from your lips.

He’s close; somewhere behind you and to the left from the sound of it. You try to twist around, your chest lifting from the table, and when he notices, his hands return, creating a rough pressure against your neck as he forces your body back down. His weight plasters you to the surface, scraping your partially exposed stomach and tender breasts over the nicked wood. Shigaraki is merciless in his swift correction, his breath puffing out angrily behind you. “Didn’t say you could move, either.”

Stunned, you freeze. Your arms are arched awkwardly, but he keeps his weight against you, flattening your breasts and forcing your back to arch into an awkward bend. Fuck, you think, how are you supposed to stay like this? Your legs are already aching and if he shifts away again, he’s likely going to expect you to maintain this absurd pose.

“Yes,” he groans, his voice catching against the word, “Good girl. Now, stay just like that.”

Damn it.

“Go on, read the first part again,” he instructs.

“The entire genetic content of a cell is known as its genome and the study of genomes is gen-genomics. In eukaryotic cells, but… but not in p-prokaryotes, DNA forms a complex with histone proteins… with histone proteins… sub-substance… of…”

His teeth have latched onto your neck, and he’s sucking bruises into your tender skin. He’s still pinning you to the table, but his hands are widening their explorations. He’s started dragging a fingernail across the puffy folds of your cunt, teasing against the dripping and swollen flesh, chuckling when you buck against his hold.

“You always seem to lose it when you get to cellular modulations.”

“I–I–It’s not… I can’t help that you keep…” you whimper, your fingers curling under your palms, head shaking back and forth. You can’t think. He’s not being fucking fair, and you can’t even string your goddamn words together. Shit. “Y-you’re not being fair,” you accuse, falling on the only thing that keeps running through your mind, your splayed feet shifting uncomfortably under you.

“Not fair? Not once did I say fairness would come into this arrangement,” he lifts himself off of your back and leans beside you, one arm planted beside your crooked elbow. His fingers trace over the curve of your ass, cupping at the thickest part of you and squeezing.

“But don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get a little satisfaction out of this arrangement. I bet you look good when you cum. And you’ve been working so hard to get my attention these last few months. So careful to do what I tell you. Looking at me with those big eyes of yours, all wide eyed every time I catch you looking at me. And don’t even get me started on your lips. You’re lucky I didn’t fucking bend you over after class, especially when you started wearing all of those cute little skirts for me. Ahhh, don’t moan like that, I won’t be able to help myself if you do. Let’s see how you’re doing, shall we?”

Without warning, he slips his longest digit into your cunt, groaning loudly when he’s sucked into your welcoming heat. Your pussy, hungry for any kind of scrap, ripples around his intrusion, clamping and pulling, desperate for more.

“Fuck,” he groans, his weight falling against your shoulder. “You’re soaking.” His elegant digit pushes deeper and you roll your hips under him, urging him closer, sighing when he sinks to the last knuckle. As he pulls his finger back, he adds another, swiftly v-ing the two before curving them together as they slip back out, dragging a steady line of pleasure from your quivering cunt. Shigaraki whispers another round of awed praise against your ear, his voice dark and breathless.

A third digit is added on another trip out, and it creates a ragged sensation within you. It’s close to what you like, but he’s stretching you too far and it’s starting to hurt. He either needs to speed up, or give you a little more pressure. If you can hump your clit against the edge of the table, maybe it’ll give you the friction that you need. When you mindlessly buck your hips, your thighs threatening to lose that spread, he stops, holding his fingers inside you, laughing as you agitatedly try to shift him back into his earlier rhythm.

“So eager. I’d say you’re ready for my questions.”

“W-what?” you gasp, wholly focused on making him restart the push and pull of his fingers inside you.

“I’ll start you off with something easy. What’s the cell membrane?”

“W-what? The cell… ah–”

“Answer me. Now,” he grunts, leaning forward, re-steadying you as his fingers pull outward, dragging against your sensitive folds and schlicking through your arousal lewdly, loudly. You moan and your eyes roll back, completely ignoring his demand as you fall into the haze of pleasure that comes after his movements.

His free hand travels up your neck and he tangles his fingers into the tendrils of your hair, yanking and jerking at the strands, demanding your attention.

“I said, answer me.”

“Shigaraki–I–fuck. I can’t even… ugh… think right now!”

“Do you want the grade, or not?” he questions, his voice tense. “Answer correctly and I’ll give you what you want.”

“I–I don’t think I can,” you whine, pressing your hips back as he thrusts his fingers forward again, curving them upward, searching for the spongy pad of nerves that rest against the front of your pelvis.

“Oh? What happened to wanting that A? What about your graduation? You gonna let me fuck up your entire college career? I can do it, you know. I’ve done it to so many simpering freshmen. I fail kids left and right and you’re no different, (Y/N).

The university lets me ahh–there it is! God, you’re so fucking wet.

Where was I? The university can’t say no to me; they let me do what I want. I bring in too much money, too many tempting grants, and that’s all they really care about. So what’s it gonna be? Let me see that you can answer this basic crap and I’ll pass you. Or would you like for me to tie you down and force it outta you another way?”

He’s picked up the pace of his fingers as he rambles over you and a swift press against that newly discovered spot inside you has you falling to pieces in his hands, popping up onto your tiptoes and rutting yourself against the surface of the table. “O-ok, God, ok! Just–fucking repeat the goddamn question,” you pant, head slumping forward, forcing his fingers to tighten against your hair to hold you upright.

“What is the cell membrane?”

You wince your eyes closed, trying to rack your brain to focus on something other than the heavy pressure of the three fingers that are teasing their way across your dribbling pussy. He’s moving his presses with a lackadaisical, inconsistent rhythm now and it’s hard to fucking think. You can’t tell if his next thrust will be hard, or soft, or so rough that it’s bordering on that bittersweet line of pain.

You shake your head, doing your best to ignore the mounting pressure that he’s building inside you and the ache of your neck and legs. Finally, after another sharp tap against that secret bunch of nerves at the front of your cunt, you latch onto a vague remembrance.

“It… it’s a double layer of–of phospholipids that make a boundary between the cell and t-the surrounding… ugh… it controls the passage of materials.”

“Very good. Elaborate on the cellular wall.”

He’s unrelenting in his domineering treatment, twisting and frigging his fingers each time your breath hitches, and your arousal is leaking down your legs, making your skin stick and pull. It’s too much, you can’t! How can he even ask this? Words are falling from your lips incoherently, and all too soon you’re gasping out his name rather than reciting the answer.

“Cellular–oh, fuck, Shi–Shigaraki–Please, keep–don’t stop! S-Shigaraki, God that… feels… ah–keep going!”

He ignores your request and pulls his fingers away, robbing you of that sweet pressure that he’s so carefully mounted within you.

“I’ll count that one as incorrect. Your ‘A’ is swiftly becoming an ‘A’ minus, (Y/N)” he snarls, his teeth gritted, hands falling to the swell of your hips, wet fingers digging into your soft skin.

“What? No! You didn’t give me enough… e-enough time! How can–can you expect me to answer that qui-quickly!”

“Let’s try another.”

It hurts. That ache that he’s drawn out of you is starting to sting and throb and he’s being such a dick about it! You twist and grind under him, and he traps your disobedient hips against the rough siding of the table.

“I don’t–” you protest weakly, your legs trembling and chest heaving under his weight.

“Do you want this? Wouldn’t you like to pass this class? To graduate with honors?” he growls, leaning closer, his hands braced against you, his fingers no doubt leaving bruises on the supple crest of your hips.

“You’re such an ass! Yes! Fuck, please! I–I want it so fucking bad!” you cry out, your voice drifting into a sob as you croak out the last plea.

“Then answer another question. What’s diffusion?”

“D-diffu-diffusion is the process by which molecules move from an a-area of… of… fuck- of high concentration, to low concentration. Shigaraki!”

“I should count that as another miss, but you got the major concept correct.” He removes his fingers from your waist and yanks your ass toward him, keeping your overeager hips away from the fleeting relief of the sturdy table. “Pop your legs together,” he commands, one hand wrapping around your arched throat, squeezing until you obey. His other hand drops to that thatch of curls that rest between your quivering thighs and he gathers up your gossamer strands, rubbing against your clit for one hazy instant, sending a flash of spots across your vision.

“Mmm, now that’s a pretty sight. Good girl, don’t move,” he reminds you and you want to scream at him. Right before you can spit some frustrated vitriol out, he’s releasing your neck, his hands dropping from your skin and letting you fall back to the uneven surface below. Just before your chin contacts the wood, his hand is back in your hair, tugging you upward, holding you a few inches above the table. The sharp pain makes your scalp tingle and you unconsciously rut against the tempting heat that’s now plastered to your ass. He’s hard. You can feel the stiff bulge of his cock straining against the front of his dark jeans, pressing into the cleft of your posterior.

“T-that’ can’t be comfortable,” you pant, twisting your head so you can look up at him from the curve of your shoulder.

“Oh? You worried about my cock?” he asks, his red eyes flashing down at you challengingly. You don’t bother giving him a verbal response, opting instead to grind your ass up, catching against the jut of his length, earning yourself a low groan. His lips curl when you repeat the motion and you realize you love watching that smug face of his drift into a look of tense pleasure. It makes his scar on his lip flush and those red eyes of his fall to a lazy half mast. He spies your arched brow and pleased grin and pushes himself off of you, leaving you alone and open on the table.

“Keep pushing your luck. I’m more than happy to drop you back to a B.”

“What?” you scoff, teeth clinking together as you clench your jaw. “I didn’t move!”

“No, but you’re trying to take control of this and we can’t have that can we?” Shigaraki sneers. “Now, how shall I punish you?”

“P-punish me?” you stammer, a chill racing down your spine.

“Ah, I know. This’ll really piss you off,” he twists from your strained gaze and walks back toward his desk. What? What the fuck does he mean? You can’t see him from this angle, not with the way your legs are stretched and back is lowered, but it doesn’t stop you from trying, your chin lifting upwards as you do your best to keep him in focus.

Ugh. It’s no use. He’s slipped past your field of vision.

Hearing is likely your best bet, so you shift your forehead back to the table and listen, straining your ears to pick up any morsel. Something opens and closes and you catch the sound of the wheels of his chair as they shift, squeaking across the floor, and the groaning of the springs when his weight is applied to the cheap leather.

Okay, so he’s in his chair. Is he just gonna look at you? That’s not… wait…

There’s a faint clicking sound.

It’s both familiar and unfamiliar to your ears, but once the teeth slide over the last pull, you realize. It’s a zipper.

Oh fuck. Is he going to jerk himself off? With a gasp, your head whips back around. He’s still positioned himself away from you, and you can only just make out the sounds that are accompanying the undoubted rise and fall of his fist. All you can see is a tiny sliver of his body, but you catch sight of the coiling muscles on his neck and you notice that his head is dipped forward, pearl white hair settling across the cut of his collarbone. The one red eye that meets yours is blazing and hungry, it makes every hair on the back of your neck stand up.

God, he’s staring at you, watching you, getting himself off as you’re half naked and bent over a desk in his office, fully subjugating yourself to his whims and fancies for the sake of your grade.

Damn it, (Y/N). This should not be a fucking turn on. You should be disgusted, but the flush of slick that drips down your thigh says otherwise.

He lets out a choked moan, picking up the pace of his hand, letting you hear the click and slip of his palm as it strokes up and down his cock. A shiver echoes up your spine and your hips seem to have a mind of their own, grinding your clenched thighs over the dip of the table, easing the clenching pulsations that your cunt is shuddering through you.

“Look at you, so desperate for my touch that you’re humping the fucking table. Such a dirty girl, and so disobedient. You’ve only answered a few of my questions correctly and yet your slutty little mouth and body keep pushing at me. Making me put you in your place. Let me ask you something, why should I go out of my way to fix your grade when you can’t even prove to me you understand the simplest concepts?

Ah, here’s a thought. What if I told you I’ll wave the other requirements; no more readings, no more quizzes, but I won’t let you cum? What if I just get myself off? You’re putting on a such a good show for me! Why should I bother with seeing that you’re satisfied when that table seems to do the job for you? Sound good? Or would you like for me to come back over there and make you cum?”

“I–I don’t… I don’t want…” You can’t get the words out, your tongue feels leaden between your lips and you can’t think of anything but the steady itch that’s spreading from your clit.

“Speak up,” Shigaraki demands, slowing his jerking fingers. The chair he’s sitting in groans as he leans forward, and his eyes wide as they take in the delicious sight that’s propped before him. “You don’t want to cum? Is that it? You’d like for me to get myself off and leave you there?”

“No!” you cry out, your fingers digging into the scuffed wood of the table. “I-I want you to make me cum.”

There’s a sharp clatter and you jump at the abrupt noise. It must be the chair you think, your heart pounding against your chest, waiting for Shigaraki’s next move. He only lets a few seconds drift by before he presses himself back to you. He leans his broad chest over your back, the front of his legs pushing against the back of yours. His exposed length is wedged firmly against the cleft of your ass and its tempting hardness makes you squirm under him, but he’s propelling you forward, pinning you against the rough wood, and you can only flail uselessly under his control. His lips skim over your neck and he bites into your skin, sucking and licking bruises as he inches closer to your pulse.

You say his name pitifully, wantonly, and he lets out a shaky gasp. Something about your tone has shifted something within him and you can feel his cock swelling, dripping a rope of wet pre-cum down your shaking leg.

He leans away, removing his sticky hardness from your ass. “Seems your priorities have shifted. You’re a little preoccupied right now, aren’t you?” he asks, his voice gravel scraping against your overwhelmed senses. You let out a weak moan and he snaps into action, his fingers pushing under your flattened stomach and tugging against the fabric that he finds. He yanks you upward, pulling your shirt up as he goes. His palms dip under your half lifted bra, and he cups at your breasts, massaging the rounded bulbs and plucking at your peaked nipples. Your head lolls back, and he sucks at your earlobe again, his breath warm and rasping as it passes by.

“Hold still,” he commands.

It’s not an easy position, this stretched upward arch that he’s forced you into, but it’s worth it when you feel his cock pushing between your tensed legs. He doesn’t thrust into you, opting to run his weeping tip against your slippery folds, pressing until his bulbous head is twitching against your pulsing clit.

Goddamn it, you think as he stills, his lips smacking open-mouthed kisses over your shoulder, it’s not enough. You wiggle your hips back and forth and he abruptly exerts a firm pressure against your windpipe, leaving you sputtering and gasping. “What’s wrong? Not happy with this? Do you think you deserve something more? Do you think you’ve earned that?” He shoves you back against the surface of the table, his broad chest following the plane of your back, trapping you under his heavy form.

You’d replied, you know you must have, but you can’t hear yourself anymore, your attention attuned to the warm length that’s pressed against your shuddering folds. You’d likely thrown in a please for good measure because Shigaraki rewards you with a quick peck to your shivering neck and his thumb, swirling it around your clit, creating a cresting ache that leaves you mumbling incoherently, a thin line of drool slipping from your parted lips. As he keeps that faint osculation up, your fingernails scrape over the wood of the table, your feet lifting you onto your toes, curving your back, and shoving your leaking pussy into his open palm.

“Greedy little thing, aren’t you?” Shigaraki says, a breathy desperation lingering around the edges of his rasping voice. “But it’s just not enough, right?”

You nod, licking up some of the excess saliva that’s built under your heavy tongue and crane your head back at him. His eyes are the first thing you see. They’re wild, ravenous and glinting with a roughness that makes you whisper out a soft whine. Fuck. It’s not supposed to be like this. You’re not supposed to want him this badly. Goddamn it. Now that he’s caught your gaze, he won’t let you look away, and he presses himself closer, his cock twitching and warm, the tip rubbing back and forth, keeping time with his circling thumb.

“You gonna fuck me, or not?” you finally ask, unsticking your lips and smirking up at his hardened face.

“Tch. Don’t rush me,” he grumbles, removing his hand and teasing cock from your cunt, watching as your body convulses under him, your pussy quivering against the excess stimulation that he’s wrought over you. Your thighs burn, aching to break free from his control, to rub against that throb, that tingling that keeps shuddering outward.

“One more question,” he tells you, lifting his dripping thumb to his lips and sucking off the traces of your arousal. The sight of him licking his pink tongue over his gleaming knuckles almost makes you lose your balance, your arms shaking precariously under you.

“A-another? Come on,” you pout, your eyes following the curve of his wicked lips, watching as his scar quirks upward, amused by your useless defiance.

“Make you a deal, answer it correctly and I’ll give you my cock. Sound fair?”

“Ugh, whatever, just hurry up,” you snap, so impatient and turned on that you can hardly think.

The tip of his cock presses against your sopping entrance, pushing forward just enough to part your dripping folds but stopping before he clears that first, tight ring of flesh. The promise of his dribbling tip makes you lose any semblance of self-control. You thrash under him, but he traps your disobedient hips against the rough siding of the table.

“No! Don’t stop! Come on Sh-Shigaraki–Don’t be such a fucking–ah–”

“Do you want this? Do you want my cock?” he growls, leaning over you, his fingers squeezing down, no doubt leaving bruises in the supple crest of your hips.

“Yes! Fuck, please! I–I want it so fucking bad!” you cry out, your voice drifting into a sob as you croak out the last plea.

“Then you better answer. What are cytosines?”

“They… they’re n-nitrogenous base… fuck… base that pair… that pair with guanine during D-DNA replication… I–please, please, Shigaraki! Fuck me! I want your cock! Fuck me, fuck me!”

Thankfully, he either takes pity on you, or can’t control himself anymore, his hips surging forward, gliding his thick length into your cunt and snarling at the mind numbing heat that waits for him. He keeps driving upward until he bottoms out, sharp hipbones grinding against the plushness of your ass.

He’s not gentle with you, no he’s animalistic and raw, his thrusts papping into you with a terrifying strength. You would have liked something slower, something that lets you enjoy each imperfection and dip that raced along his cock, but this, oh, this is an exception because this is perfect. It’s not what you want, but it is what you need.

The heavy fullness that he’s stuffing you with leaves you breathless, but you somehow manage to gasp out a string of nonsensical praises each time he drives back into you, overwrought by his roughness.

This coupling isn’t kind, isn’t right, and is not healthy, for either of you. No, not with the way he’s using your shivering body, distracted with slacking that euphoric thrum that’s making his cock pulse and swell inside you.

But fuck it feels good and you can’t help but tremble with delight. These intoxicating thrusts of his ram him up against something that’s buried deep inside you, and each time he hits it another star of bright pleasure races through you. The familiar coiling of release is steadily mounting with each rapid fire rut he gives you and if he could just, ah, there’s something that’s… no, fuck, it’s, it’s not going to work. It feels good, but it’s missing one vital ingredient, one thing that he’s neglected to pay attention to, to notice.

Your clit needs to be tweaked and rolled, and right now it’s pulsing away against the table, beating a sad tattoo into the grainy wood. Oh well, you think, head fuzzy, lost in the euphoria of his powerful cants, grinding your ass into his hips as he digs into another teeth chattering thrust. He’ll likely finish soon, and you’ll probably need to get yourself off later. It’s not something new, and it’s not like he’s going to care enough to focus on that, on you. This whole thing has been about control, so there’s likely no room for your own pleasure.

“What’s wrong,” he gasps out, his fingers lifting from your hips to curl beside your turned head.

“What? N-nothing–I–” you pant, eyes rolling back as he hits that spongy patch of nerves again.

“Tch. Hold on,” he interrupts, his voice rasping and breathy. He pulls himself out of you with a grunt and yanks you upward, hauling you onto the tabletop and flipping you on your back, bending your stiffened legs and bracing your knees against his lean forearms.

He holds you apart, spreading you open with his powerful hands. You can see him properly now, and the sight makes your breath catch against the back of your throat. Fuck, he looks good.

His long white hair is draped across his bare shoulders and his eyes are blazing pits of hunger, devouring the sight of you with those red irises. His jaw is clenched, and he glares down at you from his imperious height, his nostrils flaring as he drags in a quick intake of air. To your shock, he gives you a little time to acclimate to this new position, opting to languidly step forward, letting his slippery cock head press and tease at the dip of your opening. But right when you think he’ll move again, he stops, his eyes roving over the lines of your face.

His sudden stillness makes you peer quizzically up at him and you scoot closer, your feet lifting from the table. The movement snaps him out of his stupor and he grabs your ankles, roughly pinning you back down.

“Keep still,” he snarls through clenched teeth, that scar of his lifting.

You nod mutely and he rewards your unquestioning obedience with another powerful thrust, sinking his swollen cock back into your waiting cunt. He lets out a sharp groan and grabs at your hips, jerking you forward, already drifting back into that all-consuming rhythm he’d started earlier. His ruts are a little slower from this angle but, in no time at all, that familiar ache pools in your core, stoking and building at an alarming rate. The driving force of his hips soon has you blinking back spots and distant stars, and this time he adds the all important pressure of his thumb, circling the finger pad over your clit and dragging a broken moan from your quivering lips.

“So that’s what you needed. You close?” he grits out, his lips set in a curled scowl. He’s lost some of that early control, his hips stuttering as they connect with yours, his power lessening, cooling, as he looks for your release.

“I–I think–oh fuck, do that again. Yes! Just–ah!”

He angles your hips upward and gives your clit another quick oscillation, pressing down until you’re gasping. “There you go. That felt good. You’re getting tighter,” he laughs, looming over you, shoving your heaving chest downward as he jerks your hips into him, forcing your body to do most of the motion, making your shoulder blades scrape across the uneven wood. “Cum for me. Fucking cum on my cock, (Y/N). Cum and I’ll give you your A, I’ll give you whatever the fuck you want.”

Your spine arches as you break around him, your cunt greedily pulling him deeper, slipping him past the barrier of your tender cervix and earning you a weak shout of praise from Shigaraki. Seconds later, he’s pulsing and twitching against your walls, the warm pooling of his cum filling you up and spilling down your spread thighs.

His head drops to your shoulder and the rough skin of his forehead sticks to your sweat dampened flesh. For a long moment you’re both still, each of you struggling to catch your breath, luxuriating in the tingling sensation of release.

“I fucking hate you, you know,” you gasp out, your arms circling his back, fingertips etching vague patterns over his neck and shoulders.

“Ha,” he snorts, “I’ll have to remember that. Don’t worry (Y/N), I’ll pay you back for that little remark next time.”

“Oh? Next time?” you chuckle, moaning as he twists out of your hold and pulls his softening length out of you.

“I’ll fail you on every assignment if you try to keep away,” he threatens, his eyes falling to the gaping mess that he’s left behind. You cross your legs, denying him the satisfaction of leering at your dripping pussy.

“Fine. But next time, fuck me on something softer than a damn table.”

tags: @spicy-skull, @xwildskullx, @yixxes, @ghstmthr, @rekoii, @diaouranask, @bat-eclecticwolfbouquet-love, @libiraki <--- i’m coming for you. you’re gonna have to read for this, lady. so, uh, i’m officially noneconing you here.

notes: you made it! this thing is a monster & i’m so sorry i can never stfu

#shigaraki tomura #tomura shigaraki #reader insert #shigaraki x y/n #shigaraki x you #shigaraki x reader #bnha smut #9 to 5 collab #bnha degeneracy server #collaboration #tw: unhealthy relationship #tw: teacher/student #tw: dubcon #tw: bribery

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thatharringrovehoe · 3 years

Text

Mob AU Nancy and Steve ✨friendship✨!!!

- Nancy Wheeler introduced herself to Steve Harrington in sixth grade. Cuz Steve was handsome and more charming than any eleven year old had any right to be and Nancy's mother had taught her that it's important to secure your future at a young age. And while she wasn't going to enter into a marriage of convenience, she was definitely vying for a spot in King Steve's court. Because this Nancy is.. not bad. But spoiled. Accustomed to a certain lifestyle. Isn't used to being told no. Watched her mother wilt under the weight of a loveless and stagnant union with her father. So she wants her own power. And that means making friends with Hawkins royalty.

- Steve imidiatly likes her. Sees her bushy curls and sharp teeth as she holds out her tiny bird bone hand. She's got a firm grip. Got fire in her eyes. Steel in her spine. He's pretty sure Nancy could take Steve's crown if she really wanted. But Nancy doesn't want to rule. She wants freedom. Freedom to say and do and be whoever she wants. And Steve? Steve can respect that.

- They didn't really become friends until a year later on Steve's birthday. It was expected that Steve's parents wouldn't be home. Wouldn't call. Wouldn't bother to send a gift since they had scheduled an extra bit of cash in the monthly payment for the account they had opened for him. And while Steve would throw large parties in highschool later, right then he was only twelve. All alone in an empty castle. So it was a suprise when the doorbell rang. And there stood Nancy Wheeler, dressed in her Sunday best and holding a truly hideous birthday cake. Lopsided and crumbly, with a "happy birthday Steve" written in neon green icing because that was the only color she could find before her mother discovered what she was doing. It's burnt all to hell and Steve's got tears in his eyes because he knows Nancy HATES baking. Had never taken to it no matter how hard her mother tried. So it's no surprise that Karen Wheeler has a back up cake in the backseat of her car that she's parked in Steve's driveway. And as delicious as it is, he likes Nancy's better. Keeps the hand drawn card she made him in a place of honor up on his bedroom wall.

- They grow up being each other's cheerleader. Steve doesn't brush Nancy off when she tells him she wants to enter into politics. He thinks she has exactly what it takes. Pitties the poor idiot who thinks they can take on Nancy Wheeler in a debate. And Nancy doesn't bat an eye when Steve tells her he likes boys just as much as girls. Sits with him at lunch sipping her juice box as they rank the boys in their class from hot to not.

- And you see Tommy is 100% Steve's guard dog. But while Tommy protects the body, Nancy protects the Kings heart. Because that's Steve's only weakness. He loves so easily, so deeply. Is a gentleman to a fault. Will never use his influence and power against someone he's taken to bed. And that proves to be a bit of a problem because it means people try to take advantage. Means that people lie to get what they want from Steve. And Nancy? Nancy HATES bullshit like that. Can snuff it out like a bloodhound from a mile away. And when she finds it. Boy howdy you better fucking run. Cuz Nancy Wheeler is good at cutting people down. Is almost as good as Jonathan when it comes to finding secrets. But she likes to twist them. Make a mountain out of a mole hill that sets your reputation on fire. Steve doesn't encourage this. But he also doesn't put a stop to it.

- Nancy knows Steve is in love with Billy Hargrove before he does. Knows the signs. Watches him fall fast and hard. And at first she brushes it off. Just another in the long line of flings for Steve Harrington. Bright and explosive like a firework and over just as quickly. But before long she catches her mistake. Because this isn't a firework so much as it's a forest fire. All encompassing and dangerous. She doesn't want to watch Steve get burned.

- But she also watches Billy hold Steve's hand under the table in the cafeteria even though he's shaking. Sees this angry boy go soft for her best friend. And she can spot the bruises. Knows through Jonathan where they came from. Knows Billy still risks it all just for Steve. Because he loves Steve maybe almost as much as she does.

- Steve and Nancy have ALOT in common but are total opposites in other areas. Because while they're both dominant in personality they differ in how they show it. Steve is possessive. Doesn't like anyone LOOKING at Billy let alone flirting with him. Will cover his neck in hickies and buy him new clothes as if to say "This is MINE. Do not fucking touch". But then Nancy? Nancy likes to show off what's hers. Knows that even if people vyed for Jonathan's attention like they do Billy's it wouldn't even matter. Because Jonathan is GONE for Nancy Wheeler. She has him on a long leash but she yanks it sharp whenever she feels like it. No one else gives it to him like she does. No one else will take him under the bleachers and edge him till he cries so so pretty. No one will scratch claw marks into his back till he bleeds so right. And no one will put him back together so perfectly. Card their fingers through his hair. Tell him they love him for everything he is. Even the weird parts. And she means it.

- Mike Wheeler respects Steve Harrington. Because it's because of him that El is in school with the party instead of locked away in Hopper's cabin or a lab cell. Has been babysitting Mike and his friends for years with Nancy. Never once made fun of any of them for their DnD campaigns. And he suspects Steve is probably the reason him and his friends NEVER get bullied.

- Karen Wheeler DOES NOT flirt with Billy. Just. No. The Duffer Brothers did her so fucking dirty. Karen DOES cheat on her husband though. Like. Alot. (WITH CONSENTING ADULTS). Ted doesn't notice. Steve doesn't think highly of her. Above all else hates disloyalty. Watched his mother's heart break with every one of his father's sordid affairs so while he can see why she feels unsatisfied, he can't respect her.

- Nancy was going to give Billy the shovel talk but every time she tries, Max shows up out of nowhere snarling. Cuz Steve isn't the only one with a protector. Looks at this little spitfire who's ready to put Nancy's head on a pike for her brother. Reminds her so much of Nancy herself at that age. A little girl who will not bend. Isn't afraid to get blood in her teeth. It's the reason Max hasn't threatened Steve. They have a mutual respect. And as those two idiots fall deeper and deeper in love they worry less about heartbreak. Find a comradery in each other. Max teaches Nancy how to skate board while Nancy shows Max how to draw eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man.

- Billy was really jealous of Nancy at first because her and Steve are so close. Was convinced Billy was just a distraction while Steve waited for Nancy to get bored of Jonathan. This resolves itself when Billy accidentally walks in on Nancy riding a tied and gagged Jonathan's in the photo development room and the tone that she uses when she tells Billy to lock the fucking door on his way out makes it obvious that Nancy and Steve are NOT compatible in that way. Billy will never admit it but he is low key intimidated by Nancy Wheeler. Steve laughs so hard he shoots soda out of his nose when Billy tells him about it.

#in this house we stan dom Nancy Wheeler #don't worry she's very thorough with aftercare #billy hargrove #harringrove #steve harrington #stranger things #billy hargrove/steve harrington #billy/steve #Nancy Wheeler/ Jonathan Byers #Max Mayfield #Mad Max #Nancy Wheeler #Jonathan Byers #I'm sorry guys but i think Karen would still cheat #JUST NOT WITH MINORS WTF #Mike Wheeler #i love this Steve/Nancy friendship #jancy #Mob AU

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justcourttee · 4 years

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Okay that "Love,Right?" oneshot was wonderful but now you've got me obsessed with wondering how all the boys would fight for Mari's attention and all trying to date her omg

On an off note, I hope this came out alright. I really wanted to answer your ask but I’m running on low fumes rn. Loved thinking about this too though! I would love to read a more thought out fic, but I have to imagine it would go something like this

I could totally imagine like them all being relatively close in age. Like let’s say,

Dick 23

Jason 21

Tim 20

Mari 18

Damian 17

And Mari is almost done with her last year of lycee so she is in uber done mode until the batboys show up in Paris conveniently at the same time that the Wayne boys show up to scout out a potential new business partner.

She first meets Dick at the gymnasium that Chloe’s father had built for her when she went through a gymnastics phase but soon opened it to the public after she had moved on to whatever interested her next. Marinette is there to practice swinging mid-air to move faster in battle and what better way to do that than over a safety net 40 feet in the air?

Anywho, Dick is just arriving to blow off some steam after a particularly long day of negotiating. Honestly, if it wasn’t for the Hawkmoth mission and the need for a cover, he would’ve abandoned Tim ages ago. He finished locking up his stuff and when he moves into the acrobat section that is always empty, he isn’t sure whether to be impressed or disappointed that someone is there first. She looked nervous as she finished tying her hair into a high ponytail, her eyes calculating as if she was debating if she could make the first jump.

He wants to tell her that there is an easier way to mount, but his curiosity gets the better of him. With one last look, she closes her eyes, inhaling deeply. Without warning, she takes off down the short walkway launching her whole body into the air. Dick is sure she’s going to fall, but at the last minute she reaches out, her hand grasping the bar as she uses her momentum to flip upward, landing gracefully on top of the swinging trapeze.

Dick couldn’t help his cheers. Her eyes widened as she realized someone else was watching her and in what felt like slow motion, she lost her balance and fell onto the net below. Dick rushes over to make sure she’s okay, apologizing a million times a minute. They introduce each other and it’s like an instant connection. They spend the rest of the afternoon trying new techniques and helping each other improve their own techniques.

When Dick returns to the hotel that night, he can’t help the fact that her first swing was stuck on replay in his mind. The next day, he rushes over to the gym only to find her there again. This time, he’s determined to get her number, and surprisingly (to him) he succeeds. They spend the night trading funny memes and tiktoks. After a couple of weeks, Dick decides to try and ask her on a date. They were already close friends, I mean she trusted him enough not to drop her from forty feet in the air, that meant she trusted him right?

He shows up with a giant bouquet of roses only to receive a text message that she couldn’t make it that day. While it was a setback, it didn’t mean he was going to give up. He would show up with a bouquet of roses every day until she was there to receive them. And only then would he ask her on a date, because I can totally believe that he wouldn’t want to do it over text. It’s in-person or not at all.

The second Wayne she meets is Jason.

Muggings in Paris weren’t common with Ladybug and Chat Noir around, but it seemed to be Marinette’s lucky day as some guy just decided that a high school girl had enough money in her little purse to steal. As he backed her down an alleyway, a small hand knife pointed at her, Marinette was considering her options.

She could always try to run. After all, the guy was big and bulky, it would be hard for him to keep up with her and she doubted he wanted her bag enough to actually put up a fight. Just as she was eyeing an opening, a small sound echoed through the alleyway, one she was quite familiar with. The guy’s face looked mortified as he turned slowly to face his attacker.

The man said something in a hushed tone to the guy that Marinette couldn’t quite make out. Whatever it was though, it was enough for her would-be assailant to book it out of the alleyway without a glance back. Assessing her newest threat, Marinette decided that this guy was more punk than thug. She was safe for now.

He asked her if she was okay and if she needed anything as he adjusted his gun back into his waistband. Marinette was fine, but she was curious as to how he smuggled a gun into France.

“Ah. My American accent give me away Princess?”

His french was flawless, but it was clear that he wasn’t from the area. He joked that his adopted father was rich enough for the national security to look past it. At least, she was pretty sure he was joking.

He asks if they can grab something to eat, just because a pretty girl like her shouldn’t go hungry. Marinette is tempted to decline, but her curiosity gets the better of her. They end up going to a small diner near her parent’s bakery where they spend the night flirting shamelessly, both tinging their compliments with enough sarcasm and insults that the people around them couldn’t tell if they were together or if they were related.

Exchanging numbers, the two continued to meet up for weekly dinners at that same diner as they bond over hating people and insulting/admiring each other. When Jason finally realizes his flirting may have shifted from mocking to an actual crush, he's conflicted. It’s just a couple months, at most a year in Paris, but would that really be a reason not to try? He starts bringing her small gifts to the dinners, starting out small like her favorite dessert or small rocks that reminded him of her, but he soon gets more elaborate like bringing her his favorite books to borrow and throwing in a new set of threads for her sewing machine.

He hopes that when she looks at the small gifts that she’ll start associating him with the things that make her happy and just maybe, she’ll fall for him too.

I think you guys already know where Tim is going but I have to do this

Marinette frequents a small coffee shop near the hotel that the Wayne Boys are staying in. She would just drink the coffee that her parents serve in the bakery, but they refused to let her load up her drinks with enough caffeine to get through her day.

She always shows up at 7:00a, after all, she’s gotten better at this punctuality thing over the years. The owners already expect her at this point and already have her drink ready before she even steps foot through the door.

One morning, one of the owners ask her to deliver a coffee to the young man that fell asleep at one of their tables.

“He’s the first person I’ve met whose order rivals yours Ms. Dupain-Cheng.”

Marinette is impressed as she inhales the strong black coffee wafting from the mug. He definitely amped it up with two expresso shots and maybe a pump of hazelnut? If he could taste it over the bitterness of the expresso, she would be impressed.

As she sat the cup down on the table, she slid into the booth in front of him, patiently waiting for him to stir. Watching his soft exhales, Marinette felt at peace. She had never seen someone sleep so softly without moving a muscle. As quietly as she could, she brought out her sketchbook. She got about halfway through his frame when his soft breathing stopped.

Her eyes snapped up to find his blue ones studying her cautiously. Of course, she mutters out apologizes at a million miles a minute, trying to explain that she needed practice for her living art class and that she was just dropping off his coffee and she was so sorry for drawing him without his permission. As she finally trails off, Marinette is more confused than ever. She thought he was awake, his eyes studying her, but now she wasn’t so confident. She was pretty sure he was still half asleep, assuming she was some sort of hallucination.

He reached out, draining his cup of coffee without coming up for a single breath.

“I didn’t think I was this sleep-deprived. Please beautiful sleep-induced entity, draw me if you must.”

Marinette bites her lip trying not to laugh as he tiredly pulls out a laptop, typing away at seemingly nothing.

The next day, Marinette finds him in his same spot, already two empty mugs occupying the table. As she orders, she’s sure to grab an extra one for him before joining him once more. This time, Tim is the one to apologize as he realizes finally that she is a real girl and not a hallucination.

Marinette laughs it off and the briefly chat about their lives. As Marinette gets up to leave for her morning classes, she promises to meet him for coffee the next morning. Surely enough, as she walks through the door, he’s already at their booth. He waves her over, motioning to the coffee mug holding her go-to order. They come to an agreement, he allows her to draw him for practice, she offers him the occasional advice. There is sometimes small talk, but it’s mostly just full of comfort that they found in each other’s presence.

After weeks, Tim finally decides that he wants to get to know this beautiful coffee angel. He starts by asking her to meet at a bakery that he had been dying to try. As he arrives at the bakery, Marinette sheepishly admits that it was her parent’s bakery. Tim feigns ignorance, but that smirk he gives her makes her reconsider the innocent sleep-deprived man she had met weeks earlier. From now on, he has breakfast with the Dupain-Cheng family every morning. After all, your in-laws have to like you first before you can try anything else, right?

Finally, we have Damian.

They meet in the living art class. He had already taken something similar at Gotham Academy, but he was curious to see the French side of something he cherished so dearly.

At first, he hates her. She reminds him of a mixture between Dick and Tim and in all honesty, he only volunteered to pretend to be a foreign exchange student to spend the majority of the day away from his brothers.

He slowly begins to change his mind though as he is partnered with her for a partner draw project. The teacher forces them to spend all of class drawing each other how they feel the world should see their partner. It involved a lot of sharing and as she became more confident in him, he slowly felt himself opening up to this strange girl as well.

It was going fine until one day, two of her old classmates entered the classroom, trying to pick a fight with Damian. He remembered one of them, yes the sausage haired girl, her name was Lily perhaps? She tried to ask him out and he turned her down, hard. Now here she was, crying the fakest tears he had ever seen as some ombre haired woman was chewing him out.

He was fine going on ignoring them, but then the ombre haired woman reached out for his notebook, tearing it from his grasps. She glanced over it for a second before raising it above her head and slamming it into the ground. She lifted her foot to stomp on it, but she never had a chance to finish. Before Damian had even moved a muscle, Marinette was standing above her, a murderous look in her eyes. The sausage haired woman helped the girl to her feet as they retreated quickly, both of their faces pale as they sent empty threats in Marinette’s direction.

With a sigh, Marinette picked up his notebook, dusting it off gently before handing it back to him, apologizing for her ex-classmates. He wanted to let her know that he didn’t need her to look out for him, that he could handle it, but his mind flashed to the look in her eyes. If anything, his interest was now piqued by the girl.

As the project came to an end, the moment of truth had finally come. Damian showed Marinette her portrait. He had drawn her as mother nature, warm and protective of her children and cold to anyone that threatened them. He would be lying if the small blush on her face didn’t boost his pride. When she showed Damian his portrait, he couldn’t help but let his jaw drop, even slightly.

He looked like a medieval knight, posing on the defense, a slight trickle of what looked like blood dripping out the corner of his mouth.

“I’m sorry, please don’t think it’s weird. It’s just the more you talked, and so passionately too about how you wanted to protect everything dear to you from your family to your pets, I couldn’t help but get swept away in this idea that you were some gallant knight-”

He cut her off with a single look as his face broke into a grin. He loved it. Everyone always described him as a demon or a baby bird, but a gallant knight, it was certainly a first.

That night at the hotel, he would search google for the best ways to ask out a girl. After all, he sure as hell wasn’t asking his brothers.

Permanent Tag List:

@ash-amg @rebecarojas07 @heaven428 @long-lost-peace @thequeenofpotatoeunicornss @moongoddesskiana @nach0ava @iamablinkmarvelarmy @seraphkitty @clumsy-owl-4178 @pawsitivelymiraculous @mialuvscats @leagrey @smolplantmum @animegirlweeb @glitterflowercat

#dickinette #jasonette #timinette #daminette #maribat

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mccall-me-maurice · 3 years

Text

A new list of headcanons for the updated AU

Lotf headcanons

Jack:

Jack is Ralph’s academic rival and also head of the debate team. He spends the weekends at his father’s business, learning how to run the company. On the Saturday nights, he goes to an underground club in a fight ring thing. Nobody knows he does it, even though Ralph also spends time there.

Jack is dyslexic and has minor and manageable OCD, denying using extra help for his dyslexia in classes.

Comes from a wealthy family with 6 siblings, his father divorcing his mother and marrying his step-mother who he pushes away because he’s angsty and shes “not his real mother.”

Loves 80s music so much, he’s a nerd for it.

Sings in the shower/bathroom like into a hairbrush in front of the mirror in his little towel like a nerd but he’s actually really good at singing.

Wears his uniform extremely sharply and very crisp like why so much effort.

He has hearing loss due to an accident in his childhood and he’s fluent in ASL, but doesn’t wear his hearing aids almost ever.

Ralph:

Ralph is fluent in violin, he’s actually really good at playing, he was also an ocean lifeguard and saved Jack’s life when he got caught in a current.

He wears thick framed glasses to read and has really swoopy handwriting thats illegible because it’s like messy calligraphy.

Ralph dives as a hobby and is so good at it, like scary good at diving perfectly.

He has beauty marks on his face that he lets people trace sometimes, ink usually adorning his cheeks.

Very French, extremely French. Fluent in the language.

Draws on his hands with different coloured pens and the designs are always so intricate like a mandala colouring book.

Also draws on the cuffs of his jeans and the rubber edge of his sneakers all the time.

Blushes very easily, will go red in a matter of seconds flat either when he’s flustered, embarrassed or angry.

Brothers with Robert.

Simon:

Spends all of his out of school time in his mother’s flower shop and can recite the meaning of most flowers if you ask him. His fingers are all bandaged up because of how much he cuts himself with knives when he’s removing stems or clippers.

He has epilepsy and faints frequently.

Is a fan of older musicals, like Grease, Dirty Dancing and Hairspray and makes the choir watch them with him.

Rarely spends time indoors, Simon is usually out biking around the neighbourhood or walking around with his friends from school.

Will paint rocks and gift them to people when he thinks they’re upset. Also does face painting at the school carnivals, because he never minds being alone in a booth when there is nobody there.

Speaks softly and is usually ignored in favour of people with louder opinions, but he’s usually right.

Roger:

His biological family died in a house accident, the only thing surviving being him and his cat Nastya, who he loves more than anything. Because of his parents death, he taught himself the rest of the Russian language, which they were already teaching him along with English. However, his heritage is East Asian and Russian.

He pierced his lip by himself, and even though it turned out fine, he got his ears done professionally.

Not very affectionate and will push people away, distancing himself because he doesn’t like the idea of anyone being close to him and get under his skin.

Dyed the back part of his hair on a whim and just liked it enough to keep it as a style.

Spends nights at Simon’s place instead of his own, finding more comfort in Simon’s house.

Sam:

Comes from a German family, but knows German, Italian and English.

He hates birthdays because he doesn’t understand why they are so important.

Hates social interactions and actively avoids them with a passion. He gets extremely nervous and just leaves abruptly when he gets too overwhelmed.

Younger than Eric by 6 minutes, which he routinely gets teased for.

Into super cheesy romantic movies because he loves the idea of a happy ending despite not having one himself.

Messes with his hair when he’s anxious, so it’s constantly messy and mussed.

Mega nail biter when he’s nervous.

Cousins with Jack.

Maurice:

Heavily touch reliant and when his friends don’t show him physical affection, he assumes the worst and gets very upset.

Heavily Italian, like so fucking Italian. His family hardly speaks English and he learned most of his from school.

Very passionate about science despite most people thinking he’s an idiot. He has some of the highest marks in his class.

Messes with things when he’s talking or uses hand gestures. Like if there’s a pen, he’s clicking it because it helps him concentrate.

Maurice has like a billion flannels and hoodies he just cycles through and it looks like he doesn’t change but no, it’s just that he owns a gazillion grey hoodies

His older sister when to an Ivy League school, so he owns a lot of stuff from it that he wears like sweaters or ball caps.

Eric:

Very sarcastic. his entire sense of humour is him bathing in his own sarcasm. It’s actually pretty well timed and kind of funny how he’s able to deadpan his jokes.

Very easily picks up on languages. He’s fluent or close to fluent in German, English, Italian, French, Spanish, Japanese and partly fluent in Korean.

Really enjoys computer science and plans on doing it for a living. He stays up late at night to work and sleeps until like midday.

Doesn’t acknowledge other people’s emotions very often because he doesn’t realise when he’s gone too far, but still feels bad for others when they’re hurt.

Jack’s favourite cousin because they’re cynical buddies. Jack is overly protective of him even though Eric is perfectly capable.

Robert:

Brothers with Ralph and is very protective over him. Has absolutely slandered choir members before for hating on Ralph.

Shares a dad with Ralph but has a different mom, who he visits over the summer and sometimes during the holidays. That’s where he gets his Spanish roots from, which is a language he’s fluent in. He has 7 siblings on that side of his family.

Adores burnt popcorn and burnt anything. If he can burn it, he will.

Works as a mechanic in his free time and built the car he shares with Ralph.

Sci-Fi nerd, specifically Star Wars. He loves the movies and watches them like every day.

Extremely talented artist, Robert sketches anytime he has a pencil and paper.

Peter:

Was bullied in the past but doesn’t let the words bother him anymore. It mostly stopped around high school.

Works with his auntie in the sweet shop and brings his friends food for them to taste test.

Used to be a boy scout, so he can tie any knot you want him to, it’s really a gift.

Gets very cold very easily, especially his fingertips. He usually has a pair of gloves on him for when it gets really bad.

A Mathlete for most of his time in high school, obviously is extremely intelligent.

Double knots his shoelaces so they’re extra secure.

Bill:

Swedish, and really enjoys his own culture. He will spend HOURS rambling about it and how much he loves it.

Watches Avatar the Last Airbender and has the biggest crushes on Sokka and Zuko.

Also is a sucker for people who wear glasses, he really loves them.

Works at the library despite not liking books, he finds comfort in shelving them and the order they go in.

Puts little umbrellas in every single drink he has, it doesn’t matter what it is.

Writes notes to himself on sticky notes because his memory is horrible.

Sets at least 5 alarms because 1 will not wake him up by itself.

Harold:

Can speak limited Spanish due to his schooling.

Likes singing, but never really got into it like some choir members because he has stage fright.

Powerful speaker when he wants to be, but is usually too nervous to say anything.

Has no idea how to tie a tie, so he lets other people do it for him.

Sometimes take sarcastic comments seriously and ends up confused.

A really good actor and loves the performing arts.

Has extremely clear skin, he never gets any blemishes.

Wilfred:

Dyed his hair because his naturally brown hair reminds him too much of his father, who he hates.

Has 4 tattoos in total, the 4 card suits on his cheek, a half sleeve of roses, a bow and olive branch on his inner forearm, and the solar system on his outer forearm.

Very flirtatious to people he doesn’t really like but gets nervous around those he does.

Hold grudges really well.

Has shockingly neat handwriting.

Has a pretty horrible home life but he never talks about it to anyone because he doesn’t want to be perceived as weak or incapable.

Colours with only crayons.

Percival:

Cries easily, as he’s very emotionally driven and is typically teased for being a crybaby or told to “toughen up.”

Absolutely has the worst sleep schedule ever, he gets 3 hours and calls it a win.

Can’t sleep without a nightlight on in his room.

Enjoys writing things down in this notebook instead of on his phone because he likes the feeling of physically using pen and paper.

Sends letters to people all the time instead of messaging.

Good at sewing, he makes his own Halloween costume every year by himself.

Hates horror movies because he’s spooked easily.

Max:

Lived through a house fire when he was younger, so he has burn scars all over his arms.

Is afraid of cooking due to the fire and will go without eating if he has to touch the stove to make food.

Laid back most of the time, but can reach a snapping point in which the emotion is amplified. (like sadness or anger)

Loves swimming, it doesn’t matter where he does it, he just loves to swim.

Is very time sensitive and has to get places early or directly on time or else he gets anxious.

A very fast reader, typically long books take him 2-3 days to get through.

Johnny:

Worries a lot, he usually sees the worst in every single situation.

Is a trans male (Ftm) and was accepted by his entire family when he came out.

Owns a St. Bernard named Dolly who is the sweetest dog ever.

Spends a lot of time outdoors, he still plays as if he is a child.

Also enjoys the snow a lot because he’s fond of building snowmen with the kids on his street.

Has very sensitive skin and eczema, which he doesn’t like to talk about or show anyone because it makes him feel insecure.

Oddly good at playing guitar, he just picks up on chords with ease.

Walter:

Good at playing the drums and annoys his entire family with it.

Uses a skateboard as his main method of transportation around places.

On the basketball team, as his older brother taught him to play when they were both younger.

Hates roller skating despite being very good at most things on wheels. He can never find his balance.

Shockingly good at Math, especially statistics and calculus. He’s in all advanced math courses.

Has a very weird snake addiction and he desperately wants to buy one.

Henry:

Aromantic Asexual who is best friends with Harold and Wilfred.

Mainly makes snippy remarks because his humour falls into the sarcasm umbrella.

Adores comic books and superheroes, specifically Marvel ones because he’s a fan of Dare Devil.

Plays baseball in his free time but hasn’t joined a team, he just plays with the boys in his neighbourhood.

Addicted to the High School Musical movies.

Good at painting people’s nails and will do it for them if they ask.

Has really fluffy hair that he lets people touch and play with.

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master-sass-blast · 3 years

Text

Gifted.

*tosses escapism fic into the void* yeet.

Summary: You and Piotr go Christmas shopping and enjoy the holiday season.

That's it. That's all that's happening. You're welcome.

Pairing(s): Piotr Rasputin x Reader and mentioned Illyana Rasputin x Kitty Pryde.

Rating: G.

Word Count: 2k precisely.

Set after “It’s Truly Magical.”

A/N: On the off-chance someone asks or is worried, yes, there are no mentions of masks or social distancing in this fic. That's because, in this fic, there is no COVID (ergo, no need for masks and such). I'm just not dealing with it in my fanfic as well. I won't. You can't make me.

Wear your fucking masks irl pls and thank u.

Taglist: @marvel-is-perfection, @chromecutie, @girl-obsessed-with-things, @super-darkcloudstudent, @dandyqueen, @leo-writer

“What a bright time, it's the right time/ To rock the night away/ Jingle bell time is a swell time/ To go glidin' in a one-horse sleigh…”

You inhale deeply, then smile. The smells of fresh pretzels and pine –the latter is likely a fake scent that the stores use, but it’s still good—tantalize your nose. You tuck your hat and gloves in your purse, then look over at your husband. “Where all are we going?”

“Ah…” Piotr scans his list –which has notes on which stores to check and what order the stores are laid out in the mall, so as to streamline things. “Kitty said she did not want gifts because she does not celebrate Christmas, so we are just shopping for… my family and Russell. You said you already bought gifts for your dad and Wade?”

“Yup,” you say with a grin. Nate’s easy to shop for –ammo, clothes, and the odd book or two are usually all he want—and for Wade you just find the weirdest stuff listed on Amazon. “And I already sent my uncle a gift from us, so we don’t have to worry about him.”

Piotr nods, ‘hmm-ing’ as he makes a note on his list. “Okay.” He mumbles in Russian under his breath, then says, “Mama had no list this year; I think we start with her first since figuring out gift will take longer.”

“That’s fine. Where should we start?”

“I think bookstore is best bet. From there, we can stop by Hot Topic and candle shop for snezhinka, then Game Stop for Mikhail.”

“Sounds good.” You link your arm through his and smile up at him. “Lead the way, babe.”

***

You glance between the piles of books on the table, then at your husband, who looks like he’s about to pull his hair out. “Do you think that, just maybe, you’re overthinking this? Just a little?”

“This is important,” Piotr insists as he skims through books from various areas of Barnes and Noble –cooking, history, fiction; he’d grabbed at least one book from nearly every section. “She has specific tastes. Cannot be just any old book.”

You purse your lips together. You don’t doubt that Alexandra has particular tastes in reading material –as a woman from her walk in life is bound to have—but you’re also certain that she wouldn’t want her son driving himself insane just to pick a present for her. You sit down next to Piotr and gently put your hand on his arm. “Sweetheart. She’s going to like whatever you get her.”

“Not necessarily. I have seen her toss many books aside with scoff and never pick them up again.”

“Okay, why?”

He shrugs. “Realism. She thinks some authors are ‘too indulgent’ or ‘too unrealistic.’”

“Alright, so maybe we leave out the crime and romance stuff,” you suggest, setting the few books he’d grabbed from those areas aside. “What does she like to do?”

Piotr goes quiet. His expression grows ashen as he contemplates the question. “I… don’t know.”

“Does she like to cook? Or draw? Or watch certain types of shows or movies?”

“I don’t know,” he repeats, more insistent. “She…” He sighs. “She never sits still. I don’t think any shows or movies interest her. When I was child, she always worked. On farm, taking care of animals, helping workers, making food, balancing accounts, translating letters and schoolwork… I never saw her rest. Do something for herself.”

You let out a soft snort. “Maybe a book on meditation.”

Piotr rolls his eyes, grinning. “Perhaps not.”

“Who does she like to be around, then?”

“Otets.” Piotr smiles when the answer comes easily. “She and my father” –he holds up two crossed fingers—“are like this. Aside from siblings and me, I think he is only person she is really close to.”

“Alright, maybe a cookbook, then. That’d give them something to do together.”

Piotr nods, then starts looking through the cookbooks he’d picked. “Question is, which one?”

“Well, we know she likes to stay busy and keep moving. Maybe something that’d challenge their skills? Something they haven’t tried?” You hold up a book boasting ‘rich and authentic Middle Eastern recipes.’ “This could be good. I think they’d have access to most of the ingredients, here in New York.”

He nods again, then sets the aforementioned book aside before checking over the other ones. “I think…” He lifts a hardcover thriller novel off the table. “She likes mysteries. This one has good reviews… maybe…”

You gently take the book from his hands and set it atop the Middle Eastern cookbook. “I think it’s a great choice.”

He smiles, then kisses your cheek. “Spasibo, myshka.”

***

“Bozhe moi.”

You giggle as the two of you step over the threshold of the Yankee Candle store, only for Piotr to recoil and take a step back. “You good there, baby?”

He presses his fingers against the sides of his nose. “Is like… assault of smells.”

“I know.” You inhale deeply, them flash him an impish smile. “Isn’t it great?”

Piotr groans, still rubbing his sinuses. “Do you mind—”

“I’ll find a candle for Illyana. Wanna meet up in Gamestop?”

“Spasibo, dorogoy.”

You blow him a kiss, then head into the candle store. You take a couple minutes to peruse the holiday display at the front of the store –and grab a couple votives for you and Piotr to enjoy—before heading towards the back of the store, where all the shelves of their regular candles are. You pause to smell your favorites –seriously, the McIntosh apple one never fails to make your mouth water—before taking a step back to survey your options. Alright, what to get for a mildly angsty, queer Russian goth?

It’s not as straightforward as it sounds (har har). Illyana’s an enigma, much like her mother. She’s quiet, keeps to herself, and doesn’t usually bother with convention.

Do I go for aesthetic? You pick up a pitch black candle labeled “Midnight Forest” and give it a cursory sniff. Ugh, smells like ass. No, thank you.

You also have to consider that whatever you get is likely going to be smelled by Kitty, too. As much as Illyana marches to the beat of her own drum, she’s surprisingly conscientious of her bubbly, energetic girlfriend.

Maybe something natural? Like the farm? You try a few options, wrinkling your nose after each sniff. God, what is it with the fresh scents and smelling heinous? You debate texting Piotr and dragging him back in here, if only so you’re certain you’ll get something Illyana would like—

And then it hits you over the head like a brick.

She’s gonna use these for meditation. You head down the rows of shelves, grab a jar labeled “Vanilla,” and give it a smell. Perfect. Not too strong, not too bland. You grab a lavender scented tumbler (for relaxation), then snag a pink one that smells like the perfume Kitty favors on a hunch it’ll be a hit.

By the time you pay for yours and Illyana’s candles, Piotr’s already waiting outside the Gamestop for you, bag in hand.

He eyes your bulging bags, eyebrow raising in trepidation. “Why…”

“Look, it’s your fault for abandoning me,” you say before he can point out your lack of self-control. “You know I’m weak for candles.”

Piotr snorts, then sighs. “Fair enough.” He nods and makes approving noises when you show him the picks you made for Illyana, then shows you what he grabbed for Mikhail.

“‘Mister Mosquito?’” You nearly double over laughing. “What even is this?”

“He wanted ‘weird video game,’” Piotr says, shrugging one shoulder. “I figure this should do.”

“He’s gonna love it,” you reassure your husband. “That’s weird as shit.” You start strolling along the main hall of the mall –and then your stomach rumbles. “Can we get pretzels?”

“Da, myshka,” Piotr chuckles, “we can get pretzels.”

***

“There'll be parties for hosting/ marshmallows for toasting/ and caroling out in the snow/ there'll be scary ghost stories/ and tales of the glories of/ Christmases long, long ago…”

“It’s the most! Wonderful time! Of the year!” you sing along as you rip another chunk off your pretzel. You smile to yourself as you admire the glittering, twinkling decorations decking the food court. “How’s your pretzel?”

“Very tasty.” Piotr dips a bite of his pretzel in some mustard, pops it in his mouth, then swallows before wiping his fingers on a napkin. “I think we only have handful of stops left.”

“Couple of sweaters for your dad… weird socks and-or scarves for Mikhail…” You lean over, reading off the list in his hand (which is written in a mixture of Russian and English). You take another bite of pretzel, then tap on a portion of blended “Russi-nglish” that you can’t decipher. “What’s that?” you ask once your mouth is clear.

“Random gift options,” he translates. “For filling out presents, stockings, that sort of thing.” He touches the tip of his index finger to the page, moving down the list in order. “Chocolate, books, gift cards. Guaranteed hits, essentially.”

“Ooh, I could go for some chocolate.”

Piotr snorts. “You just had pretzel. And this is for others, myshka.”

“If it’s in the car with me, I make no promises.”

He laughs, then makes an extra note on his list. “Safety chocolate… for myshka. Got it.”

***

“Here, dorogoy.”

“Oh, thank you!” You smile as Piotr takes some of the excess bags from your hands, shifting them so he can carry them (which, with his strength and the size of his hands, is no problem at all). You amble along next to him, admiring the various pop-up stands boasting games, calendars, and Christmas-themed treats. “Is there anywhere else we need to stop?”

“I believe we have everything.”

“And I’m guessing we need to head home so we can make dinner?”

“That would be best, da.” Piotr looks down at you, expression curious. “Why? There is somewhere you wish to stop?”

“Eh, not really,” you say with a shrug. “I just like coming to the mall during this time of year. The decorations, the music, the extra stands and seasonal gifts… It just makes me happy.”

“Aah, khorosho. I understand. We can come back later for date, if you like. Take time to walk around and admire stores.”

You grin up at him. “I’d like that.”

The two of you make to head out of the mall, back to the parking lot—

And then Piotr veers towards the right.

“Where are we going?” you ask, giggling as he leads you towards the bookstore. “I thought we already got everything we needed from here?”

He winks at you. “Trip is not complete yet. Not with hot chocolate, anyway.”

You grin and let him guide you over to the café in the bookstore.

Piotr gets you situated at a table near the expanse of windows at the front of the shop. He leaves your bags with you, then leads up at the counter to order your drinks.

You smile, lovestruck as you gaze over at him. How did I get so lucky? You lean back in your seat, taking a moment to admire the snow falling outside before checking out the decorations throughout the store…

Which is when you realize that there’s mistletoe hanging over your table.

You chuckle to yourself. Perfect.

“You are in good mood,” Piotr comments as he returns with two cups of hot chocolate.

“Of course, I am,” you admit with a broad grin. “I’ve got you. And tradition’s on our side.”

Piotr’s smile turns quizzical. He cocks his head to the side, staring at you for a moment, then looks up when you point towards the ceiling. “Ah,” he chuckles, “yes. That is good reason to be happy.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” You hook your finger under the collar of his shirt and gently tug him towards you. “Come here, handsome.”

He lets out a soft, happy giggle and bends down to kiss you.

#sass writes #piotr rasputin x reader #colossus x reader #holiday fluff #i miss going outside #which never happens so like #fml #don't mind the sounds of despair coming from my general direction #just use the fluff to drown it out #just like how i am #also kitty is jewish and thus doesn't observe christmas #i will die on this fucking hill :)#x men fanfiction #deadpool fanfiction

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foreveralwaysanauthor · 3 years

Text

I Could Be Every Color You Like

October 3, 2021

Prompt - Full of Colors

Characters - Bentley and various others

Notes - This gave me so many ideas for one-shots.

“Why does that kid like art so much?”

He'd heard that question a lot over the years. It was a simple question and, to be frank, not many knew the answer. The youngest of the Murphy brothers was a chatty fourteen-year-old who was usually seen holding a pen or marker to something. It was only natural that people asked questions, he supposed. It wasn’t normal for people to walk around, drawing everything in sight, but that’s just the way Bentley was.

Bentley was an enthusiastic artist and had been for as long as he could remember. Of course, he usually did so for fun, coloring on napkins and such, but his art was always meticulously done. He’d learned to draw from his mom when he was really little. Miles recalled once that Bentley had drawn all over one of their bedroom walls when he was three, but his mom was so happy with how it looked that she refused to wash it off or paint over it. Bentley was just an artist through and through - it was what he was good at.

In school, the teachers that knew Miles and Royce expected Bentley to be just like one or both of them. First was the oldest - Miles, the hardworking, above-average student who had excellent manners and was part of both the automotive department and the school newspaper before graduating early. Then came Royce, the kid with straight A’s since kindergarten who spent most of his free time studying in the library or writing in a journal. But, when Bentley came along, their expectations went out the window.

Bentley was far more artistic than his brothers, doodling in the margins of his paperwork and turning it in, only to receive a note from the teachers, telling him to please stop. While he kept his grades up, even after Miles left for Florida, he could never seem to meet the precedent set forth by his brothers. His teachers tried to talk with his father about his attention problems and constant drawing, but the man never answered the phone. When he did, he’d answer in the same manner every time before hanging up - “Did he kill someone? No? Then leave me the hell alone.” After a while, the teachers stopped caring as much and left him alone, which was nice.

The only teacher he’d liked was Mr. Samuel Hatfield, his art teacher in middle school. The man was a giant at six foot seven but had the biggest heart in the building. He took his time with each of his students, making sure they understood what concepts he was teaching them and could handle their own. For once, Bentley could claim the position of teacher’s pet with pride. The teacher took pride in Bentley’s artwork, using them as examples for other classes and, occasionally, the upperclassmen who needed encouragement.

It felt good to be appreciated.

So, when Royce whispered to him one night in the confines of their bedroom that they’d set aside enough money to move in with their older brother, he felt torn. He desperately wanted to move in with Miles, far away from their father, but he also wanted to stay so he could continue feeling special for his art. It was all he felt he was good at and he loved feeling important, but his love for his brother outweighed that a million times over so his decision was nearly instantaneous.

The next day, after working his busboy job at the diner on the edge of Main Street, he took off on his bicycle for the art shop next to the library, using his collective tip money for the day - a whopping seven dollars and fifty-four cents, nearly triple what he usually got - to buy a small sketchbook and a discounted paint set. The rest of his money, he planned on pocketing. He and Royce would be leaving soon anyway, what did it matter what he spent the extra cash on now?”

The cashier frowned at Bentley as he counted his money, coming up just a couple of quarters short. He sighed, debating on which item he wanted to buy more. Just then, the door jingled next to him and he instinctively looked up, meeting gazes with his art teacher.

“Hi, Mr. Hatfield,” Bentley greeted quickly before turning back to his purchase.

“Well if it isn’t Bentley Murphy,” the art teacher greeted. “Why am I not surprised to see you here. Buying anything good, kiddo?”

“A goodbye gift,” Bentley claimed with a grin. “My brother and I are leaving town to be with our big brother.”

“Ah,” Mr. Hatfield exhaled. “Is this a gift for your dad or your older brother?”

“Nope,” Bentley exclaimed. “This is for me. Something to remember Myrtle Beach, I guess.”

The teacher nodded slowly, taking in the information as Bentley spoke. “So, where does your older brother live again?”

‘Uh oh. Too much info,’ Bentley thought to himself. ‘Don’t get caught. They’ll call the cops if they know where we’re really going. Be smart like RJ. Think, think, think.’

“California,” he lied in feigned excitement, sending his teacher a brilliant smile. “He moved there a couple years ago to be with a girl he liked who moved to Los Angeles.”

The teacher nodded again and smiled. “Well, since this is a parting gift, I’ll cover it, kid.” The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet.

“Actually,” Bentley began, “I think I’ll put the paint back-”

“Leave it, Mr. Murphy,” Mr. Hatfield stated firmly, setting down some money. “It's just some paint. I have no problem helping you to further your talents. Save your cash for spending time with your brother.”

The cashier took the money from Mr. Hatfield and bagged Bentley’s items before handing them to the fourteen-year-old. Bentley and the man said their goodbyes before Bentley went outside and hopped on his bike, riding quickly toward home. When he arrived home and found only Royce there, the two boys packed their bags and left not long after, leaving only a simple note in their place. The next fifteen or so hours were spent biking to their Uncle Tommy’s house - a man who had despised his sister’s husband since he’d met the man and had been encouraging the boys to leave. Once they arrived, they took the man’s car - with his permission and knowledge, of course - and took off for Florida. Ten hours later, they arrived pulled into the town, a sign with bold letters saying “Welcome to St. Pete Beach” being their only welcoming committee.

Royce pulled Uncle Tommy’s car into what they believed was Miles’ address, if his letters were anything to go by. They got out of the car and knocked on the door a few times before anyone answered. It was just barely eight in the morning so it wasn’t unexpected, but the anticipation was killing them slowly. Bentley was mildly surprised to see his oldest brother - who looked like he was just woken up by them - whip open the door, wiping his eyes a few times before pulling them both into a tight hug. They were shown to their room, finding it decked out in just about anything Miles had found that he’d thought they would like. To Bentley’s surprise, a brand new art book and some canvases were laid out on his bed, accompanied by various types of paints, markers, and pencils.

Their brother’s friends became family to them and they were accepted fairly quickly. Lela set aside time every day just to paint with him on the beach. Mick would teach him and his brothers photography in her spare time. Butchy took him and Royce for walks to the park so Royce could write in peace while Bentley drew in his sketchbook. Tanner took him to an art gallery on the edge of town just for fun. It was like being an artist was something to be proud of. Like there wasn’t any competition to have better grades or better abilities. It was an air of tranquility that the fourteen-year-old hadn’t felt since his mom approved of his artwork as a kid.

Over time, he began noticing the colors of people he spent the most time with. Whether it was the color of their eyes or in the things they surrounded themselves with or their favorite colors, Bentley saw them each in a different light. If he said them out loud, it would make sense to absolutely no one, but that was fine by him. He made sure it came across in his artwork instead of in his words.

For instance, Miles gave off rays of baby blue with a hint of red - calmness, safety, and love - so those were the colors Bentley used to draw his oldest brother with most. Royce was a brilliant, sunset orange - smart, vibrant, and playful - and it suited the middle brother better than he ever cared to admit. Mick and Butchy together were green with dashes of lavender, a colorful combination of love, strength, and balance - a source of protection and love that was unending and reliable. Lela was pale pink, full of innocent love for those around her.

So, when asked why he loved art so much, Bentley had only one answer to give: the colors.

#foreveralwaysprompts #writing #writing prompt

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thoughtfullyyoungduck · 4 years

Text

Ashamed

Summary: Could I request one where Eddie is ashamed of the scar on his chest from Pennywise and that he refuses to take his shirt off for any reason until Richie confronts him and tells him that the scar is a reminder of his bravery and he takes Eddie's shirt off and kisses it?

A/N: I hope you enjoy and I’m so sorry it took so long! I’m a bit behind on my request but I promise I’m trying to finish request every day so to everyone who has requested stuff, I promise it’s coming!

warnings: there’s a sex joke in here, and a sex reference (not graphic at all)

Eddie has contemplated before on hanging up a towel over the mirror any and each time he’s in the bathroom by himself. He’s never executed the plan, Richie’s too observant for that too work and would notice but straight away, leading to questions Eddie’s ashamed to answer, but whenever Richie is away on tour or a show, he’ll prop the towel from one side to the other, obscuring the view of his chest.

He’s never been very confident in his appearance, but he wasn’t hyper aware of it like he is after the Pennywise accident either. He didn’t have to be. For years Myra smothered him with her self-presumed love and adoration, picking out the clothes he wore and buying all the creams and aftershave she treasured, and Eddie followed her in those things without stopping and thinking about what he liked and how he wanted to sell himself towards other people.

Once, he was gifted a perfume bottle from one of his coworkers, a secret Santa gift, and when he sprayed it on to go to work the next day, Myra picked up on the change and gave him a piece of her mind. She reamed Eddie about not remodeling himself to be accepted by his peers, not mulling that maybe the Eddie she prepared and drilled every morning was not the real Eddie. There were threats being ushered, like Eddie cheating on Myra and switching perfumes to galvanize his mistress, and no matter how many times Eddie tried to reason with her, she was dead set on the idea.

He tossed the bottle out that same day, immensely guilty that he gave Myra grounds to question him. She was right after all, Eddie was married, and he didn’t have to make anyone happy except his wife, not even himself.

Post Derry him is happier. So fucking happy he gleams and elates every morning awakening in Richie’s arms, or the other way around, nosing behind Richie’s ear to get that one little inch closer, turning off the alarm and dosing an extra hour, work suddenly coming second for once in Eddie’s life. Richie had that effect on him, made him long to be near him twenty-four/seven,

But he also feels worse, and that can be tracked back to the long, vertical scar smacked in the middle of his chest. It’s starts in the mornings, but in a stand offish way, the insecurities bubbling on the edge of his mind loud enough that Eddie knows they’re there, but not so ample close that Eddie nitpicks and examines them, yet.

And at first it wasn’t even that bad, Eddie mostly enthralled with moving his stuff in and out of houses, and fitting as much RichieandEddie time into their shared schedule to gain back what they lost over the years, the underlying doubt and terror every time he caught a glimpse of the scar background to the best moments of his life.

It only really became a problem the first time Eddie and Richie made love to each other, and Eddie refused to take of his shirt. The pleasant, hot and vastly attractive sight of Richie’s slightly pudgy stomach and thighs, and his clean, smooth chest Eddie could run his fingers over and not bubble once incited a deep meekness and carved him hallow. Emptied by the idea that he’s horrific and undeserving of the adoration so blindingly clear in his boyfriends eyes.

Most off all, the scar is reminiscent on the clown trauma, proof that Pennywise maintains some sort of power over him, in comparisons to his friends and Richie, who moved on with their lives. It distinguishes him from the group, and not in a good way. In a way that shines a bright neon spot over Eddie’s head, accentuating his cowardness.

The reflections displayed in the mirror exhibits his slip up, his idiocy to entertain the idea of him being strong enough to defeat Pennywise all on his own, he wants nothing to do with it. The scar tissue puckers up his skin and his disgust is so deeply rooted that he didn’t even bother to check up on it for months after Derry, to assure it didn’t fester.

So no, Eddie doesn’t conceal the glass whenever Richie is home, but what he does do is strip down everything except for his shirt when slipping in the shower, towing the shower curtain and tossing the shirt out, rumpled on the floor, via the small slit.

The wrinkles in his shirt agitate him, but are a small price to pay for preserving his sanity and spirits. In the shower he resolutely does not look down at all, his eyes trained on the ugly pattern of tiles Richie claimed came with the house when he bought it, but Eddie suspects he just really fancy’s it.

Eddie always neatly packs his new shirt on the countertop, effortlessly accessible from the lavatory so he can dry off and pull on his shirt without drawing his own attention to his chest.

Stowing away his insecurity is a weight he’s been holding over his own head, so dangerously close to imbalance and tumbling over that Eddie feels shifting his attention from it slightly will let it all crash down on him. Because Richie has a tenacious personality, and once he catches a whiff of it, he’ll cling to the smallest straws to get to the bottom of it.

The schedule Eddie’s built has never been interrupted before, Richie knowing, or at least being tricked into knowing, and understanding that the bathroom serves as Eddie’s sanctuary, a place for being alone and restocking and regrouping his overactive mind. The interference in the schedule is Eddie’s own wrongdoing, for glossing over the fact that they had a dinner party to attend to, and dragging out his time in the bathroom for way too long plus forgetting to grab a change of clothing.

He only addresses the issue at hand when the shower runs cold and he’s bordering on being late, contemplating his options with his hands resting on his hips. Richie always sings a derivative of a song before entering a room, transforming the lyrics in a way that fits in Eddie and Richie’s life, as a substitute for knocking as that’s boring according to him, but Eddie discerns tiny snores emerging from the living room, so Eddie hurriedly dries off and dons his underwear, training his eyes down casted to not look at the mirror.

He wastes a long time debating on what to wear, matching multiple t-shirts to the pants he has elected to wear, unbeknownst that the snoring in the other room has ebbed away. This is an important business meeting with Richie’s new manager, one that will lift up his spirits and encourage him to fly solo, writers free, and Eddie can’t afford to mess this up. He’s scrutinizing an oxford-button-down forest green shirt, analyzing if there’s a spot on the fabric or if it’s a trick of the light.

Hearing the caroling a smidge too late, Eddie has no time to slip in the shirt before the door cracks open, Richie’s wild curls sticking out in every direction and his pants too low, pulled down from the movements he slanders during sleep.

‘I was about to call the ambulance and ask them to assemble a rescue mission’, he quips, feet padding the carpet of the bedroom lazily.

The weight Eddie’s been bearing up dislodges and veers menacingly to the edge, a gust away from keeling over the edge.

‘Get out’, Eddie says calmly the first time, contorting his body so his upper torse is veiled from Richie’s observation, the button-down serving as a shield of sorts. ‘Get out’, he clamors, a panic attack lurking in the shadows and prowling on his burst of utter panic.

‘Eds’, Richie says perplexed, his eyebrows contracting, his droopy eye more squinted than it is with his face slacked.

‘Get out, I don’t want to see you’, Eddie hisses, witnessing the decay of Richie’s happy face, teetering away backwards and back out in the hallway.

Eddie swallows, the door obstructing his outlook on Richie, and appareling his shirt so fast it tears around the sleeves, pretending he didn’t hear that. His instincts lure him to hide under the covers and wait for the whole thing to blow over, but his comments hurt Richie and his instincts were formed his primary years, while living with his mother, so he does the exact opposite.

‘Rich’, he groans, eyeing Richie leaning on the counter, his body jutting out, dancing on his feet and shelving the cleaned dishes.

‘Richie stop.’ Eddie plasters himself against Richie’s back, fitting so perfectly like puzzle pieces, like a riddle so complicated that’s been solved. He hooks his chin over Richie’s shoulder, kissing the underside of his jaw.

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled.’

‘No it’s fine, it’s my fault. I need to learn how to knock. I didn’t mean to agitate you.’

‘You didn’t agitate me. I know I say you do all the time but somehow everything you do is endearing, not irritating.’

‘Careful Eddie Spaghetti, you’ll give me a big head.’

‘I can do that tonight if you’d like?’ Eddie teased, the tight knot in his heart uncoiling at the rumbling of Richie’s laugh.

Richie rotated in his arms, front to front, hugging Eddie back in equal fierce as Eddie did too him.

‘Forgive me?’

‘That depends my good follow, however shall you atone me?’ He released Eddie with one arm, using his hand to tap his chin thoughtfully. ‘Hm, perhaps with a reason as to why?’, his British accent lacing his words.

‘Rich, I really don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Come on,’ Richie pleaded, pouting with his bottom lip. ‘How can I help if you won’t tell me what’s going on?’

Eddie sighed, his arms cave in and the weight collapses down upon him. ‘I just don’t want you to envision this’, he says, unconsciously smoothing down his shirt on the spot his wound is located.

‘Envision what? You?’

‘No’, Eddie explains miserably, ‘I mean the scar, the disfigurement.’

‘Eddie’, Richie gently chuckles, ‘I don’t give a shit about that.’

‘That’s because you haven’t seen it yet. It’s so ugly and,’ Eddie interrupted himself, unwinding from Richie to give himself some breathing space. Being near Richie is intoxicating, but he needed to think clearly.

‘And what?’ Richie pries.

‘How much of a coward I am okay? I don’t want you to look at me and realize how much better you can do.’

‘Eddie, do you honestly believe you’re a coward?’

‘Yeah.’ Shame flooding the tips of his ears, making it harder to engage the conversation, when all Eddie wanted was to leave and go the this dinner.

‘Like I told you down in the sewers, you’re braver than you think, Eds. I’m the one who aimed higher and scored the jackpot.’ Richie asseverate.

‘You keep saying that but I’m the only one idiot enough to get injured.’

‘That’s no true, I strained my leg muscle.’ Richie states, twisting his leg, reliving the memory of the shards of affliction lodging in.

‘Seriously, maybe you’re the only one that got hurt, but you survived. Who in the world can claim there’s so badass that they lived through being shish kebabbed? By a demon from outer space no less.’

‘No one I guess.’

‘No one, erase the “I guess”. Give yourself some credit.’ Richie says firmly, outstretching his arm and then thinking better of it. ‘Can I touch it?’

‘Richie,’ Eddie hesitated, eyes flitting around the room as if to plan his escape.

‘I’ll be really gentle. And if you don’t like it I’ll pull back straight away.’ The soft tone settles Eddie somewhat, and with a hesitant nod, Richie slowly inches closer. He goes so leisurely, as one would approach a feral kitten, but Eddie keeps the parallels to himself, Richie will tease him relentlessly for it.

Eddie expected Richie to slide under his shirt from the get go, but all Richie does is pet his chest on top of the shirt, mapping out the area and feeling where the scar is located.

The area is strangely sensitive, a reason why Eddie has to douche it softly as opposed to the harsh scrubbing he’s used to doing to every other part of his physics.

Only the barely-there, soft touches of Richie’s fingers pawing, tickles Eddie, realizing a breathless hum as he gets acquainted to Richie and him converging in that spot.

Eddie giggles, Richie steadily ongoing his ministrations, until the notion borders on too much, and he plummets to his knees.

He kisses top of the blemish, all the way to the underside, blowing a raspberry there as if the normal kiss wasn’t ticklish enough.

Eddie cackles, halfheartedly shoving Richie backwards, his worries fizzling out into the night. The smooches leave a trail of slobber from Richie’s mount, wilting spots on his blouse Richie’s manager will discern him in.

‘Richie stop, you’re going to ruin it and we have to leave soon.’

‘Nah, I cancelled.’

‘You cancelled? Why?’

‘Because the love of my love, my Eddie Spaghetti, my Eds, gave off the impression he was in a pretty foul mood.’

‘Was I that obvious?’ Eddie grumbles, fingers racking lovingly trough Richie’s curls.

‘No, I just have a knack for you. Anyways I rescheduled.’

‘Oh Rich you didn’t have to do that. What is she going to think of you?’

‘I don’t care. Look, if she’s striving to be my manager she best believe that my career always come second. You’re my number one priority, no matter what.’

Eddie’s eyes turn bloodshot, blinking rapidly to contain the upcoming flow of tears. Richie presses a final kiss, then resurfaces upwards, a lopsided grin grazing his face.

‘You’re not going to take it off?’ Eddie inquires fretful, not sure what he wants the answer to be.

‘No, later, when you’re more at ease. But Eds, I need you to know, I’m going to look at it, and all that will be going on in my mind is holy fuck. That scar is symbolic for how strong and daring you are, and how glad I am to have you here breathing with me. That motherfucking clown tried everything, and he still couldn’t kill you. You know why? Because you’re a stubborn little basterd, and also indestructible. And I love you so much.’

The taste of salt explodes on Richie’s tongue, surprisingly, he hadn’t got a clue he was crying in the first place.

‘Great, good job idiot. Now look at us, two blubbering idiot sniffling in a kitchen’, Eddie grumbled, but he was smiling so wide the dimples in his cheeks were distinguishable.

‘I love you too.’

#reddie #reddie imagine #reddie fluff #My writing #the loser club imagines #it chapter two imagine #richie tozier imagine #eddie kaspbrak imagine #Richie x Eddie

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glasswingsndreamz · 4 years

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Chocolates and Desserts (Beel x Reader)

Fandom: Shall We Date? Obey Me!

Rating: Explicit

AO3 Link

Summary: It was very sweet of Asmodeus to give you 'special' chocolates as a gift. You hope he doesn't mind that you're sharing them with Beel. It's too bad you don't know that it's a particularly strong aphrodisiac.

You smile down at the heart-shaped box in front of your door. The handwriting is lovely and gives away Asmodeus before you’ve even read his name on the front.

Thanks for the gift!

You send the text and immediately you can see the dots showing that he’s typing a response.

Don’t eat any without me! I insist that you let me feed them to you~ <3 <3

You laugh at his response. You’d expect nothing less from the infamous flirt. So you bent down, picked up the box of chocolates and entered your room. Immediately you disregarded Asmo’s message, lifted up the lid of the box and popped a chocolate in your mouth.

The flavor was absolutely delicious! It had a familiar taste of chocolate mixed with something extra that you could only assume was due to it being from the Devildom. Despite the strange after taste, it was the best chocolate you’ve ever had.

Peering down into the box you examined another before lifting it to your lips too.

Behind you the door creaks open.

“Hey,” Beel said as he shut the door behind him. It was honestly a surprise that it wasn’t Mammon coming through the door.

“Oh! Hey there!”

For a moment you debate whether or not to hide the chocolates from Beel. He still isn’t close enough to see what you have in your hands. However, his sincere, smiling face makes you rethink your idea. He was too sweet not to share your food with.

“Are those chocolates?” Been asked, eyes already zeroing in on the box in your hands as he goes over to you. You almost laugh. It probably wouldn’t matter if you had hidden them anyway. He’d probably end up sniffing them out and you couldn’t possibly lie to his cute face and tell him that you didn’t know what the delicious smell was.

“Would you like some?” You asked, offering the box over to him. You quickly take another piece before he can get his hands on them, wanting to savor what you could.

Beel looked overjoyed and entirely grateful as he took the box from you.

“So what brings you here?” you asked, suddenly curious about his presence. After sharing a room with him for a short while and then having a pact with him, the two of you had grown closer. You had adjusted to his company quickly and even grown to love his attention and affection.

“Felt like it,” he said with a shrug after swallowing his third chocolate.

“Did you wanna watch a movie or something?” you suggested, picking another chocolate from the box.

Beel smiled and nodded his head.

—-

An action movie was playing on the screen. You and Beel both sat on the floor, using the side of your bed as a backboard to lean up against. Somehow you managed to eat two more pieces of the chocolate before Beel devoured the rest of them. It wasn’t hard to tell he had been holding back so you could enjoy them too, but it didn’t last that long.

Despite the movie, it was hard not being distracted by how close he was. All you had to do was move your hand a few centimeters to the right and your hand would be on top of his.

After an hour into the movie, your thoughts had taken a turn, becoming bolder as you imagined Beel’s lips on your own. Your body had grown warm and an ache had begun to set in. Every movement he made beside you sent shocks of pleasure through your body. Eventually you gave in to your desires, leaning into him so that you were pressed up against him.

Beel made a small noise and you can see out of the corner of your eye that he’s looking at you and it worries you that he might tell you that he’s uncomfortable with the closeness. Instead he moves his arm and wraps it around your shoulder and you can now feel his head resting against yours.

Now there is no way you can concentrate on the movie playing in front of you.

Your heart jolts in your chest when you feel him pressing his face into your hair at the top of your head. He inhales deeply, arm tightening around you.

“You smell really delicious,” his words are slurred with his lips pressed against your head. You’re frozen in place when his head lowers and dips down to taste your neck. A moan is pulled from your lips at the feeling of his mouth kissing and sucking down on the spot just beneath your jaw.

He stiffens at the noise and pulls back to see your face.

“Do that again,” he demanded and before you can ask what, he’s pulled you onto his lap and his face is once again buried against your neck.

This time the moan he draws from you isn’t from his kisses. No it’s the feeling of his already hard cock straining and poking up against your clothed core. You don’t hesitate to put all your weight down on him, grinding against him. He groans softly against your neck, struggling to buck his hips up against you which is slightly difficult considering the position you’re in.

As you pull away, Beel growls at the sudden loss. His displeasure is only slightly lessened as you pull your shirt over your head and quickly remove your bra. He takes that as a clear invitation to take one of your nipples into his mouth, hot tongue swiping against the hardening bud. He gives the other one just as much attention, a big hand tweaking and pulling lightly on it.

“Ahh- Beel!” you give a shout when his hands slip beneath your ass, squeezing before lifting you up with ease.

With little difficulty he lifts you up to set you on the bed. In an instant he’s back on top of you, starting to kiss your neck before making his way down your body. As he pays special attention to your nipples, switching between the two with his mouth, his hands move lower to tug down your pants. His anticipation is clear, especially with the way he’s grinding against your thigh. With a swift pull, he’s managed to tug down both your pants and underwear which you help kick them off until they drop at the end of the bed.

He’s already lowering further to get to his prize, swiping his tongue against your slit without any warning.

“Wait!” you gasp, one hand pushing through his hair to push him away from you.

He looks so upset that you could almost laugh. If you weren’t horny as fuck at the moment you definitely would have. He looks as if you told him he wasn’t allowed to have dessert, which he very likely considered this to be.

“It’s not fair that I’m the only one who’s naked,” you said.

He looks even more upset now, as if your explanation wasn’t good enough to push him away from your dripping core. Still he listens, removing his own clothes as fast as physically possible until he’s as naked as you are.

In an instant your eyes drop down to where he reveals his cock, bouncing back up to hit his abs from how quickly he shoves down his underwear. He’s so fucking thick that you’re not entirely sure if you can possibly take it all. You find yourself grateful when he kneels on the floor and pulls you to the edge of the bed so that your legs are over his shoulder.

“There, all better,” he said before burying his face back between your legs.

Your head is thrown back and your nails dig into the sheets on the bed at the sudden onslaught. There’s no preparation, no teasing or getting you ready. No, his tongue is already pushing inside you and lapping up your wetness as if it’s his last meal. He switches between licking up and down your labia and sucking on your clit like a lollipop. He only inserts a finger, pressing deep inside to stroke at your most sensitive spot, just so that he can pull it back out and lick off the juices.

Your moans won’t stop coming and you can barely form any cohesive words other than his name.

The first orgasm comes so violently that your legs are shaking over his shoulders.

He laps up every drop of cum that comes rushing from your core.

Even after there’s nothing left for him to swallow up, he only continues to stroke you with his tongue, clearly desperate to draw another orgasm from you.

“Beel, please,” you pull back on his hair, light enough so it doesn’t hurt him.

He looks up at you with an easy smile, looking drunk off your cum and completely satisfied.

“I want more,” you confess, face burning.

“That’s what I was planning on doing,” he said, moving to press his mouth against your core again.

“No!” you groan, already oversensitive from the intense orgasm. “I want your dick,” you blurt out. Beel inhales sharply, not expecting you to be so forward. His cock twitches, as if reminding him that it’s still there and in desperate need of release too.

As he stands up, wiping your juices and the saliva from his face. You move back to lay down on the bed.

Feeling the slightest bit embarrassed, Beel gets on top, knees spreading your legs apart to make room for him. The head of his cock twitches against your entrance and your body jolts, letting the tip slide in. It’s incredibly easy with how slick you are with your own cum and his saliva.

He throws his head back, arms shaking on either side of your body as he restrains himself from slamming his hips forward and bottoming out immediately.

You helped relieve the ache, reaching between your bodies to stroke the length that wasn’t inside. Inch by inch he slowly slid inside. It took a bit of effort on your part to take the last few inches, painful to take as he stretched your insides completely. Both of you were breathing heavily by the time his balls pressed against your ass.

“You’re so good. You feel so fucking good,” he groans, his knuckles white as he clenches his fists.

He moves slowly, watching your face for signs of pain. He barely pulls out, providing little friction as he pushes back inside. His muscles are clenched from his restraint and all the concentration it takes to be careful with his human. When you shake your head and give him the okay to move faster, his body finally relaxes.

You cry out when he unexpectedly pulls out only to slam all the way back in. You scream at the sudden snap of his hips as he pounds into you. However, when he pulls out completely to check on you in concern, you only growl for him not to stop. His cock twitches at your command and in an instant he’s pushing back inside, letting himself go again as he slams into you over and over.

Your second orgasm comes without much warning. You’re already oversensitive from the first one and he’s fucking you so hard and fast that the build up comes before you’re even expecting it.

Your lips bite down into his shoulder, muffling your whimpers as your orgasm crashes into you. Beel gives a shout as you clench painfully around his cock, squeezing tight and he can’t fucking help it. His hips snap forward three more times before he can’t hold it in anymore and spills his cum out deep inside you.

He’s breathing heavy as he stares down at you intensely. You pull him down for a kiss which he eagerly returns.

With a blushing face he pulls back, not able to look you in the eye as he asks. “Is it okay if I taste you some more?”

You laugh and kiss him again.

“Anytime!”

#obey me #beelzebub #swd obey me #obey me beelzebub

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captainkappa · 6 years

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Fanfic:: Not a Cat-astrophe

Prompt: “thats alot of cats” - deku/todoroki

Forever ago I asked for prompts, so I’m finally finishing it!

Tododeku future fic (they’re both sidekicks) featuring an abundance of cats and “Pets Ultra” pet shop

AO3 Link

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Izuku’s body ached all over, nothing new for him it came with being a sidekick, but it was still noticeable. No bones were broken, but the group of villains that decided to attack the shopping district had mobility quirks, meaning none of the heroes could stop to rest for a minute.

Ergo, the aches.

It should’ve only taken a pro hero and maybe two sidekicks to take down the villains, but the villain’s quirks made the fight drag on and eventually, three pros and seven sidekicks from various agencies had joined the fray. They subdued the villains and handed them over to the police, but Izuku wasn’t done. One of the villains, the self-proclaimed “Push ‘n’ Pull,” made it a habit during the fight to slam cars and occasionally heroes into nearby buildings. All buildings were structurally sound, but broken glass and tables littered the sidewalks and in store fronts.

Izuku stretched his back out before making his way to a nearby restaurant he’d seen one of the cars crash into.

He didn’t have to, but… he had to.

For he was here.

By the time he’d recovered from the fight, the owner of the restaurant and their family were cautiously coming out from safety.

“Hey there!” Izuku said with a smile, “Can I help you with the clean up?”

“You- you’re Deku!”

“Yes, but I wanted to see if you guys needed help with cleaning up.”

He ended up helping two restaurants, a clothing shop, and a café clean up. The owners were at first confused to see one of the most prominent sidekicks offering to clean up, but they quickly got over it, wanting to take advantage of the extra set of hands. He picked up glass shards, swept up dust and pieces of brick, and righted tables.

The last shop that seemed to be within the radius of the fight was a pet shop, with the name “Pets Ultra!” in gold and burnt orange paint. He opened the door with a jingle of the bell on top. It looked to be in the best shape out of everything he had seen. The glass was cracked, but not shattered. None of the taupe colored walls were cracked or crumbling. Dog toys, leashes, collars had fallen off the ground. A couple of bags of food had fallen over, one of them burst open on the ground. Unlike the other stores, there was no one inside, or at least no one he could immediately see.

“Hello?” he called out, “Is everyone alright?”

Silence, then, a muffled voice, coming from a back room, “Midoriya?”

Izuku stopped mid-step. “Todoroki?”

He’d seen Todoroki during the fight, but between apprehending the villains and helping clean up, Izuku had lost track of him. But he was still here? In a pet store?

“I’m in the back, through the employee only door.”

His eyes fell on the door pretty quickly, pushing it open and stopping in his tracks.

Todoroki sat on the ground of the back room, animal cages lines the walls around him, several seemingly snapped open. Surrounding him were about twenty cats; some sniffing Todoroki’s arms, some laid on his lap, some just wandering around, like they had no cares. One was batting at Todoroki’s long hair, now pulled in a loose pony tail, and another walked out between Izuku’s legs.

His heart swelled at the sight, suddenly very aware that his high school crush was coming back in full swing.

“Hey,” Izuku paused, still taking in the scene in front of him, “That’s… that’s a lot of cats.”

Todoroki nodded. “After the fight, the owner asked me to help her. It turns out, she wanted me to watch the store while she made sure her family was okay.”

Izuku picked up a cat that was circling around his legs. It was all white and very accepting of being suddenly picked up. “Ah, I understand. I think I got three free meals from helping the other stores around here.”

“Are you going to use them?” Heroes often were given gifts, but whether they should accept and use them was an often-debated topic. Izuku, only a sidekick, already had a corner of his bedroom dedicated to drawings children made of him.

“No, I gave out two of them to police who were still around.” He felt his face heat up. “I kept the café one, but I’ll probably use it to treat someone else. I really like the café.”

Todoroki didn’t respond, not looking disapproving or accepting, which Midoriya took as him being fine with it.

“Do you, uh, do you need help? Cat-sitting? Not that it looks like you’re doing a bad job, but there’s a lot of cats and the own hasn’t been back and it’s been an hour and there’s a cat out there – oh shit! I let the cat out! And there’s cat food spilled!”

Right before Midoriya left the back room to grab the other cat, he heard Todoroki say, “Yes, you can stay and keep me company, if you want.”

His cheeks absolutely did not flush red. Nope, not at all, it was just the heat.

The cat was easy to find, chowing down on the spilled cat food. At the sound of footsteps, the cat looked up at him. It was a large tabby cat, probably very used to sneaking second meals. It looked up at him like he had better food, like tuna or anything other than dry cat food.

“Hey ther- Oh god!” Without warning, the cat leaped and scamper up his leg. His arms were full of the other cat, so he couldn’t help the cat move up his leg, up to his hip. He angled his back, hoping it would help the cat, not allowing him to fall. And it did, the cat taking the opportunity to scamper up until it was perched on his shoulders.

“Oh… okay.”

His sense of balance was momentarily thrown as he wasn’t used to having a large cat on his shoulders, but he was able to make it back with out dropping any cats. When he got back to the back room, Todoroki looked up and gave him a small smile.

Izuku brushed off his pounding heart with a smile of his own. “So, were all these cats out already?”

“No, I just…” Todoroki paused as a very tiny kitten made their way up his arm, claws digging into the fabric of his costume. They sat down on his shoulder, headbutting Todoroki’s temple.

Izuku held the cat in his arms a bit closer, his heart was threatening to burst.

“Um, the cats were scared in their cages after the fight, so I figured they’d feel better less confined. And…” He gestured to his laps. Izuku’s eyes lit up when he realized the cats were congregating on Todoroki’s rights side, his fire side. They wanted to get closer to the heat.

Too cute!

“I don’t know how you’re able to manage all these cats, I can barely handle two.” As if he heard the complaint, the cat in his arms started the squirm, so he let him go.

Todoroki shrugged with one shoulder, the other occupied by the tiniest kitten he’d ever seen. “I don’t know. I did get scratched earlier.”

“Oh, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, I’ve had worse.”

Midoriya was about to comment how that wasn’t the point, but he did have a fair point. Some cat scratches would be fine in compression to what the dealt with in one year at U.A. Instead, he settled down near Todoroki, where there was a space relatively cat free.

“Have you ever had cats?” he asked, in a momentarily quiet moment or however quiet a room full of 20 cats could be.

Todoroki said nothing, and Izuku’s heart stopped as soon as he realized his question.

“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry, I-”

“Midoriya, it’s fine. I don’t expect you to remember everything about me.”

“Right! I… yeah that makes sense, but I should’ve remembered- I had a fish once but fish never live long lives, and apparently especially the ones you get from carnivals as a prize for arcade game! But…”

“I had no idea you rambled about normal things. I thought it was just something you did for strategizing.”

“What? I, I mean I guess. I’m also tired and-” he stopped talked as Todoroki moved the cat from off his shoulder, holding the cat like it was a both delicate and a bowl, hand wrapped around the cat’s midsection.

“No, no you, uh, you don’t hold a cat like that.”

He leaned over, taking the cats from his hands.

“My uncle has two cats, so you cradle the arms and support the back like so.”

Todoroki watched his hands, trying to mimic them.

“Here, you’d hold them like this.” He held Todoroki’s hands, shaping them as if he was holding an invisible cat. Immediately his brain short circuited, feeling the callouses and scars from the recent years of being a sidekick, but he continued to coach Todoroki. It was worth it… for the cats.

“Okay, try it.”

The next couple of minutes was spent with Todoroki picking up and putting down cats.

The life of a sidekick.

Once Todoroki got the hang of holding cats, they spent the time catching up. They and every other U.A. alum still kept in touch, but with most of the having full time jobs as sidekicks, it got hard sometimes to find time to talk face to face. Izuku retold the fight he’d been caught in the middle of that included an ice-quirk hero and a lightning-quirk villain. Todoroki had him in stitches, telling him about how he froze an entire lake by accident and then had to skate with his fire side to melt it off.

Their story time was cut short by the sound of metal banging, deeper within the room.

Both sidekicks jumped to their feet, cats scrambling away.

“What was that?”

Todoroki looked in the direction of the noise. “Maybe a cat that was sleeping just woke up.”

“Ah, I’ll let it out.”

Midoriya slowly walked buy the cages, looking through each cage to see if a cat was hiding. Near the middle of the row, a cat’s backside was pressed onto the cage door. The cat turned toward him, making a noise in surprise and Izuku’s eyes widened when he saw it.

No way…

“Todoroki, look!”

Izuku reached for the cat that caught his attention and hurried over to where Todoroki was now sitting again. He held it up in Todoroki’s face. The cat’s face was two different colors, matte black with a green eye on her right side and tabby orange with a yellow eye on her left side. There was a perfect line down the center of her face were the two met. The rest of her body was the same matte black as the fur on her face.

With awe in his voice he said, “It’s you as a cat!”

Todoroki looked at the cat in surprise before bursting out into laughter, body shaking as he tried to contain it.

Midoriya felt his heart grow three sizes, the squirming cat in his hands feeling left out as it escaped his hands, padding toward Todoroki. It leaped onto his shoulder as the other cats started to crowd around Todoroki again. The two-tines cat headbutted Todoroki’s ear and then took to kneading at his shoulder. Todoroki brought up a hand to

“We should do this again.”

Todoroki raised an eyebrow. “We should… pet sit an entire store full of cats?”

“No, I- We should hang out more. Like, get coffee before work, or something,” his voice faltered at the end, suddenly very self-conscious of his words.

“Oh, I agree.”

Before he could respond, the front door to the store burst open, with a woman’s voice calling.

“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, my family and I-!”

“It’s fine,” Todoroki said first, as she came though the employee only door. “Is everyone okay?”

She took a deep breath, having apparently run back, her dark brown hair falling out of her ponytail. “Yes, they just felt the tremors of the attack.”

“That’s good, but we should be going,” Todoroki said, gently lifting the cats off of him. This did nothing, as they came back onto his lap just as quickly. Izuku bit his tongue to keep from “awwww-ing”.

The woman wrung her hands. “I, um, c-can I ask for a picture? No one will believe me if I said you two were here. It’s a selfish request but-”

Izuku gave her a smile, “Oh, that’s fine! I’m okay with it.”

“As am I.”

His eyes widened. Todoroki wasn’t the type to pose for pictures. There was a video that had gone viral on Twitter where he posed with a child, then jumped up and off a wall to avoid reporters.

The woman smiled, “Oh, thank you! If there’s anything I can do… If you two are ever able to adopt, please, it’s the least thing I could do.”

“It’s fine, it’s our job,” Todoroki said, attempting to get up.

The woman waved her free hand as she took out her phone. “Oh, you don’t have to get up! This will be fine!”

Todoroki hesitated, but nodded, settling back down. Izuku crouched down next to him, picking up a cat to make room.

“Okay,” the woman said, camera to her face. “One, two-” The flash on her phone camera went off. She fiddled with the phone before taking one more without flash.

“Okay! Thank you two so much!”

The two sidekicks stood up, cats vacating the area as their heater got up. “It’s no trouble,” Izuku said with a smile. “Do you want us to help you get the cats back in the cages?”

“No, no! You two have done enough for me! Just make sure no cats follow you home.”

They both gave her a short bow before Todoroki left the backroom. Izuku held the door for a moment, fingers digging into the smooth steel.

“If you want to do me a favor…” He said quietly to the store owner, “can you send that photo to me?”

Her eyes widened. “O-Of course, Deku!”

He gave her a smile, the relieve settling in his heart. “Thank you! You can you the email on my hero website. Have a good day!”

He turned and left the store, as blush crawled up to his cheeks. He had it bad.

-=-=-

The last streams of light from the sun were filtering from between the buildings. He considered hailing a cab to head back to the hero agency, but he decided against it. He had spent much of the time after the fight lounging around with Todoroki, so he could manage the walk back just fine.

As he swiped in to the hero agency, Aoyama step up behind him. “Midoriya, why- achoo! Why are you - achoo!”

“Oh, right, I forgot you were allergic. Sorry, Aoyama, I was helping a pet store and I’m covered in cat hair! I’ll get changed right now!”

“It is alright.” He sniffled. “It is not the end of your shift?”

“I…” The doors slid open and, despite the cool rush of air conditioning, Midoriya felt his neck grow hotter.

“And did you not get hurt in the fight this afternoon?”

“You’re right.”

“As always,” Aoyama said with a sparkle as the turned into the main room where sidekicks did their work. It looked much like an office building, but there was a considerable amount of scorch marks and desks being held up with a pile of not done paperwork. It was a chaotic space, but it was theirs.

“Let me just start some paperwork and check my emails.”

“Bon.” Aoyama let out another sneeze, turning to go to his desk.

Midoriya sat down at his desk, considerably more organized and cleaner than the others, excluding the depressions in the wood made that one time he gripped the desk too hard, waiting for news of a major villain attack.

True to his word, he did get some work done on paperwork, but if he check his email every ten minutes, well no one could prove it.

When he finally did get an email from “Pets Ultra,” he nearly flipped the desk with excitement (something that had been done… three times in the past). He clicked on the email hard, as if the harder he clicked the faster it would open.

The email had a short message, explaining how she was the woman from the pet store, how thankful she was, and how she attached both images.

He glanced around him and, taking solace that the only people in tonight were facing away from his screen.

He clicked on the first image.

It took a minute to load before it popped up. He took in a deep breath, trying to calm himself as his eyes landed on Todoroki, half covered in cats-

And actually smiling.

It was barely a quirk of the lips, but after years of spending time with him, he knew it was a smile. It was the type of smile Todoroki wouldn’t even give reporters. Any official picture had Todoroki stone faced, expressionless to the naked eye.

So, seeing this, it felt like he was looking at something precious.

Midoriya looked around once again, before forwarding the images to his persona email account, shutting off the computer, and gathering his stuff, ignoring the fuzzy feelings in his chest.

As he walked home, his phone buzzed. He opened it, expecting it to be an emergency alert. Instead, a text message from Todoroki popped up.

8:35PM: Were you serious about getting coffee?

His fingers flew as he replied.

8:35PM: Of course! ヽ(^o^)ノ

He stared at his phone for a second before sighing at himself, shoving it in his pocket. He shouldn’t expect Todoroki to respond immediately.

Repeating that sentiment in his head still made the dark walk home feel longer.

By the time he was pulling out his keys to his apartment, his phone buzzed. He whipped it out, nearly flinging it out of his hand. He was momentarily blinded by the bright screen.

8:41PM: How does Friday at 7AM sound?

He beamed at his bright scream.

8:42PM: Sure! (*^▽^*) But where should we go?

His reply came much quicker.

8:42PM: Did you say something about having a free meal at a café?

He read the message, once, twice, three times, but he still couldn’t believe the words on his screen. Was Todoroki flirting with him?

He snapped out his stupor to respond with what was hopefully a “yes” that wasn’t too enthusiastic.

#tododeku #todoroki x izuku #todoroki x midoriya #mha fic #bnha fic #mha #bnha #kappa writes #my fanfic #what am i most proud of with this fic? pets ultra #todoroki #midoriya

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tyttetardis · 6 years

Text

Miranda Does Christmas - Extra material

(Spoilers about the show…well, sorta anyway)

This might be somewhat unhelpful - I’m pretty awful at remembering stuff clearly- but here are a few notes on Miranda Does Christmas and “teasers” about stuff that didn’t make it into the finished show. Luckily most of the best stuff did, but a lot of little things and a few bigger things were unfortunately cut.

I gotta say I’m so glad they kept in the Nigel Farage joke - I loved that! Perfect :D I was certain they wouldn’t have kept it in, so that was such a nice surprise! (On the other hand, I used my mental capacity for remembering direct quotes on this, oops)

Anyway, David talked a bit about how Christmas is a very romantic time at their house what with Georgia’s (”my wife’s”) birthday and them getting engaged on that day too. The audience didn’t “aww” like expected with a story like this (they did with Susan’s engagement story), which was quite frustrating because I was absolutely on the verge of going big on the Aww-ing, but then no one else did and I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. But it really was sweet - just imagine that adorable look on his face whenever he talks about his wife 😍 He looked so chuffed about it :D

Miranda asked him something along the lines of whether he lets his inner Hamlet out when wearing his Christmas-cracker crown - I’m not sure what his exact response was, but I’m pretty sure it was confirmative - jokingly of course, but still!

Debating whether Die Hard is a Christmas film, begrudgingly conceding that it probably is since it does take place during Christmas. This was probably part of the quick-fire quiz - it seems a bit short.

They showed a childhood picture of David when he was around 9, I think he said (or that might have just been with the doll - but even then it can’t be too far off) - I don’t know if it’s a known picture, but I had never seen it before. He was sitting on a couch (I think) unwrapping a gift (I cannot for the life of me remember what it was - even though he explained it! Feel like it might have been one of those chemistry or magic sets....or sth like that) or possibly having unwrapped it and holding it tight in excitement - looking up at the camera as you do when you have something far more interesting to get on with! David commented on the complete lack of Christmas decorations in their house - I don’t recall exactly what he said, but I think it was something like “How depressing is that!”. I have such a clear mental picture of this - but for some reason, my brain just won’t translate it into words.

At some point, David responded with “That’s because it hasn’t been Christmas yet” and you could sort of see his face go “oh!” and everybody pretended like nothing, but it got awkward for a tiny second haha, and then they just quickly moved on!

Miranda did a hip-hop song….about 3 times! And then they didn’t even use it! Though I’m kinda glad they didn’t show us waving about with our hands - I was so confused! But it sounded funny :)

Oh, speaking of singing - they cut out our singalong rendition of Jingle Bells! I guess it was too good - we were quite bad at singing it awfully like she asked us to. But David looked precious meanwhile, so they should absolutely have kept it!

The Choir also had to do their sequence 3-5 times! So while it was very good, it was a bit awkward having to seem excited about it again and again, but it was quite lovely observing David meanwhile. Tapping happily along to the music :D and singing along a bit too, even though I obviously couldn’t hear it.

Well it was quite lovely observing him during the breaks throughout the whole thing - seeing him talk and laugh with the others without being able to hear what they talked about, him checking his phone, eating sweets, being instructed on the next scene, getting re-powdered, him sitting just quietly and waiting, his face going lax - he also promptly jumped out of his seat and went to look at the photo above the chimney, face very close to it and so giving us a lovely view of the other side of him :P

When Miranda asked if anyone knew which song was the Christmas number two David went all Hermione - immediately raising a hand in the air, lifting himself from the chair, going all “ I know” - again, I don’t remember what he said precisely, it all happened very fast. But it was quite funny that it turned out David had the wrong answer.

Regarding David not getting the Leela doll, they talked quite a bit more about it and David said his children certainly wouldn’t have to be afraid to ask for something like that ( Well, more like they wouldn't have to be afraid to wish for anything) - if that’s what they wanted they would absolutely get it! (or something to that effect ). Also, do look up the Leela doll from the 70′s :D they should have gotten him that one - then again, he probably already bought it himself :) They showed a picture on the small screen, so I couldn’t see it, but David said sth about it not being the same version he had wanted back then.

During the reading of the Highway Rat the camera was in front of me in a way so that I could pretty much only see the top of his head, so all I had was just his crazy eyebrow acting the hell out of that piece, which was kinda fantastic! Haha but it was great to see his entire precious face

They recorded the bit with Sam Smith first because he had to leave early, so David did the entrance scene twice (It looks like it might have been the second one they used, he seems a bit loosened up, doesn’t he?), and before Miranda went to do the rap-song David and the others went out again so they could come in later again - David stood and as he walked off the stage he stretched and then looked out at us, shrugging like “I don’t know what’s going on either!”

The telly didn’t do the dancing justice at all! So much better in reality :P No cuts, and full frame! Also before the dancing, Miranda asked them if they had a personal dance-move that they used - and I cannot for the life of me remember what David said or did, I was no doubt laughing too hard, but it was definitely one of those patented David-moves. Not sure if it was him or Susan who talked about having done their dance-moves on many a clubs/nights out, but I think Glasgow came up. I feel like he did the DJ Zig-zag dance move shortly at some point too.

During the first seconds of the pre-recorded clip with Miranda, he squinted at the screen and I think I heard him quip something like “Oh I think I know that bar!” - but I didn’t even notice a bar, so I’ve no idea!

When they sat down to play the car-race game David looked adorably confused and went all “Which one am I?!” - and of course winning the first round anyway. Someone said sth about David being a champion at the game, not sure who, but then Susan upped her game and went all “you’re gonna lose”! They certainly got a bit more into it than it appears on the screen.

At the beginning of the show, the prompt screen read “Miranda Does Christmas. Not sexually” - she didn’t use it a first, but it was mentioned later on, and David said she should’ve just called the show that. No explanation.

Concerning planning Christmas dinner with military-precision he said he makes a time schedule and joked about having put aside scheduled time for family fun “15 minutes, go!”. They cut this talk off quite abruptly, such a shame, as it was also very funny.

It was very lovely the way he hurried over to relieve the choir singer of the stuff he had given her during the “date” immediately after the scene was done. Or, maybe it was right after he was given something to clean his hands with, he looked like he didn’t know what to do with them, and so relieved at being given a cleaning cloth. Either way, it was cute how he bounced over there taking it back.

The talk about that family log of Susan’s went on quite a bit longer - David was so confused by it and then very interested in learning more! He definitely commented a lot more on the subject than it appears :) I don’t remember the details, but I remember laughing a lot!

During the breaks, annoyingly, some people in the audience kept (okay maybe it was only like 2-4 times/people) asking if they could get a hug from David, and the audience entertainer then went “David’s pretending he didn’t hear, but he totally heard” which was kinda funny ‘cause that’s exactly what David looked liked - poor guy!

I really hope they release an extended version of this, because I feel like there’s so much missing! Even if it’s just little things - but there was a lot of lovely talking. You almost get whiplash watching the edited version, it’s so rapid. We were there for about 3 hours, so even with the breaks and the repetitions, that still leaves quite a lot of time unaccounted for in this 45-minute show!

She didn’ ask him about his favourite Christmas song, so, unfortunately, that wasn’t just cut - would have been nice. She also didn’t ask him about a tradition like she did the others - or do the which-of-these-is the-correct-answer...

#david tennant #miranda does christmas #miranda hart #anja rambles again #gah someone please give me photographic memory skills!#well even if i don't remember all the stuff it was certainly a blast being there for the whole thing!#but it was so confusing to watch!#i've not actually seen the two other recordings i have gone to so i was not prepared!#it was disorienting how quickly things were happening! and then in a completely different order and with so much cut!#it's like passing out in the middle of a conversation and then having to pretend you know exactly what was just said to follow along #also i had no idea who anyone but david was haha so that was kinda awkward!#especially when sam went into the audience to hand out tickets and everyone went nuts clapping haha but i sorta just awkwardly clapped alon #but it also seems like no one else knew david was coming haha they all seemed surprised!#i also liked susan - even if she was a bit talkative! but very sweet - and i feel like i have a lot in common with her!#she had a lot of comments that had me laughing - many of which didn't make it into the show either #they also had to have a break to give her a jacket - i think she was too sparkly!#obs if they should release additional stuff and it turns out i misremembered everything please kindly ignore me hahah :p #wish i had been naughty and recorded this - haha such a chicken!

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fearofyoongi-blog · 6 years

Text

Oblivious To My Dreams

[ Illusion Of A Gift ]

tags: college au, youtuber taehyung, dancer jimin, dancer jungkook, new york city, yoonmin, eventual taekook vmin (platonic), taegi (platonic)

main character: kim taehyung

word count: 5243

Heavy eyelids kept his sight blurry at first. The groggy student wasn't sure where he was, but then little things began to filter through. Foremost it was the light, pastel, red on every wall. Then the paintings and printed art pieces became recognizable. With ease, Taehyung figured out that he was in his own room, safe and sound. Even so, he allowed his eyes to wonder. The camera set up for his YouTube channel occupied a small section in his room by a window. Only a yard away from it rested his computer desk. Near his door laid a bag of dirty laundry, which made him curse because he realized he hadn’t gone to the dry cleaner yet. His closet space was somewhere between his bed and desk, but Tae didn’t bother much about it. Instead he recalled the night before.

He couldn’t be sure how everyone else felt when they woke up this morning, but Taehyung was not feeling well. Sitting up in his bed seemed like a chore; slacking his jaw for a yawn felt like an exercise. There was no symptom of a headache though. Which was fortunate for him, because one glance at his phone made Tae realize that his school day started in two hours. Why did I agree to go out last night? Taehyung cursed to himself as he slid out of his bed. From afar he could overhear his roommate scuffling about in the living room. Tae assumed that Jimin let Yoongi stay the night. There were two voices, and the extra one was heading out the door. Giving his body a much needed stretch, Taehyung tucked his feet into his favorite slippers before making his way to the bathroom.

His suspicions were correct. Yoongi departed seconds ago, leaving Jimin and Taehyung alone. As soon as the blonde spotted him, Tae offered the other a cheeky grin. “You’re getting up now? Don’t you have class soon?” Jimin asked him, to which Taehyung responded with a tired nod. “You didn’t eat anything yesterday, I bet.”

Now that it's mentioned Taehyung recalled his meals from yesterday. Avocado toast at 10AM. A small fruit salad at 2PM. He managed to munch on a egg salad sandwich when he returned home from school at around 3PM. So Jimin was correct. No wonder he wasn’t feeling so well. He felt so lousy. To his dismay, Taehyung began to accept his fate. He wouldn’t have time to grab anything to eat before his first class either.

As he continued his journey to the bathroom, Jimin followed. For some reason, he started talking despite Tae’s lack of conversation. “Yoongi kept talking about you last night,” He said in a hum, a hint of jealousy falling from his tone. Tae peeked at his friend taking a seat on the toilet while he rambled. “After we got out of the car, when we were in bed, he wouldn’t stop.” Taehyung gulped as he began applying toothpaste to his toothbrush. He remained silent because it seemed like this was going somewhere. “He liked your singing.”

One glance at Jimin, and Taehyung could sense the disappointment. Not only in his facial expression but in his pout as well. Pulling the toothbrush from his mouth, Tae replied. “I already told him I’m not interested in singing.” The guy answered before going back to what he was doing.

“You should do it anyway,” Jimin retorted in a matter-of-fact tone. From the corner of his eye, Taehyung could see his friend staring at his own hands. Brows began to knit together at the sight. What was on his mind? “He thinks you have talent. There’s this track he has been working on for weeks now and-- and he wants you on it. He’s been looking for someone to do it with. The original writer backed out.”

“Why can’t you do it?” Tae grumbled through minty paste before he spat. There seemed to be a lot more to this than his blonde friend would admit aloud. Which was fine, they didn’t get into deep conversations very often. “You’re more than capable. Why does he want me?”

The other only shook his head. “I’m too busy. You said it yesterday. School, work, that internship, my practices. It’ll be too much,” Jimin reasoned, his kind eyes peering up at Taehyung with sullen. “It would be fun to work with him but… it doesn’t matter. He wants you, and I told him that I would help convince you.”

A scoff of amusement escaped Tae’s throat unwillingly. The guy busied himself with washing his face as his roommate spoke. Disinterested as he seemed to Jimin, Taehyung thought in favor of this collaboration. Especially if the other wanted them to do this. “Help convince me? What makes you think I would want to?”

“You love to sing, Tae. You do it all the time. In the shower, in the car, in your room. You think because you’ve never had vocal training that you’re no good, but it’s untrue!” Jimin laid out his argument without pause, using his hands to make his point. “I’ll always support you, in everything you do, but I won’t let you continue to put your ambitions aside for-- for nothing.”

Tae had finishing rinsing his face and began to pat it dry when he stopped. Jimin’s words caught up to him. Licking over his lips, he shot the other a warning glare. As usual, they began a conversation with only their gaze. Don’t you dare, he said, in a glare, to his friend.

I’ll go there if I have to, Jimin’s eyes said back.

It was quiet in the bathroom for a minute or so. Taehyung was the first to pull away from the staring contest. He did not have time for this, his class started soon and the last thing he wanted to do was be late. Not over this. “If you want this done so bad, you should do it yourself. You should tell him you want to, and that he should pick someone excited to work with him.”

“--He didn’t want me!” Jimin blurted without a second thought, which caused Taehyung to look at him in shock. After that, the blonde guy needed a moment to settle down. Biting on his bottom lip to restrain himself from saying more. “He didn’t want me on the track,” Jimin corrected himself before continuing. “He knows what he wants.” Shifting his eyes from Taehyung, Jimin reached into his back pocket and huffed.

Taehyung allowed him to do whatever he was doing. He looked away and finished putting himself together. Which didn’t involve much. Tae raked his fingers through his brown hair and pushed it forward. Afterwards, he applied a lip balm and watched Jimin again. For some reason, this was going on longer than needed. Feeling impatient, Taehyung peered at his friend’s phone. Without pause, he noticed Jimin sending him a message. “I’m just sharing Yoongi's contact information, don’t be annoying.” Jimin scoffed before glaring at him. Overhearing his own phone’s notification tone, he pursed his lips. “That’s his cellphone number and the number to his studio. He’s going to be expecting your call, so, do it soon.”

With that, Jimin stood up straight and cleared his throat. Offering a bashful expression, Taehyung hid his lips in his mouth. The college student shifted his sight to the ground as a means to not hold his friend’s gaze. Before Jimin exited the small bathroom, Tae spoke again. “It’s not that I don’t want to sing,” He admitted. “I never wanted to be a singer. I never wanted to do that before.”

“...And his offer makes you think you can do it, hmm?” Jimin added without missing a beat. Tae nodded at that. Shy, unsure, but his friend understood. “Stop hiding from your desires, for once, Taehyung. Stop hiding behind glasses and books and… fear. For once, do something because you want to. Not because you want other people to know that you know what’s best.”

Refocusing his attention, Taehyung watched the Adam’s Apple in Jimin’s throat bob. Tae didn’t comment on his friend's advice. They left the conversation without regard. His best friend disappeared to his room while Taehyung returned to his own. The first thing he did was lift his phone to check for the text message that Jimin sent. As promised, Yoongi’s contact information was readily available. Whenever he was.

That alone took several days to address. Not by choice either. This Spring semester offered plenty of trial and tribulation. It would be his final term before graduation, and that was stressful enough in and of itself. On top of that, Tae held the task of recording his YouTube video for the following week. Which, in all honesty, seemed like a chore this time than any other.

Taehyung changed the concept of his original idea. Rather than discussing the basics of Hanja and the debate of whether it is necessary to learn, Tae opted for a vlog. There was much to talk about. Whenever he couldn’t talk to Jimin, or his parents, Tae would use his platform to speak without judgement. Vlogging felt like a diary. Those who subscribed to his channel stayed for reasons even Taehyung stopped understanding.

But he spoke anyway. The pensive guy talked plans after college, his plans for the channel, and, of course, he talked about Jimin. Even inserting funny pictures that were too good for Instagram. Then he mentioned his three year anniversary of living in the United States. Throughout the entire recording, Tae had spoken with ease and cheerful. Yet for that specific part, he caught himself perking up. It felt wrong to talk about this night and not bring up the boy who captured his curiosity.

“I’m sorry I am smiling all the sudden,” Taheyung said to the camera as he used his finger to draw out the curve of his mouth. “A lot happened that I would hate to get into, but I met a boy and it--- it made my night. I’m not going to lie. I love Jimin and I thought his boyfriend was great, but there was another guy there that I wish I had said more to. I hope all you out there take every chance you can to make yourself happy. Even if it’s talking to someone who makes you smile. Do it. Don’t let it pass you by.” Then he recalled the Uber driver, and his own story. Which made him smile even wider. “Never.”

This conversation with his camera lasted another thirty minutes before Taehyung ended it. He had every intention of editing the video tonight and having it ready for his post date. In spite of these plans, his mind wondered without aim. It bounced between the boy at the bar. Then to his conversation with Jimin this morning. Then to the question he had been ask almost a week ago. 'Then what’s your thing?' Rang in his ear. It chimed and beeped and drove him mad. If he didn’t do this song with Yoongi, he would regret it. Jimin knew, and now so did he.

All it took was one thought of the boy from the bar. The more Tae thought about him, the more he wished to have made a reality. Tae sat back in the chair at his desk, fingers clasped together as he imagined the stranger holding his hand. What a luxury it would be, to see this boy ever again. To know him, to be around him again. Tae couldn’t help but laugh to himself as he wondered what advice this boy would offer him right now. Was it too cheesy to indulge in an imaginary conversation?

Another few minutes passed before Taehyung was able to snap out of his thoughts. Gone was the fanatical world he immersed himself in. The stranger from the bar was nothing, if only a dream. He wouldn’t see him again, so there was no need for the extra consideration. Taehyung had to embrace the opportunity in front of him. Swallowing his nerves, Tae reached for his phone on the desk and huffed. He scrolled through a week’s worth of a text conversation with Jimin before finding Yoongi’s information.

First, he called the cellphone. No luck. Which made him nervous, but didn’t give up because he had one more option. Taehyung punched in the direct line to Yoongi’s studio and waited. The phone rang for what felt like forever until a familiar voice answered. “Kim Taehyung,” The condescending voice said without a proper greeting.

“Jimin?” Tae said with a wry laugh. “Aren’t you supposed to be in dance practice?” How late was it? He rushed to check the time before he heard Jimin chuckle.

“I’m leaving now. I was here helping Yoongi with something.”

A snort escaped him before he grinned to himself. “Does that mean what I think it does?”

Jimin cackled even harder. “Maybe,” He answered without missing a beat. “And if you’re calling for what I know you’re calling for, come by now. Yoongi has the studio for another few hours. He just got here, actually. We both did.”

“He isn’t busy? I didn’t plan on seeing him today… I was only calling to see if--”

“To see if he still wants you? Yeah, he does,” Jimin interjected. “I’ll text you the address of his building. I won’t be here when you come by, but please come anyway.”

“I bet that’s what he said,” Tae snorted, which caused his friend to erupt with even louder laughing.

“I’ll tell him you called. He’ll wait for you,” It was amusing to see how much Jimin wanted this collaboration to happen. If anything, it excited Taehyung even more. It felt encouraging, which was a feeling quite foreign to the boy without his family. Other than Jimin, Taehyung didn’t have many friends. Not near him. Until Yoongi, he hadn’t met anyone new that he forced him to know better. How odd was it to befriend a boyfriend of a best friend?

Jimin had all sorts of friends, and they loved him without hesitation. Friends from work, from school, from dance, from everywhere. He made friends with their local coffee shop owner as well, it was strange. Taehyung was an outgoing guy, don’t be mistaken, still he never kept up with his acquaintances. Rather he nurtured his friendship and closeness with Jimin. In other words, he clung to his bond and hoped it would remain that way. If it meant doing this one thing for Yoongi, and it brought him closer to Jimin, then he would do it.

Taehyung was the one to end the call with Jimin. From there, he shot up from his chair and began to ready himself to leave. Collecting his water bottle, keys and bus card before finally receiving a text from Jimin. There it was, the location of Yoongi’s studio. It was now or never, either go or let this opportunity slip by. Without missing a beat, the stranger’s face appeared in his thoughts. No, Taehyung snorted. No more missed opportunities.

The distance between Yoongi’s studio and his apartment was not much. It was no wonder Jimin would leave and return within the hour sometimes. Once he recalled during a movie night that his friend left a charger at Yoongi’s studio. With how inconvenient Jimin made it seem, Taehyung assumed that this studio was far. It was the opposite of that, and his roommate returned before the movie even ended.

Outside, the building stood tall and greyish. There was an obvious scheme of this neighborhood, an image Taehyung couldn’t help admire. Each shop that he passed before arriving to his location left him in awe. A quaint antique shop with one large bay window. A bicycle repair store lined with bicycles outside. Even a corner store with music playing outside. Everyone went about their days when Tae walked by. It was a gorgeous street and a good place that fit Yoongi’s aesthetic. When he walked into the office space, he was sure he had the right place.

It was small but tidy. The front end, that looked like a retail shop, was only furnished with chairs and a desk. The back part divided by a large door covered with a curtain. Taehyung cleared his throat as he stepped further inside. Even though Jimin said he wouldn’t be here, the guy wished he would be anyway. “Hello?” Tae worked up the courage to speak out, heading for the curtain. “Yoongi? Min Yoongi? Are you here?”

In under a second, a voice called back for him. “Yeah, come back--” The other said with a sense of brashness. It intimidated Taehyung, but he did as asked. Taking large strides with hurry. The back of the building seemed as empty as the front. Again, chairs littered the hallway. There was also a mini fridge. On top of it, a little yellow flower sat in a vase. He smiled at it before a voice interjected. “Jimin brings it back to life for me,” Taehyung turned quickly to find who was speaking. Yoongi was behind him, smiling. “He comes by and gives it water and some flower food. Says keeping it around’ll bring good oxygen flow or something…”

He hated to be the bearer of bad news, but did it anyway. “You’ll need more than one flower to do that.” Tae responded with a shy voice, gulping as he gazed back at the single, lonely, flower.

“Yeah… but don’t tell him that. I don’t need a bouquet sitting back here.” Yoongi said with a groan as he turned back to his studio. “C’mon, I’ve been waiting for you.”

Not wanting to make him wait any longer, Taehyung hurried behind the guy. Yoongi was as tall as Jimin, and they were both shorter than Tae, yet he cowered behind them for some reason. Neither were intimidating by any means but Tae felt overpowered by their personalities. He couldn’t help it. “I’m sorry you had to wait this long,” He felt the need to say.

“It’s fine,” Yoongi responded as the wisp of his hand. “Close the door behind you.”

Taehyung opened his mouth to say something, but closed it immediately after. Instead he did as Yoongi requested, and closed the door. “So… How does this work exactly?” He asked with a sense of doubt. For some reason, unbeknownst to Taehyung, the question made Yoongi chuckle.

“You record videos, don’t you? For Youtube?”

Taehyung bounced his head around, almost in agreement. “Well, yeah, but that’s not the same.”

“It is so the same,” Yoongi countered. “What do you do to prepare?”

The dreaded question made him groan. Licking his lips, Taehyung sat down in a rolling chair with a huff. “I plan out my video? I sometimes make a script, for what I want to talk about. That’s not the same as--”

Before he could add anything else to his explanation, Yoongi plopped three pages of music in front of him. The letters typed, and also handwritten. Red pen ink scribbled along the side were notes of a very obvious, complicated past. Taehyung looked up at Yoongi and followed him as he sat down in a chair. “What’s this?” He asked, seeming a oblivious.

“Your script.” Yoongi contented.

“Script,” Taehyung repeated absentmindedly, starting to shuffling through the pages. He seemed surprised to find out that his part wouldn’t be big. According to the red ink splattered on the page, two verses were for Yoongi and one verse was for some other artist. Then the chorus and the bridge belonged to Taehyung. If he wanted it. After licking his lips, his brow knitted together. He read through some of lyrics and found himself intrigued by the story. Yoongi was a great writer, Tae deduced immediately, but something else stuck out to him. One word, one small word.

Daegu.

Taehyung’s head shot up so fast, he could’ve given himself whiplash. Yoongi flinched at the response. The other became confused by the reaction. Yet it didn’t take him long to catch on. “Jimin told me where you were from,” He spoke up before Tae could. “I wasn’t a farmer’s son myself but… I knew what it meant to be where we’re from.” Tae’s throat became dry in an instant. “I grew up with nothing too. My mom worked a lot and my dad killed himself to make our lives comfortable. I know what you endured.”

“You say that like I hated my life,” Tae interjected, shaking his head. “I didn’t hate my life. I didn’t dislike it. I--”

“Wanted something more? Watched your family struggle to make ends meet while you felt like you couldn’t do anything?” Yoongi tilted his head. “You don’t have to hate your life to want better, you know.”

“I know.”

“That’s all this song is saying,” The platinum blonde guy pointed at the paper in Taehyung’s hand. “No one else in this city could portray that better than you. I know that for a fact.”

“A fact?” Taehyung scoffed.

Yoongi only shrugged. “Look at where you are. You’re in New York. You came from the middle of nowhere, from a small city in South Korea. You’re in college. As far as I know, you’ve already made it.” Shifting in his chair, Taehyung felt uncomfortable with these assumptions. Yoongi seemed to notice as well, and attempted to correct himself. “Or maybe you haven’t yet, but you’re getting there. You will get there.”

“And you? You said you’re from Daegu too, but how do you feel?” Taehyung challenged him with a ticked brow. “Do you feel like you made it?”

Yoongi paused at the question. Planting his back on the chair, he offered a half smirk at Taehyung before offering an eventual nod. “I made my parents proud of me, for pursuing my dreams. If that’s what you’re asking me.”

Whatever point he was trying to make did not turn out in his favor. Tae sunk into himself and pursed his lips. Eyeing the paper one last time before glancing at Yoongi. “My parents are proud of me too. They are. They’re proud that their son is in America, living the American dream. Attending college, getting a degree. They’re proud of that.”

“So make them prouder.” Yoongi interrupted, wheeling his chair and pushing the paper closer to Taehyung. “Do this song, and make my own dreams come true. Give me the chance to make something from my heart come to life. Most importantly, make this song, and give the others in Daegu a chance of optimism. There’s other kids out there who have dreams, but feel like they can’t accomplish them, I’m sure of it. They’re… standing in their parents’ farms and thinking, this is it for me.” Yoongi snorted. “This song could give them hope, if it’s done correctly, by two boys who made it out.”

Yes, his words were inspiring. More inspiring than the lecture Jimin offered a week ago. Taehyung had his fears, his doubts, but Yoongi had a point. So did Jimin. This was not a simple song. This song would go on and into whatever project Yoongi had planned. It would help Taehyung step out of the shadows of his doubt. As motivating as Yoongi’s speech had been, Taehyung seemed convinced from the start. The moment he saw his birthplace in the lyrics. Like Jimin said, he hides behind himself. It was time to step out. “I’ll do it.” He finally answered.

Yet Yoongi shrugged a shoulder. “I know,” He hummed. “I know because I know you want to sing. You won’t admit it to yourself, but you’re going to enjoy it.”

Taehyung giggled off the accusation, shaking his head. “Just… let me listen to the song already. Tell me how I’m supposed to do all this.” He said, hoping to change the subject.

“Sure thing,” Yoongi replied with a wider grin than before. Tae hadn’t noticed before, but the man wasn’t of many words. He didn’t say much unless necessary, and Taehyung enjoyed that about him thus far. Where Jimin managed to fill in every moment of silence, Tae appreciated. Yet it was nice to sit beside someone who didn’t need to do the same. It was a pleasant surprise to know he underestimated himself. To realize that he underestimated Yoongi. Jimin was right. Taehyung was starting to like this guy.

When two hours passed, and Taehyung started to match the lyrics to the melody, they decided on taking a break. Yoongi ordered a pizza for the both of them and they sat idly with it. As he took a bite from the pepperoni pizza slice in hand, Yoongi scrolled through his phone. Taehyung watched from the side of his eye, noticing the other had opened his Instagram app. Licking his lips, he parted them to speak, but hesitated. He did that about three times before he overheard Yoongi laugh.

“Speak up,” The guy peered at him. “Go ahead and ask.”

Taehyung returned the glance with a shy smile. “I’m sorry,” Was all he could muster before shoving more of his own pizza slice into his mouth. “It’s just-- the dance group. From last week? That you met in the bar? Are they still following you?” Yoongi fell silent for a while. Tae wasn’t sure why. It made him insecure, for some reason, to sit like this. Even removing his eyes from the screen to give the other his privacy. He wondered how Yoongi could even remember when he asked about the group the first time around. As he was about to call off the question, the music producer spoke up.

“Yeah, they’re still following me.” Yoongi’s thumb worked overtime as it tapped on the screen until he found the Instagram account. A second later, he passed the phone over to Taheyung.

Frantically, Tae settled his slice of pizza back in the box and scrolled through the pictures. When his eyes landed on a familiar face, his breath hitched. Which caused Yoongi to blurt a stifled laugh. Taehyung looked up at him with a bashful smirk. “Sorry, sorry, go ahead.” Yoongi assured before remaining quiet again.

“That’s him,” Tae breathed, finding a selfie on the account. It was only a picture, but the guy looked as attractive as Tae remembered.

“The guy you wanted to know about that night?” Yoongi asked curiously as he peeked at his own phone. “Yeah… I remember him now. He sat beside me, in the booth. He couldn’t drink though, he was under 21. He was actually quieter than the other guys, now that I think about it.”

“His name’s Jungkook,” Tae added, glancing to Yoongi. It felt like he could finally breathe. A name to the face he remembered so well. “What else do you remember about him?” If anything at all, Taehyung wanted more to think about.

“Honestly, not much. I told you, I was only talking to my roommate, Jin. The others would speak to Jin but kept it short with me. I didn’t mind,” Yoongi shrugged. “They didn’t speak much English. Only the manager, umm…” He started to snap his fingers before he took his phone back from Taehyung. Tae figured the other needed to see the face to remember the name. “That one, yeah. Namjoon. Namjoon spoke English but the others… I don’t know if they did, and didn’t want to, or just didn’t.”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Taehyung hesitantly took Yoongi’s phone back and stared at the picture of Jungkook on the screen. He wasn’t up front like the other dance members. Still Tae had a good view of his face. A sense of relief washed over him as he took one last stare at the stranger. Yoongi seemed nice enough to give him this reunion, which he was thankful for. Deep down, Taehyung settled on the idea that they would never meet. Still, it was nice to be finally introduced. No matter how minuscule.

“Do you… wanna follow them real quick before we get back to work?” Yoongi asked with an unsure tone. Taehyung seemed trapped in his thoughts, but returned when spoken to. The music producer tried again. “Who knows, maybe he’ll remember you.”

At that comment, Taehyung scoffed. “No, no way,” He felt confident in that decision. “We… stared at each other. We locked eyes. That was all. It wasn’t anything more than that. If it was, it would’ve-- he would’ve-- I--” He didn’t have the proper explanation for why they didn’t speak. Still he looked over at Yoongi as if he provided enough of an answer. “It’s pointless anyway, you said they don’t even live around here, so.. It’s pointless,” Tae repeated himself as he kept on talking himself out of this. “I only wanted to know his name.” Reluctance took over as he returned the phone to its owner.

Just like that, Yoongi took his phone and offered nothing else on the subject. Again, it was refreshing to have a prespective that simple. Taehyung thought about Jimin, and how he would have reacted. It made him snort to himself. He thought about Jimin and how he would have followed and sent the account a message. Jimin was shameless like that. Taehyung, not so much. It was nice to know that Yoongi did not bare the same quality as his boyfriend. Rather than continue to the talk of Jungkook, Yoongi clapped his hands and closed the pizza box. “Well, if you’re done here, let’s get back to work.”

For the rest of the night, the boys worked diligently. Taehyung, at some point, zoned out. The music affected him more than he ever thought it could. The lyrics, his script, became an extension of his arm until it wasn’t needed anymore. In no time, he memorized the bridge and chorus and was singing it like a third language. What made Yoongi even happier was that Taehyung created ad-libs to his part.

Later in the evening, Yoongi offered Taehyung a chance to record what he had remembered. Each line left his lips and traveled through the microphone. A love of success, self-love and motivation rang true in the studio. Regardless of his inner thoughts and desires for Jungkook, Taehyung never felt this at peace. That passion burned in his stomach. If it weren’t for the melody and the meaning of this song, who knew what would’ve become of him. Thankful that Yoongi kept him busy. Recording and re-recording until Jimin began calling the both of them home.

#please do not repost or reblog. likes are okay!#taehyung fanfic #bts fanfic #taekook fanfic #chapter series: oblivious to my dreams

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theresnosafeharbor4myships · 7 years

Text

December 10, Christmas Caryl

Daryl has a surprise gift for Carol (also on 9L)

Made For You

It’d been Maggie’s idea to sit around the tree she’d begged him to drag in and sing Christmas carols. Glenn had produced a surprise box of hot chocolate mix, and Carol and Beth were serving the sweet concoction in the sundry mugs they’d collected over the past several months while the other sat huddled in blankets and jackets, warding off the assumedly-December chill.

He’d never admit it to any of them, but this had to be one of the best moments of his life.

Christmas had always been an excuse for Daddy Dixon to drink extra hard, which had left him and Merle to hide out, far away from the reach of their father’s arm. Christmas had never been a celebration for him, never been happy or fun or something to look forward to, not like the kids in school or the girls Merle brought around. He’d always felt glad when it was over so he could at least sleep with a roof over his head, as scary as it was sometimes.

The people he’d known, the ones who’d enjoyed the Christmas season anyway, were some of the greediest he’d ever met. Always wanting more toys or games or sporting equipment or bikes. Even if he’d believed in Santa—which he hadn’t, because Merle had cured him of that fantasy the day he came running home from school with it—he never would have asked for stuff. He’d have asked for his mama back. Or a new dad. Hell, a new family. Someone to wipe away the blood his dad’s fists and belt drew out of him. To help with chores on days he could barely stand because of the broken bones, cramped muscles, or bruised he’d been dealt. Or maybe just someone to hug him on those lonely nights when tears seeped from his eyes under the weight of all the dark secrets his heart held about the truth of his family. His loneliness. His want for something more. His fear he’d never get it. And on some nights his fear for his life.

Of course, he got none of those things—the things that really mattered and would’ve changed his life—while others received toys that would lose their importance in a few weeks.

No, Christmas had never meant anything special to him until now. Until he watched a ragtag group of once-strangers gather in a prison mess hall lit with mismatched candles, sit around an undecorated and withering tree, and sing songs of hope from a world long dead. Smiles on their faces. Love for each other evident on their contented faces. Grateful for the meager meal of squirrel and opossum. Ecstatic over barely-full mugs of hot water and stale chocolate powder.

Here at the end of the world, he’d found his new family, the wish he’d wanted to make but never had for fear of disappointment.

A man he was proud to follow. Two kids and a baby he’d protect with his last breath. Men he could call brothers. Women who were stronger than anyone had ever given them credit for. A father—grandfather to some. And one special woman who made his head swim and his blood boil like lava.

His eyes left the group in front of him and settled on her. She’d given Beth her heavy coat for the night, leaving a threadbare sweater her only protection against the chill of the night. Still, she wore a smile as she handed out the mugs of hot chocolate, eyes twinkling in the faint candlelight as the other sang. She encouraged Beth to sit down as she grabbed the last two mugs.

Unfamiliar with most of the songs, he’d hung back from the others, a part of the festivities but on guard, so he was the last one to receive the cup of warmth.

He stood as she approached, holding out his cup. “Here,” he mumbled, taking his poncho off and slinging it around her shoulders.

“Oh!” he heard her gasp lightly in surprise.

“Too damn cold to be without a jacket,” he reprimanded gently, not wanting to draw everyone’s attention to them.

She turned to face him. “Thank you.”

He took the proffered cup and stared at her, longing to make a move, to pull her close and make sure she stayed warm enough. And let her continue thawing out his heart. She’d chipped away at the frost for months now, with her feathery touches and honest smiles, the flirtations that made him want things with her he’d never wanted with anyone, the trust she placed in him, the value she saw in him. The way she could make him smile and laugh. The way he caught her staring at him sometimes. The boil she set his blood to and the racing of his heart.

The look she was giving him now wasn’t helping any, a sexy mix of gratitude and compassion and—if he didn’t know any better—desire.

She scared the shit out of him.

Lifting the cup and nodding his thanks, he sat back down and watched as she pulled the poncho tighter around herself, snuggling into the fabric warm with his body heat.

She walked behind him, and he only barely refrained from following her with his eyes.

“Thanks for keeping me warm.”

Her unexpected whisper slipped into his ear on a breath, slithered its way to his heart, then lower still, sending his body on high alert, all senses attuned to her.

Her hand rested softly on his shoulder for a brief moment, then trailed across his shoulder blades as she walked away, leaving him frozen in place and wildly aflame.

Did she know what she was doing to him?

She sat between Michonne and Maggie, and they huddled close, even as the caroling continued. She joined in, and he watched her. Laughing with the others. Enthralled by the Christmas cheer. Holding Judy as she was passed around. Whispering with Michonne. And sending him a mixture of heated stares and innocent smiles.

She was driving him mad.

He debated whether to give her the gift he had for her. She’d either love it or hate it. He hoped for the former but with his luck assumed it’d be the latter. Besides, the others weren’t exchanging gifts. Well, except for Glenn and Maggie, but that was to be expected.

But he’d worked damn hard on it. And it was already wrapped and tied up with string. And that’s when he’d lost his nerve. Not while trying to think of a gift she’d like, not while making it, not while coming up empty-handed when searching for wrapping paper only to settle for a brown paper bag and string. No, it was the thought of giving it to her and watching as she unwrapped it and not being entirely sure of the outcome. It had plagued him for days.

The singing suddenly stopped, and Daryl looked up to find everyone still basking in the final notes echoing through the tombs.

“That was beautiful,” Hershel praised, a contented, peaceful expression on his face.

“It was,” Rick agreed, then patted Carl on the back. “’S time for bed now.”

Daryl watched Carol gather the cups and take them to the wash tub as the group dispersed for the night. No one offered to help her. No one thanked her, either.

He knew they appreciated her. And everyone pitched in with the sundry tasks of everyday life. Still…it irked him.

He ambled her way, grabbing for the wash tub just as she went to lift it. “I got it.”

Surprise filled her face. “It’s no problem. I can do it.”

“I know you can. Just let me. I’ll take it outside and the kids can wash ‘em tomorrow. Too cold for you to be out there tonight.”

Her face softened, and before he knew it, her hands settled on his arm, granting her leverage as she stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. With a small smile on her pixie face, she turned and walked into the cell block, leaving him alone.

He sighed, heaved the full wash bin up, and took it outside. After depositing it in their make-shift kitchen, he huffed his way to the watch tower, zipping his jacket all the way up to ward off the cold.

He whistled up to Sasha, and a few seconds later she appeared over the edge of the railing. “You warm enough up there?”

“Got the down blankets and a thermos of tea. And these.” She held up her hands to show off a pair of winter gloves. “I’ll be aright until it’s Glenn’s turn for watch.”

He nodded and waved goodnight, then retreated inside, locking the door behind him. Murmuring and movement came from a few of the cells, but when he climbed the stairs, he saw no light from behind Carol’s cell-curtain.

His heart sunk, but he figured fate had made his decision for him. No gift for Carol tonight. And there’s always tomorrow.

He shuffled to his cell and withdrew the blanket covering the entrance, only to be startled by the face staring back at him. “Shit,” he exhaled, his heart hammering wilding in his chest. “What’re you doin’ in here? Somethin’ wrong?” he asked, suddenly worried.

Carol moved aside as he stepped in, peering around the small cell.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she answered quietly.

“You okay? Why don’t you have a light?” Underneath his concern lay the questions he withheld. Why are you here? In my cell? Alone in the dark? What are you trin’ to do to me?

“I have one.” She flicked a flashlight on. “See?” In the light she offered, he lit the small lantern he kept, then turned to her, his face a question mark she was afraid to answer. “I just…thank you.” His brow furrowed in confusion. “For helping me. Taking care of me.” Though still wrapped around her, she lifted the poncho fabric in one hand to illustrate.

He nodded in response, too afraid to speak. She was ethereal, standing there before him in dim lighting, wrapped in his warmth, eyes pools of…want?

He had to be crazy.

His heart beat faster as they held each others’ gaze. For a moment, he thought he had the courage to lean toward her and touch her lips with his, to show her in a new way what she meant to him.

But fear seized him again, and he cleared his throat, breaking the spell.

“I, uh…” He cleared his throat again, forcing his heart back into place. “I got this for ya.”

He moved around her and pulled the crudely wrapped package from the foot of his bed, holding it out to her. He felt her eyes on him, but he stared at the small gift in his hand until she took it from him. Her soft fingers slid over his callused ones and sent sparks through his blood.

It was too late to take it back now, yet that’s exactly what he wanted to do. To erase the possibility of her wrath or discontentment.

He feared the worst.

“Daryl,” she breathed. “I…”

“You gonna open it?” he asked nervously.

He finally met her gaze, and this time there was no mistake. The heat was there.

A greater height to fall from if she didn’t like it.

“Yes.” She untied the string as if it were the finest ribbon, then unrolled the crinkled brown paper to find a wooden figure small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. She turned to the light and held it up to get a good look, gasping in response.

Daryl’s heart froze, and he instantly threw up the walls he kept at the ready. She hated it. Probably wouldn’t speak to him for a month. And rightly so. What’d he been thinking? It was too painful. Why would she want to keep it?

She turned slowly back to him, and he prepared for the verbal onslaught, knowing he deserved it.

“Daryl…” she whispered.

She didn’t sound mad.

“Did you make this?”

She sounded stunned. In awe. Surprised.

He shuffled where he stood. “Yeah…”

She plopped down onto his bed, eyes never leaving the figurine in her reverent palms, even as the poncho slipped askew and fell from one shoulder.

He eased down next to her, hesitant and entirely unsure of her thoughts. “If…you don’t’ like it—”

“No!” She accompanied her protest with a hand to his arm, and even through his jacket, he could feel the heat from her touch. “No. It’s stunning. It’s perfect. So much like her.”

They both stared at the pine-whittled rendering of Sophia, eternally captured in her rainbow t-shirt and pants rolled up to just under her knees, a doll tucked under her left arm. Her cherubic face peered back at them, a knowing but sweet, innocent girl-smile on her face.

“How’d you learn to do this?” Carol wondered in awe.

He couldn’t meet her eyes, instead giving a one-shouldered shrug. “My grandpa taught me a few things when I was a kid. And I spent a lotta hours out in the woods with nuthin’ to do. Got kinda good.”

“Kinda good?” she repeated. “This is…I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s amazing. And you…” Her voice cracked and she paused. “…you made this for me?”

He’d imagined this moment many times with various endings, and she hadn’t cried in a single one of those. But damn if she didn’t look sweetly kissable right now. His poncho hanging half off of her, face lit by soft lantern-light, sitting on his bed, and staring up at him with jeweled starbursts in her eyes.

He swallowed hard. “Just…wanted you to have something…and I thought…” He shrugged, at a loss for words.

The hand that’d stayed on his arm slid up over his bicep and into his frazzled hair.

She was setting him on fire. She’d been dousing him with lighter fluid for months, sparking him with flirtations and sensual glances and companionship and just…being. But now she’d thrown the lit match on the tinder of his heart. And body.

She was touching him. Her fingers easing back and forth against his scalp in a sensual rhythm he was helpless to ignore. His eyes closed, and he inadvertently leaned into her touch.

Before he knew what was happening, he felt her breath whisper across his cheek. “Thank you.”

He let out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding as she kissed his cheek.

So close.

She lingered, and something heady rose up in him. “You missed.”

He didn’t know he was going to speak until he heard his words with his own ears.

“I did?”

Her whisper sent shivers through him. He could only hope she was having a similar reaction or he’d never be able to face her again.

Though terrified, he made himself turn to her and was shocked to find her as mesmerized by him as he was by her.

His eyes flicked to her lips, and he inched towards her. “Yeah…you did,” he murmured just before touching her smiling lips with his trembling ones.

He’d kissed a small number of women, but not a one of them set fireworks off in his brain or his heart to beating like a bass drum. Any second now, he knew she’d shove him away and things would never be the same between them again. But for this moment, he let the tender tide of awe and wonder drag him blissfully under her spell.

She was so soft, her lips moving with his in a simple but erotic rhythm. He felt more than heard her moan, causing one to escape from him. She moved her hand to cup his head, and then her body was pressed to his side, her chest against his arm, her hip against his, her other hand flat against his chest.

Far too soon, she was withdrawing from him, but he was much too enamored to move, let alone prepare for the coming reprimand he expected.

“No one’s ever made…that was the best gift I’ve ever gotten.”

He opened his eyes and met her gaze. She wasn’t angry or disgusted or running. She was here. Thanking him.

“Me, too,” he admitted.

Though he hadn’t meant it to be funny, she dropped her head onto his shoulder, chuckling in embarrassment.

A second later, she picked up the whittled figure of Sophia from the bed where she’d laid it and raised her head.

“Thank you. For…caring. This is better than a picture.”

He cupped her face with his hand, his thumb brushing gently over her cheek. “Merry Christmas, Carol.”

With happy tears in her eyes and a loving smile on her face, she responded. “Merry Christmas, Daryl.”

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