#makes me wonder y’know? if there’s any scratchy feelings there | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

permanentcrossfics · 3 years

Text

Twelve Hours in Miami // h.s. - Part 2

Read Part 1

“Did you really just ask the front desk for a condom?” you asked.

“Intimacy kit,” he corrected you, still pink. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “Comes with all sorts of things.”

“Ordered a few of them before?”

He looked at you, then, and stammered. “I just thought-- we don’t have to-- but I thought if we--”

Read NOW on Patreon // Tumblr // Wattpad

8:35am.

You’d fallen asleep just like that -- tangled up, skins stuck together with sweat. Two hours later, you had to peel yourselves apart with whispery snickers and pounding heads. It would’ve been gross -- it was gross, to be honest -- except it was him. You smelled like him, he smelled like you, and it poured satisfaction into a well of need for this specifically that you hadn’t known existed until it was full.

“Stay with me.” Deep, rumbled, and just a little slurred, the words made you smile, and you curled up, eyes closed, when he dragged his warm hands and mouth along your back, shoulder, arm, chest, and stomach. One of his legs was wedged between yours, and he was leaving spongy, scratchy kisses up and down the back of your neck that made you scrunch up. “C’mon, darling,” he sighed hotly against your skin, slipping his arm firmly around your midriff to squeeze you back into his chest. “Stay w’me,” he mumbled with honeyed persuasion that needlessly gilded the spider web of his you’d found yourself in.

“I have work, you know,” you drawled without any real conviction. Hang work -- hang it all. It was partially because of your work that you’d missed every attempt of his to connect like this over the past few days. You weren’t set to fly out that day, not just yet, but he was, and then he’d be gone and you didn’t know when you’d see him next. You’d been gifted with twelve whole hours, and almost three of them were already gone.

“Get sick,” he said, the demand muffled by your neck, and you laughed, turning into your pillow.

Were you really going to leave him there, in your bed, knowing he wouldn’t be there when you got back and that the hours you did have were wasted?

You’d gone to dinner last night, and something hadn’t sat well with you. That was the excuse you used when you made your calls, trying to sound as hoarse as possible, and when the last one was done, he rolled on top of you and you laughed and tried not to focus on how easy it was for him to settle his hips between your thighs as he peppered kisses up and down your jaw and neck, all but gloating in his gratitude.

He ordered breakfast at 8:50am and answered the door in your robe at 9:20am, giving a tip and a smile while you burrowed under the blanket and searched for the television remote somewhere in the sheets.

It was a lazy affair, with both of you reclined against the headboard, captive audiences of the bad local news station you’d turned on to catch up with the day. Every now and then, he’d chuckle or snort or offer his commentary with a sort of bemused delight similar to a wizard discovering a toaster for the first time. “Strange, innit?”

“What is?” you murmured, breaking off a piece of blueberry crumb muffin.

“This!” He waved his fork and the strawberry speared on the end of it at the talking alligator on screen. “Bizarre.” He pulled the fruit off the fork with his teeth and chewed, shaking his head.

“This is not the strangest thing you’ve ever seen.” You brought a piece of your muffin to his mouth and he opened it without breaking focus.

“Didn’t say that, but it doesn’t mean it’s not weird.”

“Weirder than LA? New York? Texas? London? Tokyo?”

“What’s your point?”

You snickered and took his fork from him to steal a grape from the bowl.

“What is this?” He all but wheezed, hand on his belly over the butterfly’s wings as he stared at the screen, eyes crinkled with incredulity.

“Open,” you said, and he did as you asked, tongue darting forward to meet your fingers. “Harry, you licked me!” you cried when you felt the wet slide over the side of your finger.

His jaw stopped midchew, focus broken, and heat burst through you when his puckered mouth twitched and then flattened with suppressed laughter.

“I--”

He swallowed and the bed shook with his silent chuckles. “Didn’t think about that one before y’said it, did you?”

You made a noise in your throat and rolled away from him as he laughed behind you. “Go away,” you said into the mattress. He was still laughing when you heard the clink of dishes being set aside and when he slid up behind you to get close.

“Have to wait a few hours for that,” he mumbled, kissing the back of your shoulder. “Couple more hours at least. Wouldn’t throw me out in the cold, would you?”

“It’s Miami,” you said, voice muffled. “You’ll be fine.”

He turned you on to your back and slunk his way under your arm and you held your breath when he came all but nose to nose with you. You could see everything, good and less good -- every pore, every hair, every slight scar, every mole, every beginning of a pimple, all of it. “Not gonna throw me out, are you?” he repeated, huskier and warmer in a delicious way you didn’t think you were supposed to know could be this good.

“No,” you whispered.

He hummed, mouth curved in triumph, and you could see his mind working very fast behind his clear, green eyes. Where you’d been howling your outrage seconds ago, you were pretty sure you were both painfully aware of how close you were right then. Wordlessly, he nuzzled the warm point of his nose against yours and your eyes closed as your breath hitched. Your lips parted just as his tongue touched you lower one, and you sighed, hands slipping up his warm, strong back when the kiss deepened. He tasted sweet -- a little like the strawberry, and a little more like the blueberry and sugar from the muffin. He lowered onto his elbows and you absorbed his weight and warmth without complaint and opened your mouth wider. His groan made you shiver and when you broke, you were both panting. Gulping, he licked his lips.

“M’gonna make a call,” he said. “Downstairs, t’get us some….” He trailed off. “Where’s the….” He grabbed the phone off the bedside table and dropped off to the side of you, jamming his thumb into a button before lifting it to his ear, and you kissed his chest and shoulder, nuzzling the warm skin.

“Hi, yes,” he said. He cleared his throat. “I’m calling for-- I’m wondering if there’s an intimacy kit on hand?”

You looked up at him but he kept his eyes on the ceiling, though his cheeks were flushed and he was breathing heavily.

“Right, yes, thank you, if we could-- have that sent up, that would be… but bill it to room 2201… thank you.” He hung up and tossed the phone onto the bed.

“Did you really just ask the front desk for a condom?” you asked.

“Intimacy kit,” he corrected you, still pink. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “Comes with all sorts of things.”

“Ordered a few of them before?”

He looked at you, then, and stammered. “I just thought-- we don’t have to-- but I thought if we--”

You kissed him, then, cutting him off, and his hands slid over your bare back as you clambered onto his lap over the sheet. Belatedly, his hands fell into the small of your back, and you were very aware of where you’d be if there was no sheet between you then. “I like this,” you confessed. Maybe you shouldn’t have, maybe it was too much to feel or vocalize, but you did, as quietly as possible so he could miss it if he wanted to.

“Yeah,” he rasped, hand slipping down to the curve of your ass. He swallowed and you kissed his throat, inhaling the smell of his shower and the sex he’d almost had since. He was warm, and where hair didn’t tickle your mouth, he was also shockingly soft. You had no reason to think he wouldn’t be, you’d just… never thought about it, you guessed. You’d thought mostly about how his muscles would feel -- his arms, his chest, his stomach, all of which were moving heavily as he gulped and breathed deeply. It must’ve been taking his every effort to stay perfectly still underneath you.

You tapped one of his nipples lightly with your index finger before circling it in a featherlight stroke. He huffed a laugh and you glanced up at him, smiling mischievously as his own lips quirked. Without looking at him, you kissed his nipple pertly and he tensed his stomach with a muted, “Oh, fuck.” Giggling in a whisper, you followed the kiss with a playful bite, and his hand slid down to your bare ass.

“I’ll be good,” you said, moving to kiss down his chest and down his stomach, each one slow and lingering, tongue touching his skin. “I’ll be good,” you promised again over his navel, chin once again on a thin line of dark, soft hair, and you pressed kisses to the leaves of the ferns fanning over his hips. Under the sheet, you could see -- feel -- his cock hardening again, and above you, he struggled to keep his eyes open and on you, with his hands curling into fists alternately at his sides and on his head. “Is this ok?” you whispered.

Harry nodded with a strangled sound in his throat. He inhaled sharply, nostrils flared and lips smashed together, but he kept his eyes on you as best he could as you eased the sheet down with shaking fingers. For a moment, your mind went blank, and your lip twitched with an almost laugh when you realized. No dick was that good that it should rob anyone of coherent thought, but his was, apparently, and all yours had gone out the window -- laughable in and of itself.

“I’m sorry,” you wheezed, pressing your forehead to his hip. “I just had a moment.”

“Think that’s a first,” he admitted in a strained drawl above you, but he was chuckling, too.

“I’m sorry,” you repeated. “You’re great, you’re--”

“Y’not helpin’, y’know,” he said, laughing more regularly. “Gonna make a man self-conscious.”

“No.” You kissed his abdomen. “No, I’m sorry, I’m fine now, I just… forgot for a minute.”

“Forgot what?”

Everything was too much to admit to, and instead you wrapped your hand around his cock and he groaned quietly, shifting. Hard, but getting harder still, you pumped with a touch that was much more confident than you felt. Every throb pulsed into your palm, and above you, his throat bobbed as he cleared it, jaw clenching and releasing as he shifted his legs. He was the perfect grip -- big enough to fill your whole hand, but not so much that you felt ineffectual. He was smooth, and he looked so--

His groan when you sucked his head gently echoed through the room, and you felt him twitch on your tongue as you ran it around and around his head. Slowly, your eyes rolled up and closed. He felt good even in your mouth -- smooth and silky -- and he tasted like…. You lowered down, thumb touching your lower lip as a guide down his shaft, and you moaned softly, bobbing your head slowly.

“That’s nice,” he said thickly. You heard his breath rattle in his chest and you cracked your eyes open. His own were in barely open slits, and his lips were parted, left arm thrown over his head, stretching his tattoos out ever so slightly as his muscles flexed every time he opened and closed his hand in a fist. “Shit, that’s so nice,” he intoned in disbelief, smiling with a breathless little laugh. “So soft… bein’ careful w’me, aren’t you?”

You blinked and pushed him into your cheek with your tongue, sucking a little more, and he groaned loudly, eyes closing completely for a moment. “Jesus, that’s it,” he praised, and a knot tightened in your stomach. You ran your tongue up and down in short sweeps along the vein you could feel and his whole face crumpled as his stomach rose and fell. He dropped his hand and linked it with his other one over his chest in a basketweave, and his knuckles went white as he took slow, deep breaths.

The rush from looking at him so powerless and vulnerable and open and trusting and absolutely in awe of every little thing you did? Intoxicating. You were shaking from it and you could feel how wet you were between your thighs -- you were dripping, like he hadn’t just licked up every bit of you he could as if his own life had depended on it.

For a moment, with your eyes on him, you allowed yourself to imagine what it would be like to just pull your mouth off him and straddle him to sink down on him. You let yourself think of the feeling -- the full stretch, judging by the way your jaw was just about popping -- and the look on his face. You let yourself revel in the groans he’d make as his face crumpled, and how his chest would heave, and what his skin would look like with the tracks of his fingers over it as you struggled to find your proverbial footing. You’d both be sweating, and grabbing the other, and the thought of his teeth finding your sensitive skin made your hair stand on end and you whimpered.

“Like it?” he whispered. “S’it good?”

You nodded, and pulled off him with a wet gasp before licking a stripe along the underside of his cock, from base to tip and back again.

“That’s good,” he said. “Get all over, s’ok… shit.” His throat bobbed and he unclasped his fingers to grip the bedsheets. “Get all over me, get everywhere, it’s ok, it’s f-fine--” He made an almost pained noise and lifted his hand, and brushed it over the back of your head before dropping it to the bed as he squirmed. “Get my balls,” he mumbled, head rolling against the headboard. “Oh, fuck, please….”

His breath stuttered and he gulped, eyes opening wide and unfocused on the ceiling. Cock wet from your tongue, you pumped your hand up and down while sucking one ball and then the other into your mouth, ears prickling from the soft, pathetic noises he was making. “Holy shit, s’incredible!” he gasped. “Shit, I’m….” Harry trailed off, choking on his words, and his hand came to rest on the back of your head when you wrapped your mouth around the tip of his cock again. You suckled, with alternating pressure, and bobbed up and down, eyes closed and head swimming from his guttural grunts.

“M’gonna cum,” he said, his mumble punctuated with a wordless shout when you twisted your hand around his wet cock and squeezed. He throbbed against your palm and you heard him take a sharp breath as his fingers tightened on the back of your head, but without pressure to push you down. “Don’t stop,” he breathed, heaving by then. “Don’t stop, m’gonna cum so… gonna cum so hard, I’m--”

You whimpered around him and your other hand pressed against his stomach. He clapped his free hand over it and held it there, wheezing, and you opened your eyes briefly, catching a glimpse of his face contorted in the most erotic agony -- cheeks and chest pink and sweaty, hair mussed, teeth bared with his shout, and the vein in his neck popping -- before you tasted the first salty, tangy string. You stilled, tightening your lips, absorbing every groan as his thighs tensed and released under you in his effort to not squirm and buck you off. He let go of your head to clutch your hand against his stomach with both of his, and your palm slipped against his slick skin. With some effort, you gulped, mouth still holding him, before you relaxed and pulled off him. You ran your tongue over his head and released him with a soft pop before sitting up slightly, neck and jaw both aching and throat just a little inexplicably sore.

He, beyond a shadow of a doubt, looked spent. His eyes were closed and there was a slump to his shoulders, and his chest rose quickly with each shallow breath he took, and he still hadn’t let go of your hand. “Think….” He cleared his throat and swallowed hard. “Think y’really did summat to me,” he rasped. When he looked at you at last, he was dazed, and a dumbfounded smile pulled at the corners of his mouth before his eyes slid shut again. “Fuck,” he sighed.

“Are you going to nap now?” you asked, voice thick and husky. He laughed.

“Don’t,” he said. You crawled up his body, unsteady knees guiding you on either side of him. “Don’t tease me, m’only… I’m trying my best, aren’t I?”

You grinned, and you’d just gotten to perch on his thighs when a knock at the door startled you both. Your head whipped around just after his eyes flew open and he gripped your hand tighter.

“That’ll be the kit,” he said, breathing heavily.

“Oh.” You’d almost forgotten he’d called down for it. “Right. I can….” You pulled your hand free from his. “I can get it.”

“If you--”

“I can,” you repeated, nearly toppling over as you swung your leg off him. “Stay.” You flung the sheet haphazardly over his waist and he chuckled as you stood and pulled your robe on, glancing at the clock on the bedside table as you did.

11:37am.

#harry smut #harry styles smut #harry x reader #reader insert fanfiction #harry styles fanfiction #harry fanfic #harry blurb #harry styles blurb #harry styles one shot #harry one shot #permanentcross #original writing #twelve hours in miami #twelve hours in miami 2

443 notes · View notes

hatterstan-shameblog · 3 years

Note

💫✨💕send this to ten bloggers you think are wonderful. keep the game going 💕✨

Have a nice day/night/dance battle with the peacocks! :D

Alright, since you are a) very cool and fun and b) you took the time to send such a lovely message, I’m going to give you a part of a fic series I started many moons ago and abandoned for other things

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Hatter Has Definitely Kissed Every Executive At Least Once And This Is How It Went: Ann Edition

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Rating: PG-13

Tags: Alcohol, shenanigans, everyone’s cutting loose, mild reluctance (but these people don’t turn down dares so y’know)

Summary: As a “team building” exercise, all of the Executives have met for a little get-together; and with alcohol and a rousing game of “truth or dare” involved, what could possibly go wrong?

“Ann,” Chisiya says, “truth or dare?”

Ann sighs. Her red-lacquered fingernails tap rhythmically against the green of a beer bottle, the glassy sound barely audible above the chatting of the half-drunk executives.

“I already told you, I’m not playing.”

“The fuck you aren’t,” Niragi snaps, grip on his rifle tightening as he downs another shot of vodka, “no skips, that’s the rule.”

“If I had to do it, you have to do it,” Keiichi offers mournfully, taking a sad sip of bourbon from a crystal-cut glass, “it’s only fair.”

Ann turns her attention towards Hatter. He’s taking a healthy swig from—ew, is that a bottle of peppermint schnapps? She wrinkles her nose in disgust as he raises his eyebrows in a suggestive arch.

“This is a terrible idea,” she tells him for the fourth time in the last hour, “and you should feel bad for making us do this.”

“Ann. Sweet, darling,” Hatter takes note of her unimpressed grimace, “angry Ann. This is all an exercise in trust. A way for all of us executives to bond.”

“And because he loves the drama,” Aguni adds.

“I really do,” Hatter says wistfully, “So, come on. One round and then you can go back to summoning demons or whatever you do in your little basement crypt.”

Ann sighs. Everyone is looking at her with expectant eyes. She finishes the rest of her beer and puts the empty bottle on the table.

“Fine,” she says, “One round, and then I’m leaving.”

“The ice queen giveth in,” Chisiya says, the corners of his mouth turning up onto a mischievous grin, “So, pick your poison. Truth...or dare?”

“Dare,” Ann says coolly, and the room erupts. Even Last Boss, who had been lurking in the corner until now, gasps. In a rare show of camaraderie, Niragi slaps Chisiya on the back and tells him to ‘give that bitch a good one.’

Imbeciles. All of them.

“Everyone gather ‘round the table,” Chisiya purrs—yes, purrs—as he looks her with a twinkle in his eye, “because this particular date involves each and every one of you.”

“Even me?” asks Last Boss.

“But of course,” Chisiya says, “we need everyone if we’re going to play...spin the bottle.”

Ann feels the blood drain from her face. Oh, this little blond twerp is despicable. He is evil and terrible and—

“No re-spins. No backing out. The kiss must last a minimum of five seconds, but it can go longer if you feel so inclined.”

“I won’t,” Ann answers curtly. There is not a person in this room she could ever want to kiss. (Except for Mira, but. Well. That’s a thought for another day.)

“I don’t know,” Niragi says with an exaggerated flick of his tongue, the silver piercing winking at her in a supposedly seductive manner, “once you get a taste of a real man, you might find yourself hooked.”

“Perhaps Niragi wouldn’t be so bad,” Mira muses with a serene smile, “his oral fixation is off-putting on the best of days, but it might translate well to a more intimate experience. That is, until he starts talking again. Then it’ll be terrible.”

Niragi’s face twists into a sharp scowl as he tries to sputter a comeback; drunkenness and embarrassment have apparently robbed him of his mental faculties, so he crosses his arms over his chest and pouts.

“Alright, let’s get this over with,” Ann says with a huff.

She places her empty beer bottle, label-side down, on the long wooden table. For the first time this evening, everyone is silent. Honestly, it’s kind of nice—it would be better if she didn’t have to end up kissing one of them, but, beggars can’t be choosers.

“You know,” Ann says, “there is a possibility it could land on me. Does that mean I don’t have to kiss anyone?”

“That means you get to choose,” Chisiya says, “which...well, that will most certainly add some spice to the night, wouldn’t it?”

“Very evil,” Aguni concludes with a nod, “I like it.”

Hm. Well, it was worth a shot.

With one final, annoyed sigh, Ann places her hand on the bottle and gives it a powerful spin. Maybe it’ll spin right off the table and shatter on the floor. She wouldn’t have to do anything weird, and then she could just go back to her room and take a long bath. Alone. The way the universe intended.

It’s impossible not to watch the bottle spin, light refracting off the glass and casting flickering spots of light around the room. It’s just a kiss. She’s kissed people before. Many people. At least two.

Friends kiss each other all the time. Not her friends, but other people and their friends. And these people aren’t really ‘friends,’ but they’re...acquaintances. Colleagues. Does that make it better or worse?

It’s slowing down now. With each passing second, her fate is being decided by the neck of the bottle. Mira, Last Boss, Keiichi—oh, God, please don’t let it be Keiichi, they have a meeting in the morning, that would be so awkward...

But, luckily, the bottle does not land on Keiichi. It does not land on Niragi, nor does it land on Chisiya. Last Boss has also been spared, as have Aguni and Mira. That leaves only one candidate...

“Oh, Ann,” Hatter says, clapping his hands together and looking entirely too pleased with this very strange turn of events, “I always knew there was something between us!”

The thing he’s talking about is tolerance—she tolerates him because it is both sensible and beneficial to be on his good side. He also, surprisingly enough, defers to her expertise on certain matters, which is more than can be said for her previous employers. They are friendly, certainly, but most certainly not friends.

And...lovers?

Out of the question.

But Fate (and a smug little blonde) have decided that they share a moment of passion. Could she have spun worse? Yes. Could she have spun better? Absolutely. 100%. Without a doubt.

But Ann is a woman of integrity. When she commits, she commits. And so, as she walks to the other side of the table, she keeps her spine straight and her head held high. She refuses to let these people see her falter.

“In addition to the parameters already given, I’d like to establish some rules of my own,” she says coolly, barely resisting the temptation to roll her eyes when he takes another gulp of alcohol. Yep, that’s definitely peppermint schnapps he has—she can tell by the stench of it, the way it’s sharpness burns at her eyes.

She’s always hated peppermint schnapps.

“Fine, fine,” Hatter says with a wave of his hand, “as long as you promise not to fall completely in love with me in the process.”

That gets a laugh from everyone—and even Ann considers cracking a smile at the thought of someone like her ever feeling something for someone like him.

“No tongue. No teeth. And,” Ann tell him firmly, “if you want to leave this room with your balls intact, I suggest you keep your hands to yourself.”

The group ooh’s at that. Ann doesn’t look at them. She keeps her gaze focused on the man in front of her, watching him intently for any signs of weakness.

All she gets is a smirk.

“I would expect nothing less of you, Ann,” he replies, “however, you’re more than welcome to put your hands anywhere on my person.”

He leans in slightly, almost as if he’s letting her in on a secret.

“I could even give you a few suggestions, if you like.”

What a perfectly hideous thing for him to say. It doesn’t help that he’s fluttering his eyelashes at her like some kind of lovestruck cartoon character.

It’s annoying.

He’s annoying.

With a roll of her eyes, Ann grabs Takeru by the silk of his obnoxious robe and crashes her mouth against his-- because she’ll be damned if he’s the one kissing her.

Five...

The group gasps-- Takeru included, the noise muffled by the seal of their lips as she kisses him fully and firmly.

Four...

And it’s...not as gross as it could be, but it’s still a very odd experience. His lips are soft enough, and his beard-moustache-whatever-the-fuck is scratchy in a way that is. Well, it’s interesting. Not good, but...interesting.

Three...

“This is fucking weird,” Niragi shouts, sounding very disgusted.

Two...

“It’s like watching my parents,” Last Boss adds, “when they were still trying to convince my sister and I they were still in love and weren’t going to get a divorce.”

One...

And done.

“Okay,” Ann says flatly as she pulls away and swallows a grimace at the sight of her favorite shade of lipstick on Takeru’s lips (and is actually a very nice compliment to his skin tone, frustratingly enough) “Can I go now.”

For good measure, she releases his robe with a disdainful flick of her fingers and subtly brushes her hands off on her shorts. It’s not enough to get the scent of peppermint schnapps and awkwardness off of her skin, but it can’t hurt.

“A deal’s a deal,” Chisiya concedes, his eternally mischievous smirk stretched across his cheeks, “And I must say, I didn’t expect you to fulfill your end of the bargain so...enthusiastically.”

“That’s because nobody can resist me,” Takeru gloats, bottle of alcohol back in his grip as if it had never truly left, “It’s not her fault I’m so delectable--”

“Detestable,” Ann corrects under her breath.

“--And, even though you’ll try to deny it,” Takeru continues, disregarding her comment, “both of us know that there’s a part of you that liked kissing me.”

“I liked the part when she stopped,” Mira chirps cheerfully, “In fact, I think we all did!”

“You have no idea,” Aguni murmurs solemnly into his drink, his eyes darting towards Takeru with an unimpressed look. That’s...hm, there’s clearly some kind of story there, although Ann isn’t sure she wants to know about it.

Everyone begins talking amongst themselves once again-- Niragi has offered to spin the bottle next, and there’s a small argument breaking out over whether or not the group should continue with their original game of ‘truth or dare’ or pivot to this new one.

And, Ann?

Ann doesn’t stick around to find out.

#writings and such #alice in borderland #alice in borderland netflix #hatter/ann #what a horrifically cursed tag #NOBODY IS SAFE y'all better watch out #ann rizuna #danma takeru #last boss #niragi suguru #takatora samura #aguni morizono #mira kano #chisiya shuntaro #keiichi kuzuryu #fun fact: this takes place before arisu shows up so that's why he's not here

51 notes · View notes

pa-panda-heroes · 3 years

Text

blue hour.

demon!au!dabi x reader nsfw; find the sequel here

Inspired (sorta) by this post. This was initially a 400 followers celebration fic but took so long I got to 500, plus it’s Halloween!! 🎃🎃🎃

i listened to Mothica’s song Blue Hour while i wrote this and honestly fell in love with it. hence the name! please go give her a listen!

Minors, go away. This content is not for you.

Warnings: brief description of kidnapping, tiny mentions of religion (nonspecified tho!) and human sacrifice, injury + blood mention, foul language, brief cremation, Dabi being horny (hehe), Dabi absolutely 100% not using magic on you nope, thigh fucking, orgasm denial, biting, dirty talk, degradation?, spanking, overstimulation, dumbification if you squint?

Words: 14k+

Summary: Kidnapped and held as an offering to an ominous demon, you thought your death was near. Soon enough you find your captor dead and the demon you were offered to becomes your savior. Dabi clearly has plans for you, but what are they? Or was everything just a dream?

Your heartbeat thrummed within your ears, sweat sweltering and becoming a thick layer on your skin all over, making the fabric of your clothes cling to it ever-so-uncomfortably. It felt like you were being smothered from head to toe in fabric. The cooled blood that began just above your temple and trickled all the way down your face and neck had dried by now, acting as a crusty reminder of the reason behind the throbbing in your head. Trees swayed in the chilly winds that passed, making the cool air even colder - yet here you were, sweating like there was no tomorrow. You were bound by the wrists and ankles to a musty wooden pole in a forest you’d never seen before, the sky dark yet bright for the blue moon. The stars looked so free, so beautiful, so serene tonight. Yet you didn’t feel it.

Your breathing was quick, panicked, and hurried to the extent that you’d take in more oxygen by breathing less. Your poor, puffy lip was numb from having been chewed on so much, to the point where you couldn’t remember whether you were a chronic lip biter or not; but you sure were, now. That is, until he gagged you by tying an old handkerchief around your face. You struggled against your scratchy, dry restraints so much, they began to dig into your skin and bleed, sending a trail of blood down your arms and a jolt of burning, throbbing, stinging pain through your nerves.

You were far from alone.

The only other human body you knew of was the one who put you in the position you currently find yourself in after a night of dancing, booze, and sweat. The inebriation from the alcohol made you an easy target, you guessed. God damn it all.

The night began with your celebrating a friend’s birthday at a club, drinking, dancing, and making merry. You had regretted agreeing to go at first after having a long, agonizingly tiring day at work, which gave you the burning desire to wrap up after a bath and lay in bed until the next day when you’d have to get up again. But as the night progressed, you were glad you tagged along; after all, it was an unexpectedly nice release after a bad day.

Now you were regretting it again.

If only you hadn’t gone to the club.

If only hadn’t agreed even if begrudgingly to go.

If only you hadn’t left your apartment.

You made the mistake of trying to find a bathroom on your own and ended up in an alleyway. The last thing you saw was a filthy dumpster before it all went black, and upon waking you found yourself bound in this horrifying forest.

Around you was a circular dirt clearing bordered with a solid line and filled with various marks made upon it, ones that you’d never seen before. They looked to be of a lost, long-dead language - the language your masked captor was evidently speaking as he sat on his knees with his hands in the air before a makeshift altar of a sort. There was some distance between him and the altar, probably about two meters, that being the same distance he sat from you as you watched in horror.

He was going to kill you, but not before torturing you - or other things. For some hideous purposes that looked a lot to do with a demon or something. All because you were a virgin that just so happened to cross his path.

You tried making noises, tried screaming, but it made no difference. He wouldn’t stop his hideous chanting and no one could hear you anyway. The thick forest swallowed your every scream and the gag held back your every cry. More tears run down your cheeks at your predicament, your struggling against your binds only digging into and stinging your skin as piping hot blood continued to trail down your tender wrists and ankles. It felt like frostbite was setting in. Was it actually, or was it your nerves?

A pillar of black smoke began to rise from the ground in front of your masked captor, who then bowed with his forehead to the ground. Your own heart was beating in your ears so quickly you thought it would explode any minute. If only it would - you wouldn’t have to endure this any longer.

“What... the hell do you want?” you hear a voice boom, distorted in such a way that made it sound like it echoed a thousand times. “Filthy human.”

“Your favor, my lord. I offer you this virgin.”

You try screaming again, your throat beginning to feel scratchy and dry. It almost felt like it was bleeding. Could it be bleeding? Your mind was almost a haze, now.

You can see a form emerge from the ground where the black smoke stands, and you’re stunned and scared into total silence as you see the silhouette of two large wings and a pointed tail. Other than that, the silhouette appears mostly human. But it’s not.

“My favor, eh?” you hear the voice again. The silhouette swings his arm and with it vanishes the smoke, and the reality that this... thing isn’t human finally settles in your heart. His hair is black and spiky, there are pieces of what look to be burnt flesh under his minty eyes and the lower half of his face, bound to the unblemished skin by silvery staples that seemed to spit steam. Three dotted piercings adorned his nose, and plenty more his ears. His wings reminded you of a bird’s with feathers and all, and they were a flat charcoal in colour, albeit they seemed a little worse for wear and severely burnt. The demon’s horns poked out from each side of his forehead and curled around like that of a ram’s. He wore a dark, simple cloak.

You almost wondered if he had goat hooves for feet.

He looks down on the human who summoned him, literally and figuratively, it seemed. His eyes narrow viciously at the man, before jolting to you - and you, honest to all that exists, feel what you can only think of as a bolt of lightning course through every nerve - no, cell - of your body before it feels like your heart stops beating. You can feel the blood coursing in your veins, and it’s ice-cold, all of this forcing you to tense every muscle you’re able. He looks away and you’re instantly back to normal, slouching in your restraints.

“Is this asshole bothering you, little one?” the voice of what’s clearly a demon rings.

“I-I beg your pardon, m’lord Dabi?”

“Shut your trap, moron.” Clusters of the brightest, bluest flames you’d ever seen erupt above each of the demon’s eyes and he leans downward to grab the man by his neck, before easily lifting him in the air as the human choked. “Y’know, back in the day, sacrifices in some cultures were an honor. It was seen as a gift, a way to serve ancient - nonexistent, mind you - gods. People vied to become a sacrificial lamb. I’m ancient, too, you know that.”

The human man stammers and stutters, trying to say something coherent but failing out of fear.

Dabi lets the man rest his feet on the ground as he jerks your captor to look at you, and you want to just shrink into yourself. “What the fuck is that, huh? Do you see the fear in her eyes? The bruises covering her body? The blood seeping down her arms as she fights against that rope? Does that look like a willing sacrifice to you? Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t think she is willing at all.”

You blink. What? How? Why?

“You piss me off.”

Dabi throws the masked man to the ground away from him, then raising his palm into the air and summoning flames to filter out of the ground. They swallow him hole, and whilst he’s screaming in agony and burning alive, the demon turns on his heel and saunters your way. “Well, this is quite a mess, eh, dear?” His eyebrows are pointed upward, almost as if the gentle tone behind his words is sincere, yet almost as if there is deviance behind them.

You can’t help but gulp at the look in his eyes. Smile and arch his brows as he might, he was still clearly a demon unfitting of your trust. Right? He was going to hurt you. Surely.

His hands reach up for your face and you shut your eyes tight and turn away.

Much to your surprise, fingers work away at the handkerchief splitting open your poor, stretched, and saliva-coated lips, and you nearly gasp at the relief of pressure on them, the ache in your cheeks quite apparent and downright agonizing. Not only that, but the corners of your mouth were rubbed raw, and you weren’t sure if there was saliva mixing with more saliva, or blood mixing with saliva at the site. Dabi drags a finger from the corner of your mouth up to your cheek to wipe away the tears staining your skin, and you have no strength to fight the shiver that runs up your spine as your eyes fall half-lidded.

“Fuck me, you’re lookin’ a bit worse for wear, little one,” you hear him coo. “Easy, babe. You’re alright. That ugly, scary man’s all gone.” He seems to chuckle at the irony, before a toothy smirk splits his lips. His teeth are sharp, certainly enough to puncture skin without much effort, and you shiver again.

You’re quickly relieved of your bounds, but with the little strength you have left, you’re not able to stand on your own and collapse into his chest, spent and sore. He’s warm. It’s... nice. Fuzzy. Cloudy. Soft. Where are you, again? What’s going on? Why is everything spinning?

Everything fades to black.

:·•·:

You groan and turn over in your bed, pulling the fluffy covers up closer to your head as your body ached. You were warm and settled in, nothing could make you leave the comforts of your bed, yet you knew you needed to. To explain the achy joints, you tried reminiscing the night before. You remembered that night. Parts of it, anyway. When you tried to remember the feeling of being bound or the blood trickling down your wrists, nothing came up. When you tried remembering the chanting of your captor - nothing. It seemed that any parts which could be deemed... unsavory were gone from your memory. You brought your wrists up and felt around them and-

Also gone were any wounds.

It was odd. You could remember it all happening, but at the same time, you couldn’t. Must’ve been some whacked out dream induced by the alcohol.

You had no want to, but you sat up in bed and reached over to your nightstand to switch he clock around so you could see it. It read about half an hour after midday, and you sighed. How long were you asleep? You picked up your phone from the nightstand and switched it on, your heart leaping into your throat at the amount of notifications. Texts, emails, calls, there were dozens upon dozens of them.

“How long was I asleep?!” you shriek.

“Enough to nearly get evicted.”

Your head jolts up so quickly you hear your neck crack, and you see the demon leaning against the wall in front of your bed. You can’t help but gasp and scoot away, your back banging against the headboard of your bed. It wasn’t a dream.

He waves his hand lazily. “But don’t worry, I got it covered. Congrats, you have free rent for life, now.” His wings, horns, and tail are all gone, and he almost looks human, save for the staples and scars. You guess he can’t change his appearance much. Perhaps he doesn’t want to.

The teeth showing off from his smirk look just as sharp as before, however.

Your eyes are drawn to the huggies piercing the cartilage of his ears. They’re as shiny and plentiful as you remember. Your heart rate spikes, and you begin to breathe heavily.

“That soreness is probably from you bein’ out so long, sweets,” he comments, arms crossed in front of his chest, his right ankle also crossed over his left. His voice is smooth and a clear attempt at comforting you - yet there’s something behind it.

“Th-thank you. For saving me, and... the rent... I guess.” You hoped he would leave if you thanked him. Why else would he stick around?

He only shrugs, though. “Sorry, little one, but you’re not special. That sacrifice wasn’t done right in the first place.”

‘Ouch!’

Ah, you remembered that, now. But you couldn’t remember his name.

“What’s your name?” you ask hesitantly. He’s obviously not going to kill you by now. Why would he stick around?

“Dabi.”

“That’s it?” You tilt your head. You were surprised at how... nonchalant you were beginning to feel about this. The longer he stood there, the more it felt normal.

“That’s it, dollface.”

:·•·:

He ended up not having goat hooves for feet.

You knew there was a catch to being saved by that demonic bastard.

Aside from the fact that he wouldn’t leave you alone, keeping a demon cooped up in your apartment wasn’t easy. It especially wasn’t easy when said demon was constantly on your heels, pressed right up against your back. Personal space was not in his vocabulary. Dabi was constantly up to something, and he loved to harass or scare your neighbors with his devilish form; it was just too easy. “What else have I got to do while you’re gone all day?” he’d say. “Gotta entertain myself, somehow, doll.”

Apparently, it had been a long time since someone had summoned him at all, let alone with an offering of some kind. He hadn’t seen the mortal realm in hundreds of years, and because you were offered to him, he decided to stick around you. You only agreed to it as long as he never left your apartment.

Well, technically. He wasn’t actually giving you a choice, he was going to stick around anyway. Dabi so loved giving innocent mortals the impression that they were in control when they never truly were. The demon practically got off on the idea of giving a helpless little thing like you a false sense of security.

Having him essentially stuck to your hip, you couldn’t let him cause any trouble with the human world, be it harmless pranks or downright murder; hence why you left a line of salt in front of every opening to your place one day, to keep him home. He was a curious demon, a sketchy one.

And a bit of a horny one, at that.

If the groping or peeking in on your showers wasn’t enough of a clue, the fact that he did everything else in his power to seduce you certainly was.

Demons don’t sleep. They’re immortal, they don’t need to. Yet, as you lay snuggled up in your bed at night, he always snuck in with you to poke and prod at you, the exchange usually ending with you kicking him out of bed - sometimes literally. Other times, he’d randomly lean into your ear and say the filthiest things you’d ever heard - and then some, obviously - to get a rise out of you, giving him the opportunity to tease you about unconsciously clenching your thighs, whether it was for friction or out of denial.

You were starting to think he was a damn incubus.

But no, he denied that. He looked almost insulted when you made the insinuation before explaining that incubi and succubi are one and the same, changing back and forth between male and female. First as a succubus, the demon collects... “seed,” and then transforms into an incubus to “plant” it. He could change his physical appearance if he so wished, but he never had much want or need to, save for hiding away or using his devilish form; nor could he procreate, he was so proud to tell you.

It seemed the fact that you were a virgin only spurred him on to seduce you. With Dabi being the vile and damned being that he is, you thought he wouldn’t give a damn (ha) if you consented or not at first. The thought was honestly horrifying. Yet not once had he forced you or went too far. It was “poor taste,” he once said, there being no fun in it. You wondered if his rule of consenting sacrifices played a part in his discipline.

And of course, Dabi would go on about how badly he, a demon, an unsavory being to say the least, wanted to be the one to take your virginity and “defile” you, “the pure, innocent treat that you are.”

Defile? Really?

And treat?

‘Pick better wording next time you sex-starved, pointy-tail-having, staple-wearing, horned son of a bitch,’ you thought sarcastically, shoving dishes into their proper places after having dried them. He’d left you alone for most of the day, talking to you and treating you like he was a normal human being. ‘Then, maybe I’d consider letting you get your dick wet.’

Would you, though?

Nah...

Right.

One of the plates was a little wet still, and managed to slip out of your hand and shatter on the counter in front of you. You yelped when a shard cut into your palm after you’d instinctively reached to catch the plate, failing miserably. “Dammit,” you mutter, holding your left hand up to inspect the cut. From the looks of it, no stitches were needed, but it still stung like hell.

You should’ve known better than to think he cooled his jets for the day, because in an instant he’s standing next to your left side and reaching for your wrist.

“It’s fine, just a tiny cut,” you mutter, quirking a brow as he seemingly glares at the wound. “I think I’ve got a first-aid kit somewhere... Have to keep it clean, at least.”

“Nah, don’t need it,” he mutters, before pulling your hand toward his mouth. His tongue slithers out from between his lips and drags along the cut in your palm, the wet appendage searing against your skin.

A shiver runs down your spine at the sensation, and yet another soars when you see the hungry, predatory look in his eyes, which are fixed on your wound. You can’t help the gulp that sounds from your tight throat, or the yelp that fights out of your lips when his whole mouth latches onto the fatty part of your thumb where the cut is. Your knees begin to feel weak and your eyes fall half-lidded.

Dabi sucks on the flesh there, licking the wound occasionally as well. His eyes then flicker to yours, and they burn into you like no other ever has. You feel the heat of a blush trail up your neck and to your cheeks and ears, your heart thrumming in your chest and lips slowly falling open just a tad as he licks away at the opening in your skin.

“Ah-“

The demon pulls away with a pop from one final suck of your flesh, whilst a trail of his saliva - do demons have saliva?! - hung between your hand and his mouth. “See? Take a look.” He pushes your hand towards your view, and amidst the clear wetness on your skin, you see no wound at all.

Your mind flips back to the wounds you should have had from that night.

“Back then... did you... y’know...”

“Naah. There’s spells and the like for bigger stuff like that,” he explains nonchalantly with a shrug. He almost seems proud of himself with his next line. “Tiny paper cuts like this can be taken care of with good ol’ fashioned demon spit. It’s nice, huh?”

You deadpan at him. “No, it’s totally gross.”

Dabi chuckles at you, waving a hand as if to wave you off. “Admit it. Your virgin ass enjoyed it.” His words are crass, but you know he’s only teasing and they’re not meant to insult.

Yet it still riles you up.

That heat crawls up your neck again, and you huff at him. “Shut up!” you gripe, then turning away from him to at least try to clean up the dish shards. There was nothing wrong with being a virgin! A lot of people wait for the right person, or they just aren’t ready. People have their reasons, and there’s no shame in it! Just like there’s no shame in being the opposite. As long as it’s healthy, that’s all that matters!

“Jerk! You seem to forget whose apartment you’re squatting in!” you grumble, scooting the pieces of the plate you broke together - ever so gently - with a washcloth from the sink. “I could kick you out, y’know.” You forgot for a short moment that he managed to achieve free rent for life for you, but you told yourself it wouldn’t matter anyway. It was still your apartment, after all.

“Really, now?” The demon scoffs, then leaning against the counter and crossing his arms - clearly at you. “How would you go about that, little mouse?” His tone is unconvinced and sultry, the look on his face painted with doubt.

You avoided eye contact with him and perused the kitchen for a plastic bag before marching back to the mess of plate shards and trying to sweep them off the counter and into the bag. “I’d exorcise you,” you mutter. Finding a priest in this area would prove difficult, but you could manage to find one willing to travel. You could do it if needed.

Dabi only laughs you off, though. The sound is smooth and velvety, yet you’re left to describe it as littered with smoke and ecstasy. “C’mon, doll! That wouldn’t work,” he says finally. “Besides, we both know you don’t wanna do that. You like havin’ my sorry ass around too much, eh?”

“Ha! You’re right about you being a sorry ass,” you sass with a huff before tossing the bag into the waste-bin.

Oddly enough, while you’d never tell Dabi this and end up stroking his already massive ego, you felt safer with him around. It was hard to pinpoint why. Nothing had happened for him to be called to protect you; however, you lived in a less than savory part of town, which wasn’t entirely unbearable, but shit still happens. And you’ve already been abducted once, leading to your acquaintance with this horny (I’m more ways than one) asshole. Maybe it was because you knew part of what he can do, all that aside. Push comes to shove, he’d protect you, right?

That was a nice thought to have, if a bit naive, you thought.

He was a demon, not a guardian angel of some sort. He had no obligations to you.

Yet here he was, still living with you over a month after that awful night.

Your thoughts are completely swept away when you’re pushed by the hips against the counter with your back to it, your hands instinctively bracing the edge on each side of your hips for support. The demon’s face is immediately in front of yours, his breath easily filling your nostrils with an ashen smell. You see those horns of his again and have to fight the urge to reach up and grab one, maybe even give it a tug. He’d probably cremate you for it.

Could he hear your thoughts? Previous instances somewhat insinuated that he could, but he never admitted to it - or denied it.

Dabi was right. You don’t want to get rid of him. Especially not when he’s looking at you like that. There is an intensity in those half-lidded, fiery eyes of his that has never before been directed at you by anyone, and it leaves you wishing you could read his thoughts. Are his eyes merely looking at your own, or are they bearing into your soul, calculating and appraising it?

What you can tell is that it’s full of impatience and want. Greed. Lust. And so much of it all.

You tilt your chin down a bit and look up at him with a gulp quietly. You can’t think of anything to say, and tension builds within your chest as you search; you feel as if that silence ought to be filled, yet here you are, at a loss for words as you stare at your own reflection in his glossy eyes. On the other hand, he seems totally content letting you lie in it, letting you squirm for him as he smirks.

And so you look away, bringing your hands to your chest and holding them there bashfully. The sleeves of your sweater are soft and warm and plush - just how Dabi would describe you right now.

This maneuver of yours not being what he wanted, Dabi scowls a bit and grabs your chin to essentially force you to look at him, his thumb ghosting over the softness of your lower lip. He tilts his head at you almost curiously, perhaps evaluating your reaction as it’s been so long since he has seen or felt the mortal world. Those eyes narrow at you, though not out of ire. Dabi’s thumb pokes at the crevice between your lips, and the rest of his fingers on your jaw tug downward.

Confused, you comply anyway and part your lips for him, only for his thumb to invade your mouth and press hard on your tongue, coaxing you to gag and instinctively grasp both hands on his wrist. You attempt to pull it away, to relieve the pressure in your mouth, but he doesn’t want that.

Hell, in reality, neither do you. You just don’t feel like gagging and clouding your vision with tears.

Aw, you poor dear.

With a contemplative hum he pulls his appendage out of your mouth and holds it not far from your mouth, as if planning another venture into your wet cavern. You can’t help but stare at the string of saliva still connecting your lips and his hand as it glistens in the low lighting of your kitchenette.

“Open back up for me,” he huskily demands, but it’s not cruel and dictating, so you comply, entranced as if under a spell. But you know you’re not. This time, it’s his forefinger and middle finger that roam between your teeth, and as if he had told you to do so telepathically, you close your lips around them. With an innocent, doll-eyed look, you suck his fingers and lick at them with your tongue, earning yourself hushed praises and a searing trail of touches up your ribcage and back down. You continue to lick away, occasionally wrapping your tongue around his digits or cradling them as you suck on them, coating them in your saliva as some of it trails out one of the corners of your mouth. They feel cold, as if there was a lack of circulation, and it only spurs you on to warm them with the toasty cavern of your mouth and soft plushness of your tongue.

You’re sure you’re less than apt at this, but the praise and touch you’re receiving helps you feel less... off.

Dabi leans in for your ear, his hot breath against your cartilage sending a chill down your spine before his wet tongue laps at it, and you jump in your skin at the burning, completely unknown sensation. It’s so hot it almost stings, but it’s not painful; tingly, maybe. In the process you lean away to your left a bit, at which he seems to pause. But then you lean back as if to tell him to go on, and you can nearly hear the simper he gives just before he latches onto your ear, licking and nibbling away as you tremble and whimper around his fingers. The heat at your core throbs in tandem with your racing heartbeat, creating a melody of your arousal that you hoped only you could witness.

But you knew better than to doubt the senses of a demon.

“You’re doin’ good, doll,” he breathes into your ear, aggravating the sound of blood flushing through your ears and the thump of your heartbeat. “Such a good girl for me...”

The digits in your mouth get a little adventurous and explore your wet cavern a bit, but they’re quick to push down on your tongue again and you gag around them. Tears start to pool within your eyelids and your whimper is stuck in your throat.

The demon then unceremoniously pulls his fingers from your mouth to reach down at the hem of your sweater and yank it up over the swell of your chest, leaving your torso and bra-covered breasts bare. Dabi seems to drink up the sight of you as if it were a sweet wine he hadn’t indulged in for centuries. Both his hands then trail ghostly fingers - really, they felt like spiders - up your belly and to your sternum. You shiver and a mewl fights out of your throat unexpectedly, your back arching unintentionally toward him as you clutch onto his forearms. Dabi lets out a hot breath, just thereafter his hands roughly squeeze your breasts through your bra as he grinds his pelvis against yours, the outline of his hardened cock clear as day against you. You don’t even try to fight back the moan it elicits as your head droops back at the stimulation.

Why bother, right?

The inhuman entity before you takes the opportunity to use your open mouth, his own latching into yours and tongue exploring your mouth in a battle for dominance you have absolutely no hope to win as he makes a mushy mess of you. You accidentally lacerate your tongue on the sharp point of one of Dabi’s teeth and flinch a bit, the sting on your tongue nearly coaxing you to pull away while the taste of iron floods your mouths. That tase you could certainly live without only encourages him, as Dabi growls and grips the base of your neck to hold your head in place as he quite metaphorically devours your tongue with his own, before his teeth latch onto your lower lip and you squeak in surprise as he pulls away.

“Aw, what’s’a matter, little mouse?” Dabi taunts, left palm dropping to rub against your clothed sex.

“Ah, Dabi-!” You jolt at the sudden stimulation on your clit and breathe in hard. Even if there are a couple layers keeping his bare hand from touching you, if feels damn good to have someone else touch you like this. Ripples of warmth flood through you and you feel your body temperature rocketing. Your own breath feels as though it’s on fire as it leaves your heavily salivated mouth and bloody lips in rabid succession, alongside your increasingly rapid heartbeat. Your grip on his firm arms tightens and you resist the urge to grind against him as he continues his ministrations. “Fuck...” Your lips throbbed, yet you weren’t sure if it was from the tiny wounds he created or your blood pressure spiking.

“Hm?” The demon hums, inquisitive and high in pitch - yet maybe condescending. “‘Fuck,’ huh?” His grip on the back of your neck relaxes only slightly before his tongue pokes out of his mouth and drags along your lower lip, lapping away at the blood pooling there and drawing a slight whine from you. “What about it? You sayin’ you want me to fuck you, doll? Tell me.”

Blood rushes to your face like there was a race and your eyes wander from his bashfully, instead choosing to look at the horns cutting through his spiky black hair. He’s right, you do, you have to admit it. But admitting it out loud was embarrassing! With a gulp you elect to simply nod, but his brows furrow and he’s clearly unimpressed considering the animalistic growl that claws out of his throat.

“Hey, I’ve been locked away from you humans for so long, y’know,” he breathes, his voice dark and low. “I’m a bit behind on gestures. You have to tell me.” This time, you can tell by the almost playful tone of his voice that he’s really lying and just trying to make you admit it aloud. Dabi’s palm leaves you before moving up to the waistband of your jeans while his other hand snakes up your neck and latches onto a fistful of your hair. “C’mon, say it. Where’s all that spunk from earlier? You’re all bark and no bite, little one.”

“Y-yes, Dabi. I... I want you to fuck me.” You finally meet his eyes again, and the hunger in them from before hasn’t faded at all; it’s only deepened. What else has changed was the hunger and arousal in your own eyes.

That smirk appears again and Dabi leans into your ear. “You want me to fuck you,” he parrots, “do you? You want my demon cock to take your virginity and fill you up? You want me to fuck you against this counter until your voice gives out? You’re a slut after all, little one. Beg like one, then.”

Your thighs clench together and you gulp. This was... not how you fantasized your first time to carry out. “Demon cock” was not something you’d ever thought you would hear someone say.

But who cares? Not you.

“Yes, please. Please!” You tug at his jacket in an attempt to coax him toward you, your knuckles turning white from your grip. “Please, fuck me with your demon cock...” Your this time voice is less loud and demanding, albeit it’s more desperate and pleading. “Please.” Your voice breaks this time.

Nor was it something you thought you would ever say.

A groan rumbles from Dabi’s chest. “Good little human. Keep it up, yeah?”

You squeak as he roughly yanks your sweater over your head before working to unbutton your jeans, his lips and teeth savoring your neck all the while. Your head cranes back again, a mute gasp leaving you at the sensation of his searing tongue on your recently sweat-slicked neck as his fingers work to remove your bra before they move onto yanking your panties down. At least, you thought he yanked them down, but a quick glance to the floor revealed he ripped them off, rendering them unusable.

“I liked those!” you whine, still panting.

“Tough luck. I didn’t.” It’s not like you need to wear panties around him anyway. He’d burn every pair you owned to mere ashes if it meant getting you to waltz around your apartment with no panties. They just got in the way.

“Daabi! Why would you-

“Oh god!”

You jump and thrust against Dabi’s hand when his fingers run through the slick of your soaked cunt, your breathing ragged, while he gathers the slick abundant there and edges toward your clit. His tactic coaxes ripples of pleasure that lull a low moan out of you.

“Ha,” he scoffs in your ear, “no gods have anything to do with it, babydoll.”

Dabi’s fingers finally work their way to your clit and circle around it a few times before rubbing in a steady rhythm around it. You moan at the combination of the bliss he gives you and the pet name, and your legs instinctively open wider for him as you mewl.

“I’m really not sure you are a virgin, doll,” he starts with a chuckle, “You’re fuckin’ soaked, you know that? Like a slut begging for my dick.”

“D-Dabi!” You flinch at the sinful words he’s spitting at you, embarrassed.

The demon’s digits leave your clit and trail back through your folds, and the wet, lewd sounds that result almost surprise you more than the fact that you want to fuck a demon. You buck your hips in hopes of encouraging his fingers back to your clit, albeit his other hand distracts you with a flick to your nipple, before it rubs circles over the sensitive nub as the rest of his hand palms at your tit.

“Ah, feels so good,” you find yourself muttering.

In response his ear seems to twitch. “Speak up.” His lips are sucking and nipping at your neck, either ignoring or enjoying the layer of sweat built up on your skin as the heat coming from his body begins to overwhelm you. Not that you mind either way. He’s definitely leaving a mark here and there as he works around your neck. Not that you mind either way.

“Your fingers... ah, feel so good!” Your head cranes backward, your hands dropping to the counter against your ass for support as your legs begin to feel weak. The shockwaves of pleasure his hands send through your nerves leaves you feeling weak and mushy.

“Good. Now hold still.”

You give a confused look, eyebrows pointed upward before you feel the tip of his digit poke at your weeping hole, eliciting a loud gasp from you when his finger plunges into your pussy with no reserve. You hiss at the sudden intrusion, you walls stretching pleasurably yet painfully as he slowly moves his finger around, letting you adjust. His other hand merely plays with your breast.

Biting your lip, you lean forward and plant your sweaty, flushed forehead on his shoulder. “Hey, it kinda hurts,” you whine.

“Just relax, doll.” Dabi’s voice isn’t as crass as it was before, nor is it entirely soothing. You figure he just doesn’t have it in him to coddle you, being a demon and all that.

You whimper as Dabi ever so slowly thrusts his finger in and out, the mixture of pleasure and pain not at all what you’d expected. When his finger hits a spongy spot, you jolt and moan for him, and he takes the opportunity to take over your mouth again in a wet, hurried kiss with a groan. Dabi swallows any and all sounds that you make, and in the process you feel the hand on your tit move downward to your hip before it swings around and wraps under your thigh to lift your knee up to his hip level. The muscles of your legs tensing and the choked moan in your throat tell him the pain is starting to very slowly fade away. At the realization, he carefully dips another finger into you and you moan, higher in pitch, into his mouth before he pulls away to stare at the sight of his fingers fucking into you for only a short moment. Dabi is then quick to shove his tongue back into your salivating mouth.

The lithe digits within your wet walls pick up pace gradually, giving you time to adjust and not barreling into you. By now there is still a barely-there stretch, and all the pain has essentially faded as the assault on your nerves takes place and you near an orgasm. Your eyes lull shut and your head cranes back, your hips almost thrusting involuntarily on his fingers as his pace keeps increasing and pushing you over the edge.

“I’m- ah, I think I’m...”

Dabi hums as if requesting you repeat yourself or perhaps simply acknowledging your sputtering, but you’re too busy moaning louder and and thrusting into the palm of his hand, to do so, as the coil between your legs tightens. His fingers graze over that same spot as before and you cry out for him, for which his fingers increase their pace even more rapidly and slam into that spot over and over and over again as he groans at the lewd, wet squelching resulting.

“Shit! I’m gonna cum, Dabi, I’m gonna cum!”

“Do it. Cum for me, babydoll.” His voice is much more authoritative and huskier, and as per Dabi’s demand you cry out almost loud enough for your neighbors to hear as your orgasm slams into you like a tsunami of pleasure crashing into your nerves. Your soft, hot walls convulse around his fingers in your release as he uses them to fuck you through your first orgasm of the night, with your hips still thrusting toward him uncontrollably as you go through your high and begin to climb down, panting.

Your head feels light in the best way possible and your legs are weak, so you whine lowly as he pulls his fingers from your heat with a pleased sigh. The second your legs give out, he catches you by the ribs before grabbing your trembling hips and lifting you onto the counter, with you latching onto him and holding tight all the while, your forehead on his shoulder and arms around his neck while your legs wrap around his hips.

Dabi drags the tips of his fingers up and down your spine, sending a jolt of calming, electric waves up your spinal cord as he repeatedly kisses your hair and ear on the side accessible to him.

“Atta girl,” he mutters into your hair.

Do you... thank him? He’s giving you a compliment, after all, right? Do you nod? Do you hum? You have the energy to do all three, but what response does he expect of you?

“I didn’t... do anything,” you mutter quietly, chest rising and falling in quick succession.

“Technically. Doesn’t matter because you will, soon.” He leans into your ear like he’s so fond of doing, his lips grazing your earlobe. “We’re not done, doll.”

Your legs twitch around him unconsciously, eliciting a deep, amused chuckle from the demon.

You see pointed pearly whites bear at you before he lifts you off the countertop and plops you down in front of him. Dabi’s hand squeezes your ass cheek, said hand then spinning you around to put your back to his chest. Searing breath on the back of your ear makes it twitch. “You’re wet and all, doll, but I’m not sure you’re wet enough,” he taunts, his hands splaying out on your abdomen and gently roaming around, fingers spread wide as they adore your body.

“For what?” Dabi’s chest against your back prevents you from turning around and giving him a confused look.

“My cock. What else?” he jabs.

Your curt reply is totally cut off and forgotten when you feel a wet tongue singe the side of your neck toward the back, and you gasp shakily.

“What to do, what to do...?” you hear Dabi whisper into your now-pebbled skin, his hands ghosting down toward your thighs.

“Oh.”

Remaining silent yourself, you could feel the damn lightbulb light up in the bastard’s horned head, but you didn’t know what exactly would entail.

Before you can ask what the hell he was on about, his fingers drove between your glistening folds and prod around, as if measuring the lewd slick settling there. They quickly pull away after a quick hum from Dabi.

“Be a good little human and bend over, yeah?”

Without a word or thought against it you comply, bending over your countertop and leaning on your elbows a little. You gulp at the thought of your leaking cunt bearing for Dabi. You weren’t sure what he could see from this position, but you were a little embarrassed, nonetheless. With a gulp you shift your weight back and forth on your feet nervously.

Hands rub and palm at your ass cheeks as thumbs rub deeply into your flesh in a symphony of soothing touch. You sigh blissfully and spread your legs for the demon without realizing, but it’s over all too quickly when he instead moves your legs back together. You crane your neck to look at him. “Wha...?”

Wasn’t he going to fuck you from behind?

Suddenly the weeping tip of his cock slips between your thighs, gliding against your dripping cunt and through your folds. There’s no piercing despite his many others, though perhaps that was why he asked you to take him to a parlor not long ago.

Dabi’s cock manages to grace your clit and your body unwillingly jolts a little, still having been sensitive from your previous orgasm. A soft gasp leaves your swollen lips and you hear Dabi growl behind you while he pulls back from your ass end only to jut forward again. Legs beginning to tire out, you unconsciously spread them, only for his hands to push them together roughly.

“Don’t fuckin’ spread ‘em,” he hissed, hips holding still. The fingers on your thighs push deep with force sure to leave bruises while you hiss quietly at the stinging pain they bring to your nerves. But that sensation is quick to fade into something warm and euphoric yet electric and sensitive, causing your head to spin even though he’s not fucking your desperate pussy. He pistons his hips into your ass, and you mewl.

“That’s your last warning, fuck!” he grunts.

You nod vigorously, content with letting him fuck your thighs so long as he keeps grazing your puffy clit like this. His pace quickens and soon enough you hear loud skin slapping against skin, his hips jutting into your ass and balls pattering against the crevice between the soft flesh of your thighs. The quick pace and silkiness of his cock against your clit is euphoric, leaving you to wonder if it would be better than this if he were inside of you. Are you drooling? Your head droops lazily as you revel in pleasure.

The wetness and heat between your legs has increased several-fold, but it’s apparently not enough for Dabi. Your poor body rocks against the counter and your eyes are clenched shut, head fixated on the sensation of his cock grinding against your cunt and between your soft, drenched thighs. You weren’t sure if it was the position or your nerves going haywire, but your legs ached with a dreadful burn.

“D-Daaabi,” you whine pitifully, “my legs... aah, hurt...!”

A hand jumps to your navel and brings you back toward him to allow room for his fingers slithering to your cunt. Before they graze over your clit, they stop. “Cum for me, then,” you hear him command, voice deep and breathy and sending a chill up your spine. “Maybe when you’re done, I’ll take you to the bed and fuck you into the mattress. You’d like that, wouldn’t ya, doll?”

“Yes, b-but,” you suck in a breath when his hand envelops your tit, “‘maybe?’” You parrot the word desperately, your head going blank as you near orgasm.

“Mhm.” You can hear the smirk in it, and the sound of the hum rumbling in his chest is oddly euphoric for you to hear.

You hated having him behind you like this. All you wanted in the moment was to latch onto him and relish in his heat no matter how intense it would be for a mortal like you. You wanted to touch him, to be able to see him, and he was depriving you of it all - very likely on purpose.

Your moans and squeals get higher in pitch and Dabi evidently picks up on your cues, thrusting against your cunt faster and faster until your entire body tenses.

You cry out his name ever so quietly, yet before you can climax he pulls away and leaves you panting and weeping, a whine escaping your throat. “But you told me...!”

“Changed my mind.”

“You’re a jerk!” you half-gripe and half-whine, standing up to glare at him. “I was so... so close, you know! You better make it up to me!” You huff and puff from the intensity of almost cumming.

“You’re awful feisty when I’m not touching you,” he remarks cockily.

You’re going to regret saying what you said. At least, that’s what the look in his eyes tells you when he spins you around. It’s dark and already you shrink in front of him. The next thing you know, Dabi’s pushing you against the counter and mumbling something into you ear, that something being an incantation that sends a trickle of electricity though every nerve of your body. Suddenly you’re cumming hard as heavy waves of pleasure wrack your cunt clenching around nothing rapidly as whatever the demon used on you pushes you through your orgasm, your toes curling and lips shrieking, head falling back so fast it almost slammed into the cabinet if he hadn’t caught it. You don’t register that you had wrapped your arms around his waist until his hands grasp them as if holding you there.

“How’s that for makin’ it up to you, eh?”

With his voice pulling a moan out of you, your poor brain goes foggy and full and it spins within your skull as you pant away, your body feeling heavy. Dabi grabs hold of you and lifts you onto the countertop when it seems like your legs are going to give out. “Hey,” he mutters into your sweaty neck, “don’t tire out on me. I wanna fill that pussy up with my cum ‘til it’s dripping out.”

You feel heat rush from your heaving chest up your neck to your cheeks. “Stop... that! You pervert.”

Dabi chuckles at you. You weren’t prudish, you were inexperienced. “What? Stop what, hm?”

“Talking like... that.”

He only hums, though, and he’s not to comply with your request. “Ya know, if you weren’t a virgin, I’d take your ass, too. Or put you on your knees and shove my cock down your throat until you’re chokin’ on it. Fuck, you’d sound like an angel.” Dabi chuckles at his ironic comparison, seemingly proud of himself for it.

You shrink in front of him and shiver, the room feeling so cold. You glance at your bedroom door and he notices promptly.

“I’ll carry you, for a price.”

Your eyes flicker back to him and the simper he flashes you would’ve had you weak in the knees had you been standing.

“Like what, my soul?” It’s a slightly genuine, slightly snarky question.

“Your mouth.” Dabi waves a hand at your widened eyes. “Not tonight. Maybe next time. You won’t know up from down and I don’t feel like playing teacher more than I already am.”

The demon doesn’t wait for your snarky remark before he picks you up and lugs you to your bed. You let out a noise when he literally drops you onto the mattress, your form bouncing atop it before he pins you to the bed roughly, so quickly you get dizzy. He dips his hips between your legs and spreads them wide while his mouth delves into the crook of your sweat-coated neck to let him begin suckling and leaving stinging marks with sweet, little kisses peppered in between.

It seems he’s suddenly gone soft on you, but it won’t last, even if you don’t know it.

Your back arches against him, ready to finally feel his torrid body against yours so that you can relish in his warmth despite the fact that your body was soaked in sweat; you wanted so much more, you needed it. Your next moan is dealt without a care who can hear, and thereafter with you wrap your arms around his neck tightly. Dabi grabs your hips and squeezes the plump flesh before his hands roam down your thighs to your knees as he hikes your legs around his hips, with you far too eager not to comply.

“Dabi,” you breathe, and he hums with one of his hands still on your hip as the other supports his weight by your shoulder. “Kiss me. Please.” Your voice is desperate and needy, and you’re starting to think this is more than lust pushing you on.

Had he used another demonic spell on you?

When Dabi complies, his hips grind against you to allow his hardened cock to nudge the folds of your glistening pussy.

This time around, with his tongue prodding in your mouth at a slower, more passionate pace, you catch on and realize he has a tongue piercing. Your walls clench at the thought of what it would feel like licking stripes up and down your soaked cunt, wondering whether it would be cool to the touch or searing hot due to his body temperature.

Searing hot would be the answer, though you don’t know that as of now.

The demon grinds against you as he devours your mouth with his own, his weeping cock sliding through your your wet folds. On the other hand you’re careful not to cut your tongue on his teeth again, albeit he wouldn’t complain if you did; if anything he’d encourage it. Your hands splay on his hot back, and you wonder that if leaving them on his searing skin for too long will burn you. If it gave you the opportunity to roam your fingers over his muscles and caress the staples, goddamn would it be worth the burns. With a sigh into his mouth your hands move from his back to grab onto those horns you’d thought about, your grip gentle yet exploring as you try to focus on feeling the rough texture of them.

Dabi pulls away from you to pepper open-mouthed kisses among your jawline, growling all the while. “What’re you doing?” he brusquely asks between the wet gestures, and you croon. His voice was so rough and gravelly while the gestures were soft and... sweet. You almost dare to say it was heavenly.

“Just feelin’ ‘em, babydoll.”

You throw his pet name back at him purposefully, and the mockery elicits a dark chuckle from him. Ever so slowly, you were beginning to learn how to be more brazen. You were getting comfortable with him on this intimate level. You’d already been comfortable in some way with him living forcibly in your apartment for over a month, but not on this level, not like this.

The stapled hand on your leg disappears before it reappears in your hair and gives a pull - not a yank - to tilt your head back and further expose your neck. You expect him to ravage it with his mouth like earlier, but he stopped to admire his apparent handiwork. You can’t see the marks he’s left, albeit he’s apparently satisfied as he smirks.

“What’re you doing?” you mimic him playfully.

“Thinkin’ about how I want you, of course.” He said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

In response, you huff at him.

“Let’s see,” he begins, moving closer to you, his breath fanning the lower half of your face as his eyes bore into your soul, “chest up against the wall, or on your hands and knees... hell, maybe just your knees...” He moves down so that his breath reaches just under your jaw, his eyes still staring intensely up at you while his hand slithers to your tit, rolling the hardened bud under his finger and you mewl. “...could always put you in a mating press and fuck you like a bitch in heat... I might even let you get on top, if you’re a good girl. Decisions, decisions, eh?”

“What,” you huff, “you mean, with all that whoring and harassing you did, you never thought this through?” You mirror his smirk with your own quirked brow while you rub the horns on his head, thoroughly enjoying their soft yet rippled texture.

“Oho, that’s the problem, doll. I’ve thought about it too much.” Dabi’s teeth put on a show for you to see from his widening smirk. Next thing you know, his fingers are pinching and tugging your nipple roughly for the first time and you keen under him from the shock before his wet mouth matches onto your other tit, tongue lulling over the bud. You mewl and flick your head back, chest heaving in your panting as you feel him suction onto your plump skin and suck away with a sopping, hot mouth, his low sigh into your skin blissful.

Your hands drop to his shoulders as a result of the distraction his mouth brings. Demonic saliva coats your tit and glistens in what little silvery moonlight filters through your blinds, all while you feel the pull of your leg over his right shoulder and prodding at your weeping heat with the tip of his cock.

“Ya know what?” he murmurs into your skin, “I wanna see these lovely tits of yours bounce.” With his other hand he guides the tip in and gives a moan at how warm and slick the entrance of your cunt is around him. And tight as hell, too. Of all the summons he could’ve answered, he answered the one that, unbeknownst to Dabi, lead to you, just on a whim. And fuck, if it wasn’t worth it.

You whine and writhe underneath him, needy as can be, as your entrance clenches around the head of his cock.

“Use your words, babydoll.”

You groan at him. “Just please hurry up and fuck me!”

“Your wish is my command...” Dabi’s voice is full of tease and mockery, which makes you want to bite his tongue.

Without any warning he sheaths his cock all the way into you as a groan escapes his throat, and you jolt at the sensation of suddenly being so goddamned full, your lustful gasp resonating off the walls of your bedroom. That one hard pump of his hips sends a wave up pleasure through your nervous system and the stretch of your tight walls leaves you wanting more. He’s much longer and thicker than his fingers, and you can’t help your cunt clenching around him like it does. The subconscious movement has Dabi groaning and panting out as you clench on his cock, and he still can’t help but relish in how fucking worth the wait you are.

That stretch of your cunt is back again, sweet and sinful as before. His cock brushes against all the right places, filling you up perfectly and having you drool for more.

Dabi holds still at least, though you can tell it won’t be for long.

“So goddamned tight,” he spits through his teeth against your neck, fighting the demanding of every cell in his body to fuck you like a rabid animal. Dabi’s hot breath fans over your neck, his teeth clenching as a result of your tightness around him.

His hips slowly start pushing and pulling to gently thrust his throbbing cock in and out of you, slowly letting you adjust before he can pick a normal pace.

...is what you thought he would do.

But nay, he begins with slow and agonizingly yet blissfully hard thrusts into your wet core, his grunts being drowned out by your wails and mewls as he slams into your sopping cunt. The lewd sounds of wet skin slapping slowly against skin and hot squelching mixes into it all, creating a melody of sin only you and Dabi share, that only the two of you can hear.

You were definitely going to hell, by now. But hey, good dick seemed worth the eternal damnation. Right?

With one particularly hard thrust, Dabi bites into the crook between your neck and shoulder, unexpectedly not breaking the skin, eliciting a cry from your parched throat and your eyes shut tight. The teeth latching onto your skin feel less sharp and more human, as he’s morphed them not to tear into your flesh and draw blood. He’d never hear the end of it for getting blood on your sheets, he knew that. Besides, if he wasn’t careful it would kill you.

He doesn’t want that happening again. Ugh. That was a godsforsaken mess - literally.

With every pounce of his hips, your tits bounce on your chest like he set out to do and he was sure to take in the sight of it all very well, having waited over a month for it. The smarting pang you felt earlier when his fingers fucked you is completely gone by now, leaving you to writhe and thrust your own hips from the overwhelming fucking of your senses.

“Dabi, Dabi!” you sob, your thoughts blending together until nothing but the demon inside of you remains in your consciousness. Your nails dig into the skin of his shoulders, drawing a thick, black liquid in the deep crescents, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Words, babydoll,” he breathes out, emphasizing the first word with a thrust. “C’mon, you know better.” He groans above you.

A yelp and another, higher in pitch slap of skin resonates within the room amidst the wet, sloppy ones and his grunts, but it doesn’t register that he’s slapped the underside of the thigh perched on his shoulder until you feel the pulsating sting that scatters through your leg. The yelp was apparently yours.

“Faster!” Your voice is devoured by a whiny tone and squeals that fight out of you, but it’s drowned out by the rhythm of his hips against yours.

Another slap hits your senses, and you cry out, tears flooding your eyelids. All you need is a little push.

“So fuckin’ demanding... Where are your manners, little mouse?” His lips are on your ear again, almost as if threateningly. “I’d be a little more... ngh... polite if I were you.” The covers bunch and roll under your body when it’s slid back against them from the hardest thrust he’s graced you with yet, the process bringing a shriek out of you and shock as a result of his hitting that special spot after angling his hips just right and causing your poor head to spin. With Dabi then yanking you back to where you were with the hand on your thigh above the reddening cloud of flesh, you croon underneath him as he stops fucking your dripping wet heat altogether. You’re left to stare into his fiery blue eyes directly while hot breaths flood out of you in rapid succession. His nose almost touched yours, and the look in his eyes tells you he’s dead serious.

“Hate to break it to ya, but you’re at my mercy, doll. If I don’t want you to cum, you won’t.”

“Nonono, I’m sorry! Please! Please! I’m sorry!”

A cross between a hum and growl leaves his throat, and you shrink underneath him.

“‘Please,’ what?”

“Go faster, please!”

Dabi’s teeth are on your neck again when he picks up his thrusting into you, increasing in speed and fucking your sopping pussy like you had requested. With his hands on your hips, the demon mutters praises and moans into your neck and you sputter incoherent gibberish when you’re not gasping for air and squealing and bawling out from his almost inhuman, blissful pace. The leg wrapped around his waist clenches as hard as you’re physically able as he slams into you, and while your senses are being ravaged and brutalized, you hear faintly those wet squelching noises and the sounds of metal and wood creaking. You weren’t sure if the thrumming in your eardrums was your heartbeat or your headboard hitting the wall, but the thought of the latter rolled your eyes into the back of your head. Dabi angles his hips just right and smacks his cock into that oh-so-special spot within your soft cunt, and the jolt of pleasure and utter bliss that results brings you back to reality momentarily - yet still somehow throwing you out of your mind.

“Right there! Dabi! Oh, fuck!” You sob with a slur, your hands grasping and clawing at his back desperately. Incoherent garbling follows thereafter, and Dabi doesn’t even try to decipher it even if it is silk against his ears.

The fingers gripping onto your hips are so tightly embedded into your skin, Dabi’s sure they will leave round little bruises in their wake and he relishes in the idea, but the sting they bring you feels so damned good, you welcome it, too. The tension that builds within your cunt keeps building and building, your hot walls clenching around Dabi as you near carnal release. You’re close, so fucking close to the height of true bliss, your moans getting higher and higher in pitch as your back lifts off the mattress without you willing it. You feel that familiar tingle before-

It stops.

You sob at the utter emptiness and lack of release, your head spinning.

The ancient bastard denied you of your orgasm.

Chest heaving up and down in your panting, your wordless whine and protest at the emptiness you can feel is seemingly ignored by Dabi. The lack of warmth at your pulsating core is almost... cold. So cold.

“Wh-why...?” you whine.

The demon lets out a breathy groan. You can feel him dip his lips to your collarbone and smirk. “Just ‘cause.”

Quickly the demon sits back on his haunches and your arms droop off his shoulders. Dabi blinks at you with his hand holding your ankle to his shoulder, all the while staring you down with an intensity that has you feeling small, like an ant before an elephant. You’re so vulnerable and naked under his unwavering gaze, it’s nearly frightening. There’s something in his eyes you haven’t seen before. It’s soft but it’s predatory. He drinks in the sight of you leisurely.

You know damn good and well blood is rushing to your face, your hot breaths leaving you in weak puffs.

“Aren’t you precious?” you hear him remark with a toothy smirk. “Just for me. Right?”

You nod.

Demonically slitted eyes narrow at you darkly. “Say it, then,” he demands.

“Just...” you pant, “for you.”

Dabi’s hand pulls your ankle off him and puts your foot flat against the bedding next to his knee as he looks down at you. The moonlight striking the vibrant color of Dabi’s eyes is breathtaking, if your breath could be knocked out of your lungs further. It almost forced you to liken the sight with tinted ice, with icy waters off Iceland or perhaps glacier-dwelling seas of the Antarctic. And yet, you knew better.

The sight before Dabi was more than he’d expected, albeit just as sinful. Seeing you splashed out in bed, sweating and panting and dripping in your own essence just for him drove him wild. You were so adamant against fucking him, about retaining your innocence and saving it for the “right” person, in the beginning. And yet now, you let him do as he pleases and he didn’t doubt it would be the first time. He knew better.

“Get on your hands and knees, love.”

That was a first. “Love?” You like it more than the several others. It was smoky and gravelly and breathy all once.

Without your knowing your eyes soften and you grin the tiniest grin at the demon, knowing he won’t return the favor and be as gentle and sweet with you. He’s quick to quirk a brow at you, but you turn on your side to maneuver your body around and comply with Dabi’s command. Your breath has evened out by now, as you prop yourself on your elbows with your ass pointing out to Dabi, weeping cunt ready to be filled. It was embarrassing being on display like this again. You glance back at him with curious eyes, only to be met with silence and what felt like a dark presence. He’d gone cold on you.

You feel a hot hand on the nape of your neck and swear on whatever god you used to believe that your skin sizzled for a bit, while another lands on your left hip as his cock presses up against your folds and slithers through between your legs a couple times, gathering the slick of your essence - as if it needed to! - before he delves into your pussy once again. You croon in front of him, and the moan that comes out of Dabi has you clenching around his cock for the countless time. He mutters something untranslatable to you and pushes down on your nape, easing you face-first into the mattress. Your bedding was so soft and warm from your own body heat. Maybe it was leakage from the demon’s body temperature, you weren’t sure. Maybe it was a mix of both, intermingling like perfectly-cut pieces of a puzzle.

With a sharp moan, Dabi bottoms out in you, your mewls being swallowed by the bedding pressing against your cheek. You sigh into plush warmth, but the soft and gooeyness you feel is quickly torn away by a harsh snap of Dabi’s hips. Your gasp is cut through by a squeak from your throat, only urging him further as you already feel that coil tightening and readying to snap. You feel him shift a little against you, and you try to glance at him as much as you can before he begins thrusting into you again. That hard but slow pace makes its appearance for a short while, and hot damn is it heavenly. You moan and whine completely unabashedly. The walls of your apartment were thin and cheap, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

It was just an effect he had on you.

So what if your neighbors knew your were getting railed by a demonic being from ages past?

He certainly wanted them to know.

Dabi’s pace picks up again and you already feel the ripples of pleasure soaring through your body from your clenching cunt, your grip on the fabric underneath you tightening as you fight back the urge to bite into it. Even the lewd slaps of his hips against your ass are louder and quicker, and fuck aren’t they wetter. Dabi himself seems proud of this.

Your breathing quickens and your lungs almost burn like the hand on the back of your neck, your keening and sobbing getting higher in pitch and filled with rushed air. His thrusts only seem to get deeper and harder, if it were possible, and your eyes close shut tightly as your body trembles. Dabi adjusts his hips and continuously hits that oh-so-sweet spot that makes your head cloud over totally, his head falling back at the way your pussy hugs him tight.

“Dabi!” you sob. “Don’t stop, please!” Your wording is heavily slurred and slightly hushed from the impact of his fucking your nerves and your cheek being pushed into the bed, but you manage, nonetheless. You can’t fight back the drool that droops out the corner of your mouth.

The demon chuckles. Dabi could hear you say his name like that for a thousand years straight and it wouldn’t be enough. “S’pose you’ve been a good girl, babydoll. Go on, I’ll let you cum.”

The hand on your neck moves to your shoulder and soon enough, your chest and face are removed from the sheets, albeit you’re still on all fours as he fucks into you. Thereafter you feel the piping heat of his chest against your back, a crude reminder of the seven layers of arson Dabi’s capable. His hand holds you still while he continues to wrack your body with thrusts into your wet heat. You feel his fingers rub and circle your clit after a torrid hand snakes around your ribs and down your navel, and the pace of Dabi’s fingers is almost in beautiful tandem with his fucking as he hits that special spot over and over and over again. You can feel your essence flowing down the insides of your thighs like you thought wasn’t even possible, pussy dripping onto your bedding.

Ah, fuck.

With a lustful shriek, your spongy walls convulse around his cock as he fucks you through your orgasm, your vision going white as your eyes roll into the back of your head and your body rocks back and forth, legs twitching and torso shuddering. It takes almost everything Dabi has not to cum then and there, his hiss and loud growl being evidence of that. You just feel so good, why wouldn’t he want to cum now? But no, that would be a treat for you later.

Your clutch on the bedding underneath is as tight as you’re fully capable, and your knuckles turn white while you revel in your own personal bliss, courtesy of whatever the hell Dabi is. The intensity of it all has your head spinning and body pulsating. Poor body beginning to come down from the fierce high, you wondered if Dabi would stop and let you bliss out - but nay; he continues to fuck you like an animal and abuse your clit while you cry it all out. You were drenched in sweat, your cheeks flooded with tears you didn’t know were there until now.

“Too much, too much,” you squeak quietly, so quiet you’re not even sure he could hear you. But maybe it was incoherent. Maybe you were babbling and drooling like a fucked out hole at this point. Was it getting overwhelming? Yes. Did it feel ungodly good? Fuck yes.

“You’re so fuckin’... wet, though,” he pants, before slowing down slightly. “I think you’re playing innocent. You like this, ah, don’t you?” Dabi groans as you continue to flutter, sensitively, around him. “You want me to fuck you stupid, to fuck you until you can’t take it anymore, right?”

Dabi chuckles at your lack of response and continues to ram into your soaking heat with your cries and squeaks only urging him further. An attempt to glance at Dabi is mostly thwarted by the pace he’s taken on, or maybe it’s because everything’s spinning - or is it the tears flooding from your eyelids - you manage to meet his icy, slitted eyes once, which prompts him to poke kisses at your nape and behind your ear. You feel that familiar warmth in your entire pelvis, you cunt clenching down on his cock as the waves of pleasure intensify.

“Dabi, I- nnn, it’s too mu-much,” you whine. “Please.”

“Nah, you’re okay, babydoll,” he drawls cockily, voice gravelly and breathy enough to make you cum on command. “I think you’ve got a few more for me, don’t you? C’mon.” He makes a point to hit your g-spot harder than before after he’s done talking, and goddamn does it take the air out of your lungs. You choke on your own spit when you feel that piping hot hand patted against your asscheek repeatedly.

Your shriek and wet slopping fills the room as you cum yet again, albeit this time the pressure on your nerves feels different - smoother, warmer - and the tingle in your belly is intense as your scream feels like it claws at your throat until it bleeds. Your thighs are drenched in your juices, cunt twitching and clenching in the aftermath of your mind-splitting pleasure. You mumble and whimper as he finally slows down and gives you a sliver of mercy, both of his hands now holding you up by your hips when your torso slowly droops down like it was before. Dabi chuckles behind you quietly as he comes to a halt.

“You good, doll?”

He’s definitely not sincere.

Your eyes squeeze shut and you heave and pant, the fabric in your fingers wrinkling in their grasp.

“Oi, you can’t quit on me now,” he demands. “I haven’t cum yet and I gotta make you squirt again.”

Trying to get a whole, solid word out was a struggle as a result of your heavy breathing and the overstimulation. Your head was fuzzy and the room was spinning like a damn typhoon, and for a split moment you thought you’d fallen unconscious. What spills out is garbled nonsense.

The demon hums that inquisitive hum again, urging you to speak.

You lift your cheek off the bed slightly, as you’re able. “Will...”

You’re not sure why, but the thought of Dabi skipping off after taking your virginity so unceremoniously rang into your thoughts, giving you a sense of loneliness and anxiety. Why, though? Why now?

“Huh?” He leans in so close, his horn bobs off the side of your head when he arches over you to put an ear to your lips. “Try again, love. Go on.” He sounds quite intrigued, probably the most you’ve heard him.

“Will you... hah, leave... me?”

The grin against your neck is dark.

“Whaddya mean, little mouse?”

His voice was downright excited. You were worth the wait. How long had it been since he’d had a human so obedient, so innocent yet so easily corrupted? You were his, now - whether you liked it or not was irrelevant. But he knew you would. Dabi had grown on you far more than you’d ever admit, he knew that for a fact. You were clearly enjoying yourself now, anyway. And it didn’t take magic to do all of this, save for one here and there to coax you to enjoy yourself and to bring out subconscious feelings. Like right now. You felt these things, he just amplified them to an unbearable extent. Whoops. You poor thing.

“Don’t go.”

Eyes half-lidded and droopy, you turn your head to look back at the demon, only to be met with sharp teeth shown off in a naughty grin. You blink once and you could’ve sworn you saw an image of a black, smoky aura surrounding him.

“If you can handle me, dear.”

You nod against the bed slowly before trying to push your ass against him with what little stability you have. Even if his cock was still buried in you, without any movement you felt empty and... alone.

“I thought it was too much?” he quips, hand rubbing at your reddened ass cheek in a way you have to describe as soothing. It felt so silky and mellow. Yet you knew he was far from that. “Well? I thought you were bitchin’ out on me like the virgin you are.”

“In... insi... inside,” you sputter shyly, mental clarity not quite returning, albeit you manage enough to think of that at least. You want him to cum inside, to know what it feels like to be stuffed full of his cum, to feel his cock twitching inside after his release. “C-um.”

You never would’ve thought about that before you met him. Why would you feel this way?

“Aw, what is it?” The hum that results from his scarred throat is dark. “You want me to cum inside right now? I’m not sure you’ve earned that yet.” His voice is bastardly and maybe even a little teasing, and he sighs almost happily at your squirming. “Asking me to cum inside like that the first time you get fucked - such a whore. Have I fucked you stupid already, doll? Shame, I thought you’d hold out better than that.” Dabi clicked his tongue and shook his head, though you can’t see. “Broken so early. Guess there’s no point in me stickin’ around after all, huh?”

A noise sounds from the back of your throat in protest and nearly unbeknownst to you, drool slithers out the corner of your mouth. Dabi seems to ignore your noises as his hands adjust your hips, giving you enough friction to elicit a whine from your lips. You can’t register this at the moment, but Dabi was a victim to his own whims and could be a mix of soft and downright mean in the bedroom, and there’s no telling which will arise. Sometimes he’ll want skin against skin, tongue lashing against yours, fiery pleasure; sometimes he wants to insult you and lash his hand across your ass cheek, leaving bruises or drawing blood wherever he can.

“I was gonna make you convince me,” he breathes, slowly thrusting. “But considering you’re still conscious, I think that’s enough.” Dabi chuckles behind you. Well, you were only conscious as per his meddling. He was the one keeping your consciousness pulled to the surface, preventing you from letting go of reality and passing out. “You’re most welcome to cry and beg, though, babydoll.”

Hell, that list was half-checked off. Tears stained your cheeks and blurred your vision already, and the more he fucked into you, the more they fluttered out. Your lungs burned at this point, a searing heat cutting through your chest. Anything you try to say comes out incoherently, a sputtered and garbled mess, when it’s not a pitiful sob.

You push your hips back against him in an attempt to fuck yourself on his cock while Dabi fucks your puffy cunt, drawing a condescending chuckle from him. The jolt of overstimulation beckoned you to crawl away and relieve yourself of him, but the need to have him thrusting and cumming inside you overcame it. His release and what it would feel like to have his cum mixing with your juices and dripping out of you was all you could think about, as if entranced in a spell that bound your consciousness to that one thing. The rest of your thoughts were jumbled and incoherent even to you, the drool trickling out your mouth and the rolling of your eyes into the back of your head representative of that.

As Dabi watched your pussy envelop him, he couldn’t help but envision his name carved into your asscheeks with a sharpened claw of his. Ah, the squeals and squeaks that crawl out of you would be divine in the most sinful way possible, and the threads of blood that would trickle down your skin would taste head-spinningly beautiful. Maybe next time. Dabi’s jaw clenched at the throb of his cock within your sputtering, velvety walls, the tightness in his abdomen building. Just one more...

“Fuck, little one...!”

As the demon drags sharp claws up your thigh and asscheek, it leaves red ribbons in its wake and the squeeze of your cunt and pitiful squeal tells him well that you’re enjoying it far more than you ever thought you would.

“Such a good fucking human... good fuckin’ hole,” he grunts, voice strained. His hand plants on the middle of your back and pushes hard, bowing your poor back as his other hand keeps your hips up, his cock ramming into you at a faster pace. Dabi lets out a loud groan when he sees the blissed out, tear-stained, drool-covered face of yours before his thrusting loses rhythm and he suddenly feels your pussy flutter around him hard in orgasm again, soaking him in your slick again. Finally he allows himself to find the release you’d internally begged for, fucking into you at a less than rhythmic pace as his own mind begins to become overwhelmed with pleasure.

“Ah, shit. Fuck, fuck, motherfucking-!”

Dabi soon finds his teeth embedded into your flesh and gripping it hard enough to leave a bruise or even cut into the skin as his hips move entirely on their own against you. With a strained moan he cums, thick, warm ropes of cum painting your fluttering, sensitive, and overstimulated walls as you literally cry and sob underneath him, his hips still involuntarily thrusting into you as your cunt milks him for all he’s worth.

“Fucking hell,” he bites out, body relaxing against yours as he comes down from the high, yet he doesn’t pull out. “I missed this.” His voice is breathy and littered with pants against your neck. Dabi leaves a few wet kisses to it before leaning back and slowly pulling out with a groan, leaving you empty and dripping before him. He watches as his cum begins to trickle out but is quick to gather it with his fingers and push it roughly back into your pulsating cunt.

“Atta fuckin’ girl.”

Your poor head spins and you don’t know up from down, so Dabi ushers you to lay down and before he knows it, you’re passed out asleep. Eh, he’ll consider aftercare next time maybe. With a yawn that’s more out of sudden boredom than it is exhaustion, Dabi lays down next to you and props his head up with his hand, leaning against his elbow as he watches you sleep peacefully, a complete contrast to a few mere minutes ago. With a smirk he wipes the tears off your cheeks. Those cheeks...

“I oughta answer sacrifices more often.”

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #dabi x reader #dabi x reader smut #dabi #mha #bnha #blue hour.#*throws candy* happy halloween have some mediocre smut!

583 notes · View notes

lloydskywalkers · 4 years

Text

any port in a storm

Pixal and Lloyd and the evolving nature of friendship, as highlighted by the regular burning down of your city.

(desperately trying to break through writer’s block and classes again, this was supposed to be under 2k and it is...very much not hdfjkgh but! i’ve been meaning to write for Pixal and Lloyd for a while so here are a whole bunch of feelings about the two of them and s8)

Pixal meets — truly meets — Lloyd Garmadon shortly after his brother’s been blown to pieces.

She says truly, because if you ask her, Pixal will tell you she met Lloyd Garmadon at exactly 8:48 in the evening outside his father’s monastery, moments before a horde of nindroids led there by Pixal herself descended upon them.

But Lloyd argues that since they said about two words total to each other, it doesn’t really count as meeting, and by the time Pixal’s spending the better part of her day with him running high and low around Ninjago City, she’s learned that it’s easier not to press the point.

Lloyd can be stubborn, like that.

She’d first learned that when she’d met him, just after they’d lost Zane. That loss hadn’t lasted long, especially for Pixal, but the immediate aftermath of it had been devastating. She’d watched with blank eyes as the team had fractured, splitting at the seams as they all fled their separate ways, too heartsore and dizzy with grief to do much otherwise.

All of them had fled, save Lloyd. She hadn’t paid him much attention before that point, the surprisingly small bearer of the Golden Power. Of course, he wasn’t the bearer of that power anymore, but his eyes alone had shown the experience of it. There’d been a brief, lost look that had crossed his face as the others had mentioned leaving, before it had been swept under a mask of stubborn, determined blankness. He wouldn’t be leaving. Someone had to stay behind and watch out for things, he’d claimed, even as the loss had bled through his voice.

Pixal hadn’t quite grasped the concept of empathy at that point, but she’d felt something dangerously close to it.

At any rate, the only interaction they’d had alone was brief. In fact, the only one Pixal can truly remember — and her memory never fails — is the quick exchange they’d had in the hospital lobby directly after the battle. The hospital was for Mr. Borg, and for the ninja’s minor injuries.

There was nothing any hospital on earth could do for Zane.

Pixal had found herself next to Lloyd in the waiting room, trying to distract herself from those thoughts while Lloyd stared at the stark white tiling with dull eyes.

“They never mentioned what your power was,” she’d asked him, almost absently. Collecting data, processing information — anything she could do to distract from the crushing grief.

“Oh.” Lloyd had blinked, startling back into awareness. He’d suddenly looked painfully young. “It’s, ah, I guess it’s just green, now.”

It had been Pixal’s turn to blink. “Green.”

“Yeah.” Lloyd had bit his lip, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly, two habits he’ll never quite lose. “I mean — it’s more than that, but it’s like — energy, I guess, is the best way to put it?”

“Interesting,” Pixal had remarked.

“Yeah.”

They’d stared at each other in silence after that, before they’d both been called off to other errands — and then they were having Zane’s funeral and then Pixal was making realizations she never got to tell anyone, and that had been that in her early introductions to Lloyd Garmadon. Quiet, awkward, and possessing an incredible power he hardly even knew the name of.

Looking back, Pixal figures her introduction hadn’t gone much better.

They’d continued as passing acquaintances as time went on, separated by danger and the confines of Zane’s head, and Pixal had figured that’s all they’d ever be. But then their Sensei goes missing and, despite Pixal’s increasing disappearances on Zane as she rebuilds her own body, she’s been given the role of watching out for Ninjago city along with Lloyd.

She quickly learns that quiet is not a term fit for Lloyd Garmadon when you’re trapped alone with him.

************

“How is there not a single station playing actual music?” Lloyd seethes, flicking through the channels almost manically. “It’s two am, who’s gonna be listening to your stupid commercial for toothpaste now, are you kidding me?”

“Statistically speaking, this is the prime time for long-distance driving near Ninjago City,” Pixal supplies, her voice a hint scratchy where it comes through the his car’s radio speakers. “Or, if you factor in the construction in the east district, there could still be traffic from late-night bars.”

Lloyd groans, thunking his head against the steering wheel as another ad screeches through the small space. “Wonderful.”

“Your vocal tones suggest you find it otherwise.”

“Dont trust ‘em, my vocal tones are traitors.” As if to solidify his point, Lloyd’s voice cracks in the middle of his sentence, shooting up an octave higher. Lloyd goes bright red, and thunks his head against the steering wheel again.

Taking pity on him, Pixal aims for reassurance. “It is normal for your voice to break, Lloyd. It shouldn’t last too long.” She pauses, momentarily scanning through another article. “On second thought, this one suggests it could also take two to three years for your voice to stabilize.”

Lloyd gives a strangled moan. “End me.”

“Unfortunately, that would defeat the purpose of why I’m here in the first place.”

Lloyd tilts his head, cracking an eye open as he glances at the camera feed he knows she’s watching him from. “Unfortunately, huh,” he muses. “So you’re saying if Zane hadn’t made you promise to look out for me, you would end me?”

“That — no, that is not — of course I wouldn’t end you,” Pixal backtracks. An odd feeling flickers through her, almost as if she’s lost her place, floundering.

Or embarrassed might be more accurate, she thinks wryly. She briefly considers projecting a a glaring face at Lloyd from the monitor. This is his fault. She rarely stuttered before Lloyd started teasing her at all hours of the morning.

“I mean, you wouldn’t be the first,” Lloyd continues, conversationally. “And if we’re being honest, I’d definitely rather you be the one to off me, instead of like, random bad guy number eighty-five—”

“I know you think you are funny,” Pixal cuts over him. “But casually planning for your death is something Kai listed I was not to let you do. Also, it is not nearly as funny as you think it is.”

“Ouch,” Lloyd mutters, though he looks chastised. “Never mind, you just took me out in one sentence.”

Chastised might be the wrong term.

Pixal studies him through the monitor, then sighs. “I am, however, honored you think highly enough of me to offer the right to murder you,” she gives in.

She’s rewarded as Lloyd breaks into a bright grin.

He still looks painfully young these days, but it’s less obvious. His voice is pitching lower and he wears his hair different, and he’s gained a whip-like tendency to quip at people, as Pixal’s experienced firsthand. Kai calls it sass in grumbling but fond tones, and Nya calls it snark somewhere between the fourth book series she’s sent for Pixal to try.

The ninja have been kind like that, sharing the interests they have in an attempt to make her feel…well, more human, she supposes. Less confined to a voice in a computer. Of course, Pixal isn’t confined to a voice in a computer anymore, but they don’t know that yet. She’ll tell them someday soon, she promises herself. Any day now.

In the meantime, it’s easy enough to keep up with Lloyd by lurking in his car radio, as he spends half his time in there anyways.

************

“You’d think we’d have found their hideout by now,” Lloyd notes, as they wait in a darkened alleyway again. It gives them an excellent view of the major highways, so if the rumored biker gang does show up, they won’t miss it.

If they show up being the key point.

“Whoever their leader is, they certainly know how to keep a low profile,” Pixal answers, closing out another dead end police report in frustration.

“It’s weird,” Lloyd says, propping the notebook he’s sketching in on his knee as he squints at the paper. “Normally the boss types aren’t this quiet. They like to show off, y’know? Make a big scene, dramatic speeches and all.”

“Are you referring to the villains, or yourselves?”

“Touché,” Lloyd snorts. “But still, you gotta admit it’s weird they haven’t even made any demands. What’s their end game here, elaborate advertising for motorcycle design?”

“I would hope not,” Pixal says. “Their color coordination is lacking.”

Lloyd fights back a smile, his pencil scratching as he shifts his notebook again. “I don’t know, I kinda like the punk look.”

“I noticed that, when you tried to redecorate the car.”

“Hey, skulls are cool.”

“They are also conspicuous, especially when they come in acid green colors.”

“Everyone’s a critic,” Lloyd sighs, making a face as he scrubs the eraser across the paper. Pixal tries to tilt the camera further, to see what he’s drawing tonight, but the angle he’s holding it at remains just out of sight.

She could probably guess what he’s drawing, if she tried. The notebook is one they’ve been steadily working their way through on these late-night patrols, the pages filled with little hangman games and Lloyd’s sketches of animals and his teammates. He’s drawn her a few times from memory, and she’s been tempted to ask him to draw her in the new Samurai X armor more than once.

Soon, she tells herself.

“What are you drawing?” she finally asks, curiosity getting the better of her.

Lloyd’s cheeks tinge pink, and he quickly plasters the notebook to his chest, hiding it entirely from view. “Nothing.”

Pixal waits, letting the silence fill with her judgement. “Lloyd, I have seen your drawings before.”

He doesn’t reply, and Pixal tries again. “It gets boring, being stuck with the car monitors for eyes.”

“I know you can hack other cameras,” Lloyd mutters, but he sighs, relenting as he turns the notebook over. Pixal’s eyes rake over the detailed sketch — it’s a comical little thing of her and Lloyd, jammed together on a tiny lifeboat in the middle of a darkening ocean. She can spot the smudges where he’s redrawn her head several times, and the numerous attempts he’s made at his own hair. Pixal studies Lloyd’s portrayal of himself, which is noticeably lacking in facial features. While Lloyd draws the others plenty, it’s a rare occasion that he draws himself, and she can’t help but be curious.

“I thought you were drawing the others again,” she admits.

“They’re on the ship,” Lloyd says, absently. “I’ll draw them when they remember to pull us back in.”

There’s nothing bitter in his tone to suggest it has any bearing on their actual lives, but the lost expressions Lloyd ends up giving their tiny caricatures feel familiar nonetheless.

“Zane has assured me they will be back as soon as they can,” Pixal speaks ups quietly.

Lloyd finally looks up fully, and flashes the monitor a smile. “I know,” he says. “So we better have this thing busted by the time they do, or they’ll never let us run a city on our own again.”

“If only we were truly running the city,” Pixal grumbles. “I could do a better job in two days than the current leaders could do in a year.”

“I’d vote for you,” Lloyd says, sincerely.

It’s a sweet gesture, but Pixal is unable to resist. “You don’t know how to vote.”

“Yes I do, it’s not hard!”

“Really? Then why are you not currently registered in the Ninjago voting system?”

Lloyd makes a strangled noise. “That’s a thing?”

She’s unable to keep the smugness from her voice. “I make my point.” Lloyd scowls, and scribbles a mustache on his drawing of her in revenge.

Pixal thinks it looks nice nonetheless.

************

She can’t really hold it against Lloyd for talking as much as he does, considering she does the same. It gets dull, sitting on patrol for hours on end, and there are only so many hours of light reading they can do before the silence begins to drive them both insane.

Pixal finds herself talking about more useless things with Lloyd than she has in her existence, pointless conversations in circles with each other. She also finds she doesn’t entirely mind. She’s become quite good at quipping back and forth with him, at least. It’s different than the kind of talk she has with Zane, lacking in the depth of feeling with the love they share. Her exchanges with Lloyd are lighter, though that’s not to say they’re less sincere.

For example, Zane hasn’t tried to teach her how to redesign a gi in poor lighting in the early hours of the morning because he’s bored out of his mind, that’s for sure.

“I’m teaching you how to sew,” Lloyd corrects, wincing as he accidentally stabs himself with the needle. “And I’m not redesigning the whole thing, I’m just adding some designs to spice it up.”

“I did not know you were allowed to wear colors other than green,” Pixal comments.

Lloyd pauses, squinting at the monitor. “You’re teasing me,” he finally says. “You’re making fun of how much green this gi has in it.”

“I would never,” Pixal replies, her tone flat and even. “The intricacies of your human humor evade me—”

“Human humor, nice—”

“—unlike the unusually bright shade of green you’ve chosen will fail to evade any eyes of your enemies.”

“I knew you were making fun of me!” Lloyd accuses, then flinches as he stabs his finger again trying to point at her. “And bright colors are our thing. Being subtle is, uh…not. Usually.”

Pixal is losing the battle to laugh at his expression by the minute. “I am shocked.”

Lloyd glares at the monitor, shifting his sewing to rest on his knees as he slouches in the car seat. “How’d you even get so good at sarcasm, anyways,” he mutters. “Zane still doesn’t get it half the time.”

“Perhaps it is part of my glowing personality,” Pixal says. Lloyd gives a huff of laughter, relenting.

“Fair enough,” he says, shifting in his seat again. “Fine, you win. The green is probably too bright, but that’s not the point. I’m gonna show you how to do a backstitch."

Pixal falls quiet, letting Lloyd gesture with the needle as he explains. There are a hundred, a thousand tutorials she could pull up online, digitized knowledge instantly learned on all the countless types of stitches she could use, sorted and categorized in neat columns of use and effectiveness. All of them more detailed, more easily understood than Lloyd’s absent rambling and unsteady hands as he struggles with the end of a knot.

Not one of them will care whether or not Pixal learns the odd way Zane likes to loop his stitches, or will quietly add which stitches knit skin back together quickest.

So Pixal ignores her programming, and does her best to follow Lloyd’s rambling instructions, watching as his scarred fingers tug another thread of dull gold through the green mess of fabric, the city quiet around them.

“You never did tell me where you learned how to sew,” Pixal says, as Lloyd starts up a new thread of black on the other side of the gi. “Was that something the others taught you in training?”

“They’d have to know how to be able to teach it,” Lloyd snickers. “And, uh, no. I taught myself to back at Darkley’s.”

“Oh,” Pixal falters. She’s heard about Darkley’s, both from Zane and the legal reports she’s read online. Neither gave a positive impression of the place. Her mind is suddenly filled with images of a younger Lloyd trying to give himself stitches, and her heart twists.

Lloyd starts, seemingly having picked up on her train of thought. “I mean, I did it for fun, mostly. I like sewing,” he explains. “It’s useful. You can pull things back together, and fix ‘em.”

Pixal is quiet, but she hopes Lloyd takes her silence as agreement with his motive. She likes to think he knows her well enough for that, by now.

************

Pixal finds, somewhere during their fourth month alone, that she’s glad the team elected to stick her and Lloyd together. Not because she doesn’t want to be with Zane — there’s never a moment she doesn’t miss him, and with every day that passes her resolve to keep her secret from him grows weaker, as the longing for actual connection grows stronger.

But there are conversations she can have with Lloyd that she can never have with Zane, and the dangerous thing about spending time with Lloyd, Pixal finds, is that they’re more similar than she’s realized.

“Sometimes I think I’m jealous,” Lloyd whispers to her one night. It’s one of the bad ones, the ones where their enemies struck too sudden to stop, and the mission ends in the hospital. “I think I’m jealous of Zane, and I hate myself for it.”

Pixal is quiet, trying to pick apart the tone of his voice in the words he’s just spoken, and factors in the victims they’ve just left behind at the hospital. She finds herself no closer to an answer.

“Is it the metal skin part?” she finally asks, though she knows that’s wrong. “The, what was it, technical immortality?”

“No,” Lloyd shakes his head. “I’m not afraid of dying,” he says emphatically, his fingers fluttering at over the steering wheel, tapping incessantly with unspent energy. “I don’t want to, but that’s — it’s not what I’m scared of. I’m more scared of how I go out.”

He swallows, and his fingers move to dance over the woven bracelet on his wrist instead, twisting at the tiny beads and tracing senseless designs in constant, steady movement. It’s a motion he does often, and it had puzzled Pixal at first. She’d decided to write it off as an odd tick, a way to spend excess energy.

Now, she recognizes the desperate kind of reassurance that movement gives. She understands too well the need to remind yourself that you can move — that your body will obey you and you alone.

Pixal thinks back to the other factors in tonight’s accident, of the way the drugged man’s eyes had cleared when they’d finally turned him over to the police, the way he’d sworn he’d never do such a thing in his right mind. She thinks of the way the first victim had thrown themselves over their companion.

That victim hadn’t made it to the hospital.

“Ah,” Pixal says, quietly.

She’s silent again, and she thinks back to when she’d met him, the very first time. She recalls the way her programming had rebelled against her in favor of the Overlord, corrupting her body and forcing it against her, twisting everything she was and wanted to be into something different.

She thinks back again, to the searing-hot anger, the terror, the despair as she was torn apart, piece by piece like a machine, burning out at the whims of another. Her end purposeless, her demise belonging to someone else, just like every other part of her.

She thinks of the last glimpse she’d caught of Zane, bright and beautiful as a supernova. Burning with the terrible brilliance of his own, determined choice. Terrible, because the death of something always is. Beautiful, because it was his own. Zane died, not a machine, not a weapon, not a tool of anyone or anything, but as himself. Zane died to save the ones he loves. Pixal could’ve died for spare parts.

Never again, she promises herself. If she goes out, she goes out on her own terms. This time, they choose the end of their own destiny themselves.

In hindsight, it’s the kind of promise they’re both too young to make, but neither of them have ever seen themselves as such, and promises like that are easy.

“Love can be terrible, sometimes,” Lloyd murmurs. Pixal watches him scrub at the blood on his uniform, and thinks how ironically well-timed it is that he finished the stitching on his new gi this morning. “Sometimes I forget how ugly it can be.”

************

The end of their nighttime stakeouts begins with a break-in at Mr. Borg’s tower. Lloyd argues that she should get to call it her father’s tower, if she wants, but the ninja aren’t the only ones Pixal’s hiding herself from.

And then Lloyd gets very tense at the thought of fathers very fast, and they never finish the conversation.

They stay at the edge of the bridge long after the parachute, emblazoned with the unmistakable visage of Lloyd’s father, disappears from sight. Pixal wonders if it’s burned into Lloyd’s eyes, like the way she’s read black spots linger in humans’ vision after they’ve looked at something too bright. The way Lloyd stares at the river, his shoulders tense and his teeth worrying at his lip, she thinks she might be right.

They’re waiting on the report from the commissioner —they’re waiting for anything, anyone who can offer them any explanation of what’s going on. Pixal’s reminded of how much she loathes this kind of waiting.

“It could be—” Lloyd begins, then breaks off, his voice wavering. He swallows, and Pixal can see the way his fists clench tightly from the cameras they’ve put in his car. There’s a fierce part of her that longs to reveal herself, to meet his eyes herself and offer some semblance of comfort. But there’s a time and place for things, and Pixal isn’t ready.

“It could be anything,” Lloyd finally continues, his voice small. “It could — it doesn’t mean anything. It could mean nothing, right?”

Pixal is silent, her mind racing. She’s run the calculations over and over in her head already, scouring the internet for anything related to the bikers. She’s been foolish, she realizes — they both have. Letting the gang go unnamed for so long, thinking nothing of it. Now, with the name flashing vibrant across Pixal’s vision, a part of her wants to let them go nameless just a bit longer.

Before she can answer, Lloyds phone goes off with a sharp ping, just as Pixal’s sensors alert her to the message from the commissioner. Lloyd snatches for his phone like it’s on fire, and Pixal’s already scanning the message frantically, as if she can salvage this if she’s fast enough, save Lloyd from this one pain.

Lloyd’s gotten much better at reading quickly though, these days.

She can pinpoint the moment he reaches the last paragraph, because his breath hitches. There’s a long, pressing pause of silence, Lloyd’s hands trembling as they clutch weakly at his phone. Then it’s punctured by a reedy, wheezing gasp, and Pixal’s suddenly wishing she’d revealed herself after all.

Instead, all she has is her voice as Lloyd crumples, crouching over in visible distress. Pixal’s mind races, recalling everything Zane’s ever told her about his team, the way their panic manifests in different shades. Lloyd’s is quiet but desperate, rapid breathes that stutter as his eyes slide more and more into a frightening kind of blankness.

“Lloyd, please, listen to my voice,” she begs, trying to reach him in the only way she can. “Please, you have to breathe—”

“He’s gone,” Lloyd rasps, unhearing of her words. “He’s s’posed to be gone, it’s supposed to be over, I’m supposed to be done—”

Pixal fights back the sense of overwhelming helplessness. She knows loss. She knows how to finish his sentence. He’s supposed to be done grieving, done mourning, done clinging to false scraps of hope that his father isn’t lost forever only to be met with heartbreak.

And now, to be met with the possibility of something so much worse.

“We’ll stop them,” she tells him, unflinching. “We won’t let it happen.”

Lloyd’s eyes are a vivid green where they stare at her through the monitor, almost ghostly in the misting light reflecting from the river.

He’s silent, but Pixal is, too.

Pixal remembers the way her head had spun when she’d first picked up the traces of Zane in the system, how the world had rushed then steadied, flooding with color as she’d realized he might not be lost after all. She remembers the surging, overwhelming flood of joy, that someone she’d thought she lost might live after all. She remembers being so happy, at even the smallest chance to get him back, because the voice was Zane’s, without a doubt.

She watches the color seep from Lloyd’s expression as his shoulders shudder, the words from the commissioner’s message almost echoing through the air. Watches the terror as the both of them fill the silence.

Will we?

The radio scratches, as if echoing Pixal’s anxiety. Love can be terrible, sometimes. She’s underestimated how it also be so cruel.

************

She’s also, apparently, underestimated how the universe on the whole could be so cruel.

She should’ve revealed herself to them from day one. That way, when Harumi’s corrupted programming suddenly ravages through her like an electric shock, she could be reassured they’d at least be familiar with the person they were fighting.

Instead, she doesn’t even get to scream. Pixal’s only able to force out a desperate, broken warning before she’s lost again, drowning in her own body as she’s forced under. Furious panic grips her as she screams without lungs, bashing herself against the overwhelming helplessness that’s taken over her.

Not again, not again, not again—

Her limbs creak and jolt against her will, lashing out at the people she cares most about, and Pixal can’t even rage back in her own voice. She’s sworn, she’s promised herself she’d never let anyone do this to her again — she’s sworn she’d die before she let someone reach into her head and snatch control away, and yet here she is, frozen as her body’s used to target her friends.

If she could cry, she might.

There’s not much more to say than that. She breaks free, her body her own once again, but by then it’s too late.

************

If Pixal had the same gift of foresight that Zane did, maybe she would have seen it coming. Maybe she’d have remembered how similar her and Lloyd are, and that this kind of pained desperation always yields impulsiveness and mistakes.

She doesn’t, though. She barely even manages to do what she’s trying to, which is convincing Lloyd to join the others while they celebrate their victory. Their off-key singing is something he normally wouldn’t hesitate to join in on, she thinks, and she hates Harumi a little more.

Maybe she’ll try his mother next. The expression on Lloyd’s face screams unapproachable, and remains fixedly sullen.

Almost to her surprise, he meets her eyes as she draws near— it’s odd, being able to meet his back — and his own eyes are dark, from despair over Harumi or despair over his father, Pixal isn’t sure. She’s thinking it might be both, when his eyebrows crease, and a flicker of concern cuts through them instead.

“You good?”

It takes her a moment to realize why he’s asking, but the answer is obvious. Her head tilts downward, and she watches as her fingers curl and uncurl. Her movements, her choices. She lets out an even breath.

“As I can be,” she replies. Lloyd nods, and his eyes are understanding. His lips twist in a scowl.

“She shouldn’t have done that to you. That was a low blow.”

Pixal’s mouth curves into a humorless smile. “That it was. She’s rather good at those, isn’t she.”

Lloyd’s eyes shadow again, and he looks away, crossing his arms. “This isn’t supposed to be about me,” he mutters.

“Yes, it is,” Pixal counters. “It is why I came over here, in the first place. She hurt—”

“All of us, and who’s fault is that,” Lloyd snaps, his arms crossing tighter.

“I would hope you know it’s hers,” she says, holding firm.

Lloyd looks away again, biting his lip, and Pixal shifts anxiously, rolling her wrists. The sensation of control sliding away still haunts her, worse than it had the first time. She should be better than this, she tells herself hotly. She’s lived without a body long enough that losing it so briefly shouldn’t effect her this much.

Curse her programming, she thinks, tapping agitatedly at the banister. She knew she should have reinforce it sooner.

“Hey, um.” Lloyd is looking at her again, hesitant. He twists at his bracelet, and his eyes lose a fraction of that darkness. “Kai made this for me, after Morro,” he says. “I kept shredding the sleeves of my uniform, so he told me to mess with this instead, when I needed to remember that…that I was in control.”

He shrugs, hesitant. “We could make you one too, if you wanted. It helps, having something.”

Pixal lets out a steady breath, despite not actually needing to. The action is grounding, she’s found. “I would like that.”

Lloyd gives her a ghost of a smile in return. “Soon as this is over, then.”

There’s a heavy weight to his words, and Pixal’s eyes narrow.

“Lloyd,” she says. He looks at her, his eyes dark. “Don’t do anything foolish.”

He’s quiet, not meeting her eyes, and this is where Pixal should stop him. This is when she should see the end of the road they’ve been on since they started this, and force him to turn before it’s too late.

“I know what I’m doing.”

She doesn’t.

************

Lloyd is battered and bleeding by the time they drag him onto the ship, a gruesome portrait of cruelty. Pixal is frozen as she watches him writhe in Kai’s hold, his screams cracked and wet as he thrashes erratically like a broken thing.

Nya is already barking orders before they’ve even gotten Lloyd fully on the ship, and Zane is running scans with a horrified, wavering focus. Pixal follows Cole as he carries Lloyd to the medbay with a blank numbness, the rush of wind streaming past the Bounty sails thunderously loud in her ears.

This isn’t Lloyd, she thinks, staring at his crumpled form. Lloyd isn’t this battered, broken shell of a person. Lloyd isn’t hazy eyes that fail to recognize them and frantic murmuring through bloody lips. Lloyd is bright-eyed and gentle and would rather die before he screams the way he does when Cole moves him to the table.

Lloyd is her friend, and this is where that promise they made has led them. She knows why Lloyd set out for the prison, hot on the collapse of his own star. She also knows he wouldn’t have chosen to burn out like this.

Cole calls out for Zane, his voice ringing in panic as Lloyd screeches in pain again. Pixal thinks of quiet words in the safety of his car, and she feels sick. This is the ugliness of love, the terrible, hideous side of it.

And Lloyd would hate it, if he could see himself, if he were any semblance of lucid. He’d hate to know just how much better he was at breaking himself than Morro ever was.

Zane is gentle as he pushes past her, but Pixal can feel the tremble in his hands. He’s every bit as rattled as she is, if not more so — Zane’s heart is larger and softer than hers has ever been, and he cares about each and every one of them with a painful intensity. It’s a cruel thing, to have to pull those same people back together with your own hands.

Kai’s eyes are streaming as he clutches at Lloyd’s wrists, pinning him in place. Zane’s hands waver again over one of the jagged wounds near Lloyd’s ribcage, the green of his uniform already dyed dark in blood, soaking over the careful stitches Pixal watched him put in himself.

Pixal finally finds her footing, reminding herself of the solid wood beneath her feet. She recalls the steady, smooth stitch Lloyd’s scarred fingers traced out for her.

“Here.” She takes the needle from Zane’s hands, squeezing his briefly before letting go. “I can do it.”

She sets the needle against Lloyd’s skin and wonders what kind of stitch it’d take to pull your heart back together.

************

Pixal cannot cry. It’s one of the features Mr. Borg spent hours debating, weighing the pros and cons of giving her the ability before he was truly sure how rust-proof she was. He’d never gotten the chance to, as the Overlord had interrupted him, then Pixal had lost any body to give the ability to cry to, which had eliminated the need entirely.

She cannot cry, but she can hurt, and the rain that streams through her hair, dripping down her forehead spotting raindrops on her cheeks, could be tears if she pretended.

She doesn’t, though, because tears are a waste of water and overall useless in the grand scheme of things. She doubts they’d have helped her fare any better in the battle with Colossi, either.

Tears won’t bring anyone back.

Lloyd cries anyways. She can’t see him, but she can hear it in his voice, the way it wavers and breaks over the radio, nasally tones pronounced.

He’s barely able to gasp a few coordinates to her before he cuts the radio off abruptly. Pixal’s spent enough time with him to envision his scarred fingers snapping it off with a particular desperation, green sparking from his hands in distress.

She reminds herself those sparks are gone, now, bled away into nothing like the vivid green of Lloyd’s eyes had. The thought makes her sadder than she’d expected. She had a joke, about his eyes, she had wanted to make. Now that she has a body, and her own set of glowing green eyes, she’d — there was something he would’ve laughed at, she thought —

It doesn’t matter, now. Neither of them are likely to laugh anytime soon.

The coordinates blink brightly in her vision, and she’s almost surprised she managed to key them in. She’s running on autopilot, she supposes. It could be ironic — she’s been so desperate for control, it’s been so important that she’s the one feeling. Now, she’d give anything not to feel at all.

She lets out a shaky breath, dispelling the mist in her vision left from the rain. She leans forward, just over the edge of the building she’s crouched on, and her loose hair falls forward, silvery and synthetic and horribly tangled. Irritated, she reaches for another hair tie, and her hands falter around her wrist.

Lloyd had promised her a bracelet there. But he’d promised Kai would make the bracelet, hadn’t he, and Kai couldn’t make the bracelet if he was dead, could he.

Pixal blinks, her breath hitching. She’s been so numb to the pain of Zane’s loss, it hasn’t yet occurred to her that she’s losing Kai, too. And Jay, and Cole, and—

She sucks in the same shuddery kind of breath she’s seen Lloyd do, and carefully fists her hand in the area of her uniform above her chest. Her fingers dig in tightly, clutching in a hopeless attempt to feel some sort of comfort she knows she’ll never find.

But perhaps, for these few seconds, she can pretend the action is holding her together.

************

“It was inevitable,” Pixal tells Lloyd blankly, as he rasps out his third apology in the dark cover of their small hideout. “That one of us would fall, eventually. It had nothing to do with you.”

Lloyd swallows thickly. “It could’ve — it should’ve been—”

He doesn’t finish, but he doesn’t need to. Pixal’s hand shoots out, clamping tightly around his wrist, and there’s a beat of gratitude that she doesn’t need to rely on her voice alone anymore.

“Don’t.” Her voice is strung tighter than the tension in their shoulders. “You cannot change anything. You can’t, Lloyd, and you should not wish to — to change it that way.”

Lloyd jerks his hand free, wiping miserably at his eyes. He sets it back down within her reach, though, and if Pixal were any different, she’d take it.

But Pixal isn’t that different from Lloyd at all in the end, and neither of them reach for the other’s hand, no matter how desperately they crave the contact. Fear is more familiar, and it’s easier to give into it than it is the clawing need for comfort in your chest, after all.

“Still,” Lloyd finally whispers. “Still.”

Pixal swallows. She doesn’t disagree. If one of them had to fall, she knows she gladly would have taken it upon herself. She knows the others care for her, certainly, but she also knows her place in the grand scheme of things. They were six before she came along, and even now she’s kept far too many secrets to be fully counted among them.

She listens to Lloyd’s quiet, cracked voice, and she wonders if he’s thinking that they were five before he came along, younger than Pixal got to know him as.

Now they’re three, hollow and heartbroken. Though counting herself as one whole feels like cheating, right now.

Pixal squeezes her eyes shut, and wonders what it’s like to cry. Perhaps it helps, though Lloyd doesn’t look any less miserable.

************

“I was thinking,” Lloyd tells her, during one of the precious few quiet moments they have while trying to overthrow Garmadon and Harumi. Pixal’s turning the tiny tea flower he’d given her over in her hands, a part of her mind already marking articles about flower-pressing, another part wondering if it’s already too late to save the blossom. “About that promise we made, before all this.”

Pixal finally tucks the flower into the pocket of her uniform, pressed close to her chest. If anything, it can be a reminder of the lives that are safe — the life that’s coming back to her, if she has to drag him back from another realm herself. “And?”

Lloyd’s hands twist together. “Maybe we should focus more on staying alive.”

Pixal coughs out a laugh, breathless and startled. Lloyd wrinkles his nose at her, but his eyes are amused, even with their light lost. “I mean, the emphasis would be on keeping everyone else alive, but it’s kinda hard to do that if we’re dead, so…yeah. Priorities.”

“Staying alive should always be a priority,” Pixal corrects him, but she tugs the edge of his armor out of place with a smile.

“Why didn’t you teach me how to graffiti?” she nods at the designs on the green leather. “Or was this another Darkley’s tradition.”

“This is a refined art, called whatever I had on me that showed up on dark green,” Lloyd grumbles, fixing his armor. “I’ll teach it to you when we get out of this.”

“Another reason why staying alive would be a more productive focus,” Pixal points out. “I’ve heard teaching is easier when you’re alive.”

“And I’ve heard you’re a real riot,” Lloyd mutters. “It’s a promise, okay? I promise to teach you how to do cool armor design if you promise not to disappear into another realm on me.”

Pixal nods, adjusting her own armor tighter as screams ring out from a street nearby. “A promise, then.”

She keeps both the promise and the flower, the tiny blossom dried and faded by the time she’s escaped from the prison, heart racing with leftover adrenaline as Zane sweeps her into his arms. She clutches back every bit as tight, listening to his breathless laughter as cheers rise from the streets behind them, the smoke drifting across the early morning sky above them pale against the lightening blue. Pixal buries her face in his shoulder and breathes, tucking the moment away in her heart where it won’t fade. There’s a future stretching out before her, and she’s got the limbs to walk her path on her own, but all she wants right now is the steady ground beneath her feet and the bright laughter of what she’s managed to keep.

Lloyd meets them shortly after, his own promise kept as he tears his gaze from his father, handing him off to the authorities before sprinting for the others. Pixal barely snags a moment alone with him, and even then no one’s particularly keen on letting him out of their sights.

He meets her eyes as they pick their way through the wrecked streets, the city more alive around them than it’s been in weeks. In the dark of the early morning, Pixal’s eyes glow a bright green, reflecting oddly in the windows they pass. It’s always been her preferred color, in contrast to Zane’s bright blue. Lloyd glances at her, his own eerily green eyes glowing back. He bites his lip, but it’s to hold back real laughter this time.

“My eyes were green first,” she tells him.

“Sue me,” he shoots back, before Kai’s throwing an arm over his shoulders again, tucking Lloyd neatly in between him and Nya. Pixal smothers a laugh at the look on his face, and tightens her own arm further where it’s linked firmly in Zane’s.

It’s going to be an easy promise to keep, she thinks.

#lego ninjago #ninjago #lloyd garmadon #ninjago lloyd #pixal #there was a point to this but it got lost in pix and lloyd do arts and crafts #either way i'd die for both these characters #ninjago where is the pixal love i miss her #my fic

336 notes · View notes

whaleofatjme1920 · 3 years

Note

Heya, so I was wondering if I could get a scenario based off of your hanahaki disease story for ej. What if somehow Leia started to fall for the reader some time after they got the disease?

Butterfly Kisses

[Leia (OC) X GN!Reader]

[Warnings: death (not really described), angst]

[AN: Check out my masterlist for the Hanahaki series that's originally EJ X F!Reader]

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, she wasn’t supposed to feel this way.

Leia watched you deteriorate when she stole Jack from you, and she smiled at the thought. She watched you grow sicker and sicker and basked in the piles of tiny forget-me-nots you left scattered around the house.

And she loved it. She loved watching the destruction that was you while Jack was still blinded by her light.

In truth, there was no reason for her to actually dislike you other than the fact you are a proxy. She was her father’s killing machine, nothing more, nothing less. It was nothing personal, just what her father desired of her. The white haired woman wasn’t supposed to be able to feel love or anything amiable, but then she met Jack. Just like that, everything changed.

He felt strongly for her, that much she could tell right off the bat. Did Jack’s ‘eyes’ always wander when he saw a pretty face? It was so easy for him to fall into her grasp and for her to wrap around him like an octopus, keeping him in her clutches.

If she had any semblance of guilt, it was smothered by her rationalizing that she was doing you a favor. What kind of girl should stay with a guy who wanders both physically and emotionally? Leia took away a man who, in a way, didn’t deserve you. If she could win over Jack with her sapphire eyes that fluttered like the wings of a butterfly, then he didn’t deserve you. Who knows what he would do in the long run? She took from you what you wouldn’t miss.

Here you are, day after day, dying. You’re coughing up forget-me-nots because you were too stupid to realize that you’re better off without him. You’re perishing in front of her and all Leia can think is that you deserve it. She hears you as you and Kate chat on the couch only to be interrupted by a series of thick, heinous coughs and the daily arguments that ensue between Hoodie and Jack. Toby is more supportive of you than ever! She thinks you know what love is, and she thinks you know it well.

It’s something she’ll never really have. She’s a weapon, nothing more, nothing less.

That’s not until one summer evening when you’re reaching the end of your rope that you sit down next to her on the porch. The crickets and cicadas are singing, and the light of the summer sun filters through the trees like golden tresses of hair. It’s gorgeous. She’s sipping on some pink lemonade, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the sweetness of the air and when you sit next to her, she pauses.

Her blue eyes look over at you, and in that moment, she doesn’t sense anything from you but stillness. No animosity or acrimony, nothing scathing, just stillness. She sees how sickly you look. You really don’t have much longer left, maybe a few days if you’re lucky, to next morning at worst. Your eyes are so tired and heavy, and the dark circles under them seem almost endless. But you still look gorgeous when the light hits you just right.

“How are you?” You ask, voice soft and scratchy due to the flowers that threaten to shoot up from your throat.

“Never better,” Leia replies before sipping at her striped straw. “And you?”

You chuckle and shake your head. “How I look,” you say.

Leia cracks a grin. “These final days been treating you well?”

You shrug before making a so-so motion with your hand. “Yes and no.” You take in a deep breath to fuel yourself for just a moment longer before glancing at Leia. “I’m tired, really tired,”

“Then why don’t you get some rest?”

You smile quietly and shake your head. “I’ve done so much resting these past few days,” a scoff escapes your throat alongside some more petals, “for as long as I’ve had this!” You exclaim. “I just wanna, I don’t know, see something.”

Leia doesn’t know where the softness comes from, but she suddenly stands up. “Okay, follow me.” She places down her glass of pink lemonade before holding out her hand to you.

You raise a brow but sense no duping from her and hesitantly take her hand. You’ve spent the better part of a year hating her, loathing her for what she’s done to you, but you realize it was Jack. Jack was the one who ultimately betrayed you, and Jack was the one whose heart left the room it used to share with yours. You still have strange feelings against her, but you know that you’re okay to be with her for what may be your final night alive.

Leia hoists you up and then brings you off the back porch, not letting you do as she leads you through the tall grass. The sound of cicadas kicks up, and in the distance, you can hear deer moving through the meadows. The sun is sinking further and further below the horizon, making the sky dazzle you in hues of pinks and purples only knitted together by shades of blue. The clouds are the size of whales and swim through the sky like airships.

“Where are you taking me?” You ask with a small grin.

Leia brings you into the woods, halting from pointing out little mushroom caps that come in reds, pinks and browns before addressing you. “A place I think you’d really like,” she hums. “We’re almost there. What do you think the air smells like?”

You take in a thoughtful sniff. “Sweet flowers, grass,” you begin to list off.

Leia looks over her shoulder at you and smiles again. “Let’s go see why.” The fallen child of Zalgo then pulls you on just a little further, the scent of lavender and phlox filling the air. Honey also permeates your surroundings.

You watch as the trees shift to shades of gold before the most beautiful sight of flowers overtakes your vision. It looks like there’s a staircase carved out of rock and it leads down to an alluring flower field that blankets the entire opening. Butterflies of every kind swarm the area, landing gracefully on flowers before flitting off to the next. Fireflies are beginning to rise up and light up the blanketing darkness.

“Nice, right?” Leia says as she begins to lead you down the stairs. Her grip is gentle as she helps you.

You nod, a giggle rising up from your throat as Monarchs and Swallowtails begin to perch on your head and arms. It’s like they’re greeting someone they love. “Have you always known about this place?” You inquire, one of the Painted Ladies coming to rest on your nose, kissing you with her wings.

“Sure have,” Leia replies, guiding you slowly through the field of flowers. “I like to come here and think,” she murmurs. Leia pauses when the two of you reach a slight divot in the flower field. There’s a little rock shelf she must’ve built and in it is a well sized box. Leia sits you down, then pulls out the box and opens it. “Sometimes I like to journal here,” she explains, showing you her doodles of the flowers and the butterflies.

“I didn’t know you were into such things,” you smile, still getting covered by butterflies and their kisses.

“I do a lot of things when I’m not being a jerk,” she chuckles. “Here, you can look through it.” She hands you her journal and you gingerly take it into your hands.

You begin to flip through the pages while Leia hums and looks up at the rising moon, fireflies and butterflies resting on the flowers all around you as the breeze gently wafts by.

It’s peaceful here - there’s no signs of worry, and your lungs seem to be at peace with all the sweetness in the air. The stars begin to shine overhead, and Leia thinks that maybe, just for a moment, everything will be okay.

Sometime during the silence (and Leia’s humming), you look over at her and pause from reading and looking over her entries. “Y’know,” you begin. “You make fields nice.”

Leia almost forgets you’ve got that stupid disease when you begin to violently cough, sending the field into a deathly silence except for your internal struggle.

It becomes harder and harder for you to breathe, and Leia panics. She picks you up like you weigh nothing and begins sprinting back to the house knowing you need to be with your group. The Slender Man won’t come at her call. Maybe, just maybe, if she gets you back to Masky…

They lost you that night.

Leia barreled back into the temp house, your fading form in her arms and they lost you. Slender Man wasn’t able to save you.

Maybe it’s a curse, a curse that whatever angry part of you or the universe inflicted on her for being such an awful person when she first met you.

She knows she deserves it. Yellow sunflowers unfurl in her lungs at an alarming pace, and when she’s in that field surrounded by butterflies that do not kiss her the way they kissed you, she can’t help but feel she deserves it.

But hey, she makes fields good, you said so yourself.

#oc #original character #oc x reader #leia #creepypasta #creepypasta oc

26 notes · View notes

impulsive-decisions-for-lupin · 3 years

Text

Morning Coffee

Pairing: Jigen Daisuke x Reader (gn)

Prompt: “Did you know that you talk in your sleep?”

Note: Some mild profanity occurs. / You’re drinking coffee in this one, but just replace it with something else if you don’t drink it!

The morning light had begun to seep through the windows, and in the town Lupin’s gang were staying in already had people getting up for the day. Just a couple minutes ago you woke up to a car alarm, and after a couple minutes of the alarm continuing on you didn’t you would get back to sleep anytime soon. So now you sat in the living room waiting for the rest of gang to wake up and get ready for the new day, drinking your coffee while watching the television. Not much was on- nothing interesting, anyway. Just a weather forecast, and a recollection of the mundane events going on in the town.

“Guess it’s gonna be one of those days,” you mumbled to yourself, taking another sip from your mug. The sound of a door opening prompted you to look over, a “who’s there?” leaving you.

“Guess who,” Jigen’s voice returned. You watched as he closed the door behind him and walk to the couch you were on, a yawn escaping him as he down beside you after you scooched over. Jigen scratched his neck as he woke up more, and you crossed your legs beneath you before returning your attention back to the television. The reporter was outside of the museum the gang visited a couple days ago, reporting that the case for a stolen gem was still ongoing with no suspects. You let out a chuckle hearing that; that heist didn’t even take as long as everyone first expected. The only trouble there was was the cameras, and even that had been a pinch.

“I wonder what Lupin’s planning on doing with that gem we snatched,” Jigen mumbled in wonder, leaning into the couch. He mumbled something you didn’t catch, but you didn’t ask him to repeat himself.

“Probably sell it. Or give it to Fujiko,” you suggested. Jigen grunted in reply.

The museum report ended and returned to the newstation’s speakers, one of them commenting on the report while the other two agreed and gave their own commentary. You tuned out, looking over to Jigen.

“How’d you sleep?” you asked him.

Jigen responded with an incoherent grumble and tipped his hat down to cover his eyes. You rose an eyebrow. “Rough night?”

“There was always some random noise every half hour,” Jigen said. “I might’ve gotten two or three hours of sleep altogether.”

“Want me to make you some coffee?” you offered. If it helped him get through the morning and not murder someone (Lupin, specifically), then you didn’t mind. And potential for a better attitude wasn’t something you could turn down.

“Sure, that’d be nice,” Jigen said. You thought his voice softened as his sentence ended, but again, you didn’t ask. You simply nodded, leaning over and setting your mug on the living room table before getting up and heading into the kitchen. It was a small space, and the table cramped in did not make it any better, but it was manageable. As you got the coffee ready, Jigen came in, your mug in hand; he sat down at the table, setting your mug down in front of the seat opposite him.

“Thanks for bringing that for me,” you said when you noticed your mug, smiling at Jigen before returning your attention to the coffee maker.

Jigen let out a chuckle, and you could tell he was smiling as he spoke. “Well, you can’t have a ‘chat over coffee’ if one of the joe’s in the living room, right?” You shake your head as a grin fought its way onto your lips. It only grew upon hearing the man laugh.

The coffee was filling up in the carafe, and as it neared finishing you grabbed a purple mug from the cupboard and set it down beside the coffee maker. When the coffee was done, you poured it into the mug.

“Creamer? Sugar?” you called over to Jigen.

“I can do the rest,” you heard him say, his chair squeaking as he got up from the table and walked over. You nodded, moving to the side so he could get to his coffee before you sat down with your coffee. Jigen hummed to himself behind you, you sipping at your coffee once more as he joined you at the table again, taking a swig of his own coffee. “That’s the stuff,” Jigen said as he set his mug on the table, wiping his mouth with the side of his hand.

“What kind of noises did you hear?” you asked, remembering him mention it when he said he couldn’t sleep. It was out of nowhere, yeah, but you couldn’t help but ask. The thought it could’ve been a failed break-in came to mind, but it didn’t make much sense.

“Like I said, it was random noise,” Jigen repeated.

You nodded for him to go on, and he let out a sigh. “Just, y’know- Lupin snoring like crazy; chatter from other tenants; movement out in the hall and in the room above us; you sleep-talking; cars driving-”

You were mid-sip before stopping, coughing. Jigen’s eyebrows furrowed. “Crap- are you okay?”

You ignored him, staring at him when you could breath again. “I sleep-talk?” you inquired. You could feel your skin warming up in embarrassment.

The relief you were okay was replaced as Jigen rose an eyebrow. “Yeah, you do.” He paused for a moment, his eyes squinting a little beneath his hat. “Did you know that you talk in your sleep? This sounds like news to you, or somethin’.”

It was news for you; no one ever told you you sleep-talk! What if you did that commonly? Oh goodness, you’ve slept in the car on long road trips a lot of times- did you sleep-talk at those times? What did you even sleep talk about?

Jigen couldn’t exactly tell what face you were making, but he could see that you were getting a little over your head about the sleep-talking thing. “Don’t make that face, it wasn’t anything weird, or bad,” he assured you.

“Did you hear anything I said when I was asleep though?” you asked.

This is getting blown out of proportions, Jigen thought to himself. He let out a sigh, tilting his hat down before pulling a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his pocket. He popped one of the cigarettes out and between his lips and lit it. He breathed out, a puff of smoke escaping through his lips before pulling the cigarette out and holding it gingerly between his fingers. “I don’t even remember all of what you were saying,” he said. “Maybe.. something about ‘a ride being too long,’ or ‘too scratchy’ or somethin’. It was all jumbled, and unclear.”

“That’s not helpful,” you stated.

Jigen noticed the intent stare you gave at your coffee’s reflection, your fingers tapping the mug’s surface in an out-of-order jumble. He didn’t miss the quirk your lips or nose made either; nor your hunched shoulders.

Everything about you right then shouted out ‘embarrassed.’ And even though he knew he shouldn’t’ve, he couldn’t help but smile at your display, before chuckling at it. This made you whip your head up to glare at him.

“What are you chuckling about?” you asked sharply.

“Nothin’,” Jigen replied, waving away your question before smoking his cigarette once more.

“That’s shit, and you know it, now spill,” you stated. You were only given another chuckle and a shake of the head in reply. Before you could question him again you saw the door to the living room open, Goemon coming inside.

At his arrival you clamped up, sending another glare to Jigen before closing your eyes and drinking your coffee. Jigen bote back a grin, taking a sip of his drink before looking over to Goemon. “Good to see you join us, Goemon,” he said.

Goemon nodded, bidding a quiet ‘good morning’ to them both despite the curious look he had on. It was clear he likely heard some kind of commotion from them, but it was quiet as he as entered. As Goemon began to fix himself a cup of tea, you opened your eyes to look at Jigen again. You watched as he looked back at you, a grin playing on his lips; a tiny smile grew on yours as you glanced away.

#lupin iii #jigen daisuke #jigen x reader #jigen daisuke x reader

70 notes · View notes

wri0thesley · 4 years

Text

Performance - Johnny x Fem!Reader (Kinktober Day #14: Lap Dance)

NSFW. 18+ ONLY. AFAB reader. Fem pronouns. Lap dance, insecure reader. 2k

You give Johnny a little show.

“I feel silly,” you tell Johnny, nervously fidgeting with the floaty white robe. “Like . . . I don’t know. Like you’re just going to laugh at me and then leave the minute I get this off.”

Johnny looks at you with his eyebrows furrowed. You can see your own fears mirrored in his eyes, of course - Johnny Joestar is the reigning monarch of ‘feeling like the person he loves could abandon him at any moment’. You two have that in common; and though you both reassure the other with kisses and soft touches and words as best you can, it’s one of those niggling doubts that’s always there, threatening to overwhelm you at the most inopportune moments.

He sighs.

“I ain’t,” he says, softly. “Darlin’ . . .”

He stands up, using the arm of the chair to steady himself before he walks to you. He’s come so far in his physical therapy since the Steel Ball Run, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have his bad days - what it does mean is that he saves his bad days until he’s out of the public eye. He feels safe to be unsteady when he’s with you.

“Johnny,” you say, and then you sigh. You let him wrap his arms around you and kiss the top of your head, breathing in his comforting scent, feeling reassured by the weight of his arms around you. He’s softer than he looks - his stomach and thighs still bear the softness of all the time he spent not using them, though his arms around you are strong and powerful.

“If you don’t wanna do it for me, I ain’t gonna make you,” he murmurs into your ear. “I’m not like that, you know that.”

“All those other girls . . .” You say, haltingly - it’s a thought that’s constantly tearing at your mind. Johnny Joestar the former playboy -the womaniser. Expert in the kind of women who don’t get afraid of stripping down in front of their lover. Expert, too, in the kind of women who’ll happily get on a stage and get down to their birthday suit with a live band and not a scratchy old gramophone--

“Don’t hold a candle to ya,” he says. He tips up your chin, his smile crooked - your heart skips a beat as you look at him, just like it always does. You can’t believe how lucky you are, sometimes. It’s not easy - you didn’t expect it to be easy. Johnny is damaged in some ways, needs careful handling, is liable to curl in on himself in self-hatred . . . but despite that, he’s all warmth when it comes to you. Little smiles. Reassurances. His hand around yours, squeezing. “Now. Ya’ gonna give me a show, sweetpea?”

You catch your lip with your teeth, but you allow yourself to be stepped back from. You meet Johnny’s eye, the man giving you an encouraging smile - and all at once, you feel more confident. You feel emboldened, as he takes his seat back in front of you.

Sure, Johnny’s seen a hundred girls in burlesque shows and at theatres and in dimly lit bars, but . . . this is different. Those girls were being paid for their time, had to flirt and flutter eyelashes as contracted - and you’re doing this for Johnny because you want to. Because you love him.

You walk slowly and deliberately over to the gramophone and bend, making sure that the sheer froth of the robe stays close to your body, framing your shape in white chiffon. The needle is dropped into the groove carefully, and as you hear the first crackling strings, you straighten yourself out.

You meet Johnny’s eyes as you bring your hands to the front of the robe, teeth still biting at your bottom lip. You let your hips move slightly in time with the music, fingers undoing the strip of satin that’s keeping the robe flush against you. One long, slow step so that you’re closer to your lover has you inches away from him, slowly stripping the piece of fabric away so it falls from you and lands in a pool at your feet.

Johnny takes a great, shuddering breath. His eyes darken as they sweep the length of you - the curves of your hips and the dip of your waist and where your undergarments frame your figure. You’ve always felt self-conscious of it before - but in front of Johnny, you feel beautiful. The strap of the piece you’re wearing is pushed down one shoulder, your hips still moving - and Johnny groans as the other follows suit.

You enjoy teasing him a little while. You let yourself move closer to him, place a hand on his thigh, brush your finger over his lips - before turning to wiggle out of what you’re wearing, letting it join the robe on the floor as you stand in front of Johnny wearing absolutely nothing.

You stay there for a few moments, keeping it so that he can only hungrily follow the lines of the back of your body - the small of your back, the curve of your ass, your hips still bumping from side to side in time with the music filling your bedroom. You raise your arms slowly, showing off how you look, hands tangling in your hair playfully. You’d never usually be so bold in the nude - but as you peek over your shoulder with fluttering eyelashes, you can see that it’s taking all of Johnny’s self control to not rear up and take what he wants, and it makes pleasant heat roar low in the pit of your stomach.

You turn slowly, approaching him.

“Remember,” you murmur, thighs wide apart as you take your seat on his lap, straddling his hips - brushing your bare sex over where his trousers are looking uncomfortable but not quite settling on him yet, “you can look all you want, but you can only touch when I say so.”

“I’m gonna die if that ain’t soon,” Johnny says, all low southern charm, but he keeps his hands by his side clenched into fists to stop himself getting too acquainted with you.

“You’ve lived this long,” you say, leaning in close to whisper in his ear - he shudders, pleasantly. “It’d be a shame to die just from that, after everything else . . .”

“You’re what matters now,” he tells you, and the glow of your arousal mixes with the glow of your pleasure that he cares about you, and you take your seat more thoroughly. You wonder if he can feel how wet you are through the fabric of what he’s wearing - you wonder what he’s thinking as you gyrate your hips, keeping the beat. His cock - trapped between the plump lips of your labia and the material - twitches as you grind them in circles.

He sighs, tipping his head back, letting out a breath of air that’s more like a whistle. You want to kiss the bob of his Adam’s apple, lick it and bite. Move along his neck until he’s shuddering and pleading, sensitive - work open the buttons of his shirt and kiss the freckles on his shoulders.

You settle for the neck. You lean into him, your lips feather soft as you imagine leaving lipstick marks all along him. He whimpers, sensitive to the last - his cock twitches again. You think, if you tried hard enough, you could get him to come just from the way you’re seated on him and the touch of your lips - but you’re not that cruel. You want him to end this night inside of you, murmuring your name - you want to end it with both of you telling each other how much you adore them.

You bite his earlobe gently.

“Ahh,” Johnny whimpers, and this time he can’t stop himself - his hands come to rest on your hips, fingers digging into the skin. “Sugar--”

“Johnny,” you whisper, softly. “That’s against the rules.”

“I can’t not touch you,” he says, and his voice cracks. “Not when you look like this, and not when you’re doing that, and not . . .” You feel his cheeks warm and you pull back, looking at him - his freckled face is flushed, and it’s very obvious against the strawberry blond of his hair. “It’s embarassin’,” he whines, and as you gyrate your hips one more time and he helplessly bucks into it, you realise exactly what it is he’s protesting.

Giddiness rises up in you.

“I don’t wanna . . . y’know? And you against me like that . . .”

That you could reduce Johnny to that? You’d never have thought it true, if he weren’t scowling and looking away and the colour of a sun-ripened tomato.

“Sugar, darlin’, honey--”

You slide off him and onto your knees, your hands gently coming up to rest on his thighs. You stare up through wide eyes. Johnny meets your gaze, an unsaid beg apparent in how he looks at you; he wants you to touch him. He wants you to stop teasing him. And though you know from how hard he was he appreciated the show, you also know that Johnny Joestar isn’t the most patient man alive today.

“Well,” you say, breathlessly, as your fingers go to the clasp and placket of his star-patterned pants. “I don’t want you to make a mess on your nice clothes.”

#writing #not sfw text//#kinktober collection #afab reader #fem pronouns #johnny joestar

155 notes · View notes

sofuckingchuffed · 4 years

Note

Buddie “Go back to sleep.”

Ahhhh my first Buddie fic! Thanks for being patient with me and for encouraging me xxx

And a huge thanks to @lionheartedghost for always encouraging me to write and for letting me bounce ideas off you and seek validation.

AO3

---

Buck glanced over at Eddie on the other side of the bed, his face relaxed and peaceful, and for a moment he couldn’t help but turn his glance into a stare, a smile tugging at his lips as a bittersweet warmth filled him up. Eddie always looked beautiful, but he looked especially beautiful like this, face soft, bathed in moonlight, all his troubles stripped away in a way that made him look young and innocent and fresh.

It made it harder to leave but he knew he had to.

Carefully, he slid out from under the covers, barely even jostling the bed as he eased his weight off the mattress. He tiptoed across the room to collect his clothes that had been discarded haphazardly just hours earlier.

Eddie muttered something Buck couldn’t hear and he froze completely, waiting for him to settle again before he pulled his clothes on. He watched as Eddie reached across the bed for him, frown tugging at his lips when he was met with an empty bed.

“Buck?” He asked, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Go back to sleep,” Buck said gently.

His words seemed to have the opposite effect, however, and Eddie was soon sitting up, rubbing his eyes.

“You’re sneaking out on me?”

Buck could have sworn Eddie sounded hurt and he felt a flash of guilt.

“Uh,” he hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly acutely aware of how naked he was. “I mean, not sneaking.” He settled on.

“No? ‘Cause you seemed pretty intent on keeping quiet.”

“Only ‘cause I didn’t wanna wake you,” Buck insisted.

“Right. You didn’t want to wake me because you’re sneaking out before sunrise like a one night stand instead of saying goodbye like a normal human being.”

Buck could feel his heart hammering against his ribcage, uncertainty bubbling up inside of him. He’d assumed this was just a drunken fumble, something that should be forgotten the next morning, and despite wanting desperately for it to mean more than that, he’d also wanted to spare the uncomfortable morning after where Eddie had to explain to Christopher why he was there and be forced to politely offer Buck breakfast. And if he was being completely honest, he was attempting to protect himself from feeling unwanted, from potentially being thrown out and having his heart trampled on once Eddie realised he’d made a mistake and that his mistake had stayed the night.

“Go then,” Eddie muttered, flopping back down onto his pillow. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“I…” Buck paused, frowning at the hurt in Eddie’s voice. “I thought you’d want me gone.”

Eddie sat back up quickly, frowning. “Why would I want that?”

“Because we were drunk and we’re friends, colleagues, and this should never have happened, and I’d apologise for letting it happen but honestly I’m glad it did and, well, I was just trying to spare you an awkward morning after with the mistake you made the night before so—“

“Buck, stop,” Eddie cut Buck’s rambling off harshly, holding one hand up as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “What the hell are you talking about.”

“Look, I’m used to being a mistake,” Buck muttered, turning his eyes to the ground. “It’s okay.”

Eddie was silent for what felt like forever, and if he didn’t feel frozen on the spot, he would have taken the silence as his cue to leave. Instead, he just stood there, eyes focussed on a small chip in the floorboards, wishing more than anything that the ground would swallow him whole and somehow plant him in his own bed where no one could see him--where Eddie couldn’t see him.

“Come here,” Eddie said gently, and when he forced himself to look up, Eddie’s hand was outstretched, reaching for him, a soft, sad little smile on his face.

Buck swallowed the rising lump in his throat and obeyed, not sure what else he should do. He was surprised when Eddie actually took hold of his hand, keeping hold of it as he sat down on the edge of the mattress.

“You’re not a mistake,” Eddie said firmly, giving Buck’s hand a squeeze for emphasis. “Look at me.”

Buck sighed as he met Eddie’s gaze, a small flurry of hope warming him up from the inside out.

“You’re my best friend. I trust you implicitly. I think I might have been in love with you for longer than even I realise. Probably since day one. The only person in the world more important to me than you is Christopher, and he’s never gonna have competition for top spot.”

Eddie grinned and Buck ducked his head with a small laugh, chest threatening to explode. “You’re in love with me?”

Eddie laughed. “How could I not be?”

Buck wanted to say he loved Eddie too, he wanted to give him the kind of declaration he deserved in return, but all he could manage was to swoop in for a clumsy kiss, gripping Eddie’s face in his hands, throat too tight for words.

Eddie kissed him back in earnest, even though Buck could still feel the smile on his face, the laughter threatening to bubble up into their kiss.

“So come back to bed?” Eddie asked once they’d broken apart for air, tilting his head, expression soft again.

Buck nodded, biting his bottom lip as he shifted across the bed to get back under the covers.

Eddie wrapped himself around Buck, pulling him flush against his chest as he pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

“I’m sorry I let you think you meant any less to me than you do,” Eddie whispered, lips brushing his ear.

Buck shook his head, twisting to face him. He reached up to cup Eddie’s cheek, letting his fingers ghost across the stubbly skin. “It’s not your fault I’m an idiot.”

Eddie laughed, turning his face to press a kiss to Buck’s palm. “I still should have been more clear.”

“Would have saved me a lot of mental turmoil,” Buck agreed with a teasing smile before pressing his face into the crook of Eddie’s neck, breathing him in.

For a while they just stayed there wrapped in each other's arms enjoying the feeling of knowing they were wanted by the other, but eventually Buck remembered Christopher, and his heart sank again as he pulled back again, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

“What?” Eddie asked sleepily, a lazy smile still ghosting his lips.

“What...what about Christopher?” Buck asked, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, like he was preparing for rejection again.

“What about Christopher?”

“He...I mean, isn’t he gonna wonder why I’m here?”

Eddie scoffed, rolling onto his back. “You’re always here. He won’t even question it.”

“And what if he does?”

“He won’t. He’s just gonna be happy to see you.”

“But if he does?”

“Then I’ll say you stayed the night,” Eddie said with an exasperated sigh. “Stop overthinking this. It would be different if you were someone new but Chris already loves you. I trust you with him. Us dating doesn’t change any of that. You’re practically a parent to him anyway.”

“Dating?” Buck asked shyly, worry easing away.

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Yes, dating, Buck. Y’know, the way two adults who like each other do.”

“I’ve been downgraded to ‘like’?”

“Shut up and go to sleep,” Eddie groaned, but he curled back in towards Buck again anyway, eyes drifting shut as he did.

Buck forced himself not to continue the conversation, and instead allowed himself to relax into Eddie’s hold, content with the knowledge that this meant as much to Eddie as it did to him, possibly even more.

---

Buck woke to the smell of bacon and something sweeter, something he hoped was pancakes. He was smiling before he was even fully awake as he heard Christopher chattering animatedly and Eddie shushing him. For a moment, he just lay there, half asleep and enjoying the lingering warmth that Eddie seemed to have left behind, but slowly that contentment was replaced by worry as he thought about Christopher and what Eddie might have told him.

For a while he let anxiety keep him in bed, unable to move as he anticipated the awkwardness of what lay ahead, but eventually, he dragged himself out from under the covers and towards his clothes, telling himself it would be fine over and over like a mantra until he almost believed it.

He paused in the hall, listening to Eddie’s laughter and ignoring the way it made his stomach swoop before pushing forward, usual smile in place.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Eddie teased as he flipped a pancake.

“Morning,” Buck replied with a sheepish smile, running his hand through his sleep-messed hair, suddenly wishing he’d made an effort to appear presentable.

“Buck!” Christopher called out from his position on the counter beside Eddie, holding his arms out in anticipation of a hug.

“Morning, buddy,” Buck said with a grin, sweeping Chris up into his arms.

“Pancakes and bacon?” Eddie asked, throwing a knowing smile in their direction.

“Please,” Buck said quietly, nodding his head in acknowledgment. Eddie had been right and he had been an idiot, as usual.

He’d been so worried and, as Eddie had tried to tell him, it had been for nothing. Breakfast with Eddie and Christopher after spending the night in Eddie’s bed felt like the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it was.

#911 #buddie #911 fanfiction #911 fox #911 on fox #eddie diaz #evan buckley #christopher diaz #buddie fanfiction #my writing #fanfiction #prompts

319 notes · View notes

unpack-my-heart · 4 years

Text

i am no bird (no net ensnares me)

The first time Eddie decided to leave for the bright lights of the big city, it was a rainy Tuesday afternoon in January and he’d been drunk on a fermenting promise to himself that was becoming slippery. So slippery was this promise that at any moment he feared he’d drop it, and it would splatter on the floor, messy and irrecoverable. He was nineteen years old; old enough to know better but young enough that his hare-brained decisions could be written off as the recklessness of a youth not yet over. When he’d told the others that he was planning to leave, with the phone crackling wildly under the strain of their seven way conversation, they had all whooped loudly, cheering a victory that he hadn’t yet won.

“I knew this would be the year you’d leave, Eds! I could feel it in my dick”

Fucking gross.

After he’d chewed Richie out for being crude, faux-annoyance honeying his words, he’d remained silent for a very long time, listening to the others trip and stumble over each other, babbling about how good emancipation felt, how the air had never tasted as sweet as it had the day they’d left, the day they’d left Derry and never looked back.

He’d planned to leave, had always meant to leave, had gotten as far as idly scrolling through flight schedules late at night, the moon watching him with her soft, sceptical gaze, but something held him back. The invisible red tether that cut deep welts into his heart tightened viciously whenever the thought of leaving fluttered through his brain, butterfly smooth. His mother tugged on the tether, and reminded Eddie that his wings had been clipped a long time ago.

When Richie left Derry, nearly two years ago, Eddie hadn’t cried. Dry-eyed, face bright and free from tear-tracks, he’d rubbed soothing circles into Richie’s back as Richie cried, great heaving sobs that dampened Eddie’s almost-scratchy jersey sweater. He’d cried on Eddie’s shoulder for eons of time that they didn’t have, until Richie’s phone began to buzz fiercely. Eddie’s eyes remained firmly, petulantly dry. They’d remained dry when Richie told him, in a voice thick with sorrow, that out of all the Losers, out of all the people he’d ever met and even the people he hadn’t, that his Eds was his favourite. Eddie’s eyes remained dry when he watched Richie shove his guitars and the half-broken metal box full of old mixtapes into his half-broken old car that wheezed almost as much as Eddie did. The car sagged under the weight of Richie’s entire life, with no room for Eddie to clamber in, to mould himself around the suitcases. Eddie’s eyes remained dry as he watched Richie drive mouse-slow out of the driveway, and they’d remained dry when Richie shouted out of the window,

“I’ll never forget you, Eds! Not ever! I’ll always remember you and those fucking shorts!”

Those shorts remained folded away in the back of his wardrobe, unworn, unloved, almost-forgotten.

Eddie didn’t leave.

The second time Eddie decided to leave for the bright lights of the big city, he was twenty-four years old, and working full time at the pharmacy that he’d spent so many wasted hours in over the years, queueing up dutifully, waiting for the prescription to be filled, jittering from foot to foot, as if the verruca cream piled haphazardly on the shelf to his left would leap at him. He’d hop from foot to foot, wondering whether these pills would stop the bruising of his heart, or the mocking voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like his own, “you’re cracked you’re damaged you’re ruined”. So many years and so many sugar pills, enough to turn his stomach and make his teeth itch.

The pharmacy was much the same as it ever was, a stagnant pool suspended in the centre of the roaring sea. Aisles of cough syrup and dandruff shampoo bracketed the counter, and Eddie spent his days drumming his fingers on the counter, each pound of each pad against the dull white surface a declaration, a plea.

“You’re never going to leave if you don’t do it now. Rip the band-aid off, Eds, and stop being such a fucking pussy!”

Richie was right in that very frustrating way that Richie was always, always, right, especially when it came to Eddie and his pathological tendency to self-sabotage himself into oblivion. Rather than cradle his life in both of his hands, a fragile little thing that needed nurturing, Eddie had instead condemned it to a solemn existence of apathy and a pretentious sort of melancholy, all the while staring at the little white pills that he’d taken for so long; the little white pills that took the pain away only until they didn’t anymore, lined up neatly in their piss-coloured plastic bottles on the shelves of the pharmacy.

He’d packed his bags with all the gusto he could manage that evening shoving t-shirts and pressed, crisp chinos into an old, dusty rucksack with wild abandon, until he stopped. He stopped, and stared at the bag, really stared at it, and dropped the sweatshirt he’d been holding to the floor. He hadn’t packed his favourite books, the movie ticket stubs he’d saved from when Richie took hilton see the new Star Wars and Eddie had complained bitterly about how ridiculous it was until he’d annoyed Richie so much that he’d been dragged forcefully from the theatre, and they’d gone for burgers instead. There was no room for his favourite shoes, the sweater with the holes in it that Bev had leant him when he was cold and then given to him because the dull purple made the green in his eyes shine brightly, a freshly cut lawn on a summer morning.

Eddie emptied the contents of the bag onto the floor, and stepped over it. Tomorrow, he assured himself, tomorrow he’d leave. Tomorrow.

Eddie didn’t leave.

The third time Eddie decided to leave for the bright lights of the big city, he was thirty-three years old and couldn’t remember why California called his name so loudly, why its siren call echoed across the country, fingers beckoning, seducing. California, a nihilistic melting pot of overworked and underpaid wage slaves who bowed to the corporate bell and submitted themselves to the scrutinizing eye of the Silicon Valley start-ups. That’s what his mother had told him when she’d loomed over his shoulder, pin-ball eyes scanning the screen of his computer. There was nothing there for Eddie, a pharmacist with two degrees under his belt but no actual understanding of how the world worked beyond the safe confines of his small town existence. Highways, supermarkets with more than ten aisles, electric cars, save the turtles, sandals in winter and heatstroke in summer, sweat on your upper lip and tan lines on your knees. California.

His phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Is this Eds? Eds Kaspbrak?”

“Don’t call me that! Uh … Who is this?”

“It’s … Rich. Richie?”

A question, not a statement, as if the caller is asking, is that okay? Is it okay that this is Richie?

“Richie? Richie who?”

A pause that stretches like tar, sticky and black.

“Oh shit!”

Remembrance slammed into Eddie, sucker-punch strong. He remembered a tangled mop of dark brown hair, often flecked with paint. He remembered bucked teeth and freckles that skated across skin like grains of sand tossed up in wind. He remembered the lisp, and the gangly limbs that hung awkwardly, octopus limbs that were too long, too grabby, too energetic.

“Richie fucking Tozier!”

“The very same, Eds. Gotta be honest, I was sort of hoping you wouldn’t pick up, that some housewife would answer all, ‘he doesn’t live here anymore’, but … here you are.”

“Here I am.”

“Still there.”

“Still here,” Eddie confirmed, and his gut trembled with the sort of embarrassment that hung in the air low and heavy, like smoke. Like smog.

“I’m in California,” Richie says eventually, “got a sweet little place on the oceanfront, if you ever … y’know …”

Oh. There it is. The static that had been buzzing around Eddie’s brain when he thought of California, the angry bees that stung him for not remembering finally subdued, finally dropped down dead, because Richie was on the other end of the phone, still lisping, voice a little deeper, a little hoarser, a few too many cigarettes and not enough sleep, perhaps, but he was there, and Eddie had remembered.

“Ocean front, you say?”

The most reckless thing Eddie had done before this was leave the house during a torrential rainstorm with only a showerproof coat, knowing full well that the long fingers of Flu would be tapping at his arms in the morning. Now, here he was, sitting in a tacky sea-food restaurant, pushing prawns around on his plate, with someone he hasn’t seen for over a decade, and he’s drunk. Not too drunk, he can still see without his vision blurring, can still count all of the wrinkles that texture the canvas of Richie’s face, and the freckles. He’s not too drunk to wonder whether these are new freckles, or whether these are the same freckles that he used to stare at when they were lying in the quarry, shirts off and chests to the sky, sunning themselves like heat-starved lizards.

Nevertheless, here he is, Richie Tozier, stuffing paella into his face with one hand and waving wildly in the air with the other as he talks through bites of rice.

“Do you remember when you got kicked out of band?”

Richie groans, wounded.

“Don’t fucking remind me, I was scrubbing the deck for weeks after that old trout rang my mother. Real pissed she was, insisted that trombones are certainly not supposed to be used for such nefarious activities. I still think she shoulda’ been more adventurous”

“I’ll never forget the look on her face, Rich, she was so ready to beat the absolute living shit out of you!” Eddie brayed, stray pieces of pasta escaping his mouth as he spoke, disgusting, but in the dim light of the restaurant, Eddie didn’t care.

The wind whipped at Eddie’s face when they staggered out of the restaurant three hours and ninety dollars later, and Richie grabbed at Edide’s chin roughly.

“You never left, did you?”

“You know I fuckin’ didn’t”

“I shouldn’t have left without you, I never should have left you there.”

Eddie pushed at Richie, gentle enough not to hurt but with enough force that Richie staggered backwards. “It wouldn’t have made a difference. I’ve grown roots, Rich. I’m … I’m stuck there, like one of those plants that hibernates over winter but blooms in summer. I would have dragged you down with me.”

Richie readjusted his grip on Eddie’s chin, and tipped Eddie’s head up. Their eyes met.

“I nearly kissed you when I left, you know.” Richie said. “I really nearly did, got this close, but you looked so …”

“So what?”

“Fine. You looked fine. You didn’t even cry.”

Eddie blinked. “I cried every day for a month after you left. Then every other day for at least six after that. I cried so much my mother sent me to the fucking doctor because she thought I had hysteria.”

Richie barked out a laugh, a sad wet noise that sounded more like a sob. ��I left you.”

Eddie pushed his face up, out of Richie’s grip, and pushed his lips against Richie’s trembling ones. The kiss is small, timid and Richie wrapped his arms around Eddie’s shoulder and clung, limpet-like.

It doesn’t last. Richie’s crying too much.

The next day, Eddie leaves.

The fourth time Eddie decided to leave for the bright lights of the big city, he leaves, and never looks back.

(this has been sat in my drafts since early March.)

#reddie #eddie kaspbrak #richie tozier #richie tozier x eddie kaspbrak #it fandom #it fanfic #it 2017 #it 2019 #fanfic #my writing

93 notes · View notes

chibistarlyte · 3 years

Text

the day after

The tears come unbidden, and Shouto drops his phone in his lap to press the heels of his hands against his eyes. He can already feel frost creeping over his cheek, his tears cooling and hardening as they pass down his skin and over the frozen patches shining translucent white in the daylight.

So many people care for him...and he has no idea why.

i am back with another part in my now so-called series of depressed!todo fics with slow burn todobaku lol

thank youuuuuu so much kat @sunshineijirou for betaing, as always. <333

fic can be read below the cut or here on ao3! you can also find a masterlist of all my bnha fics here!

Shouto wakes to the faint scent of burnt sugar.

The scent in and of itself isn't odd, but Shouto can't ever remember it being the first thing to pervade his senses upon waking.

He also feels warm. Comfortably so. It's not blistering or suffocating, like it normally would be if his Quirk had gone haywire in his sleep.

Shouto opens his eyes, blurred vision obscuring his view of the room around him. He brings a hand to rub at his right eye, to clear the sleep clouds from his eyeball. What he sees thereafter are unfamiliar surroundings, and an unfamiliar ceiling looking down on him. The morning light filters in differently through curtains that are nothing like his own. The bed he's on feels nothing like his futon, the blankets and pillow soothing his skin in a way that his own covers don't. The modern style of the room gives off such a startlingly different vibe than his own traditionally-modeled one, and yet...Shouto feels at ease, though he's not quite sure where he is at first.

He rolls over onto his side, seeing neat and tidy bookshelves, an organized desk, a chest of drawers. Not a single hair out of place.

Ah, right. He's in Bakugou’s room.

Shouto rolls onto his back again, stretching his arms up and groaning as he feels the tension bleed out of his aching muscles. His hand smacks the headboard as his arms fall back down, and he hisses as he shakes his hand to dull the pain. A piece of paper comes floating down from where he'd hit the headboard, landing next to his head on the pillow.

Blinking, Shouto reaches for the paper and pulls it up in front of his face. It’s a handwritten note, short and sweet, in Bakugou’s hard, scratchy handwriting.

You slept too long, so I just got up and went and did my shit for the morning.

Stay as long as you want, I guess. Just don’t burn a fucking hole in my blankets or some shit. Return my clothes whenever, just wash them first. Don’t want your loser stink on them.

-Bakugou

Despite the guilt already pooling in his stomach for putting Bakugou out last night, Shouto can’t help the small smile that tugs at his lips. He looks down at the shirt he’s still wearing, seeing the skull design staring right back up at him. It looks angry, but Shouto doesn't feel intimidated by it. It's kind of like Bakugou, in that regard.

Stretching one final time, Shouto eases himself up and stands up from the bed. He looks around on the floor for his uniform that he'd changed out of last night, but it's nowhere in sight. He even kneels down to look under the bed, in case his clothes had been kicked under there. Still finding nothing, Shouto sighs and stands up again.

He'll just have to ask Bakugou about it later.

He also briefly glances around for his phone, but doesn't see that anywhere either.

"I wonder if I left it upstairs…" Shouto thinks aloud, eyes going up to the ceiling where he knows his room is just on the other side.

He doesn't really want to go back in there, but. Well. He needs to at least get some fresh clothes, and possibly his phone. No use in puttering around and putting off the inevitable.

But in this short time, Bakugou’s room has become a safe haven for Shouto without him really realizing it until he has to leave it.

Sighing again, Shouto heads for the door and pulls it open slowly, quietly, as if he doesn't want to be caught.

Old habits die hard, after all.

"Oh, Todoroki!"

Shouto almost has the door closed when the voice greets him, and he turns his head until he sees Kirishima standing in front of his own dorm room. The redhead looks like he's about to head out, keys dangling from the belt loop of his jeans and his hoodie halfway zipped up.

Shouto stares at him like a deer in headlights before he even thinks to respond, blinking rapidly a few times. "H-Hello, Kirishima," he says, hoping the other boy didn't catch the stutter at the beginning of the greeting.

"I'm glad to see you up and about," Kirishima says, smiling that infectious smile that makes the points of his teeth shine under the hallway lights. "Did you get some rest last night?"

"I...suppose I did," Shouto answers slowly, finally pulling Bakugou’s door shut with a click.

"Good, I'm glad," Kirishima says. He looks like he wants to step forward and...hug Shouto, or sling his arm around his shoulder, or...something. Kirishima has always been more of a physical being, showing his affection through touch and gestures more than anything else.

To be honest, Shouto wouldn't be averse to any of those things at the moment. He wants to tell Kirishima that, but...he's scared.

"Thank you for asking after me," he says instead, and he means it. He's grateful for Kirishima’s concern, even when he doesn't feel like he deserves it much. He crosses one arm across himself, gripping into the sleeve of the other arm with a white-knuckled grip.

"Of course, dude, you're my friend!" Kirishima says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I want you to be okay, y’know?"

Shouto nods dumbly, blinking away some stray tears that have somehow materialized in the corners of his eyes.

Kirishima seems to notice something in Shouto’s countenance that is cause for concern, because the spiky-haired boy steps forward and pulls Shouto into a fierce hug. The spikes of Kirishima’s hair poke at Shouto’s face, but it's somehow a comfort rather than a nuisance.

"K-Kirishima…"

"I don't know what you're going through, but I'm here for you, okay? We all are," Kirishima says, speaking for not only himself but the rest of Shouto’s friends. There's such sincerity and conviction in Kirishima’s words that Shouto has to swallow around a lump in his throat.

"Thank you," Shouto responds a bit breathlessly, maneuvering his arms to return the hug in some way.

They stand there for a few seconds until Kirishima gives him a final squeeze before detaching himself from Shouto. He smiles and pats Shouto on the shoulder. "Text me if you ever need anything, Todo-bro-ki. I got your back."

Shouto allows himself to smile back at Kirishima—it's a tiny, fragile little thing, but it's a smile nonetheless. "Thank you," he says again, hoping Kirishima knows he means it.

Shouto has barely been in his room for a minute before he hears a quiet, almost hesitant knock at his door.

He heads over to the door and opens it a crack, seeing a familiar shade of green. This prompts him to open the door all the way, so he can fully view his best friend standing meekly in the hallway.

Midoriya looks a bit of a disaster. He holds his hands in front of his chest, fidgeting with his fingers like he has no idea what to do with them. His hair is disheveled, even by its typical messy standards, like he’s been running his hands through it non-stop for hours. Shadows crease beneath his wide, innocent eyes like he hasn’t slept a wink. And when those eyes look right up at Shouto, tears start cascading down flushed, freckled cheeks.

“T-Todoroki-kun…” Midoriya says, his voice wavering and cracking.

“Midoriya? What’s wrong?” Shouto asks, panic beginning to creep up his throat. If Midoriya has been in this bad of shape and Shouto’s been too busy wallowing in his own depressive tendencies, then—

Before Shouto can even finish his train of thought, Midoriya barrels into him and hugs him so tightly that Shouto can feel his spine crack.

“I was so worried about you!!” Midoriya wails into Shouto’s chest, tears staining through the skull-print shirt of Bakugou’s that Shouto is still wearing. “You were acting so off yesterday and when I couldn’t get ahold of you or find you after class, I...I…” Midoriya hiccups, clings tighter to Shouto. “Kacchan t-told me that you j-jumped...and…” A fearful whine escapes Midoriya then, and he buries his face harder into Shouto’s chest.

Shouto is at a loss, isn’t sure exactly what to do but attempt to return the hug. He settles his longer arms around Midoriya’s broader shoulders and sets his chin atop a nest of green curls. “It’s okay, Midoriya...I’m okay,” he emphasizes in a whisper, patting Midoriya’s back in what can only be described as an awkward gesture. He should be used to physical affection by this point, especially from Midoriya, but sometimes it still catches him off-guard and he finds himself stumbling over how to reciprocate.

Midoriya still keeps his face buried in Shouto’s chest as he continues speaking. “If anything had happened to you, I would have never forgiven myself. Never. I knew something wasn’t right, but I wanted to give you some space, and th-then…”

Shouto makes some shushing noises, almost as if he’s trying to console a child. “It’s okay,” he repeats, even though everything feels anything but. The guilt starts bleeding into his veins again, guilt at making his best friend so distraught over his well-being.

Dipping his head just a little lower, Shouto lets out a sigh through his nose that ruffles Midoriya’s hair. Some friend he is, making everyone worry needlessly.

“Please, Todoroki-kun…please, I want you to know that you can trust me...that you can confide in me,” Midoriya says, his voice a little more even as his tears begin drying up. He pulls away from Shouto just far enough that he can look up at the taller boy. “I care about you very much. All of us do. So, please…” Midoriya’s crooked fingers tighten into the fabric at Shouto’s back. “Please don’t shut us out. Don’t shut me out. I want to help you, whenever you need it.”

Yet another unbidden smile finds its way onto Shouto’s face. He brings his hand up and pats the top of Midoriya’s head. “Okay...I can do that,” he agrees, then his smile turns downward at the corners. “I’m...sorry for worrying you so much. I didn’t mean to.”

It’s Midoriya’s turn to say, “It’s okay,” and even though he’s still crying, a small smile peeks through his distress. “I’m just...I’m glad you’re not hurt...or worse.”

Shouto sobers up hearing that comment, holding his breath for a moment. It’s funny, in an extremely non-humorous way, how Shouto’s own pain has reached so far outside of himself. It’s jarring to think that in hurting himself, he’s also been hurting some of the people most important to him.

He can't ever allow that to happen again. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone. Himself, sometimes, yes. But never anyone else.

Midoriya finally lets go of him, seemingly convinced that Shouto won’t disappear the moment he removes his arms from around him. “Do you, um...Uraraka-san and Iida-kun are downstairs, and Yaoyorozu-san...and some others...they’d be really happy to see you if you wanted to come down?”

Shouto nods. He probably should show his face, to prove to everyone that he’s doing better now and that they don’t have to worry after him anymore today. Besides, he also feels like he owes it to everyone for causing such trouble.

"Sure," he agrees with a small smile. "Just, ah, I need to change first." He tugs at the hem of the black shirt. "Is Bakugou down there too? I need to return his clothes."

Midoriya takes a surprised step back, looking Shouto up and down as if just now realizing the skull shirt and too-short sweatpants don't, in fact, belong to Shouto. A laugh escapes him then, and he rubs his tear-stained face with his scarred hand. "How...how did I not notice those were Kacchan’s clothes?" he asks the air rather than addressing Shouto directly. "I think I saw Kacchan earlier, in the laundry room?" he then says, tapping his chin in thought. "Not sure where he is now, though."

Shouto hums in response. "I'm sure I'll find him at some point." He pauses, then regards Midoriya with regret in his mismatched eyes. "I'm...sorry, again, for worrying you so much."

Midoriya smiles warmly at him, going in for another hug. "It's okay, Todoroki-kun. I worry because I care, y’know?"

"Yeah…" Shouto nods, returning the hug much easier this time. "I know."

Sometimes Shouto wonders what he's done to deserve such an amazing friend like Midoriya. Someone so kind and big-hearted.

Midoriya pulls away, still smiling gently up at him. "See you downstairs?"

Shouto nods again. "Yeah...I'll be down soon."

After he's washed his face and changed into his own clothing—"grandpa clothes," as Ashido calls them, consisting of plain black pants and a knit cardigan—Shouto sits quietly on his messy futon for a few minutes to gather himself. He had spotted his phone sitting on his desk, blinking with so many new notifications that it had him balking. So now he sits, scrolling through the endless messages from not only the class 2-A group chat, but also some individual friends and classmates.

Midoriya: todoroki-kun is everything okay? you left class so suddenly…

Midoriya: i'm sorry to bother you, but i tried knocking on your door and you're not answering so i thought i'd text you? of course if you're sleeping that's understandable, but it’s worrying me that you're not answering

Midoriya: todoroki-kun where are you????

Midoriya: please answer me

Midoriya: kacchan told me what happened

Midoriya: i…

Midoriya: please be okay

Midoriya: i can't

Midoriya: just

Midoriya: can i see you tomorrow?

Kirishima: hey dude, bakugou filled me in on what's going on w/ u, just checking in to make sure you're okay

Iida: Todoroki-kun, we've been looking all over for you. Please contact me or Midoriya-kun or Uraraka-kun as soon as you are able. We are concerned for your safety.

Iida: I want to help, if you’ll allow me.

Uraraka: todoroki-kun!!! we're worried about you!!

Uraraka: please answer deku-kun, he’s losing his mind

Uraraka: i don’t really know what’s going on with you, but if you need me, or any of us, just say the word and we’ll come with plenty of hugs for you!!!

Yaoyorozu: Todoroki-san, is everything alright? Ever since today’s practical exercise, you’ve had me very worried.

Yaoyorozu: I’ll be more than happy to brew you a cup of your favorite tea if you feel the need to relax and talk.

Bakugou: i swear to fuck i will beat the shit out of you if you even try anything funny, icyhot

So many people care for him...and he has no idea why.

He's nothing special. Just a damaged, broken eugenics project created by some monster who dares call himself a hero.

And yet…all these people—people he has the honor and privilege to call his friends—think he's special. See something special in him that has nothing to do with his Quirk or his family name. But they're so much more special to him than he ever could, or should, be to them.

Shouto sucks in a shaky breath to try and calm himself, pull himself together so he can join his classmates downstairs and bask in their friendly warmth. Goodness knows he needs some warmth right now. Like yesterday, he’s having trouble mustering up the will to use his Quirk to warm himself up.

What he would give to be sleeping in Bakugou’s arms again, the other boy’s warmth a balm on his bruised heart.

Blowing out a resolute breath, Shouto rises from his futon with his dying phone in his hand. He plugs it into the charger and leaves it on his desk, figuring he won’t need it if he’s going to be in his friends’ company already. He picks up Bakugou’s shirt and sweatpants from where they sit folded on the desktop and throws them into his clothes hamper with the rest of his laundry.

Return my clothes whenever, just wash them first. Don’t want your loser stink on them.

Shouto smiles a bit as he hoists his hamper up off the floor, balancing it against his hip with one arm. He takes one last look around his lonely room before heading downstairs to join Midoriya and the rest of his friends.

After he throws a load in the wash, of course.

Shouto hasn’t seen Bakugou all day.

He’d spent the majority of the late morning and afternoon in the common area with most of class 2-A. His usual group had been there—Midoriya, Iida, and Uraraka barely left him any space on the sofa, the three of them sitting protectively around him the entire time. Yaoyorozu had also been present for most of the day, until she pulled Kaminari, Sero, and a few others away for a much-needed study session. Even Kirishima had dropped by after returning from wherever he’d gone off campus—quite literally dropping himself onto Shouto and creating a dogpile of hugs that he couldn’t escape from, even if he’d wanted to.

Yet for as content as Shouto is, without Bakugou’s presence, it feels like there’s something missing.

When he decides to retire to his room well past dark, Midoriya offers to carry up his clothes hamper, now full of clean clothes, for him. Shouto declines the offer, but ruffles Midoriya’s hair anyway in thanks. He waits with his hamper tucked against his hip as the elevator crawls its way up to the fifth floor, and almost dejectedly drags his feet to his dorm room. He listlessly presses the keycard against the door handle until the lock clicks open, and bumps the door open with his hamper.

Shouto contemplates just going to bed, but he’s not sure if he’d even be able to fall asleep in the pressing quietness of his room. He decides that he should probably fold his clothes before doing anything else, lest he want wrinkles in them.

He sets the hamper down next to his futon and plops down atop the covers, mechanically going through the motions of his chore. Grab shirt, fold, set aside. Grab pants, fold, set aside. Set aside sweater to be hung up. The mindless activity is somewhat grounding, and Shouto allows his mind to become blissfully blank for a little while.

That is, until his fingers find a black t-shirt with a skull print on it.

Shouto holds the shirt up in front of him, examining it for a few long seconds—for what, he isn’t sure. He has half a mind to swap the shirt out for the one he’s currently wearing, just to feel Bakugou’s phantom hugs around him once again.

Sighing, he folds the shirt so that the skull is looking directly up at him when he sets it on the floor. It’s almost mocking him, spewing insults at him that have crossed Shouto’s mind more than once when he’s stuck in his depressive pitfalls.

Cold, heartless wretch.

Miserable failure.

Worthless waste of space.

Not good enough, not good enough, not good enough…

Never. Good. Enough.

Pursing his lips, he folds Bakugou’s sweatpants and sets them atop the shirt just to get the skull to shut up.

Now that his hamper is empty, Shouto drags himself up from the futon and pads over to the sliding door to his balcony. The second he heaves the door open, he’s greeted by a cold wind that stings with the promise of winter weather approaching. He steps onto the concrete with his bare feet, barely noticing the icy pricks of the stone on his skin. Once he reaches the railing, he grips the metal tightly with both hands and leans far enough over to get a glimpse of Bakugou’s balcony below.

In the dark, Shouto can see that the lights to Bakugou’s room are on. The yellowish tint bleeds out into the late evening blackness, and it’s all Shouto needs to make up his mind.

Dashing back into his room without even bothering to close the sliding door, Shouto grabs Bakugou’s clothes from his floor, slams his door shut as he leaves his room. He makes a beeline for the stairwell at the end of the fifth-floor hall.

He takes the steps two at a time, the pads of his feet smarting every time they collide with the floor. But Shouto doesn’t notice, doesn’t care one bit. He throws the door to the fourth floor open with nearly enough force to bang it into the wall, but it doesn’t faze him in the slightest. He continues on, his journey finally ending when he reaches Bakugou’s dorm room.

Shouto raps on the door with his knuckles as he tries to catch his breath, belatedly noticing he probably looks like a damn fool for rushing down here for no reason.

He tells himself it’s because he needs to return the borrowed clothes, but deep down, he knows he just wants to see Bakugou.

There’s some faint swearing on the other side of the door before it swings open, revealing Bakugou’s scowling face.

“The fuck are you doing here, half-n-half?” the blond asks almost accusingly, his red eyes searching Shouto up and down. “Why does it look like you just ran a damn marathon? Fix your fucking hair at least, for fuck’s sake.”

Shouto ignores Bakugou’s biting comments, wordlessly holding out his hands and presenting the clean clothes to his friend.

Friend?

Friend.

Bakugou raises a brow. “The fuck?”

“Your clothes,” Shouto says unhelpfully, swallowing around the lump that has suddenly appeared in his throat. “I washed them. No loser stink, I promise.”

Bakugou stares at him for a moment before barking out a laugh. Shouto’s heart catches in his chest.

“Gonna take more than a few washes to get that fuckin’ smell out of ‘em,” Bakugou jokes before opening his door wider to let Shouto in. He gestures to his bed, where the covers have been pulled up and not a crease is in sight. “Just throw them there. If you wait for just a sec, I actually have something for you, too.”

Interest piqued, Shouto does as he’s told, stepping shyly into Bakugou’s room and dropping the clothes atop the bed. “Something...for me?” he asks, tilting his head in question.

“Don’t get so fucking excited, you shithead, it’s just your uniform that you left soaking on my carpet,” Bakugou says as he heads over to his chest of drawers, picking up a neatly folded UA uniform.

Ah. So that’s where his clothes went, Shouto realizes.

“I even washed it for you, because I’m fucking nice like that,” Bakugou continues, coming over to Shouto and shoving the clean clothing against the taller boy’s chest.

But Shouto doesn’t take his clothes. Instead, he lets them drop to the floor and throws his arms around Bakugou.

“Oi! What the fuck!” Bakugou complains, his voice muffled by Shouto’s cardigan. His hands are spread wide at his sides, palms crackling with sparks waiting to explode.

Shouto just squeezes him tighter, wrenching his eyes shut and balancing his chin atop Bakugou’s head. His dandelion hair is soft against Shouto’s skin, and it smells like…like...

Burnt sugar.

“Thank you, Bakugou,” Shouto says.

“Jesus fuck, I only washed your clothes, no need to get all touchy-feely about it,” Bakugou says, and if Shouto isn’t mistaken, it sort of sounds like Bakugou is pouting.

That thought alone makes Shouto laugh, a quiet noise that barely brushes past his lips.

But Bakugou seems to hear it well enough, and relaxes in Shouto’s grip as he turns his head to the side. His ear is right over where Shouto’s heart is thundering in his chest.

“You’ve done more than that. So much more,” Shouto says gratefully.

Bakugou grunts in response, finally bringing his own arms up and wrapping them around Shouto’s more lithe frame.

“Why?” Shouto asks softly, a repeat of his question from last night.

Bakugou tenses in his arms, and Shouto can feel his rough hands fisting the thick fabric of his cardigan. “Don’t...don’t make me say it,” Bakugou mutters through gritted teeth, as if he’s trying to clamp his jaw shut tight enough to keep some forbidden truths from escaping.

Shouto still wants to know, but he doesn’t want to push Bakugou. Doing so would probably end in disaster, and he doesn’t want to let this moment end. Not quite yet.

“Alright,” Shouto concedes, squeezing Bakugou one final time before pulling back.

Bakugou won’t look at him when they separate, ruby red eyes trained on the floor where his socked feet are almost toe-to-toe with Shouto’s bare ones. Wordlessly, the blond kneels down and picks up Shouto’s uniform, now a crumpled mess on the floor.

“Great, look what you did,” Bakugou grouses, still crouched down, trying to smooth out some of the creases in the grey blazer. “And I even fucking ironed it for you, you ungrateful fuckwad.”

Shouto blinks dumbly, staring holes into the top of Bakugou’s head.

He...what?

“Here, now take your shit and get out,” Bakugou commands, standing up and thrusting Shouto’s clothes against his chest once more. This time, Shouto takes them and holds them almost reverently in his arms.

When Bakugou finally looks up at Shouto, something unexpected happens. Heat that Shouto hasn’t felt for the past few days suddenly courses through his veins like river rapids, searing his insides until he feels his skin turning red almost like a sunburn.

Oh, god, he’s…

Shouto summons every ounce of willpower he can muster to prevent himself from literally erupting into flames, nodding once to Bakugou before crossing to the door in a few long strides. The metal of the doorknob hisses when Shouto grabs it with his left hand, and he prays to whatever deities are listening that Bakugou doesn’t notice the smoke coming from his palm.

“Thank you again, Bakugou, for everything,” Shouto says once he’s stepped out into the hallway. To his surprise, Bakugou is standing in his doorway and holding his door open still, watching Shouto carefully, pursing his lips as if he has something to say.

“...Sure thing,” Bakugou finally says quietly. He takes a breath and opens his mouth to say something else, but stops before the words can escape him.

“Bakugou?” Shouto says.

Bakugou scowls, then, letting out a small growl as he slams the door shut in Shouto’s face.

And standing there alone in the hallway, hugging his uniform close to his chest and feeling warmer than ever before, Shouto smiles.

#todobaku #todobaku fic #bakutodo #boku no hero academia #bnha #todoroki shouto #bakugou katsuki #my writing

24 notes · View notes

snifflyjoonie · 4 years

Text

Airplane Air

In which Seokjin does a good job of hiding his budding cold...until he gets onto an airplane.

Snz-centric with Seokjin as the sickie and Namjoon as the caretaker.

Word Count: 1960

a/n: Hey guys! Sorry again about how long this took me. Life’s been weird lately, y’know? But anyway, it’s done!! It’s also a little on the shorter side so I apologize for that, too. Either way, I hope you all enjoy it! It was a cute little concept to write, lol. Anyway, thanks for reading!!!

For the most part, Seokjin enjoyed flying. With the line of work he was in, you pretty much had to. If you didn’t, it was a fear you had to learn to overcome quickly. They spent so much time in the air that sometimes Seokjin felt like he had permanent jet lag. It was a weird sensation to never quite know what time it was. He wondered if he’d ever get used to it.

Despite all of this, if someone were to ask him if he truly enjoyed travelling, he believed he’d be inclined to say yes. Travelling was fun, rewarding, eye-opening...when everything went right. Of course, having things go right only happened about 30% of the time, which was a lower percentage than he would have liked, but there wasn’t much he could do to change it. Trying to keep his six younger counterparts organized was a job he sometimes felt he wasn’t cut out for; even with the help of their hardworking staff. As the years went on he became more accustomed to taking care of last minute hiccups. As the eldest, he felt semi-responsible when travel plans would suddenly go awry, and would do his absolute best to smooth the situation back out again. Namjoon lost his passport? Everyone stop what you’re doing and help him look. Hoseok feels plane sick? Someone please rub his back and find an extra airsick bag. Jungkook’s ears won’t pop? Well, does anyone have gum? It was never ending, and the exact reason Seokjin always tried to stay on his toes during travel days. He couldn’t afford to be anything less than fully at attention. His dongsaengs needed him, after all.

* “Woah, Jin-hyung, are you alright?”

Seokjin cleared his throat harshly and straightened himself upright, coming face-to-face with a concerned-looking Jungkook. He had just barely recovered from a rough coughing fit that left his throat feeling sore and raw. He brought up a hand to rest gingerly on his Adam’s apple and stole a glance at the iced coffee he had clutched in his other hand before responding. “Yeah, of course.” He did his best to sound nonchalant and gestured towards the drink he’d purchased in the airport with a nod of his head and a scoff, “I just swallowed the wrong way.”

Jungkook seemed to buy it, and Seokjin let out a small, relieved sigh as the maknae walked off. The truth was he was absolutely, positively, 100% sick. He had known from the moment he’d opened his eyes that morning. There was no use denying it to himself; but what the other members didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

A sudden pat on his back pulled him from his train of thought and he glanced over his shoulder to find Namjoon smiling at him, dimples on full display. “You ready, hyung?” He asked happily, hand still resting on Seokjin’s back, “We’re about to board.” “Oh.” Seokjin cleared his throat into a fist and forced a smile, doing his best to ignore the new coppery taste that filled his mouth. “Yeah, Joon-ah. I’m ready.”

Any other time Seokjin wouldn’t mind admitting to his band mates that he was feeling under the weather. However during flights, where things always went wrong and there was always something for him to fix, he figured keeping his condition to himself would be the best course of action. Besides, aside from a scratchy throat and a bit of a stuffy nose, he felt pretty alright, for the most part. All he planned to do on the plane was sleep, anyway; Once everyone else was settled in, of course.

Seokjin trudged along behind Namjoon sluggishly, politely bowing his head to the stewardess as she scanned his passport and welcomed him aboard. Finding his seat was easy enough, and he was pleased to see that he’d be sitting at a window seat next to Namjoon. Namjoon normally preoccupied himself by reading during flights, which left Seokjin feeling more than a little relieved. He just didn’t think he had it in him to endure the maknae’s boundless energy, or even Hoseok’s bubbly personality. Some peace and quiet next to Namjoon meant he could let his guard down, lean against the window, and get some much needed rest. Seokjin squeezed his way past Namjoon and plopped down into his seat with a tired-sounding sigh. Namjoon smiled at him and Seokjin forced one back as he did his best to get situated. Once the pilots’ announcements were finished Seokjin quickly grabbed his headphones and placed one in each ear, determined to keep to himself as the plane taxied down the landing strip.

“Are you going to watch a movie, hyung?”

Seokjin blinked at Namjoon and ripped a headphone from his ear before the other pointed at the screen on the back of the seat in front of him. “I think I might. Or maybe read.” “Oh.” Seokjin huffed out a small chuckle and shook his head dismissively, “Not this time. I think I might try to sleep.” Namjoon nodded in understanding. “It’s a long flight.” Seokjin hummed in agreement and turned himself away from Namjoon slightly. He didn’t want to appear rude, but he just didn’t feel much up to small talk. Thankfully, Namjoon didn’t seem to be offended by Seokjin’s standoffishness, and instead started digging around in his carry-on for a book. Seokjin blew out a quiet breath and rested his head against the plane window as they finally began to race down the runway. He laid there for a moment as the ground beneath them slowly started to disappear from view. He felt himself grimace slightly at the change in air pressure, knowing full well he’d most likely get stuck with a pounding headache before they’d even reach full altitude. Annoyed simply by the thought, Seokjin was more determined than ever to fall asleep as quickly as possible, but it was then that his nose chose to give a sudden, small twitch. The man exhaled sharply and pinched his nostrils lightly between his thumb and forefinger in an attempt to quell the sudden itchiness that was rapidly filling his nose. When that didn’t work, he dug a knuckle into the corner of a nostril aggressively. However when his next exhale came out as a stutter he simply rolled his eyes and pushed himself upright, accepting his fate. Turning away from Namjoon further yet Seokjin quickly cupped his hands around his nose and mouth before rocking forward in his seat. “hH’DDSHhhuh!” Namjoon glanced up from his book just in time to catch Seokjin dipping deeper into his hands with a second, more urgent sounding sneeze. “hA’ISSHHhiu!” “Oh, man. Bless you.” Seokjin cracked open one watery eye at the sound of Namjoon using English and sniffled thickly into his palms. “Thank you.” He responded back, deciding to use English as well as he straightened himself back up and gingerly rested a knuckle onto the tip of his nose. “It’s just...uh...airplane air, you know?” He kept the English going to make Namjoon laugh (and to hopefully deter Namjoon’s attention away from his sneezes) and was pleased when the younger man did so. “I know.” Namjoon hummed, using English jokingly one final time before letting out another breathy chuckle and turning his attention back to his book. Seokjin cleared his throat and sniffled into the back of his sleeve with a small sigh as the plane continued to gain altitude. His sniffles were sounding wetter now than they had been prior to the group’s ascent, and he could feel that his nose was starting to drip. He wasn’t sure if it was from the air pressure changing or his sudden sneezing, but either way, something in his sinuses had shifted, and the floodgates had now been breached. He kept his wrist pressed firmly against his nose and reached down to grab his carry-on with his free hand; He had thrown a package of pocket tissues into it earlier, just in case, and was very glad to have done so. “Everything alright, hyung?” Namjoon asked a little warily, peeking at Seokjin out of the corner of his eye. “You seem a little…” “Everything’s fine, thanks.” Seokjin finished as Namjoon trailed off, “I justhh—hih!” His sentence caught in his throat abruptly as his breath suddenly hitched. He pressed his wrist into his nose harder, trying to squash the powerful itch that was quickly taking over, but to no avail. He gasped again once, twice, before attempting to stifle two rapid sneezes against his wrist. “hH’KITCh’uh!! ‘nKXT’Shhuh!” This time Namjoon closed his book as he watched Seokjin continue to dig through his carry-on urgently. “...Do you need tissues? Is that what you’re looking for? Because I ha—” “Hh! hHA’IGKSHHhiu!” “Oookay. Hey, hey, hey,” Namjoon set his book at his feet and reached out to bat Seokjin’s free hand away from his bag. “Stop, hyung. Here. Just—just take the whole thing.” He pulled a small pack of tissues from his pocket and nudged them into Seokjin’s forearm. “...Thanks.” Seokjin grumbled from behind his wrist. His voice sounded thick and croaky and he frowned to himself with a sniffle. “Catch a cold?” Seokjin sighed as he pulled a tissue from the packet. “Yeah, I think so.” He admitted, replacing his wrist with the tissue. After all the sneezing he’d done he doubted Namjoon would believe him if he tried to talk his way out of it, anyway. “Mmm, I’m sorry, hyung.” Namjoon murmured as Seokjin shifted in his seat to blow his nose. “I thought you seemed a little sluggish this morning but I just figured you didn’t sleep well.” Seokjin shrugged his shoulders in defeat and let out a long, drawn out sigh. He dropped his head against his seat back and brought his used, crumpled tissue up to press into the underside of his nose. “I’ll try to keep my distance.” He said with a small hum, turning his head to look at Namjoon. “Sorry you’re stuck sitting with me,” He added with an airy chuckle. “I don’t want you to catch this.” Namjoon immediately shook his head and placed a hand onto Seokjin’s forearm. “Don’t say things like that.” His voice was firm. “You shouldn’t be worrying about me right now. It’s okay to not be okay sometimes, hyung. It’s okay to ask for help. You do so much for us I just…” he paused for a moment, searching for the proper way to word his thoughts. “You should’ve told us you weren’t feeling well. Or at least me. I wish you knew you could lean on us when you need to.” Seokjin swallowed thickly. Namjoon was saying all of the things he himself normally would say to the others when they were being too stubborn or headstrong. It hadn’t really crossed his mind that he was doing the same thing he always encouraged the others not to do. Seokjin blew out a tired breath and sniffled wetly. “You know, Joon-ah…” he began after a moment, “You are a great leader.” He smiled at Namjoon and the other smiled back. “Thanks, hyung.” The leader’s tone was full of warmth and Seokjin immediately could feel himself relaxing into it. “Now, just get some rest, alright? I’ll make sure the others don’t get too loud. When we land I’ll head out for some medicine. Don’t worry, okay? I’ll take care of everything.” Seokjin swiped at the underside of his nose with a knuckle and gave a small nod in return. “Are you sure you don’t mind?” He asked, adjusting in his seat to get more comfortable. Namjoon reached out and placed a hand onto Seokjin’s knee.“Not at all.” He replied softly as Seokjin rested his head against the plane window. “Sleep well, hyung.”

#bts sickfic #sick!seokjin #mine #I hope this is okaaaaay #I'm so mf sorry this took me like weeks to write and it ended up being short #i also hope the ending is okay #ahhhhhh i am self conscious lol #bts snzfic #bts snz

42 notes · View notes

hermannsthumb · 4 years

Note

90+96?

90. Unexpected Virgin + 96. Scars

from fanfiction trope mashup here

continuation of me filling ancient, 2 year old prompts in my inbox! sometimes you just gotta return to the basics and write post-movie first time :’) this is the first thing ive written on my new laptop, MOMENTOUS OCCASION. as u might have guessed 18+/NOT SFW BELOW CUT

—————

They’re about an hour into the impromptu We Didn’t Die! party currently ravaging the base when Hermann–stripped out of his sweatervest, and clutching his cane like a lifeline–suddenly grips Newt by the forearm and swings him around to face him. “Newton,” he declares, as the contents of Newt’s plastic cup slosh to the floor, “I would like to invite you back to my quarters.”

It’s probably due to the two shots of vodka Newt downed in quick succession about twenty minutes into the impromptu party that the innuendo flies right over his head, and, instead of accepting enthusiastically, he merely draws his face into a pout. It’s not unusual for Hermann to force him to go to bed, especially after a week of all-nighters in the lab, but now? During this? They’re practically guests of fucking honor. “To sleep? Lame. I’m not tired. Hey, unwind, have a drink!” He pushes his plastic cup into Hermann’s face.

Hermann pushes it away. “I believe you misunderstood me,” he says. “I’m asking you to have sex with me, Newton.”

“Oh,” Newt says.

They’re out of LOCCENT in a flash, and bursting through the door of Hermann’s cramped quarters in another. Newt has been fucking vibrating with energy all day long–excitement, elation, fear, straight-up terror–and he’s more than ready to unleash all twelve hours’ worth of it, plus twelve years’ worth of pathetic pining, on Hermann in the most awesome, cathartic victory sex the world has ever seen. And now that they’re finally alone–now that they’re finally alone together–

“I am so fucking horny right now,” Newt breathes. He kicks off his boots: one of them flies across the room and knocks over a precariously-balanced stack of books, while the other smacks against Hermann’s dresser and sends a photograph of Newt and Hermann crashing to the floor. “Holy shit, you have no clue. Oh my God.” Truthfully, he’s been sporting a half-boner since he threw his arm around Hermann in LOCCENT, and Hermann gave him that little smile and tucked up against him, but Hermann doesn’t need to know that.

Hermann’s eyes are dark, and his pupils are wide. He wets his lips as those eyes sweep over Newt. “I. Ah. I am, as well.”

“Fuck yes,” Newt says. He moves his hands to his collar, where he rips off his tie, but he stops at his buttons with a grin. He could at least pretend to play hard to get. “Hey, you want me to take my shirt off?”

“That’s typically what’s done, isn’t it?” Hermann says. “During–” He clears his throat. “During these sorts of things?”

“Right,” Newt says. “Okay, do yours too.”

They take their shirts off. Hermann is sporting a nice set of shoulders and biceps, and an even nicer set of pecs, and Newt thinks that trim waist would be the perfect size to wrap his fingers around, but his too-pale skin hugs his ribs a little too-tightly. There’s not a hint of hair in sight. The exact opposite of Newt, basically, in all his hairy, tattooed, out of shape glory. It’s kind of perfect. Newt bets they’d fit together like a pair of puzzle pieces.

He wolf-whistles before he can help himself. “I should’ve known you’d be even hotter under all those stupid sweaters.”

“Oh,” Hermann says. His mouth twitches up into a coy echo of his earlier smile. “Thank you. I think.”

Newt wants to get all over that hot bod, and so he does, inching up to Hermann until their stomachs brush and their chins bump, and planting his hands on either side of that neat, sexy waist. He’s right about it being the perfect size to grab. Hermann watches him through his dark lower lashes, standing perfectly still; he’s holding his breath. “I’m gonna kiss you now,” Newt says.

Hermann nods.

They kiss. It’s pretty cool, even if Hermann stands as stiff as a board, arms hanging limply at his sides, and even if when he finally decides to use tongue it’s at the moment Newt decides to use teeth and he ends up firmly biting down on it. “Ow,” Hermann hisses, pulling back sharply.

“Sorry,” Newt says. “I haven’t gotten laid in ages. I kinda forget how to, uh...” He tries to kiss Hermann again, but at Hermann’s darkening, skeptical expression, drops it. “Uh, you wanna take this to the bed?”

“Take off your jeans first,” Hermann says.

They stare at each other.

“Not–I mean yes, but–what I mean is they’re filthy,” Hermann snaps. “I’m not having you dirty up my sheets. Grime and blood and who on Earth knows what else.”

“Sure,” Newt says, and grins again. He fumbles with his belt and drops his jeans, and Hermann’s gaze drops too. Never one to pass up putting on a show, Newt tips his crotch forward to make his boner just that bit more prominent, and just that bit more in Hermann’s personal space. “Like what you’re seeing?”

Hermann nods.

Newt takes Hermann’s right hand and places it on his hip, just the waistband of his boxers. “You wanna take these off?” he says. He punctuates the question with a little kiss to Hermann’s throat. It’s so smooth–not at all like the scratchy, stubbly mess across Newt’s. He kisses it again, just ‘cause it’s nice, and feels more than hears the low rumble of a groan that rises in the back of it. Hermann’s shut his eyes.

“Ah–Newton–”

When it becomes clear Hermann won’t be sticking his hands down Newt’s boxers any time soon, Newt backs him up to his bed and pushes him down into it. Hermann sprawls backwards with a small thump. His cane clatters to the floor. “You gotta do some of the work here, dude,” Newt laughs.

To his surprise, Hermann flushes. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I haven’t much. Er. Experience, with this sort of thing. I’m not quite sure what to do.”

This comes as no small surprise to Newt. Hermann’s just…Hermann, y’know? He’s bitchy, and weird, and kind of weird-looking, but he has a sexy way of rolling his r’s and a sexy mouth and, apparently, a sexy bod, and if Newt–the guy’s certifiable rival–has wanted to get into his pants for ages, he’s sure he can’t have been the only one. But hell if the thought of being the first one to do it doesn’t turn him on likes crazy. “Luckily for you, I’m a pro at sex,” he lies. “I’m amazing. Just ask anyone. Wait, uh, not anyone, I don’t mean–”

“I know,” Hermann says. He sits up and plucks at Newt’s waistband. “May I take these off now?” He wets his lips again.

“By my fucking guest, dude,” Newt says.

Hermann tucks two elegant, nimble fingers under the elastic and slips Newt’s underwear down to pool around his ankles, finally letting his erection breathe a little. Newt leers down at him. “What about now?” he says. “Huh? You like this?”

But Hermann isn’t looking at his dick, inches from his nose though it is; Hermann’s looking to the left of it. “You have a scar here,” he says, and pokes at a small expanse of skin on Newt’s thigh between two tattoos.

“Uh,” Newt says. “Yeah, dude. I rammed into a table when I was rollerskating in the house once and had to get stitches.”

Hermann traces his fingers over the scar. “You must have been quite the handful as a child,” he says wryly.

The incident in question happened when Newt was twenty-four, but he decides it’s best to not divulge that particular bit of information to Hermann. “Uh. Yeah.”

Hermann reaches down and unbuckles his own belt, then begins to partially wriggle out of his stupid baggy pants and tighty-whiteys. “We’re matching,” he says. “Look.”

His left hip and thigh is a mess of scar tissue that Newt imagines, at one point, must’ve hurt like a bitch. Way more than Newt’s stupid incident with the roller skates. Way more than could even be compared to Newt’s stupid incident with the roller skates. But he smiles anyway: he likes the idea of it being some giant, flashing sign from the universe of their drift compatibility. “Have you looked in the mirror?” he says, and shuts his non-bloodied eye to make his point. “We’re not just matching there.”

“Hopefully not permanently,” Hermann says. He finally turns his attention on Newt’s dick, scrutinizing it like it’s one of his incomprehensible equations. It gets Newt even hotter. “Would you like to have sex now? I’m eager to put your renowned skills to the test.”

Newt doesn’t miss the sarcasm. It’d be kind of hard to. “Jackass,” he says. “Move over, I’m getting in.”

Hermann divests himself of the rest of his clothing and shuts off the overhead light while Newt makes himself comfortable on Hermann’s bed, though he leaves his small bedside lamp on to cast them both in a cozy yellow glow. All of Hermann’s room is shockingly cozy, in fact: the quilt tucked in neatly to his cushy mattress, the tea kettle on his dresser, the soft rug on the floor, the space heater (shut off) half-hidden in the corner. No wonder Hermann sleeps in so late. If Newt’s setup was like this, he’d never leave his quarters either.

“We could get under this, if you’d like,” Hermann says, pinching a bit of the quilt. “It’ll be warmer. It can get very chilly in here.” He fidgets. “And. Er. It’ll be easier to wash my sheets, rather than…”

“Yeah, that’s cool,” Newt says.

They move under the quilt. Hermann’s breath is warm on Newt’s face, and losing a layer seems to have imbibed Hermann with a newfound sense of confidence; his hands begin wandering across Newt’s body, up his sides, down his back, squeezing and pinching his skin, cupping his ass, and he layers kiss after kiss to Newt’s neck, his throat, his jaw. Newt rocks into each touch and moans helplessly.

“You’re so beautiful,” Hermann murmurs into his ear.

Newt laughs weakly. He’s gotten cute once or twice, but he doesn’t think anyone’s ever called him beautiful. It’s nice. He likes it. “Aw, dude.”

“You are,” Hermann says. “I’ve always thought you were. It’s been a terrible distraction in the laboratory.” He leans in and kisses Newt, still as graceless and chaste as before, but his low murmur has returned when he finishes, and it makes heat pool in Newt’s stomach. “Mm, sometimes all I could think about was how badly I wanted you.”

“Sometimes I used to jack off after we argued,” Newt blurts out.

Hermann blinks, surprised, and laughs. “Did you?”

“In the bathroom. Once in the supply closet. Nnh. Ah, fuck, Hermann, fuck–”

Bored of talking, apparently, Hermann’s decided to creep his hand lower and curl it around Newt’s dick. His touch is light, and unsure, and it kinda just makes it all even sexier. “I wish you told me this was your first time,” Newt whines out, pushing into Hermann’s fist. “I would’ve, guh, bought you dinner. Or something. We could’ve waited. Made it–made it meaningful.”

“Darling,” Hermann says, “this is perfect.”

Hermann kisses him; Newt comes, gasping and whining into his mouth. It’s a little embarrassing. He doesn’t think anyone’s ever called him beautiful, but he knows no one’s ever called him darling, and with Hermann the one being so sweet to him--it’s too much.

“Shit,” he pants afterwards, while Hermann examines the sticky mess on his fingers with mild interest. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to--I wanted to last longer.”

“Oh, we’ve got all night,” Hermann says, sounding pleased. He wipes his fingers off with tissues from a box on his bedside, then drags Newt’s hand under the covers to cup his own neglected dick, fluttering his eyelashes coquettishly. Newt swallows down a whimper. It’s not fair that Hermann is doing better at this than Newt. “I would like very much for you to touch me.”

“Okay,” Newt squeaks.

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag #Anonymous #not sfw /////

54 notes · View notes

mattzerella-sticks · 4 years

Text

Supernatural Crack🩹tober

Day 16: Hair Swap

He returns on a Tuesday. Walking through the door, duffel bag slung over his shoulder and spinning his keys on his fingers. Cas sees Dean at the map table, back facing him. Short hair sticking wildly at all ends, hunched over as he watches a video on Sam’s laptop. Shaking with silent laughter. The sight makes his heart swoon, Cas falling deeper in love despite the previous record set yesterday when Dean called because he texted a frowny face. They spoke well into the evening, until Cas fell asleep.

Dean has not heard him yet, so Cas uses it to his advantage. Silently descending the stairs, he creeps towards the other man. Runs his fingers through Dean's hair and drops a small kiss along the crown. “Hello, Dean.”

It wasn’t Dean.

Sam’s face comes into view, an earbud falling out. “Cas!” he says, slamming the space bar, “What are you doing?”

Cas pales, blinking. Looking from the younger Winchester’s face, then at his hair. Nothing adds up. “Sam?” he says, “you’re not…”

“I’m not what?”

“You’re not Dean.”

He snorts, turning fully in his seat. Languidly stretching, boots propped across a nearby, unoccupied chair. “Thought it’d be obvious,” Sam starts, lips pursing, “I am the more attractive brother. For a second I thought you broke and finally admitted your attraction to me, because then I’d have to awkwardly turn you down and hope it wouldn’t ruin yours and Dean's relationship.”

“I…” There’s a lot he said that Cas needs time digesting. He still hasn’t gotten past the hair. Nor Sam’s lazy smirk that reminded him of someone else. Before he can think more on this, he hears another person approaching. Deep timbre achingly familiar. “Dean? We’re in here – Dean!”

Dean steps into view, hair pulled tight in a bun. Smiling, like nothing was out of the ordinary. “Cas!” he says, striding forward with a glass of green liquid in hand, “I thought I heard you. Didn’t think you’d be back this soon, though.” He kisses him, free arm looping around Cas’s shoulder.

Cas hugs reflexively, nose scrunching in distaste. “You reek,” he says. And, as his hand trails across the damp planes of his shirt, Cas adds, “sweaty, too.”

Chuckling, Dean pulls away. “Yeah, I hadn’t showered yet. I was on my way, too, honest. Don’t like stewing in my yoga sweat for long.” He gestures at his outfit, the loose cotton t-shirt and shorts sticking at odd angles, toes flexing on the hardwood floors. “But I had to make sure someone was doing their research like he promised.” The pointed glare aimed at Sam strikes, the younger boy switching tabs with a rueful pout.

He hadn’t left them for more than three days. How did this happen? “Are you feeling all right?”

“Yeah, never better actually,” Dean says, “why do you ask?”

There were many reasons. Given how ordinary the brothers treated this situation, Cas opted for a simple lie. “It’s just… yoga?”

“I know,” his hunter sighs, leaning on map table. Tapping on his glass. “I normally do it every other day, but it was raining all morning and I didn’t feel like running in it. But I’m keeping with my juice schedule!”

“Your… juice schedule?”

Sam snickers, nudging Dean’s thigh with his elbow. “You know, Cas, it’s the thing Dean drinks that tastes like raw sewage and not… y’know, good?”

Dean needles him back, flicking his temple. “It is good. Good for you.”

“Chunky vegetable water isn’t good for me. Burgers are,” Sam stands, collecting his things. He offers a tiny salute in Cas’s direction before swaggering through the exit. “Which I’m gonna go ahead and make. Hopefully regain some of my appetite along the way. So long, bitches!”

Glaring at his retreated form, Dean sips at his juice. “Jerk.” Then, Dean downs the entire contents while Cas watched helplessly.

His mind ran through a number of possible scenarios. Dean and Sam were being possessed. Replaced by versions of themselves from a different universe. Under a spell. Touched a cursed object. Were playing an elaborately staged prank on him. The list grew infinitely. Stopping only when Dean snaps his fingers, drawing Cas out of his mind. “Hey,” he says, running a hand down his arm, “you okay?”

“Fine,” he answers, throat scratchy. He stumbles backwards, giggling. “I… it was a long trip. Guess I’m pretty – I’m tired.”

“Tired, huh?” Dean asks, grinning. Reading far past the shallow waters of his excuse. “Yeah, I guess I’m pretty beat, too. My body was such a tight knot, like I haven’t stretched in ages.” Or ever, Cas mentally tacks on. “If I wasn’t so filthy I’d collapse onto our bed and…” Dean demonstrates, shimmying onto the table and dropping. Legs helplessly kicking as they dangle over the edge. “Whoops,” he says, “give me a hand?”

Cas inches close enough he can grab Dean and lift. As he does, the hairtie holding the other man’s hair breaks and a waterfall of hair cascades across his shoulders. He gapes at the magnificence, unsure if Sam’s hair ever looked like that. Or was that long when he left.

“Dammit,” Dean growls, picking up the former accessory. Frowns at the broken circle, now a sad line. “I’m running out of these… oh well.” He tosses it blindly, tugging Cas into the space between his legs in the same breath. “Cas,” he says, “I thought you said you were tired?”

Cas winces, pants incredibly tight since the threadbare exercise shorts allow Cas to feel everything. “I did.”

“I was tired,” Dean sings, looping fingers around Cas’s wrist. Dragging the hand up, guiding it into his hair. “But if you want, I’m game for whatever. Better before I’ve showered than after, right?”

“Dean, I…” His protests still, Dean’s hand covering his and squeezing. Cas’s fingers threading through soft locks, a newer sensation that makes fireworks explode behind his eyes. He claws at Dean’s hair again, tighter. Those same bursts happen within Dean’s green gaze. “You like this?”

“Of course I like it, Cas. I love it.”

“No, no… I mean this.” He pulls Dean’s hair harder, a gasped moan stolen from his lips, “Having your hair pulled.”

Dean furrows his brow, playfulness waning. “Well, yeah. But it’s not like I’m the only one who gets off on it.”

“Hmm?”

“Cas?” Dean asks, pushing his arm away. Frowning, “Are you okay?”

In that instant, Cas makes a decision. Maybe not the best, but he sees it through. He places both hands on Dean’s scalp and grabs his hair, one after the other, in quick succession. The pupils of Dean’s eyes widen, and his adam’s apple throbs. Better yet, Cas’s leaking dick spasms. He did enjoy this. “Sorry,” Cas smiles, guiding Dean’s face towards his. Their lips hovering nearby, barely touching. “This hunt, it got me all turned around. But I can tell you about it after, okay?”

“Okay,” Dean kisses him, ankles crossed above his ass. “Less talk about work, more this.”

“Gladly.”

🩹🩹🩹🩹🩹🩹🩹🩹🩹🩹🩹🩹🩹🩹🩹🩹🩹

The next day, Cas sits with the Winchesters at the table as he explained the strange circumstances. “Apparently, when touching the finger trap,” he tells them, “it caused your personalities to switch… among other things.”

Sam sighs, brushing his bangs from his face. Hairstyle returning, the ends curling below Sam’s chin. “Thanks for figuring that out, Cas. Being Dean for two days was more than I’ve ever wanted to be.”

“I don’t think it was enough,” Dean snorts into his coffee. “Maybe if it was a week, my stunning personality would’ve rubbed off on you. Maybe then you'd be less of a wet blanket all the time.”

“Really, Dean? You wanted to drink those disgusting juices for a week?” At the mention, Dean’s stomach gurgles loudly. Dean shudders from the memory of happily inhaling those tinctures, cheeks tinted green. “That’s what I thought.”

“Whatever.” Dean stands, circling the table. Placing a sweet kiss atop Cas’s head. “Just glad you put everything back to normal.” He pulls on the hair tie at his wrist, quickly gathering wavy, chestnut locks and folding them into a messy bun. “I’m making omelets. Any requests – that aren’t vegetables, Sammy.”

“You're supposed to put vegetables in omelets!”

“Meats and cheeses only!”

Cas sighs, sipping at his own coffee while they bickered. Glad that both brothers were themselves again. At least, almost.

When researching the cause of Sam and Dean’s strange behavior, and after finding the cursed object responsible for it, Cas happened across a spell that could undo the finger trap’s effect. Returning what had been swapped. As he read through the ingredients, he kept flashing back on the wondrous night Dean and he shared together. The feel of his fingers through that long hair. Cas would miss it when Dean’s old hairstyle returned.

But, hidden within the margins, Cas found a scrawled note from Men of Letters past. Deciphering that faded chicken scratch, the writer added extra instructions. Variations of this spell that could change its effects. In the example given, a beauty mark stolen could be duplicated and shared between the donor and recipient. Cas wondered if it would apply elsewhere.

“Cas?” Dean calls, bundle of hair bouncing while he cooked. Dean swaying along with an imaginary song. “Cas, what do you want in your omelet?”

He stood, drifting closer. Wraps his arms around Dean’s waist and burying his nose in his hair. “I’ll have what you’ll have.”

“Two kitchen sinks then,” Dean grins, nipping at Cas’s lips. He shoots a stale glare over Cas’s shoulder, “and one pussy vegetarian.”

“Dean,” Cas nuzzles his cheek, laughing, “watch it. If you're not careful, some of your hair might fall in.”

Sighing, Dean focuses on his cooking. Extra cautious with how his bun flopped around. “You know,” he whispers, “sometimes I think I might be better off with a buzzcut...”

“Really?” Cas digs his fingers into Dean’s hairline, scraping it. Catching loose strands in his efforts. “You think so?”

Chuckling, Dean melts into Cas’s embrace. “Nah… short hair’s lame, and so not me.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

(Day 15 - Impala Alternate Paint Job)

#supernatural #spn #cracktober #profoundnet #destiel #deancas #dean winchester #long hair dean winchester #sam winchester #short hair sam winchester #castiel #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic

11 notes · View notes

dreamonhunters · 4 years

Text

give me one last kiss while we’re far too young to die

tw // blood, guns, mafia dynamics, character injury

mafia au race & romeo for @heytheywascoronas ! happy birthday luce, i hope you have an amazing day ♡

read it here on ao3!

Suddenly, he’s awake.

There’s a burn in his lungs, the type you get from being deprived of oxygen just a little too long. Romeo gasps for air, one hand clutching at his chest and the other balled into a tight fist by his side. He can still taste gunpowder. Blunt fingernails dig into his bloodied palm. It’s almost grounding. Not enough to offset the pain, however.

His eyes take a few moments to refocus. Above him, a few clouds crawl lazily across a cornflower blue sky. It’s too bright. Romeo squints. Everything seemed a little hazy round the edges, not quite real. That makes his head hurt.

A tacky red liquid coats his hands, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what that is. The tip of his tongue swipes over his swollen bottom lip. Drying blood cakes the sensitive flesh, broken and sore. There’s a metallic taste that fills his mouth. Floods his senses for just a moment. His nose throbs.

At least he’s alive, Romeo thinks to himself. That’s definitely a positive.

“Romeo,” a feeble voice calls. It should’ve been a question, but the inflection to suggest that much is completely absent. It’s a voice brimming with the pain Romeo feels lancing through his own body.

“Tha’s me,” he manages, turning his head in the direction of the voice. Fuck, he sounds rough. He’s barely said a sentence, and already he can feel the way vocalising makes his throat burn. His cheek scratches against the concrete, but the pain barely registers. He’s got bigger issues right now. “You good, Tony?”

The boy in question, Tony, simply groans again. No, he’s not good. Romeo saw him go down. The horrible sound of a bullet pinging off the wall, and Tony dodges narrowly, and then there’s someone kicking him in the stomach. A wave of nausea hits Romeo. He’s powerless. Tony’s arm is yanked sharply backwards, and Romeo hears the sickening crack. That’s a sound he won’t forget.

Now he lays a few feet away from Romeo, curled in on himself. Just slightly out of reach. There’s an almost ghostly pallor to his skin. The sole source of his bleeding seems to be a deep gash high up on his cheekbone. The blood caking his hair and clothing isn’t his own. A dark bruise forming above his left eyebrow. Shoulder twisted at an unnatural angle.

It takes Romeo a several minutes to sit up properly. Well, maybe it’s minutes. His sense of time is a little warped right now. However long it takes to let the nausea die down enough to allow movement. Aching muscles scream in protest as he pushes himself up, elbows shoved beneath him to support his bodyweight. Spits out a mixture of blood and saliva, unable to get rid of that smoky taste that makes his teeth hurt, makes his gums burn. The ache in his chest returns promptly, earning a hiss of pain from Romeo.

“We fucked up, didn’t we?”

It’s not a question, but he asks it like one anyway. Maybe Tony will entertain him. Months of begging and pleading and bargaining can’t end like this. Romeo doesn’t make mistakes, not anymore. Neither does Tony. Neither does Jack.

“Shut your stupid mouth,” Tony snaps, although the usual venomous sting in his tone is missing. It’s actually a little weak. Probably too much effort right now.

They’re not friends, not by any stretch of the imagination. Partners, in a business sense exclusively. He likes to think they’re getting somewhere. Volatility is Tony’s middle name, however, and that makes it rather difficult to gauge where he stands. Romeo isn’t sure how Tony defines the word ‘friendship’, anyway.

Romeo rolls his eyes anyway, face screwing up when he’s reminded of the pain in his chest. Broken ribs, easily. When he pulls his shirt up to inspect the damage, there’s black and blue blooming across his flesh already. Ouch.

Vaguely, there’s the memory of taking a crowbar to the chest. Feels distant, almost like he watched it happen to somebody else. It’s a little jarring to consider this happened to him. Suddenly the bruises don’t feel all that strange. A few broken ribs is a small price to pay.

“You want some help?” he asked, letting the thin fabric drop back down.

Tony shakes his head defiantly, of course he does. He’ll die before he accepts Romeo’s assistance.

So Romeo doesn’t make it optional. He takes a few deep breaths and forces himself up, teeth gritting. The taste of blood is stronger now, and it’s almost dizzying. He stumbles, grasps for something to keep him upright, leans against the wall heavily. The pain is nauseating. Just that small movement has a thin sheen of sweat covering his forehead, mixing with the blood and sticking to his skin uncomfortably.

“Idiota,” he hisses, glaring sharply at Tony. The blond is motionless, hair matted with blood and sweat and dirt. “You shoulda kept your mouth shut.”

“Oh, this is my problem now?” Tony shoots back, eyes narrowing. There’s an edge of ice in his voice, a familiar one. Romeo knows that tone all too well.

Any other time, he wouldn’t push it. Arguing with Tony is pointless and stupid and gets neither of them anywhere, but there’s an anger flaring up in Romeo’s chest that’s more than a little difficult to force back down.

“If you let me do my job, we’d be outta here, and not bleeding to death in the fucking dirt.” Romeo seethes. “I was doing the talking, Tony. This shit is basic.”

“Badly,” the blond retorts. “You needed me to cover because you couldn’t get your fuckin’ words out properly.”

“I was doing just fine.”

Tony doesn’t bother responding, grunting unintelligibly instead.

Does he really blame Tony? No. The guilt is overwhelming, actually, because Romeo knows it’s on him. He shouldn’t push it further.

“This is why Jack doesn’t fucking trust you.”

Tony’s expression darkens immediately, eyes flashing dangerously. Romeo regrets it already.

“Jack trusts me a whole lot more than you. Because he knows you might just run off the second he lets you out.”

Romeo opens his mouth, ready to shoot off some spiteful retort, but he catches himself. He doesn’t hate Tony anymore. They’re not rivals, they’re not friends, but they’re somewhere between those two points.

He relents, kneeling down beside Tony. It’s such a simple movement, and yet every contraction of his muscles is fucking agony. He bites down on the inside of his cheek. Hard. The taste of blood is there again, but for a completely different reason now. Sharp pieces of gravel dig into his knees.

“Just let me help you,” he requests. Tony grunts, but he doesn’t bother trying to fight it this time.

“I don’t need your help,” he spits. At this point, that suggestion is almost laughable. If Romeo liked him any less, he’d maybe laugh.

“I think you’ll find you do,” Romeo defends easily, placing one hand on Tony’s shoulder. It’s a feather-light touch, barely there, but it’s a reminder. Tony can work out what that means for himself.

He scowls at Romeo, eyes dark. Juxtaposes their brightness. They’d be so pretty if he smiled more often, although Romeo never voices those thoughts. Tony would murder him the moment he opened his mouth. Such angelic features, constantly contorted with rage and irritation. Jarring.

Tony doesn’t verbally respond again, although he hisses in pain when he slowly tries to stretch out his aching limbs. Honestly, the silence is nice. Unusual.

There’s the silent acknowledgment between them that, had this happened months prior, Tony would be left for dead. Romeo would leave without a second glance. Tony holds this flawed ideology of needing help equalling weakness, and Romeo could never quite fathom why.

But now he feels responsibility. Guilt tugs at him, sour. It weighs heavy on his shoulders. The anger dies away, still smouldering somewhere deep within him, but now it’s easy to ignore. He watches the way blood trickle down the side of Tony’s face with an almost sick fascination. It’s mesmerising, the way it soaks into the fine creases and stains his skin crimson.

Romeo is slow to accept his own faults. Doesn’t like to be the one at fault. It’s a vice he's always known about, but his ego has a tendency to get in the way of any real self-improvement there. He has many virtues, anyway, and he’ll say it with that trademark bright smile. But no, it’s not really Tony’s fault. If he’s completely truthful, their failure is more indicative of their joint weaknesses. Romeo is too quick to react, pushes too hard for little gain. Tony is abrasive and snappy, immediately rubbing people up the wrong way. It’s really no wonder why Jack didn’t want them out in the field just yet.

“Jack’s gonna kill us,” Tony murmurs. Speak of the devil. He sounds agitated, maybe. Difficult to tell when he’s speaking through gritted teeth, biting down hard in an attempt to suppress his groans of pain. “He’s gonna fuckin’ murder me.”

Romeo shakes his head, and maybe there’s just a little hint of introspectiveness there. “It’s not just your fault, Tony, I’m sorry. I fucked up, y’know?”

Of course, Tony argues back. His voice reminds Romeo of glass crunching beneath his feet. Scratchy. “You’re the one who said it. I fucked up. Jack wanted me to prove myself. All this did was prove I couldn’t do it.”

“Yeah, well, can’t do much about that now,” Romeo concludes. He’s too tired to fight.

Acknowledging failure makes Romeo’s skin crawl, the sudden urge to scratch becoming almost overwhelming. Mistakes like this are for other people. Rookies. It’s been a long time since he was last considered a rookie.

He sets about his work in silence. The rush of blood in his ears serves as a nice way to tune out his thoughts. White noise. His stomach roils as he moves, nausea threatening to render him useless for a little while longer. Tony lays limp beneath his fingertips, letting Romeo do what he must. There’s still a scowl twisting his face up. The fight died from his eyes moments before.

Fortunately, nothing looks too bad. The shoulder is nasty. It’s not career-ending. Now Romeo’s good, but he’s not that good. Wouldn’t dare to try resetting that on his own. It’s a job for someone else, someone a lot more qualified. That gash on Tony’s cheek is slowly scabbing over. Romeo winces, secondhand pain. Someone is gonna rip that back open to clean it later. Everything else seems like superficial damage.

“Can you sit up?” he asks, taking one of Tony’s hands in his own. It’s calloused and sticky with blood. The warmth is oddly familiar. Again, Tony doesn’t dignify that with anything more than a grunt. Shoves his good arm back, wincing at the jolt in his bad one. Uses his elbows to gain a little leverage. It’s not quite sitting up, but it’s a start.

Romeo chews at his lip. By now the taste of copper in his mouth is practically second nature. He’s guilty. It gnaws at his stomach and he hates the way it burns. “Better than nothing,” he muses quietly, rocking back to rest his weight on his haunches. Tony pulls his hand away. The muscles in Romeo’s legs throb.

“You got any smart ideas to get us outta here?” Tony snarks, and Romeo doesn’t miss the bite in his voice. Clearly, he’s feeling a little better already. It’s not got that malicious ring to it, though. Not like usual. He could put money on Tony being more pissed at himself than Romeo.

“Pick-up point isn’t far away,” he muses, using his hand to shield his eyes from the bright sun overhead. “If you can walk that far, we—“

“I can.”

Tony doesn’t wait for Romeo to argue, and he doesn’t ask for help. Instead, he uses his good arm to push him up, just enough to sit. Even then, he’s panting, slightly breathless. Romeo doesn’t miss the way he winces.

“Let me carry you,” Romeo suggests.

The blond’s face twists into an ugly scowl. “No.”

He sighs, lips pressing into a tight line. “So you gonna walk? ‘Cause it’s not gonna be the shortest walk.”

Tony’s answer isn’t so immediate this time. He’s thinking about it, considering his options. Romeo can tell by the way his eyes cloud with an uncharacteristic thoughtfulness. Tony always tends to shoot first, ask questions later.

Finally, he answers. “Fine. But I swear to God, if you tell anyone about this,” Tony snarls, weakly jabbing a finger at Romeo’s chest. “I swear I’ll kill you myself.”

Romeo just shrugs. They both know the only person he talks to is Tony. He has nobody to tell, even if he wanted to. Telling people would only bring about questions, and Romeo feels far too guilty to answer those. Or think about them. Even something as simple as reporting to Jack would be a struggle.

Silently, he shifts, one arm scooping underneath Tony’s legs and the other supporting his back. Avoids his bad shoulder. They both know Romeo isn’t strong enough to manage this, but at least he can walk. He stumbles to his feet, sways a little, fingernails digging into Tony’s flesh. Not enough to hurt, but more than enough to feel.

“Careful,” Tony mutters. It’s the most concern Romeo’s ever heard in his voice. Almost unsettling.

He manages to straighten up, though, remaining still for just long enough to catch his balance. Tony is long and lanky, but he’s also light. The height difference makes it a little awkward, but Romeo’s too determined and too proud to forfeit now. Can’t. He’s made enough mistakes to get them both to this point.

“I’m good,” he assures, adjusting his grip on Tony’s lithe body. For just a second, their eyes meet, and Romeo swears he’ll never see a prettier shade of blue than the colour of Tony’s eyes. Blond curls frame his face, tangled and stained with blood. That trademark scowl has melted away, and it’s one of the rare occasions where Romeo sees his face completely relaxed. He looks up at Romeo with something akin to childlike innocence.

If he were somebody else, and they were in a different time, Romeo might call him beautiful.

He pushes that thought down. Locks it away for another time, preferably when he’s alone, not staring into Tony’s crystalline eyes. Starts walking, instead, because pain is a surefire way to distract him from his own internal monologue.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. If Tony wasn’t listening closely, he’d miss it. Romeo’s eyes are fixed firmly on the horizon. Barely audible above the incessant background noise of cars and people and city life. Even on the outskirts, it’s noisy.

“Shut up,” Tony mutters. “This ain’t your fault.”

For Tony to admit fault so easily is wrong. Leaves a strange taste in Romeo’s mouth, and it’s not the taste of blood.

“Maybe if I did my job properly, we wouldn’t be like this, y’know?” Romeo persists, although there’s a lightness to his tone. Jovial, maybe. Doesn’t want to get too serious, not when he’s holding Tony’s broken body in his arms and trying to ignore the way his knees threaten to buckle with every step.

“I said shut up,” Tony warns. There’s a brief flash of irritation in his eyes, but it’s gone before Romeo truly registers it. “I jumped down your fuckin’ throat. Didn’t give you enough chance.”

“And I could’ve reacted better,” is Romeo’s immediate response. “Seriously, Tony, this isn’t your damn fault. An’ when we report to Jack, I swear if you don’t keep your mouth shut—“

Tony scoffs. “Why? So Jack can refuse you fieldwork for the next three years? Because he will.”

“I don’t really care,” Romeo lies.

Being refused fieldwork is getting off lightly. Jack doesn’t make mistakes.

“Yeah, you do.” Tony informs. “‘Cause you’re the one who spent fuckin’ months trying to get us this job, an’ then I went and fucked it up.”

Romeo lets out a small sigh through his nose. “It’s not even that bad.”

“You gonna tell Jack that? ‘It’s not even that bad, Tony just fucked up everything you asked’?” he snarls. “That’ll go down well. I’m sure he’ll love that.”

“Why the fuck do you want me to blame you so bad?” Romeo asks. The irritation melts away, replaced with nothing but a genuine curiosity. “You’re his favourite. You could say anything, an’ he’d probably believe it.”

Tony huffs, turns his face away. He’s staring at nothing.

“Because it’s weird when you get hurt. When Jack screams at you, I don’t…” he trails off, shaking his head. “Forget it.”

“To—“

“I said forget it.”

And like that, Romeo drops it. Has to, because Tony has made it pretty damn clear he’s not talking about this anymore.

“Just let me take the fall for this one, okay?” Tony asks, and now his voice is softer. There’s a finely veiled edge of authority, and Romeo has to laugh. Tony barely outranks him, and he’s only ever seen them as equal in that regard.

“No,” Romeo murmurs. Soft, but not without the urgency of a demand. “This ain’t your battle, Tony...”

“I was here, wasn’t I?” he scowls. “I’ll do what I fuckin’ please.”

“What if we don’t blame anyone, and let Jack decide who’s guilty?”

Because they both know it’ll be Romeo. Jack thinks highly of Tony, always has. He’s the favourite. Romeo doesn’t have to take the fall to be blamed, and he came to terms with that a while ago.

“What if he kicks you out?” Tony asks, voice real quiet. Finally betrays the terror running through his head. It’s a much more realistic expectation.

“Then I pack my shit and go,” Romeo answers. There’s a rueful smile on his face. The only way he’ll be leaving is with a bullet through his brain. Ditched in an unmarked grave somewhere. No need to do any packing. “Wasn’t cut out for a place like this, clearly.”

“You can’t—“ he begins, but those words seem to catch in his throat. Can’t say what he wants to. Tony never loses his words like that.

“That’s up to Jack. His call.”

“You can’t just back down like that, asshole! What happened to not goin’ down without a fuckin’ fight?” Tony demands. He’s not covering the upset in his voice well.

“Jack would just have me killed, Tony.”

Those words are heavy. They hang in the air unpleasantly. Romeo isn’t wrong, and he’s pretty sure that’s what makes that sentence so disquieting.

“I wouldn’t let him,” Tony mutters defiantly. It’s a pathetic suggestion, because Tony doesn’t control Jack, nobody does, and even his status as favourite wouldn’t hold much weight there.

Romeo sighs, holds Tony a little tighter.

“No point getting worked up ‘bout what he might say,” Romeo points out. They’re close now, he can see the getaway vehicle across the street. The outskirts of town are quiet. The gun on Romeo’s hip has most people looking the opposite way anyway, golden metal glinting in the light.

Tony meets his eyes again, and there’s an undeniable anxiety there. There’s tension in his jaw. “Let me take the fall,” he demands.

“I can’t do that, Tony,” he sighs.

“Please.”

“No. Let’s not argue, Tony, yeah?”

Tony is quiet. There’s another voice now, and suddenly the weight of another person is lifted from Romeo’s arms. He blinks. A dark-haired woman is talking, commenting on their injuries, asking questions. He can’t focus for long enough to answer. An overwhelming exhaustion hits him, and he slides into the backseat without a fight. Tony is beside him a few moments later. There’s that familiar hum of an engine beneath him, and Romeo swears he could pass out here and now.

Tony doesn’t speak again until they’re in the back of the car, fingertips brushing against each others’. He’s still tense, particularly in the face, although he can’t hold much tension in his bad shoulder. Romeo is less so, because he’s already come to terms with what could happen. He’ll do what it takes to keep Tony out of harm’s way. That kid’s been through enough.

“Don’t go,” Tony whispers. Only Romeo could possibly have picked that up. Their driver doesn’t even flinch.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” Romeo assures. He’s lying, and they both know it, but it’s a bittersweet reassurance.

His eyes flicker to the outside, and suddenly Romeo isn’t Romeo anymore. He has a freedom he never had, snatched away from him as a child, crushed by the crippling need for money. It’s another time, another world, and it’s one his fingertips brush over occasionally. The way his brush against the rough skin of Tony’s hands. Just out of reach. Something he can never have.

Something he will never have.

#rayray writes #my writing #newsies #mafia au #race/romeo #racetrack higgins #race newsies #romeo newsies #jack kelly #jack newsies #hurt/comfort #angst #friends tag

12 notes · View notes