#Worm writes

[urlocalwormtoday]

do you think they ever found Williams body? or did he just disappear and reappear one day, pale and followed by a trail of unseeable creatures?

how long do you think he was missing for? was it weeks or months? possibly even more time than that? did the wisps bring him back healed, or did he trudge from the bottom of the cliff with broken ribs and a cracked skull?

do you think his parents held out hope for the first however long he was gone? did they sit, night after night, praying for his return? do you think they regretted hoping he'd come back, 'no matter what' they'd said, when he was changed? when those around him started getting miraculously injured?

what do you think his parents thought when he would fall through the floor if someone snuck up on him too quietly, or when his body would topple like a puppet with its strings cut, lifeless?

and if he didn't get up on his own, if the Unwitness Program spent sleepless nights meandering blindly through the woods in search of him, do you think they believed what they saw? do you think when they peered over that cliff, expecting the worst, they could predict his body laid broken at the bottom?

do you think his mother clawed through the thicket to get to him? did she see his head split on the rocks? did she get to cradle his bloody body?

i wonder if they buried him. i wonder if he had to rip himself from the wooden boards of a coffin and muddied dirt in the dead of the night. did he show up to his parents house covered in grime, wondering, in a haze, why the door was locked? wondering what exactly they wanted to keep out.

i wonder if they ever found Williams body.

[wigglywormy]

unexplored territory [bakugou/deku, 2.3k, nsfw]

first prompt request! thank you for sending it in, I hope you like it xoxo (also cross posted to ao3!)

warnings: nsfw, light dom/sub, frottage, nipple play, minors DNI

-----

Izuku isn’t always amazing at things on the first try, while Katsuki on the other hand seems to catch on to everything so quickly and with such ease. Perfectionism at least is a quality that they both share, so even when Izuku fails in the beginning, he refuses to quit until he can do it with his eyes closed. Breaking his fingers, breaking his arms, breaking the plethora of bones in his body trying to master his quirk was easy, because the drive to make the quirk his own was such a powerful motivator. Well, maybe not easy, but the motivation deep within his core truly was the biggest push he needed. 

Staying up all hours of the night studying for exams, spending hours upon hours in the gym to perfect his body to handle his quirk and whatever else comes his way, and attempting to keep a steady and healthy diet are mindless tasks now, ingrained in his blood and expertly learned and honed. 

Which is why, Izuku thinks as his hands slip underneath Katsuki’s tank top, this particular task is so…. daunting. 

They’re still in the new stages of dating, slowly melting away all of the awkwardness of first kisses and hands touching hands, and even though it’s only been a few months, Izuku is frustrated that he’s not an expert at Katsuki’s body yet. He’s stupidly determined to change that. 

“Izuku,” Katsuki grumbles from his position on the bed, sprawled flat on his back with his notebook held up in front of his face, “Cut it out. We literally graduate in a fuckin’ month, we have to study for our final exams.”

Izuku swallows thickly from his place hovered over the blonde, his hand pausing where it’s pressed over Katsuki’s stomach. “We’ve been studying for hours, Kacchan.”

Katsuki scoffs, “And? You gonna tell me if I sit you down right now and quiz you, you’ll ace every subject I throw at ya?”

Izuku pouts. “It’s not good to cram too hard. Can we just take a break?”

“And do what?” Katsuki replies mindlessly, going back to flipping through his notebook. 

Izuku slides his hand higher, Katsuki’s tank getting bunched up further until his pink nipples are exposed to the warm air in the dorm room. Katsuki shifts a bit, but doesn’t push him away. He also doesn’t put down his notebook either, so Izuku bites his lip and takes it as a green light. 

Katsuki’s body is something out of Izuku’s wet dreams, really, and after they got together, once Izuku was allowed to touch, he decided to make it his new mission to figure out exactly all of the ways to make Katsuki tick. 

He’s already discovered the spot behind Katsuki’s ear that makes him gasp, the spot right in the dip of his throat that, when Izuku latches on and sucks, causes Katsuki’s fingers to spasm and his breath to stutter. He’s figured out that Katsuki doesn’t really like the back of his neck touched, but he loves when Izuku drags his nails sharply down his spine when they are kissing. 

He’s honestly discovered a lot about his boyfriend’s body, but there’s so much territory that’s currently unexplored, and it’s driving Izuku mad. 

They haven’t really gone past making out and hand jobs, and Izuku tries not to get too handsy since he’s not really sure what kind of boundaries there are at this new, fresh stage in their relationship, but Izuku’s been watching. He’s been analyzing, calculating, and watching. He notices how Katuski’s breath hitches when he’s cold and his shirt rubs against his chest, nipples hard and poking out beneath the fabric. He’s noticed how Katsuki’s hips twitch up when they’re making out on his bed and Izuku’s hands drag up his chest, over his pecks. 

It’s time to test his theory, and see what kind of reactions Katsuki will give him. So Izuku can see if this is another discovery he can add to his ever-growing list of everything Kacchan. 

Izuku situates himself so he’s straddling Katsuki’s thighs, and though he can’t see the blonde’s face behind his notebook, he sees how Katsuki’s fingers clutch at the pages just a bit tighter. Izuku has his tank top bunched all the way up to his armpits now, pale muscular torso on full display, and Izuku’s mouth nearly waters as he zeros in on those cute pink nipples, just begging to be touched. 

He takes it slow, dragging both hands up along the curve of Katsuki’s waist, and at the first brush of his thumbs against his nipples, Katsuki jerks so hard he drops his notebook. The pages flutter as it bounces off the bed and onto the floor, and now Izuku can fully see how pink Katsuki’s cheeks have become. 

Oh, okay. Yeah, Izuku is going to get a lot of research done tonight. Katsuki is his favorite subject, afterall. 

“Izuku,” Katsuki growls, low and quiet, almost like a warning. Izuku happily ignores him, thumbing his nipples a bit more firmly this time, and when his nail catches against the skin, Katsuki straight up squeaks. 

“Jesus - calm down,” he manages to grit out through his teeth, but his hands have come down to clutch at Izuku’s thighs, and his gaze has darkened the way it always does before they fool around. 

“Have you ever had your nipples played with before, Kacchan?” Izuku asks quietly, massaging his pecs with large, calloused hands. 

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Katsuki snaps, and then softer, quieter, “You… you know you're my fuckin’ first. Or whatever.”

First kiss, first boyfriend, first love - Izuku feels his heart swell that’s he’s managed to collect so many things from Kacchan. It makes him so happy his heart could very well burst. 

But - first, he needs to focus. Katsuki’s eyeing him curiously, and so Izuku settles more firmly on his hips before gently, so gently, fluttering his fingers over the sensitive nubs. 

“What - ah, f-fuck,” Katsuki chokes out, and the startled laugh that escapes his lips makes Izuku pause. 

“Sensitive?” Izuku asks with delight, because he knew deep down they were, but he didn’t know that Katsuki’s chest would also be ticklish. 

“Just - do it harder,” Katsuki grumbles out, not meeting Izuku’s gaze. “None of that gentle shit.”

Izuku happily ignores him yet again, scraping his nails feather light around the pink buds until Katsuki’s full on squirming beneath him, lips twitching on a smile as he tries not to laugh. His hands dart up to grab Izuku’s wrists, but Izuku is quicker, snatching the blonde’s hands up in one of his own and pinning them above Katsuki’s head. Izuku’s hand is large, and able to wrap completely around both of Katsuki’s wrists to keep him in place, which is nice because it allows him to have a free hand to continue his exploration.

“Are your nipples ticklish, Kacchan?” 

“No - ”

His words are cut off with a gasp when Izuku leans down, flicking the tip of a tongue gently across his left nipple, and Katsuki’s back arches up, his body trembling as he chokes on a giggle - but then moans when Izuku sucks on the bud firmly. 

“Ah - mmm,” Katsuki moans, and Izuku notices his cock throbbing in his sweatpants. 

“You’re so cute,” Izuku teases, enjoying the way Katsuki’s cheeks flush at the compliment. He’s still firmly holding Katsuki’s wrists above his head, and he uses his free hand to trace his fingers softly along the side of Katsuki’s chest, squeezing his pec before dipping dangerously into the hollow of his underarm. That has Katsuki snorting softly around a surprised laugh, and Izuku notes with glee that his hips grind up at the same time. 

Oh, he likes this? Izuku mentally notes that in his head. 

“Izuku - fuck cut it out!” Katsuki’s voice is shaky, his head turned to hide in his shoulder as Izuku continues to drag his fingers teasingly across his chest, tickling at his nipples, the sides of his ribs, dipping into his armpit before coming back to those pert, hard, sensitive nipples. Izuku can feel Katuki’s cock pulse, his hips grinding up unconsciously.

“I wonder if you can come like this,” Izuku muses, “I wonder - how would a feather feel? If I just… tied you up, tickled your nipples for hours until you couldn’t take it anymore. They’re really sensitive, huh?”

“Shut - sh-shut up.”

“Hm - we don’t have any feathers - oh!” Izuku exclaims, releasing Katsuki’s wrists to lean over, digging around in the bedside drawer before pulling out a small vibrator they like to play with occasionally. Izuku’s only used it on their cocks before, but he’s so curious - 

“Don’t you dare,” Katsuki groans. 

“Hold onto the headboard,” Izuku commands softly, and Katsuki swallows and does as he’s told. 

When he turns it on, Katsuki visibly tenses up, his gaze growing dark, and when Izuku gently grazes his nipple, Katsuki’s entire body arches up, his arms shooting down to shove the toy away as he shrieks. 

“Oh my g - f-fuck!”

It’s like music to Izuku’s ears, the strained laughter and desperate gasp that the blonde lets out. 

“Arms up, Kacchan.”

He grumbles but does as he’s told, fingers gripping the headboard so hard it creaks, and he bites his lip as Izuku lowers the setting on the vibrator before pressing it back to his nipple. The reaction is instant, Katsuki wriggling aggressively underneath Izuku, and finally after a few moments, Izuku hears little broken giggles from Katsuki’s mouth. His eyes are squeezed shut, beads of sweat popping up on his forehead, and when Izuku uses his other hand to pinch and roll his other nipple, the blonde cries out a shaky moan. 

“Ah - ahah - Izuku it’s - fuck, I c-can’t - ”

“Does it tickle?” 

Katsuki’s face burns. “Fuck off - yes, ahahah! You fuckin’ asshole - !”

“Does it feel good?” 

Izuku rolls his hips down, grinding their arousals together, watching at Katsuki’s mouth parts and eyelids flutter with pleasure. He switches the vibrator to the other nipple, and darts back down to flick his tongue ticklishly over the other one. Katsuki’s shaking violently, as if his body has no idea how to handle the sensations, and when Izuku thumbs the vibrator up to a higher setting, he nearly groans at the shriek of laughter that fills the room. 

“God - you drive me crazy,” Izuku groans, “You’re so cute, I can’t believe your nipples are so sensitive.”

“I c-can’t help it,” Katsuki whines, and his fingers are turning white with how hard he’s trying to keep his arms up. When Izuku drags his fingers back into the dip of Katsuki’s armpit though, the blonde can’t hold out any longer, and his arms dart down to grip Izuku’s wrists. The action simultaneously causes the vibrator to press harder onto his nipple, and Izuku bites his lip, drunk off of the moans and laughter coming out of his boyfriend’s mouth as he squirms helplessly against the bed. 

“Oh - nng - Izuku, Izuku, I’m - ahahah, g-gonna -!”

“You gonna come like this?” Izuku says in a low, deep voice as he grinds harder against Katsuki’s lap. His fingers are trapped now in Katsuki’s underarm, fingers fluttering sporadically as he circles the vibrator torturously over a nipple. This time, when he darts down to lick, bite, suck at the other nipple, Katsuki screams, gasping on a sob as broken laughter forces its way out. It’s so much, too much, but Izuku’s feeling mean, so he hums against sweat-damp skin as he flicks the vibrator to the highest setting, pressing it right over the sensitive bud. 

Katsuki’s covering his face now, embarrassed tears leaking out from under his trembling palms, and with one last roll of his hips, he’s coming, body going taut like a live wire as Izuku tickles and licks him through his orgasm. 

“Stop - st-stop,” Katsuki gasps, and Izuku tosses the vibrator to the side in order to bring both hands to Katsuki’s chest, teasing those cute nipples, grazing down his sides, pinching at his hips and trailing back up again to squeeze his pecks as he feels the blonde’s cock twitch and throb, his sweatpants growing damp through his release. Katsuki paws at him weakly, tiredly giggling and whining as the overstimulation short circuits his brain.

“Ahaha - ah, p-please,” Katsuki writhes, clutching at the front of Izuku’s shirt as the boy leans down, kissing and nipping up the side of his neck. Katsuki’s strained laughter is right in his ear now, and Izuku groans loudly as he brings a hand down to squeeze his own cock. 

“Just  - fuck, just a little more, Kacchan, you can take it, right?”

It’s less of a question and more of a demand. Izuku pants wetly into Katsuki’s neck, one hand rolling a nipple between his fingers as his other squeezes his own arousal, and finally, when Katsuki’s sobbing and babbling nonsense into his ear, Izuku finally comes with a loud groan, pressing his forehead to Katsuki’s temple as he rides out his orgasm. 

“Jesus - fuckin’ quit it,” Katsuki whines, finally batting away the hand that’s still teasing his oversensitive nipples. Izuku mumbles out a half-hearted apology and sits up, smoothing his palms firmly over Katsuki’s chest to soothe the blonde’s trembling nerves. After a few moments of catching their breath, Katsuki’s eyes flutter open, and he looks utterly debauched. 

“Holy crap,” Izuku mumbles, leaning down to kiss the blonde deeply, cupping his face in large hands and wiping his tear tracks away with his thumbs. He has so much content to add to his Kacchan folder now. 

“So much for a break,” Katsuki grumbles, shoving Izuku off of him and splaying his limbs out tiredly. “Now I need a goddamn nap, you fuckin’ menace.”

“Sorry?” Izuku offers, but they both know he’s not actually sorry at all. “I didn’t know your nipples were so - ” 

He’s cut off when Katsuki shoves a hand in his face, his cheeks glowing pink. “Shut up, oh my god.”

“Kacchan’s so cute,” Izuku coos, voice muffled beneath his boyfriend’s palm, “I wonder where else Kacchan is sensitive?”

Katsuki just groans loudly and shoves a pillow aggressively over his face to hide his blush. 

God, Izuku is going to be the death of him, he swears. 

[canarydarity]

(haha happy new year! Heres 6K words of DL ranchers fighting 🤩 [ao3]) dull&slow

There was no feeling like a respawn; it was like jumping off of a building with nothing below to catch you, only to discover you had in fact been fastened into a harness when the bungee cord snapped taut. Except, it also wasn’t like that at all, because the mechanics of respawning—regardless of permanence—did nothing to curb the feeling of death, the actual sensation of dying. All it really did was remove the relief that one might experience had death been final, for what is death but a merciful release from pain? 

Jimmy imagined that there were few things that could even begin to feel like what a respawn did—the simultaneous cracking of all your joints at once in a manner akin to a human glow stick; ice cream that had been left out on the counter to melt but was then shoved back into the freezer again after only making it to that indescribably viscous stage between solid and liquid; a jam in a paper shredder—the kind where half of the page is relieved and sticking out of the top, completely intact and fine, while the rest is in ribbons below, still warm to the touch at the recent dismemberment. 

And that was only the physical aspect—the violent draw of your subconscious from the brink of death to perfect health mid-panic was something else entirely. It never got any easier, no matter how many times he did it (and Jimmy did it a lot). 

This was their second respawn, but it was different in the way that it happened unlike it did the first time: together. It was new but not unexpected to shoot up in bed at the ranch, cows mooing to his left and moonlight peaking through the window to his right. Jimmy heaved some breaths in and out; logically, he knew he was fine, but his body remembered the vertigo of falling. 

Tango was next to him, still lying back in their small bed staring at the ceiling. 

For a few beats, they were quiet, they caught their breath. The buzz of the cicadas outside was heavy in a way, droning alongside the cacophony of cows and the muted clucks of chickens from below ground. 

When his eyes began to itch and dry out from staring at nothing and his heaving sounded more like huffing, Jimmy broke the silence first. 

“I was leanin’ over the edge…why was I leaning over the edge?” His words were incredulous and barely there, only formed enough to actually get them out of his mouth but not any further. Had Tango not been right next to him, he probably wouldn’t have heard. 

Tango sat up, “Jim, hey–hey!” One of Tango’s hands reached behind Jimmy and settled on his shoulder, the other moved across himself to settle on Jimmy’s arm. “It’s okay! It’s only our second life, it was bound to happen sooner or la—”

Jimmy blinked out of his daze to realize Tango was soothing him; It was not shocking in the way it hadn’t happened before—it had actually, in fact, happened quite often—but in the way it was happening now. the combination of noises pushing in all around the ranch, having just lived through dying, again, and Tango’s warmth that he would’ve appreciated any other time, made it all immediately too much. Tango was soothing him—Tango misunderstood. 

It was instinct to throw Tango’s arm off of him, to scatter, to stand and create distance, and had Jimmy been in the right state of mind he would’ve explained that and apologized, but Tango’s shocked offense was the last thing he was focusing on. 

“No, you—why was I leaning over the edge?” 

It was the only thought that had run through his head since he’d woken up and stopped feeling like an egg mid-scramble. Not worry about being on red life, not concern about having been the one to return the favor of killing Tango this time, not upset that things were shaping up like they always did. 

Tango wasn’t necessarily wrong to assume that that’s where Jimmy’s thoughts had gone, as that’s usually where they would have. But this was not Jimmy when he was anxious, when he was guilty; This was Jimmy when he was mad.

He was pacing, but he wasn’t aware when it had started. He was just—he couldn’t stop thinking about fish. Or—no, not fish, parasites; there was this parasite he’d heard about that matures in the eye of a fish but reproduces in the belly of a bird. Jimmy had heard this and thought what a stupid, impossible thing—and he’d thought he had shit luck.  

That was until he’d heard the rest. Under control of the parasite, infected fish swim closer and closer to the surface of the water, leading it to be spotted and picked up by a bird; the parasite ends up where it needed to be all along, and that damned stupid fish is what gets it there. It doesn’t know what it’s doing, it’s not choosing to swim near the surface—by that point, the parasite is choosing for it—but it’s still— 

It just—

The fish gets itself eaten, essentially. The scariest part, Jimmy thought, was that he wasn’t sure the fish even knew. Was it aware it had been infected? Or was it swimming up and up and up and thinking what the fuck am I doing? Was it resting precariously below the surface, watching in fear as the birds circle, knowing all it had to do to avoid being eaten was swim the fuck back down, but for some reason, it just couldn’t?

Jimmy just—why was he leaning over the edge? His hands were wrapped around his stomach, griping his sides, hard. His teeth were grinding together, or he was biting his lip, or he was mumbling nonsense that even he didn’t know what meant. 

The floorboards of the ranch creaked and groaned with his pacing, and Tango remained watching from the bed, his face still painted in confusion. 

A noise—something caught between a whine and a grumble—worked its way out of Jimmy's throat, and more words came with it.  

“I saw them with their bows and arrows out—Joel, Etho, Scott—and I—” He shook his head. “We’d have been fine if I just didn’t peak my head over!” 

Jimmy turned back to Tango and pointed at him; Tango blinked, but the accusation delivered wasn’t for him. “And they weren’t even shooting at Grian, at—why weren’t they shooting at anyone else?”

Tango shook his head a little, opened his mouth to reply, but Jimmy wasn’t done. “I don’t understand—I don’t—” he grabbed at his hair and pulled; he bit into his lip again, not stopping when it started to hurt even though he knew Tango must’ve felt the ghost of it too. Jimmy rocked in place, “I even thought it. I thought ‘what are you leaning over the edge for, idiot!’ And then!” 

Jimmy spun, but no form of movement could match the direction of his thoughts, the restlessness of his mind. He felt like he was malfunctioning, every action begun and then subsequently aborted in favor of another; as if he could stop it all if he could just get himself to feel physically how he felt mentally, equilibrium a sort of saving grace. 

Jimmy hit himself in the head once like he could knock things back into place, fix whatever was loose in there–get the paper to start shredding again; in pieces, maybe, things would be okay. There was a call behind him of stop that, hey, none of that! and the bed creaked as Tango finally made the move to stand. 

“I don’t understand,” Jimmy mumbled again. They were inside, but his hair still felt the wind ruffle through it as though he were at high altitude; his hands touched nothing, but he could grip the hardwood of the defense tower all the same, rough and splintering. Joel and Etho had stood so far below, looking up, each with a hand up to their eyes to shield them from the sun. Jimmy remembered every detail about that moment—Grian had been leaning over right next to him. “Stupid parasite and it—why weren’t they shooting at anyone else? All I had to do was not lean over…”

Jimmy startled when Tango spoke again, he’d forgotten for a moment he wasn’t alone. 

“I don’t follow—parasite? What pa—”

Right, he wasn’t alone. 

“Gosh, and I’ve killed you, too, we’re–we’re red!” Jimmy said, facing Tango again. “And we’re back to nothing, we’ve lost everything—the horns, they’d have taken them by now, surely.” The anger from before seeped back into his voice, and Tango kept his space; a part of Jimmy felt bad at that, but he mostly felt validated. The guilt would come later, his chest didn’t house the room to feel so many things at once. 

Though space didn’t mean Tango was willing to stay out of things completely. 

“Jimmy, just hold on, I can’t keep up.” Tango was clearly still thrown by the direction things had gone in—he’d been expecting to reassure, not pacify—but Jimmy didn’t have it in him to stop and explain. His hands out like he was corralling a feral animal, he said, “What are you even…? Slow down, alright.” 

And maybe that was the last straw—his soulmate, known for his rage, asking him to calm, to slow down; the stark contrast between the Tango standing in front of him—hands splayed, face confused but determined—and the Tango who’d needed to be restrained as the ranch smoldered behind them; the fact that it was Jimmy who was being looked at like a time bomb with not even 5 seconds left to spare. 

This time, the accusation was meant for Tango, and Jimmy watched him stumble a little in shock when he received it. He threw his hand out like he’d needed that extra strength to pull the question from him, like his throat wasn’t up for the challenge alone, like he had to prove this was something he wanted to start and start now.  

“Why aren’t you mad?”

Tango’s face wound up with disbelief. “What?” 

Jimmy’s voice wasn’t made to be raised, but he gave it his best effort. It hurt, in a way—his throat not used to the coarse delivery; it hurt more for the fact that he’d made Tango the object of its direction. 

“You’re sitting here, and you’re calm,” he spat. “And—and you’re telling ME to be calm! Me!” Jimmy huffed again at the ridiculousness of the entire situation. “Why aren’t you mad?”

This time as Jimmy spoke, Tango wound down; he visibly CTRL+ALT+DLT-ed, a total system shutdown reboot. His hands dropped back to his sides and he stood up straighter. His face reset until he was just blankly watching Jimmy sputter and steam. He was still in a way Tango rarely was.

Jimmy thought it was the most un-Tango-like thing he’d ever seen, and that just made things worse. 

“Because it was going to happen either way, I could’ve just as eas—” its delivery was flat, like Tango knew he was stepping off of a bear trap but onto a landmine; though he did it anyway, and in most circumstances, his dedication to the idea of if at first you don’t succeed! was something Jimmy found endearing. If it wasn’t clear enough already, this was not most circumstances. 

Jimmy made a noise of dissent. This wasn’t—

“No, not—that’s not what I meant.”

A few beats of silence. They argued with the awkward hesitation of two people who’d never fought before and therefore didn’t know the procedure; neither of them had had time to memorize their lines. Fight was something they didn’t do—partially because they hadn’t been together long enough to garner the need, and partially because they got along with a simplicity they hadn’t expected. There was a question in this lapse between one comment and the next, an are we really going to do this?  

Tango blinked at Jimmy. “You don’t mean why am I not mad at you?” 

It would’ve been an easy out if he had. A way to walk them back to familiar ground—the kind where Jimmy was apologetic and guilty and anxious and Tango was steady and reassuring and kind. 

He couldn’t lie and say that wasn’t part of it; he was a liability, and he would never be over Tango being his collateral damage. 

He looked away from Tango, “Well—”

“Jimmy…” Pity was such an ugly, regretful thing. 

“No! No—yes, that’s not what I mean.” And it really wasn’t—at least, not at first, not completely. That was the undertone that would drive all his decisions and thoughts and feelings, it’s true, but this was different. This was—they’d died, Jimmy killed them, and Tango wasn’t upset about it; moreover, Tango was docile, passive. He was—

“Then I don’t understand what you’re asking me.”

—resigned. 

Jimmy didn’t yet look back, because he knew it would be his turn to talk when he did. All that he had to explain lacked the rationale to be said aloud; simply put, he was mad because Tango wasn’t. 

“You’re gonna have to give me something to go off of here, Jim.”

Eyes still fixed resolutely on the wall, Jimmy repeated the only sentiment he really could express at the time. “You’re not mad…” He let the end trail off, embarrassed it was all he had to offer, knowing it was unfair to Tango, knowing a normal person would’ve been able to voice more; just another way Jimmy fell behind. 

“At?”

“At anything!” He was discovering that when he did yell, his voice got high, and he tended to cut off the ends of his words. They shortened, got sucked up into the emotion until they weren’t letters anymore but sounds. “You’re—I had to restrain you, practically, after Scar burned down the ranch! And I wasn’t there, but I heard about last life and I—”

He felt like his sentences were being recorded in takes; start and stop, start—stop, mark! He would sound so much better edited together. He needed a script, surely he’d be able to say the right words had someone else given them to him. He’d do it right then, he knew. Of course arguing, too, was something he wasn’t good at.

Jimmy gestured at Tango, “You’re not mad, at anything, you’re just standin’ here! We’re going to die and it’s like you don’t even…like you’re not upset.” The final clause came out dejected and unsure; it sounded like it belonged to a completely different conversation. If he were reading lines, he’d likely receive notes about consistency and remaining in character. It was hard to do that when he wasn’t sure who he was or was ever supposed to be.

Tango looked no less confused. “That’s how the game works, Jimmy—we’re all going to die at some point.”

“I know that, Tango, I know.” Jimmy bit his lip. “How are you just okay with it?”

Tango’s eyebrows raised in shock, the kind that spoke to his questioning the audacity of something. “Well, I’m not happy about it, bu—”

“You are, though.” 

Eyes narrow, frustration finally starting to seep in, Tango said: “No, I’m not.”

“You are!” This felt more tantrum than argument; more whining about not getting his way than making a point about having been wronged; he wasn’t really sure he had been wronged. At least, not by Tango. But he didn’t know how to rewind, he didn’t think there was a going back. 

“Damnit, Jimmy, I’m not. You think I want to lose this?” 

No, Jimmy didn’t—and that’s why he was so confused. 

“Then why aren’t you angry that’s what I don’t…” This line of questioning wasn’t going to work—he’d already discovered that again and again. He needed to figure out a different direction to head in. “Even now I’m yellin’ at you and you’re just there.”

“So now you’re mad because I’m not yelling at you?” Annoyance, frustration, irritation—they were close, but none of them were what Jimmy wanted. Or—not what he wanted but what he needed. People were mad at him far too often for him to crave it in this uncommon time when no one was, but he needed to know Tango was with him on this.

“No, Tango!” Jimmy whined.

“Well you’re not explaining anything, what am I supposed to think? That’s what it sounds like you’re saying to me!” His voice finally at an above-normal volume, Jimmy shrunk; reality wasn’t ever quite like expectation, was it? The simultaneous relief mixed with the guilt, and everything got worse; he thought maybe that’d been his goal all along, he could see it now that it had occurred. And yet, it wasn’t right; sure, Tango was mad—but he still didn’t get it. Tango kept rambling.

“You’re mad that I’m not mad, and you say it’s not about you, but then you’re also mad I’m not yelling at you—which I have yet to figure out, by the way, and—” 

Following Tango’s wild hand gestures, Jimmy’s eyes landed on their wall of chests, and he knew what he needed to do. He scooted past Tango, who turned to keep facing him, and started rooting around until he found what he was looking for. 

“Oh, and you’re ignoring me too, now, which is neat,” Tango said to his back.

He’d wrapped it in a bundle of spare wool hoping that bed made they wouldn’t need much else and Tango wouldn’t find it on accident, but he pulled it out now and turned back to face Tango gripping it in his hand.

His soulmate shut up immediately, his gaze first on Jimmy’s hand, and then up at his eyes. 

“Where did you get that.” The anger was finally there, but Jimmy didn’t immediately respond. “Why do you have that?”

The golden apple was cold in his hand, colder than he thought it should have been. It glowed slightly in the darkness of the ranch, a yellow hue that spread out in a dim radius; he had the bizarre thought that it would've made a good nightlight had it not been illegal. Jimmy had always been a bit scared of the dark (he’d been pleased, then, when the game had started and he found that his soulmate glowed just the same). He didn’t need the apple sitting on the lid of their chests to provide light—not so long as he had Tango; how ironic then that he only got both or none, that consuming—and therefore getting rid of—the apple would rid him of Tango, too. 

Jimmy didn’t want to be left alone in the dark, but that was sort of why he looked back at Tango and he said, “I think you should eat it.”

“No.” It was both a response and an expression of disbelief rolled into one; a no, this conversation is not happening, not now, and a no way in hell is that thing getting anywhere near my mouth. The stillness was back, but it was more dangerous this time; less resigned, more preparing to strike.

Jimmy repeated himself, lifting his arm and holding the apple between them as he did. “Tango, you should eat it.”

“No.” Tango shook his head. “Jimmy, I said no.” 

“Why not?”

“Why not?” A sardonic, humorless laugh made its way out of Tango, and Jimmy flinched at the sound; a broken echo of their usual selves. “This is a joke, right? There’s something here that I’m missing that makes this all super-happy-funny and we’ll laugh about it in 5 minutes.”

“I’m serious, Tango.”

His hands on his hips, Tango nodded at Jimmy as he said, “you are.” It was deceptively compliant, mockingly understanding. Jimmy was misled often enough in conversation to recognize when he was being set up, but he hadn’t quite yet learned the skill of letting things go; he walked again and again through a door labeled trap! which was how he knew he was doing it now. 

“Yes...” 

“Serious-serious, you’re seriously asking me why I don’t want to eat a golden apple.” Tango doubling down, Tango continuing to misunderstand, the fact that Jimmy couldn’t blame him for any of it, the feeling of everything at once, and the knowledge that all was out of his control; he felt his eyes well up with tears of frustration. 

“That’s what I just said...” Dejected, a clown waiting for the punchline—waiting for others to laugh at his expense; setting up joke after joke, forgetting what it was like to not provide the entertainment. 

“Well I just wanted to confirm before I informed you that that’s the stupidest question I’ve ever been asked in my entire life.” It was at this point that Jimmy let out a breath, and a tear fell with it. “Like, wow it’s almost an accomplishment how stupid that question is.”

“Tango…” He’d plead but he knew he didn’t have the right—not in this conversation of his own devising. It wouldn’t be a lie to say he didn’t know how they got here, but it wouldn’t be the truth either. 

“Really! I’d make you a ribbon to commemorate and everything if we had literally anything to our name at all.”

Catching the opportunity to jump back in, Jimmy took it. “Okay, that—that’s my point.” 

“That I haven't offered to make you a rib—” 

Jimmy cut Tango off again before he could stuff the conversation with more nonsense in defense. “That we have nothing—have had nothing since we started!” 

It was more than just luck—it was design. There came a point where chance ended, a place coincidence didn’t reach. Jimmy had dwelled long enough in the space between unlucky and doomed to know that one was cyclic, intermittent, while the other was ceaseless, fixed. Luck would come and go, but damnation? That kind of fate had been here since before all of them, and would remain long after. 

The subject was taboo, but there wasn’t a single person on this server who was unaware that Jimmy was ill-fated. They poked and prodded him about it, but any level of seriousness to the conversation was buried under veiled laughter and slightly glassy eyes; the kind of sheen to a stare that said even if they tried, they couldn’t know what it was they talked about. To everyone else, Jimmy’s “curse” was a bit they’d overindulged in; to Jimmy, it was a burden he wasn’t allowed to acknowledge. They didn’t let him. 

He’d thought maybe…Tango was being forced to share it; maybe something would click; maybe they’d let him have this for just a few weeks. 

Jimmy didn’t think he could get any more stupid. 

The sarcasm remained equipped, defenses high. “Well, I’m sorry that you think I’m not doing enough to provide for you, Jimmy, bu—”

Jimmy groaned again. “Tango can you be serious for 2 minutes! 2 minutes, please!” 

“No!” Tango was looking at him in a way he never did; a look that conveyed I cannot believe you, the underlying sentiment of dismissal that hurt more for it coming from the only person who’d ever really listened to him without reservation.“You know what, no, I cannot. If you’re going to start a ridiculous argument you’re going to get ridiculous responses—you don’t like it, too bad.”

Jimmy had been involved in a lot of ridiculous arguments before—it came with being a reactive person; he existed with defenses always already half-raised, on high alert for anything that might make him the center of negative attention. 

But this wasn’t one of them. The ranch, Tango, soulmates—they were easily the most valuable things he’d ever had—and that was why he couldn’t have them. He was going to lose it—he was already losing it; it never hurt so much when he was the only thing he had. “Gosh, dont you get it?! There’s nothing we can do—nothing! I’m gonna kill us, you understand?”

It felt good to say it out loud, to watch Tango blink in the face of such bluntness. Somehow his shock betrayed his lucidity, and proved to Jimmy what he’d feared all along: Tango felt it too. 

And that made him circle all the way back to the beginning of this stupid roundabout conversation. Maybe he didn’t know it in so many words, having less time to experience it than Jimmy did but Tango knew—their time was running out; running out in a way it didn’t for anyone else playing these games; running out in a way Jimmy had—until now—never before been allowed to acknowledge. Tango knew. 

And Tango wasn’t mad. 

“Ugh, this is—this is childish, is what it is! I don’t…I can’t believe this is happening. This is—it’s madness.” What did they bother going in circles for if they were just going to end up right where they’d started?

“You’re the one trying to force feed me a golden apple,” Tango grumbled, eyebrows raised and face mocking as he looked at the cows. A few of them were standing against the fence staring back, mooing insistently; a strange audience for a strange night. 

“Because I’m sick of it, Tango!” He was, once again, not the right recipient of this complaint, but what else was Jimmy to do? Seasons of grief built up in one desperate conversation, it was becoming more a list of grievances than a call to action. “Of all of it! Of the jokes, of losing, of—of not being in control of anything, of dying—and you—”

“Me?” Tango huffed, interrupting. “Wow, tell me how you really feel, Jim.”

Jimmy shook his head and looked down, a dismissal; his answer immediate and unhesitant. “No, that’s not what I—” 

Sick of Tango—it wasn’t possible, but he saw in his hands that he still clutched the golden apple, and he was reminded again of all the ways in which he was dangerous; of the ways in which he was the heavy rock tied around Tango’s ankle, sinking slowly despite all efforts. He closed his eyes, tight, hard enough to hurt, and swallowed the bile in his throat. “You know what, yeah. I am.”

He looked up again to look at Tango, forcing himself to look determined, sure. “Yes, I’m sick of you.”

“Jimmy…” There was a warning there, but following warnings was never Jimmy’s strong suit. 

“I am!” He didn’t think there was much of a chance Tango would believe him, but he loved Tango enough that he owed it to him to try. “I’m sick of you and how calm you’re being. We’re losing everything, again, always and you’re just standin’ around and I’m sick of it, Tango.” 

Tango refused to answer, and Jimmy knew to be any convincing at all, he had to commit. 

“I’m sick of this place,” he gestured around the ranch, rebuilt since the fire but still nowhere near as advanced as the other bases on the server; they could try and try and try but they’d never reach that level; they couldn’t be allowed to have an actual chance. “and—and how we built it from nothing and it still didn’t matter. We weren’t even doing that bad, and we’re still losing, and I’m sick of that, too!” 

Tango standing still, Tango with his hands on his hips, Tango refusing to rise to the bait in Jimmy’s words. “I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t believe me? Fine, I’ll just keep going then.” He shrugged, undeterred, glancing around as if he wasn’t bothered—and his eyes landed on the cows in the corner, still watching them as if simply their being awake meant they’d be getting fed. Jimmy raised the arm with the golden apple, using it to point at them. “These stupid cows mooing all the time—the chickens—might as well just kill ‘em all now, 'cause they’re not going to matter either, are they? I’m over this place, and—and everyone else treating us like a joke.”

He looked back at Tango when he’d finished. “And I know you’re sick of it too, you are.”

“I’m not.” This, finally, was familiar ground—Jimmy projecting, Tango reassuring—but for once, Jimmy wished his anxiety proven right, he wished Tango would give in and admit that this wasn’t what he wanted—that Jimmy wasn’t what he wanted; not if it meant the absence of a fair chance.  

“You are, you have to be.” And it was somewhat like begging. Jimmy’s never begged someone to be sick of him before—he was usually pleading for the opposite; how backward, how wrong, everything in him screaming what are you doing?! No one else had ever treated him like Tango did. 

He sniffed once—as he was still crying—and kept listing things; the sort of fears it would kill him if Tango validated, but he said them anyway. If there was any chance it’d get Tango to eat the apple and be safe. 

“You’re sick of having to cater to me, right? Of having to answer a million questions and reassure.” Tango began to shake his head, but Jimmy ignored it and kept going, stepping closer to his soulmate. 

“And I bet you’re sick of losing, too. You don’t want to lose, Tango, not again, right?” It was a low blow, but Tango didn’t look hurt so much as he looked sad; he accepted Jimmy’s meanness as a product of his fear, and he curbed his offense to make room for the heartbreak. 

Figures that Jimmy starts a needless argument insulting Tango endlessly and was still the most pitied in the room. He didn’t know if it was a product of his selfishness or Tango’s altruism, but the effect remained the same. 

Within arms reach at last, Tango raised a hand but stopped it midway between them, unsure if breaching this distance was yet allowed. When Jimmy didn’t do anything about it, Tango lowered his hand until it rested on the front-facing part of Jimmy’s shoulder, eyebrows furrowed, not trusting that this was over.

Jimmy mirrored Tango with his own hand, feeling the warmth of Tango’s vest and above-average temperature below—the heat that’d been keeping him warm at night when they couldn’t splurge on extra blankets or were sleeping in a half-burned-down building or just because. He only allowed himself to feel it for a second before he pushed—not hard, but enough to make Tango take a step back, more because he wasn’t expecting it than due to force. 

“Come on,” Jimmy pled. “Fight back. Get mad, hit me.”

“I’m not going to hit you, Jimmy.”

Jimmy stepped forward and pushed again, both hands; not harder but more firm. “Fight back, Tango, come on.”

“No.” Tango’s face was scrunched together in the most vehement disagreement he could give, and, out of options—out of energy—Jimmy made another noise somewhere between a whine and a groan and raised his hands again, only for Tango to catch them this time and drag Jimmy closer; dropping his hands the second he was within holding distance, one of Tagno’s arms wrapped around him and the other cradled the back of Jimmy’s head as he pulled it down towards his shoulder. Their height difference made it difficult at first, but they’d been practicing for weeks. 

Jimmy went without protest, arms at Tango’s waist, screwing his eyes shut tight enough that he could almost pretend he didn’t hear the I’ve got you’s that he didn’t deserve but Tango was nonetheless whispering to the side of his head. He wanted to protest—or, no, he wanted to want to protest; to keep trying until Tango understood, until Jimmy screwed up enough that Tango got fed up and left the way anyone else would’ve done weeks ago, possibly just upon finding out they were paired. 

“You’re okay—we’re okay,” Tango said. “I’ve got you. We’re going to be okay,” hand steady on the back of Jimmy’s head, holding fast when he tried to shake it and express his opposition. Jimmy didn’t think that ‘okay’ had a place here, not for them, not anymore. 

They were on their last life now, he could feel the effects of being red thrumming through him, though they weren’t as much to blame for the damage he’d caused as he wished; this disaster, like most, was entirely Jimmy’s own. 

Still murmuring and offering reassurance, fingers of one hand still scratching through Jimmy’s hair, Tango used his other to gently pry the golden apple from Jimmy—no longer putting up a fight—and toss it away without looking until it rolled on the wood flooring through the gate of the cow pen. Jimmy watched, head still on Tango’s shoulder, as the cows shuffled around for the lobbed apple, mooing increasingly louder until, after a crunch or two, it was assumed no longer there. 

He felt more so than heard Tango clear his throat, the motion vibrating through Jimmy like a warning. “I am mad,” Tango whispered, voice only half-formed at the low volume. “I am,” he repeated, “don’t think I’m not.” His tone the kind of calm that only gave way to true anger. “But what can we do?”

Jimmy closed his eyes. He didn’t know. 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~

They’re in bed after, facing each other in the dark; Tango watching Jimmy, Jimmy watching their clasped hands between them. Tango’s thumb ran along the ridges and valleys of his knuckles, waiting for something, though he didn’t know what. In his mind, Jimmy was running through all he had to offer—the things he should say, the things he couldn’t voice—but what he kept getting stuck on was:

“I didn’t mean it.”

“I know,” Tango said; not exasperated, not upset, just matter of fact. 

Jimmy raised his eyes to Tangos, shaking his head as much as he could while lying down, not willing to risk any more miscommunication, “I’m not sick of it here.” 

“I know, Jimmy.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Shhh,” Tango pulled their joined hands until Jimmy scooted forward, head under Tango’s chin, all not forgotten but, at the moment, behind them. They were on their red life, after all—there were other things to worry about. 

Jimmy knew that the fact that Tango loved him shouldn’t be one of them, but when it was more than he wanted to live, it was. There was nothing he could do about it now. They would wake up in bed tomorrow and, maybe if they were lucky, the day after that—but there wouldn't be another respawn. They were out of time, out of options—this was it. 

Tango loved him, Tango wasn’t going anywhere. He didn’t need to press his ear further into Tango’s chest to hear his heartbeat—not when it was an echo of his own—but he did it anyway and tried not to number the beats like a countdown, to assign them values and limitations. 

He squeezed Tango tighter, comfort disregarded; it was an offering where words had previously failed him, though there was no guarantee that his message would translate this way either. Physicality was another language Jimmy had never gained proficiency in—pretty much any method of communication verbal or non-verbal was—but he owed it to Tango to try. The trace of his fingers along Tango’s spine said I’m sorry, his breath on Tango’s chest whispered of how he’d spare Tango’s heart from his if he could; forehead to collarbone asked if things could still be normal tomorrow, since there was now a very real possibility that tomorrow was all they had. 

He didn’t bother interpreting the response, focus lost as Jimmy tried and failed not to drift away on the subliminal messaging of his own; that this was his loss, his failure, his fault. 

If he’d tried, maybe he’d have read the brush of Tango’s fingers through his hair as I don’t mind, the press of lips to the top of his head as reaffirming the deliberate choice being made—the decision to stay, to be a part of this. 

But he didn’t. Jimmy was stuck, and not at all like he had thought. Maybe he wasn’t the fish, maybe he was the parasite; the birds were circling and Jimmy could beg all he wanted, but Tango loved him. Tango wasn’t going to swim down. 

Tango wasn’t going anywhere.

[echoing--stars]

Malayna Malon and Golden Wolf Time watching over Wild, perhaps with a side of Lord Satori Legend

I couldn't fit Lord Satori Legend in there, but Golden Wolf!Time and Malanya!Malon was fun to write! Also, Pumpkin is the name of one of Wild's horses.

(If you read this and would like to request a short snippet, see this post!)

Link had noticed something following him since he’d left the Great Plateau. For the longest time, he hadn’t know what it was. He’d only caught glimpses out of the corner of his eyes, flashes of gold in his periphery vision. The scream of a monster dying before it could ambush him and a sense of warmth at his back on the coldest of nights sleeping on the forest floor. But by the time he reached where the monsters should have been, the only thing left was whatever rusted weapon it had carried and the usual loot. When he turned to look at what was pressed against his back, nothing was there. It wasn’t until he’d followed the rumors of the Horse God into the canyon that he’d finally caught sight of his steadfast companion. A golden wolf, larger than any he’d seen since he’d started this mission. Slightly fuzzy around the edges and still keeping far ahead of him. But Link got the feeling it was leading him along. Link knew he could trust the wolf. It had helped him along on his journey, after all.  When Malanya rose from the fountain, Link nearly fell over backwards. Their presence was different than that of the Great Fairies. Just as powerful, but Wild in a different way than even those spirits. He didn’t sense any malice from them, however, in spite of the initial threatening words. “My child, I can sense that you show your loyal steeds the respect they deserve. It seems you’ve learned well. May we meet again in happier times.” Link didn’t understand what they meant, but he could sense the warmth behind the god’s words. When he turned to leave, the golden wolf stayed behind, Malanya leaning down until their noses touched. It was an intimate gesture, one that made Link feel as if he was intruding. He didn’t turn back as he left. The wolf would find him again, and perhaps he would come back to visit the horse god. He was sure that Malanya would adore Pumpkin.

[randombrainworm]

Anyone up for some Priest thinking about his Fucked Up Boyfriend With Eldritch Brainmate short fic?

(yes this is oscar x arthur from malevolent)

[vitalis-crucifix]

UHHH IF YOU LIKE SUCCESSION MAYBE READ THIS FIC I WROTE ???? THANK U

[wormgremlin]

I've gotten three unnecessary, unwanted, and ultimately useless hateful comments on my fic in the first 24 hours since posting it. So a quick refresher for people out there:

First, foremost, and most concerning: If someone is in critical condition, unless you have medical training and supplies, HOSPITAL HOSPITAL HOSPITAL. That includes both urgent and emergent triage statuses (in this case, severe blood loss and abdominal wounds going into the abdominal cavity -- intestinal rupture is no joke! Nor is uroabdomen!).

Second of all, I'm sorry if you and your friends have never talked about or looked at each others boobs/chest. Genuinely. On the other hand, me and my friends make fun of each other constantly in good fun and are comfortable enough around each other to talk about our bodies. Your sexually repressed puritanical views have no place in my comments and no place in an irl queer space. Between the two of us, I am not the "weirdo."

Third of all (and whoo boy is this a long one), just because I represent a ship a certain way does not mean I condone their actions in a real life setting. Ffs, I like Hannigram. That means I definitely recommend committing malpractice, non-con drugging, and tubing your crush like a horse. Not To mention cannibalism and framing people for your own serial murders. I'm writing things based on my own experiences and perspective as a queer poc who grew up and got out of a conservative home and state. I'm writing as someone who lives paycheck to paycheck. I write as someone who still fights an internal monologue of shame and repression, of not being good enough, of bitterness and self-loathing making for a critical lens of others. I write as someone who affectionately calls my friends buffoons. As someone who has only ever used terms like "babe" as a derogatory. And I know that isn't for everyone. And I know my experiences aren't universal. But they do shape how I write. And I'm not asking you to like it. I am, however, asking you to consider how your actions affect others and click that back arrow before you say something unnecessary and rude.

Gonna be honest: the slew of asshole comments I've gotten have been more annoying in a "ooh comment oh that's disappointing, look an asshole" way than truly upsetting to me. But I thrive on spite. Not everyone does. For some people, the shit being said would be incredibly hurtful; for me, I thought worse while writing it.

And this bit didn't make the list, but deserves honorable mention: Just because you don't like the way I write something doesn't mean I hate the ship. Yeah. I spent hours of my life writing this and editing it and posting it because I hate it. Sorry, but I'm a full time grad student with a life, a job, and shit to do. I don't have time for ship phishing. I've written more than one fic for this ship, each portraying them a different way. Clearly because I hate the ship?

All of this of course to say:

If you don't like it, write your own, hon.

[foodforworm]

Fandom: All For The Game

I sank. all. the way. down. by foodforworms

one-shot, 2340 words

relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard

Characters: Andrew Minyard, Neil Josten, Betsy "Bee" Dobson

Additional Tags: canon complian, angst, emotional hurt/comfort, mild hurt/comfrt, description of dissociation, dissociation, mental health issues, therapy, this is kind of a bee and andrew therapy fic but not really, POV andrew minyard, one shot, weird amount of boat metaphors, idk just go with it ig

Summary:

The couch in Bee’s office was extremely uncomfortable, the clock was ticking just a smidge too loud, and every few minutes the air conditioner would choke, sputter, and die, before huffing out a loud puff five minutes later, and start all over again. 

Existing was exhausting. 

____________

A small Andrew stream of consciousness one shot with way too many boat metaphors

[imp-and-skizz]

Hello! I'm Worm, and this is a solo Imp and Skizz fanblog.

Anything from reblogged fics, to my own comic strips, if it's Impulse and/or Skizz, it'll end up right here.

Feel free to send requests in the ask box, too!

Directory

My art: #worm draws

Brainthings and storms: #worm considers

Reblogs: #worm reblogs

Writing (currently empty): #worm writes

[caspervi]

Date time ⭐️

[urlocalwormtoday]

Living contradiction, burden of burdens

Gillion radiates holy, golden light. He heals the wounded and sick, helps those who've gone astray, he is a literal savior. Born of moonlight and ocean water and salty foam, he is the opposite of himself, contrasting his own light.

He's loud and boisterous, yet quiet and kind. He rips and tears, yet mends and heals. He's holy and divine, yet chaotic and destructive. He's pure, yellow light, and dangerous, red lightning. Simultaneously, he's everything he wants to be and hates himself for being.

He somehow manages to balance divine and destructive and everything else, all at once, resisting the cracks and strain and refusing to fall under the weight of it. He is a living, walking, contradiction.

And he carries every burden so gently, as if it's an injured bird or newborn child, protecting it until he can pass it on or rid of it entirely, but refusing to let anyone else hold it. Keeping each one close to his chest.

And each one, every day, strains him a little more. The cracks grow a little wider, his facade just a little dimmer. And yet, as much as he wants to, he can't curse anyone else to this. He can't bear the dreadfully, infinitely heavier weight of the guilt, if he were to.

Secretly, he hopes he can. Secretly, he hopes he can allow himself, to maybe, just a little, let another set of hands hold up the boulder chained to his back. He wants to, but won't let himself. Both unwilling and willing in his participation, in his burden of burdens.

[wigglywormy]

blurred lines, sharp twine [bakugou/deku, 5.6k, nsfw]

okay. so I haven't written a fic in over 5 years!! can y'all believe that? i used to be so active on this blog, pumping out fics day and night, but life got busy and before I knew it over 5 years have passed omg.

of course my first fic back would be something like this lol. this was written for @wreckingtickles who shares my undying love for bakugou getting absolutely destroyed. they prompted me with a fic featuring bakugou's stirrup leggings and that kinda spiraled into this huge monster of a fic.

please enjoy 8) (also i made an ao3 to cross-post my tickle fics on!)

warnings: nsfw, feet, intense tickling, bondage, veryyyy slight dub-con, minors DNI.

Izuku wouldn’t openly call himself a weird guy, but he definitely doesn’t really try to hide the fact that he’s a little on the strange side. He knows he’s a gigantic nerd (he’s thoroughly reminded of that fact by Bakugou everyday), he knows he’s a little awkward, and he knows he’s maybe even a little bit of a freak. But, through the years of trauma, war, violence, and near-death, he’s come to accept that life is much too short to deny who you are.

Moving in with Bakugou after graduation was something Izuku didn’t even have to think about. Bakugou set up a few apartment viewings, and it went completely unsaid that the smartest decision for both of them would be to stick together. Roommates equaled cheaper rent, and since they both were working under the same agency it was easy to align their schedules. Normally they patrol together (the Wonder Due didn’t get its name for nothing), but occasionally - especially lately - Bakugou has been picking up more shifts than usual. 

Izuku can’t help but notice how tired Bakugou has been lately, especially tonight, coming home  from his 9th day in a row of patrol. The door closes softly behind him - he must think Izuku’s asleep already as it’s around two in the morning, and Izuku turns slightly from his position curled up on the couch to watch Bakugou toe his boots off. He’s already changed out of his hero uniform, clad in only his leggings and a soft, worn looking hoodie that Izuku’s pretty sure belongs to him. 

Bakugou leans his head against the wall in the foyer for a brief moment, sighing deeply, and Izuku’s heart aches at the noise.

“Late night?” Izuku asks, closing his book and setting it on the coffee table. 

Bakugou jumps. “Jesus - shit, you scared the fuck outta me.”

“Sorry,” Izuku murmurs, a slight smile on his face. 

“The fuck are you still doing up?” Bakugou grumbles, finally making his way over to sprawl on the opposite end of the couch, sinking into the cushions with a grunt. 

Izuku shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Which, technically isn’t a lie, but. Still. Even when he lays in his bed at night during one of Bakugou’s shifts that he’s not partnered on, he finds himself teetering between sleep and wakefulness as he listens carefully for the front door to open and shut, signaling Bakugou has gotten home safe for the night. Codependency wasn’t something Izuku was planning on adopting after the war, but his heart just can’t seem to relax if he doesn’t know that Bakugou is home and safe. Breathing. Alive.  

Normally it’s fine, but since Bakugou has been working himself to death the past few weeks, Izuku’s own sleep schedule has taken a toll. 

Bakugou doesn’t look bloodied or bruised now, though, which is a good sign. 

“I thought your shift ended at midnight?” Izuku asks, his eyes unconsciously skimming over Bakugou’s exhausted body as he slumps further down into the cushions. He folds his arms over his chest, burrowing into the oversized borrowed hoodie, and Izuku smiles because Bakugou is so loud and brash, but right now, here and safe at home, he allows himself to be soft with Izuku.

“It was supposed to,” Bakugou grumbles, rubbing a hand over his face. “One of the interns got caught up in a stupid bank robbery and ended up with a fuckin’ concussion, so I stayed late to help finish up some of his paperwork.”

“That’s sweet of you, Kacchan,” Izuku teases, and Bakugou rolls his eyes, stretching his legs out to rest in Izuku’s lap.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bakugou says, voice tense with exhaustion, “I’m a fuckin’ saint.”

Izuku let’s his hands fall onto Bakugou’s ankles, rubbing gently with his thumbs, and he swallows heavily as his eyes trail down Bakugou’s body, the black leggings hugging his muscles tightly, all the way down to the thin straps holding the stirrups along the arches of his feet.

Izuku wouldn’t openly call himself a weird guy, but shit, that’s another thing about moving in with Bakugou after graduation. Getting to see all of these new and exciting sides of him; tense and angry and bloody after a fight, soft and exhausted after a long boring shift, sleepy and comfortable on his day off. 

But the damn stirrup leggings have Izuku trying desperately hard not to act up. 

“Do you - uh, want a foot rub or something?” Izuku blurts out, his thumb pressing into the bone of Bakugou’s ankle.

Bakugou’s eyes narrow, and Izuku offers a small nervous smile, trying not to seem as if he’s too interested. He just wants to help his friend relax, okay? Nothing weird about that. It’s not like they haven’t massaged each other before after a long day of hero work. Bakugou’s great with his hands, and Izuku’s arms and shoulders get knotted up so tightly after hours of using his quirk. 

Bakugou still has smudges of dark eyeliner around his eyes since he hasn’t washed his face yet since patrol, and it makes his gaze piercing in the low light of the living room. He’s quiet for a moment, contemplative, before shrugging eventually and folding his arms across his chest.

“Fuck it, I ain’t gonna say no to a free foot massage,” He shrugs, “Lemme take these stupid fuckin’ leggings off first - ”

“No!” Izuku blurts out, and he chuckles awkwardly as his grip tightens on Bakugou’s ankles. “I mean - um. You don’t have to, it’s fine.”

This time, Bakugou looks… curious, which is the only way Izuku can describe his gaze. He bites his lip a bit as he thinks, and when he wiggles his toes a bit, Izuku feels warmth pooling low in his belly. Bakugou’s feet are surprisingly slender, his arch defined beautifully, ideal for someone who has to be quick on their feet. His toes are slightly pink, as are the soles of his feet, and they look soft from being in his boots all day. Izuku swallows thickly, but god, he just wants to touch. 

Is he into feet? Who knows, maybe, he honestly hasn’t thought too much about it until recently. Maybe he’s just into Bakugou’s feet? When Bakugou wiggles his toes again, Izuku finally glances up and catches his gaze. 

“Well? What’re you waitin’ for,” Bakugou says, his voice softer than it’s been all night. 

Izuku’s hands are large, tan, and calloused - a stark contrast against Bakugou’s pale skin, and at the fist press of his thumbs into the arch, Bakugou exhales quickly through his nose, body sinking further into the couch. 

It’s a little difficult to massage his feet with the strap from his stirrups hugging his arches, but at this moment in time Izuku would rather die than ask Bakugou to take them off. He moves over to just one foot, pressing both thumbs into the heel of his foot, and he slowly works his way up, calluses catching onto the legging strap as he moves upwards. 

“Did the bank robber get caught?” Izuku asks, hands firm but delicate, watching as Bakugou’s toes twitch when he digs in beneath them. 

“What?” Bakugou replies, blinking his eyes open where they’ve fallen shut. “The - oh, shit. Yeah. Sero was actually patrolling nearby so he got him while I took the dumbass intern to medical.”

“Don’t be so mean,” Izuku chuckles, “We were dumbass interns once, too.”

“Interns, yes. Dumbass? No,” Bakugou shoots back, but then he smirks. “Well, I wasn’t a dumbass. Can’t say the same about you, nerd.”

Izuku rolls his eyes, and he can’t help it when his touch softens, hooking a finger underneath the stirrup strap to graze his nail along the delicate arch. 

The reaction is instant - Bakugou inhales sharply and twitches, looking ready to pull his leg back, but Izuku holds onto the strap, preventing him from moving away. 

“Deku,” Bakugou growls, and to everyone else on this planet, the expression on his face would scream angry, sharp, intimidating. 

But Izuku’s known him since they were kids. Izuku can read him like a damn book, and right now underneath that glare, Bakugou looks nervous.

Izuku keeps his touch soft, one finger hooked into the stirrup strap, while his other hand grazes right beneath the blonde’s toes. His foot twitches again, his toes curling up tightly, and the only word that comes to Izuku’s mind is cute. His feet are cute, and apparently sensitive, and Izuku has no idea what monster has taken over his brain but all he wants to do right now is see Bakugou squirm. 

He might be dipping into dangerous territory, but ever since they moved in together, Bakugou’s been much more open to physical touch. It almost feels like a game they’ve been playing, dancing around each other but never going to a place they can’t return from. They’ve fallen asleep cuddling on the couch. They’ve spent quiet days off with Izuku’s head in Bakugou’s lap, the blonde idly playing with his hair while they watch old reruns of All Might movies together. They’ve even spent a few nights together in bed, holding each other close when the nightmares creep up every few weeks. 

But this? This might be a place they can’t return from. Izuku’s not sure what Bakugou’s feeling right now, but the lines are so incredibly blurred in this moment, and Bakugou’s cheeks are steadily turning pink, and Izuku knows he could pull away if he really, really tried. 

But he’s not. He’s staying put, fingers clenched into the cushions of the couch, eyeing Izuku warily. 

“You know,” Izuku says idly, moving one hand to grip Bakugou’s ankle, the other hand trailing his fingers up and down, up and down, so soft it’s barely there. “You used to be so mean when we were kids, holding me down and tickling me until I cried.”

At the word - tickling - Bakugou audibly swallows. “Not my fault you were so damn ticklish, idiot.” 

“I could never really get you back because you were so much stronger than me,” Izuku muses. 

“It wouldn’t have mattered anyways, I’m not fuckin’ ticklish,” Bakugou replies. His voice sounds sure and steady, but his eyes keep flickering down to where Izuku is still stroking up and down his sole. He’s tense, and Izuku can feel it - Bakugou’s trying so hard not to move, not to give himself away. 

Izuku laughs quietly to himself. Of course Bakugou would see this as a challenge to himself. 

“Of course you’re not ticklish, Kacchan,” Izuku says, “Maybe if you keep telling yourself that, it might actually come true.”

“It is true, you little shit - ah!”

He squeaks, his breath hitching, when Izuku flutters his fingers under his toes again. His other leg, the one Izuku isn’t holding by the ankle, jerks back, and Izuku thinks no, we can’t have that now, before tendrils of black whip shoot out, pulling his other leg back and twisting around the ankle. 

“Okay, now that’s completely fuckin’ unfair,” Bakugou grunts, trying to sound unaffected, but this time Izuku can hear the shake in his voice. “The hell are you tryin’ do here, Deku?”

“Nothing,” Izuku says, a few more tendrils of black whip emerging to wrap around his other ankle so both of Izuku’s hands are free now. 

“You call this nothing?” Bakugou tugs at his feet a bit, and black whip tightens to keep him in place. 

Izuku ignores him. “I thought you weren’t ticklish?”

Bakugou frowns. “I’m not.”

“Then this is nothing,” Izuku teases, finally wiggling his fingers in earnest over both of Bakugou’s feet, now bound in his lap for him to do with as he pleases. The thought has his stomach flipping, molten lava settling low in his gut, and he can’t help his dick twitching in interest. 

Bakugou’s reaction is beautiful, finally a small huff of laughter escaping him as he wiggles his feet as much as he can with black whip holding his ankles down. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and they keep alternating from clutching at the cushion beneath him to hovering in the air as if he’s fighting his instinct of reaching down and showing Izuku away. His eyes are averting, as if the thought of watching Izuku tickle him is too much, and oh, he’s so cute. 

Izuku’s feeling a little nice at the moment, but Bakugou’s fighting his laughter, and Izuku wants to hear him, so he moves his fingers up, scratching underneath his toes. Bakugou does laugh this time, covering his mouth with one hand in surprise as the sound escapes him. His toes curl, trying to block Izuku’s fingers, and a few more tendrils of black whip slither out and wrap around each of his toes, effectively prying them back so Izuku’s fingers can burrow into the soft, sensitive flesh there. 

“Wait - no, Deku - ah, ahah.” His laughter is light and staccato, little gasps in between his growls as he covers his mouth with both hands now, muffling himself as his eyes squint in mirth. Once again, he could get Izuku to stop if he really wanted to, but besides the tugging and squirming of his bound feet, he’s not doing much else to get away.

That thought intrigues Izuku, and his confidence grows as he scratches in between his toes, pulled back and vulnerable thanks to black whip. 

“I always thought your feet might be sensitive, you know, with how much you sweat and stuff,” Izuku muses, gears turning in his head as he makes mental notes on where Bakugou seems to react the most to. Underneath his toes seems much more ticklish than between them, but the arch of his sole seems equally as sensitive, especially when he pulls back one of the stirrup straps and rakes all five fingers up and down. 

Bakugou gasps. “Y-you’re a d-dick,” he growls, but the words melt into laughter as Izuku does the same thing to his other foot before letting the strap go with a snap. 

He gives Bakugou a moment to breathe, and the blonde finally lowers his hands from his mouth. His face is extremely flushed now, and he’s looking at Izuku with a mix of murderous intent and… want?

“Still not ticklish?” Izuku murmurs, rubbing his palms over Bakugou’s soles. The blonde twitches again, tensing, before relaxing when Izuku just rubs firmly, soothing. 

“Once again - you’re a dick,” he grumbles. 

“And you’re ticklish,” Izuku teases back, scratching his nails up the sides of Bakugou’s feet this time before making their way back to the soft, pink skin right beneath his toes. 

“Don’t - Deku, st-stop! It f-fuckin’ - ” 

“It what?” Izuku’s feeling mean now, and having Bakugou squirming because of him has his dick hardening more in his sweats. “It tickles?”

“I - I c-can’t - ahahaha!” 

“You’re so strong, you can take it, can’t you?” And oh, Izuku’s playing dirty, because there’s nothing Bakugou hates than being told he can’t do something, and if he admits he can’t take the tickling, it’d be the same as admitting defeat, and Bakugou Katsuki is not someone who’s ever been defeated. 

Although, Izuku thinks, watching as Bakugou covers his mouth again and squeezes his eyes shut, tickling might just be the key to finally defeating this man. 

Izuku doesn’t like how muffled he sounds, though, so he uses more of black whip to sneakily slide up and twist around Bakugou’s wrists, tugging them away from his face. A few tendrils slip up his arms and slide underneath the sleeves of his hoodie, and Bakugou’s expression turns to panic. 

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” He hisses, but his lips are still twitching on a smile which ruins the intimidation of it. “This is an awful fuckin’ use of your quirk - ”

“So was last week, with yours,” Izuku interrupts, “when you were too lazy to microwave the popcorn and tried to just explode it instead.” Izuku laughs, remembering how long it took them to fish out all of the popcorn kernels from every single crevice in the living room. 

“At least that was for a good reason!” Bakugou protests, squirming when the tendrils of black whip slip higher into his sleeves, nearly grazing his underarms now. His breathing is short, body tensed and mouth turned down in a pout. 

“You’re saying this isn’t a good reason?”

“What, so fuckin’ torturing me is a good reason to abuse your quirk?”

“It’s torture?” Izuku murmurs. “I thought you weren’t ticklish.”

If Bakugou’s face could get any pinker, it would, and he bites his lip hard when Izuku wiggles black whip into the hollows of his underarms, keeping it light and feathery. Bakugou can’t hold out for long, though, and soon he’s gasping on a laugh and wriggling as much as he can in the hold Izuku has him in. 

This time though, Izuku fails to notice Bakugou’s feet squirming aggressively, and Izuku freezes and gasps when the blonde’s bound feet nudge against the very obvious hard-on in his sweats. 

Izuku swallows, his hands darting down to grab a hold of Bakugou’s feet. His toes are still tied back with black whip, and Izuku resists the urge to brush his fingers along the skin because something is unraveling inside of him and having Bakugou like this is quickly becoming addicting. Instead, he ducks his head, words escaping him as he opens his mouth but not coming up with anything to say. 

A few seconds pass, Izuku preparing himself mentally for an explosion to blast him away or for disgusted yelling and screaming to occur. He’s already mentally drafting the text to Todoroki to ask if he can move in with him when Bakugou inevitably kicks him out once he’s freed.

A beat passes. One. Two. The silence is deafening, and Izuku finally manages to raise his eyes up to glance at Bakugou, surprised at the curious expression painted there. Bakugou nudges his heels gently against Izuku’s dick again, and Izuku hisses and bites his lip, apologies already spilling from his mouth, 

“I’m s-sorry, shit, um - ”

“I should’ve fuckin’ known you’d be into something weird like this,” Bakugou says lowly, tilting his head a bit, almost like a cat analyzing it’s prey. “You’re a little freak, ain’t ya?”

The words should be harsh and piercing, but Bakugou sounds like he’s…. teasing him. And not in the mean, bullying way that Izuku was expecting. Their eyes meet, and Izuku sees a small hint of a smirk when Bakugou presses his heels in harder, wiggling against Izuku’s clothed cock as much as he can in his restraints. 

“Kacchan - ah,” Izuku sighs, cheeks burning. “What’re you - ”

“What is it you like about it, huh?” Bakugou asks, his voice low. 

Izuku’s head feels like it’s going to explode. “I don’t… I don’t know? I didn’t even - I mean… I like….”

Bakugou raises an eyebrow. His arms are still held tightly with black whip, the tendrils under his arms twitch when Izuku stutters, making Bakugou squeak quietly and jerk in his hold. That has Izuku’s eyes darkening again, and Bakugou still hasn’t blasted him away. If anything he’s egging him on, and Izuku’s mind races with what this might mean. 

“I like… you,” Izuku starts off slowly. 

“Me?” Bakugou questions, and if Izuku isn’t mistaken, there’s a twinge of something akin to hope in his voice. 

“Yeah, you,” Izuku breathes, all rational thoughts thrown to the wayside now. “But I also like… having you, like this,” Izuku plays with the stirrup straps on Bakugou’s soles, fiddling with the fabric, breathing hard when Bakugou squirms each time his fingers graze the skin. “I like feeling you squirm. Hearing you laugh. Having you all… y’know, vulnerable for me?”

As he speaks, a few more tendrils of black whip slip under the front hem of Bakugou’s hoodie, slithering up and tapping away at his ribs. That has Bakugou giggling again, and god, Izuku loves his laugh. This is different from his normal laugh, it’s softer and hiccupy and the sound sends white-hot heat straight to his dick. Shit, could he come from this? Just from having Bakugou squirming and laughing and bound up like a perfect little present?

“Jesus - Izuku,” Bakugou laughs, rubbing his thighs together, and Izuku’s eyes widen when he sees a bulge in his leggings, now visible from where his hoodie has ridden up. 

Izuku’s brain short-circuits then, and he’s now laser focused on the other boy, fingers moving almost mindlessly as they go back to scratching beneath sensitive toes. Izuku keeps his eyes on Bakugou’s face, his expressions, every twitch of his brow, and the blonde chokes on a laugh and ducks his head, trying to hide his face since Izuku has his arms pulled aside. 

“What do you like about it?” Izuku asks, growing bolder the more Bakugou squirms. 

“Fuck, oh my g-god, I d-dont - !”

Izuku moves finally, and though he keeps Bakugou bound with his quirk, he crawls up until he’s seated, straddling Bakugou’s thighs where they’re squeezed together, and now Izuku’s just a nudge away from Bakugou’s own obvious arousal. 

“You don’t like it?” Izuku says, and this time, he withdraws black whip from underneath Bakugou’s hoodie, instead sliding his own hands beneath the fabric to touch bare skin. His hands are warm and large, fingers curling gently over Bakugou’s deliciously tapered waist, and though he doesn’t do anything yet, Bakugou’s shifting and squirming beneath him already. 

Bakugou’s eyes meet Izuku’s finally, and when Izuku flicks his gaze down to Bakugou’s cock, hard as a rock in his leggings, Bakugou groans and ducks his head again. 

“It’s not - I don’t know!” Bakugou breathes out, frustration clear in his voice. “You’re just - fuck, it’s weird.”

“It’s not that weird, Kacchan,” Izuku murmurs, and Bakugou tugs helplessly at his arms again. Izuku hums, pulling his arms with black whip until his wrists are crossed, and then slowly - absolutely mean - he lifts Bakugou’s arms up and back until his elbows are bent, bound hands pulled behind his head and forcing Bakugou to lean back more into the arm of the couch. Izuku slides further up, straddling Bakugou’s thighs until their clothed cocks finally brush, and Bakugou breathes out a shaky noise. 

“It’s okay,” Izuku breathes. 

“Let me go,” Bakugou grumbles, but his eyes are averted, blush high on his cheeks, teeth gnawing at his lower lip nervously. And wow, having Bakugou nervous, beneath him where Izuku can feel the heat radiating off of his body, has Izuku grinding forward, rubbing their dicks together firmly. 

Bakugou instinctively tries to buck his hips up, but with the way he’s bound up, he can’t get too much leverage. Once again, he’s still not blasting Izuku off into the sun with his own quirk, so Izuku drums his fingers against Bakugou’s bare sides, drawing little circles with his thumbs right beneath his ribs. 

“Ah - ” Bakugou hiccups on another strained giggle, and Izuku grins at him sharply. 

“What do you like about it?” Izuku repeats, tickling oh-so-gently, because now that he has his hands touching him, he can’t stop. He can feel every hitch of breath, can feel his body tremble with restrained laughter, and there’s definitely no going back from here. 

When Bakugou doesn’t respond, Izuku creeps his hands higher, towards the upper part of his ribs. His hoodie is bunched up completely now, and although Izuku would love to remove the damn piece of clothing, he’s scared if he lets Bakugou go now, this electric bubble they’re both in will pop and Izuku will have missed his chance completely. 

He grinds against Bakugou again, while at the same time finally digging into his ribs, and the explosive laughter that Bakugou lets out has Izuku groaning out loud. 

“Okay - okahahay! Fuck!” Bakugou yelps, taking a breath when Izuku’s fingers finally pause. “I - fuck, I don’t know. I like… how it feels, not being… not being able to move or some shit, I guess.”

Bakugou looks like he’d rather die than tell Izuku all of this, but Izuku’s already gotten this far, and there’s nothing that would ever make him stop now. The blurred line is now vanished completely, and Izuku murmurs quietly,

“You like being tied up, Kacchan?”

Bakugou frowns, glaring at him, but doesn’t respond. 

Izuku continues, smirking. “You like being tied up by me?”

Bakugou squirms a bit, staying defiantly silent. 

“You like being tickled like this? Helpless, vulnerable, letting me do whatever I want to you while you can’t do anything to stop it?” Izuku has no idea where this filthy mouth of his came from, but he takes this newfound confidence and harnesses it, slipping a hand down to cup Bakugou through his leggings and squeeze. 

“Nn - fuck,” Bakugou pants. “No, you asshole, I don’t like being tickled - ”

“I disagree,” Izuku says, and this time when he pinches at Bakugou’s ribs, he can feel Bakugou’s cock jump beneath his hand as the blonde gasps out a laugh. “I actually think you really like it.”

“Just - when it’s you,” Bakugou finally gasps out, giggling softly as Izuku crawls his hand higher. His words give Izuku pause, Izuku’s heart beating rapidly in his chest because oh. Okay. Just when it’s him? Because it’s him?

Oh.

“Kacchan,” Izuku breathes, a magnetic pull tugging at his chest until he’s ducking down and kissing the laughter right out of Bakugou’s mouth. The blonde moans, tilting his head to the side to kiss him deeper, and Izuku happily licks into his mouth, chasing the feeling of god, fuck, finally. 

Bakugou jerks his head to the side though when Izuku’s hand creeps higher, fluttering dangerous fingers into his underarm, and he yelps on a laugh, squirming and bucking up into Izuku’s other hand still kneading at his dick. 

“Oh my god,” Bakugou giggles, shaking his head back and forth, and Izuku takes a moment to duck lower and kiss his neck, licking up beneath his jaw, biting gently right under his ear. That has Bakugou squeaking again, and Izuku moans as he feels the blonde tremble against him. 

“God, you’re so cute,” Izuku moans in disbelief. “How can you be so hot and cute at the same time?”

“Y-you should be - ah, ahaha - asking yourself th-that - fuck, Izuku, I cahahan’t!”

Izuku stops tickling him for a moment and grins. “You think I’m hot and cute?”

“Not right now, while you’re ti - ,” Bakugou cuts himself off with an embarrassed grunt, not even able to say the actual word, and Izuku takes note of that happily, “Also, fuck you, I’m not cute.”

Izuku doesn’t respond right away, instead opting for shoving Bakugou’s leggings down so they’re bunched around his thighs, freeing his dick, before settling back up where he was seated before. He pulls his own cock out of his sweats, and when he wraps a large, calloused hand around them both and strokes, squeezing perfectly tight, Bakugou throws his head back and moans. 

Tendrils of black whip slide down his legs where his feet are still tightly held in place, and as they flutter and scratch beneath his toes more intensely this time, Bakugou actually lets out a small sob, his eyes tearing up as he simultaneously tries to tug at his legs while also squirming up into Izuku’s hand on their cocks. 

“You’re feet are so sensitive,” Izuku muses, his pupils so dark his eyes look black, and although Bakugou can’t really kiss him back while he’s laughing, that doesn’t stop Izuku from swallowing up every little noise he makes, lips spit-slick and panting against Bakugou’s mouth. 

“Izu - Izuku, plehehease - ah, fuck, fuck,” He sounds like something straight out of one of Izuku’s wet dreams, and Izuku leans back again to stare at his face. Bakugou’s eyes are screwed up now, tears leaking out from the corners, and Izuku coos at him. 

“Baby,” he says sweetly, “Is it too much?”

“Y-yes, I can’t - Izuku please.”

“I think you’re stronger than that. It’s just tickling,” Izuku teases. Bakugou’s cock is leaking, and it’s making the slide of Izuku’s hand on them both so, so good. Izuku brings out some more tendrils of black whip, sliding them right back underneath Bakugou’s hoodie to return to the warmth of his underarms, and Bakugou screams. 

“It’s so - ahhaha, it’s t-too much,” Bakugou whines, his breathless giggling mixed with moans that sound as if they’re being punched out of him, and his body is strung tight, so tight Izuku can feel how close he is to breaking. 

There’s something so incredibly sweet about taking Bakugou completely apart like this. Izuku pants and grinds into his own hand, squeezing and rubbing the head of his cock against the blonde’s, and while black whip continues tormenting Bakugou’s poor feet and underarms, Izuku’s own free hand comes up to grip Bakugou by the chin, forcing him to look at him, eyes blurry through his tears. 

“Tell me how it feels,” he whispers, his lips just a breath away from Bakugou’s, feeling the warm desperate noises coming out of the boy’s mouth. 

Izuku swipes his thumb over the head of Bakugou’s cock, his own arousal forgotten as he slips down to squeeze at the base tightly, preventing the blonde from actually coming. Bakugou makes a guttural, desperate noise, and Izuku’s grip tightens on his face, keeping him there, watching him. 

Izuku’s quirk is nearly everywhere by now, black whip slithering beneath the leggings to stroke behind his knees, a few more tendrils brushing and tickling at his neck, and even more settled beneath his hoodie, prodding and digging and relentless. The fight has completely left Bakugou finally, and he’s slumped against the arm of the couch, body shaking and fighting the plethora of sensations that are overwhelming him. 

“Hey,” Izuku laughs a bit, “Baby, c’mon. Tell me how it feels.”

It almost feels evil, watching as Bakugou tries to speak, to come with something, anything to get Izuku to - what, to stop tickling him? To keep tickling him? To stroke his dick again until he comes all over himself? Bakugou’s brain is mush, and Izuku revels in the desperation painted on the boy’s blushing face. 

“It - fuck, it f-feels like torture,” Bakugou manages to gasp out, but he bucks his hip up when he feels black whip dig into the ticklish dip of his hip. 

“You like being tortured, it seems,” Izuku points out as Bakugou’s cock leaks another bead of precome, so red and hard it’s nearly purple. 

“No - ” Bakugou hiccups on his laughter, eyes widening when Izuku raises a brow,, “I mean - fine, shihihit - yes, yes, I like it, god fucking d-damnit Izuku!”

“Shh,” Izuku soothes, but he doesn’t release his hold at the base of Bakugou’s cock. 

“Please,” Bakugou whines, and Izuku nearly comes when he realizes he has Bakugou exactly where he wants him. 

“Please what?” Izuku releases Bakugou’s chin and his hand slips under the hoodie, pinching right at Bakugou’s top rib, a place Izuku’s learned makes him absolutely lose it. 

“Pl-please let me - ah, ahaha fuhuhuck - please let me c-come!” Bakugou’s crying in earnest now, ducking his head down to press his forehead against the crook of Izuku’s neck, and Izuku’s heart leaps when the blonde bites down on Izuku’s shirt, trying to muffle his noises in the fabric. 

It’s adorable, and Izuku sighs happily. “Of course, Kacchan.”

He grabs ahold of both of their cocks again, this time stroking in earnest, fast and quick. It doesn’t take more than a few pumps of his hand before Bakugou is crying out against Izuku’s neck, writhing beneath him as he comes, and Izuku keeps tickling him through it. The sensation is electric, Bakugou’s body fighting to distinguish between pleasure and torment, and Izuku groans loudly as he uses Bakugou’s come to stroke his own cock. 

“St-stop,” Bakugou giggles, completely breathless, “Too - too f-fucking much - please - ”

Izuku ducks back down to kiss the sweet helpless laughter right out of his mouth, finally coming, his own come mixing with Bakugou’s between them. Izuku heaves a deep breath, slumping against Bakugou as black whip finally retracts, disappearing back into his body and releasing the blonde from their clutches. 

It’s quiet for a moment, Bakugou’s arms having fallen limp at his sides, head still buried in Izuku’s neck as he catches his breath. When he shifts, flexing his legs a little, Izuku leans back, sitting up and brushing Bakugou’s hair back from his sweaty forehead. 

“Holy fuck,” Bakugou manages, blinking leftover tears from his eyes. “You’re fuckin’ evil, you know that?”

Izuku giggles nervously, still riding the high of whatever the hell just happened between them. Bakugou finally lifts his arms, wrapping them around Izuku’s waist loosely, and Izuku’s heart flutters when Bakugou leans up to press a kiss to the corner of Izuku’s mouth. 

“You liked it,” Izuku says, turning to kiss him properly, now able to happily lick into the warmth without Bakugou’s laughter hindering him. 

“Fuck off,” Bakugou murmurs into his mouth. “So what if I did, huh?”

Izuku just hums, because that blurred line being gone means that now he can kiss Bakugou whenever he wants, and that thought has him grinning widely and winding his arms around Bakugou’s neck. 

“Ew, no, don’t get your nasty jizz-hands in my hair!” Bakugou protests, and Izuku laughs out loud, pulling his arms back quickly. 

“Shit - sorry, sorry! We should probably get cleaned up, huh? Your hoodie is covered in come.”

“Good thing it’s not my hoodie, then,” Bakugou smirks. His cheeks are still flushed, and Izuku rolls his eyes as he takes his come-covered hand and smacks it right into Bakugou’s cheek before darting off of him and running away like his life depends on it. 

Bakugou shrieks and scrambles to chase after him, and Izuku’s laughter echoes happily through their apartment.

[canarydarity]

(Thought a little bit too hard about Romeo and Juliet ranchers...)

Keeping his head low and his tread light, Tango ducks from tree to tree under the cover of dark from the canopy, protecting him from the spotlight of the moon and therefore his discovery. Behind his back, leftover laughter from Skizz and Etho drifts further away; the volume of Skizz’s last protests, however, remains annoyingly the same as it continues to plague his mind, as does the memory of Etho’s agreement that Tango was—for lack of a better word—fucked. 

Louder than all of that, though, more insistent, more pressing, was the ghost of Jimmy’s lips against his. The sole force of it drove him on, his heart tripping in anticipation when around the trunk of a tree he’d glimpse the stone of the house of Solidarity, or through a break in the leaves he’d catch a glimpse of light from a brazier. 

Voices draw near just as the treeline breaks at last, and Tango ducks behind the nearest trunk as two servants meander by, following a worn path toward the back of the manor; his courage returns to him as they fade, and as if pulled by some rope falling taught or some string being coiled, Tango draws as close as he dares to the base of the stone without giving up the shade of the last tree. He kneels.

Now that he’s here, he must admit, his mind draws blank of any possible plan for continuing on. It’s not like he can wander the house of Solidarity unattended, making it clear in every way that he did not belong, and, on top of that, with one of Verona’s most recognizably unwanted faces. 

Idiot, Skizz had called him; blinded, his friend had laughed. Always the most cautious of them, Etho had recalled that even a masquerade hadn’t been enough to conceal his presence from Grian. 

And Tango hadn’t really until now heard a word. 

Movement in the far window, the unmistakable shifting of the curtains, drawn by an imaginary force—the manmade wind of someone passing through. After a moment, a more permanent form takes shape, and Tango finds himself wondering how he could have stayed still for so long, how the sun could possibly have risen while he had been unaware. 

But it of course is not the sun. He blinks and darkness is restored around him as his eyes adjust to the sight. 

Jimmy, framed in beiges and creams and white—the masonry, the curtains, his blouse—fair as any portrait, as any bolt of silk, as any fine jewel. The slightly damp flop of his hair, the color like spun gold; the curve of his shoulder, the tan glow of skin shimmering beneath the cotton—he’s breathtaking, breath-robbing, even at such distance away, and Tango wobbles enough in his stance that he places a hand on the ground for stability. 

How clear it is that this is a setting in which he doesn’t belong; how envious must be the moon for how dull it shines in comparison. Its colors—silver, the cool tones it usually accompanies—they were despicable in their wrongness. Tango thinks he’d be suited more enveloped by heat; in open fields of flowers, stranded in miles of wild wheat and tall grass, in places without trees, without shade, without reprieve. 

The masquerade, Tango thinks, was not to foster intrigue amongst the guests, but to shield them from such raw beauty, to protect them from its temptation. 

Jimmy’s chest bellows with what Tango imagines a sigh, and he continues on, momentarily disappearing from Tango’s view only to appear again in the following window, and then the one after. Tango follows, and they walk together along the length of the manor, albeit separated by its walls.

Bound, tethered, Tango’s heart tugs him along. 

A corner is turned, and instead of a further row of windows through which to watch, Tango finds a balcony jutting out of the stonework, grand and open to the air. He swallows as Jimmy steps out onto it; stares, enraptured, as Jimmy wanders over to the railing, balances his elbows on top of it, and then drops his head into his hands. 

Through the stillness of the moment comes an unmistakable and truly inspired groan, and Tango startles and glances around expecting to be caught by a rather resentful servant before realization alerts him to its source. 

Jimmy drops his hands and sighs again, and this time Tango can hear the puff of his breath as he exhales.

“Stupid,” he mutters, “so incredibly stupid. Why did I…” He shakes his head and decides better than finishing the thought, squeezing his eyes shut tightly as if he can will the arrival of more to a complete halt with just enough concentration.

Tango is familiar with this method, and, he’s gotta say, it is not as successful as he’d like it to be. 

Jimmy’s lips move again, but too little sound comes out for any of it to be heard, and Tango finds himself wandering closer before he can arrive at any of the reasons why he absolutely should not—too distracted by the thought of those lips touching his mere hours before. 

Just as he’s braving closer ground, Jimmy’s voice rises to exclaim “Tango!” and Tango’s foot finds false purchase over a well-placed root and he slips, catching himself on the cool dewy grass. His head raises slowly, ready to be forever expelled from the grounds—or more likely stuffed and made to decorate Grian’s quarters—but Jimmy’s gaze remains safely away, off into the distance beyond. “Why did it have to be Tango?”

Tango does not dare move. 

Jimmy grabs the balcony railing with both hands and leans back, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath through his nose. When he opens them, he draws himself back in and lets his arms go slack. His brow furrows in thought, his nose forming a little scrunch by the action, like his tutor’s just posed him a particularly troubling set. “But…it’s not Tango that’s the problem, is it? It’s just his name…Tek.” 

Should he be listening to this? Tango doesn’t bother thinking about it, he already knows the answer; not that that stops him, or compels him to turn around and proceed the way he came—for how could he when he’s hearing the echo of his own musings? An utterance of reciprocation for the feelings to which he’s fallen victim? Shared dismay at the grandeur of their circumstance?

“Maybe…maybe if he weren’t Tango.” 

Even before Jimmy drops his head in defeat, Tango knows that line of thinking is for naught. Maybe if he wasn’t Jimmy, maybe if his cousin wasn’t Grian, maybe if his name wasn’t Solidarity and his very existence meant to be an offense. Maybe if the sun didn’t shine, or the moon didn’t beam, or resentment didn’t flow through the streets like blood spilled. Maybe did not stand the test of time nor outlast the memory of a grudge. 

“Perhaps, should I not call him Tango, but assign him some other name…”

If only Skizz was there to witness Tango blurt out, “You can call me anything you’d like.” Idiotic and blind would not have been the only adjectives he was assigned if he had. A few immediately come to Tango’s mind himself—stupid, insane, absolutely and completely screwed. 

He has no memory of deciding to speak, but the words have undeniably come out of his mouth, and there’s no hope of them not having been heard based on the way Jimmy rises to attention. 

“Hello? Is someone there?” Alert and understandably perhaps a little frightened, Jimmy's eyes scan the treeline in which Tango dwells.

Intelligently, Tango replies, “uhh.”

“Who are you?”

Tango flounders, his voice raising a dozen octaves, becoming high and stringent as he at once wheezes out, “God, why has that question become so complicated all of a sudden?”

Jimmy shuffles to the corner of the balcony, his waist pressed against the perpendicular juncture of stone as he leans over the railing to squint into the orchard. “Wait—Tango?” 

Tango is left with no other option than to abandon his haven of trees and shade and step into the torch light of the Solidarity’s garden, lest he’d rather Jimmy lean so far over the balcony that he falls. He catches the moment that Jimmy sees him—the softening of his features, fear being overtaken by the more welcome feeling of surprise, the nervous tightening of his jaw, the biting of his lip. 

If he thought revealing his presence would mean less of Jimmy’s precarious balancing act, then he thought wrong; Jimmy doubles over more, if possible, and Tango throws his hands out in a gesture he hopes is universally interpreted as stay put while some sort of alarmed squeaking comes out of his mouth. But Jimmy just fervently whispers, “What are you doing here? Are you crazy?!”

“Are you?!” Tango whisper-shouts back. “You’re giving me a heart attack here, lean back wouldya?”

Jimmy thankfully returns his upper body to a standing position safely behind the balcony’s edge, but his voice gets no less intense, his words no less urgent. “They will kill you if they see you here, you know that right?” 

In return, Tango can only nod as if this realization has only just, for him, come to light. Of course, it hasn’t—Skizz and Etho had been trying to tell him since they left him outside the Solidarity’s walls, and by instinct alone he knew to hide if he suspected someone walking too close by, and yet. His frantic nodding does not cease as he says, “You know, I hadn’t really thought about it…to be quite honest.” 

“You hadn’t thought about it?!” Jimmy grabs at his hair, incredulous, and Tango is momentarily distracted for the amount of time it takes to imagine doing it himself and wonder at what it would feel like. “I can’t believe this.” 

Shaking his head, desperately trying to restore function, Tango delivers the only defense with which he’s come equipped. “I just—I had to see you!” 

Once more, Tango curses the moon for its inadequacy, for what must be its deliberate hindrance to the wonder of this scene. Because, though it’s too dark to really tell, firelight falling much to short, Tango swears that Jimmy begins to blush. 

Since he can’t completely be sure, he’ll have to make due with admiring this: the way Jimmy tucks his head down, closer to his shoulder, the shifting of his weight from one foot to another; how his eyes seemingly impossibly get a fraction of an inch bigger, wider. 

He doesn’t quite look back at Tango when he says, “You really mean that?”

Tango smiles, “I do, I swear it.”

Whatever modesty was held in his expression before disperses and Jimmys face holds room for little more than mirth when he turns back and demands, “On what?”

“On…” Tango draws his shoulders higher, his hands raising with them as if attached by puppeteers string. They suspend there momentarily, waiting to be released by the arrival of a coherent thought that unfortunately never comes. “I don’t know…” 

Tango bites the inside of his cheek. “What would you want me to swear on? Name it and it’s done.” He holds his hands up in pure complacency, a promise and an offer; take me, im yours.

Jimmy laughs at his near madness, and Tango swears that it moves like wind through the orchard, rippling across all the branches and leaves of all the trees; he sways on his feet to the music of it, doesn’t bother to curb the urge to smile harder at it—his face a perfect mosaic of every feeling he’s every felt. 

With a shake of his head, Jimmy admits, “I dont know either.” 

“Ah, an impasse.” 

Though his head doesn’t move, Jimmy’s eyes duck away again, seeking safer purchase as he instills the night sky with his reply. Tango doesn’t mind, for it’s easier then for him to continue to to watch. “Maybe just…say it again then. Instead.” 

“I came because I had to see you, Jimmy.”

Jimmy’s eyes dart back and then away again, needing to see Tango to truly be sure, but needing privacy to be able to comprehend. “Alright…” He glances back into the room behind him, whatever is beyond the curtains that are all Tango can see. “They’ll come looking for me soon, you really should go.” 

Playfully outraged, Tango sputters, “What! That’s it, I don’t get anything in return?” 

The dramatics earn Tango an eye roll, but Jimmy also begins bouncing a little in place—resevoired anxiety that lets Tango know he was serious about the chance that someone would soon seek him out. Whatever stolen time they had managed to accrue was fleeting and not a second more. 

Even so, Jimmy plays along. “And what am I supposed to give?”

“I don’t know, something!” 

“You’re very helpful, has anyone ever told you that?”

Tango laughs, “A fair hit.” He watches as Jimmy turns around again to assure their privacy once more, understands for both of their sakes the importance of not overstaying his welcome, and his hands tucked behind his back, comes up with, “alright, just tell me this: are you glad I came?” 

Jimmy turns back to him, and this time Tango is absolutely certain of the blush present on his cheeks by the way Jimmy raises a hand as if to feel his own temperature on instinct, or to hopelessly pat it away with the back of his hand. He’s smiling, but it’s clear he’s trying not to, and that’s all the answer Tango needs. 

Before Jimmy can, in his bashfulness, form a verbal reply, from inside a voice does indeed call “Jimmy?” 

Bliss turns to panic in an instant, and instead of earliers soft tone Jimmy near hisses when he says “Tango!” 

If he was smart, he would heed the warning and go, but Tango is still drunk on their proximity alone, on the events of the night—all of which were set in motion by the taking of a chance on an innocently shared kiss. He figures if this is where one chance has gotten him, then he can stand to risk another. 

“I mean, I’m perfectly content to wait, Jimmy.” Tango steps to the nearest tree and leans against it like he’s planning to stay for some time, tries not to laugh as Jimmy’s eyes practically bug out of his head. 

“You—” Jimmy’s head swivels back and forth, caught between the harmlessness in the tease and the actual realistic harm in its consequences if Tango legitimately followed through. Of course, he isn’t going to—the second Tango sees another silhouette in the window he’s out of there, blending back the way he’d come into the trees—but where was the fun in it if there wasn’t just a little bit of real life pressure? “You’re insane,” Jimmy berates, but before he turns and disappears behind his walls that are meant to keep out Tango and Tango specifically, he whispers, “Yes, I’m glad you came.” 

Jimmy’s already gone, but when Tango says, “That’s all I needed,” its more to himself than anything as he turns to go back the way he’d come. 

He did not imagine when the night began that he’d find himself betraying the one rule his family had ever demanded he follow, nor did he expect to feel little concern for himself in spite of this fact, but he did know he’d be helpless but to do it again had the situation started anew, because Tango doesn’t know what greater purpose he could have than to love this man. It wasn’t just the remembrance of a kiss that drove Tango to Jimmy’s window, but the sense that it was only the first, and where there was one would come more. Of this, Tango was certain: attending the masquerade, glimpsing Jimmy through the party-goers, risking following him through the crowd and delighting in that first, perfect kiss had set off more than the events of tonight, one singular night, but rather of whatever was in store for him—for them—all the rest of their lives.

(gonna put "can translate Shakespearean English into gamer speak" on my resume under special skills. [read on ao3 here])

[echoing--stars]

Prompt: Wars finds out Four can become a Minish, and makes him Minish-sized clothes as a surprise.

This is a quick one, but I hope you enjoy!

(If you read this and would like to request a short snippet, see this post!)

Ever since Warriors had found out about Four being able to shrink down to a Minish, he’d been working on something in secret. It was only ever when he was on watch, and only when he was sure everyone else was asleep. Somehow, none of the other heroes had been able to figure it out yet. Any time they asked Warriors about it, he brushed them off. “Just something to keep busy.” And that was that. Until almost two weeks later, at least. Four had pointed out one of the portals, this one in an old tree stump surrounded by wildflowers and mushrooms. He offered to visit the minish of this world and see what information they might have, and so the rest of the heroes set up camp in the clearing with the stump. Dinner came and went and Four had still not returned, but they weren’t worried. He would come back soon enough. Warriors took the first watch, offering to stay up until Four returned.  Warriors took out the project he’d been working on. The cloak was even smaller than he was used to making for the fairies, but at least he hadn’t needed to worry about wings for this project. The scarf was easy — he’d made many of those in every color imaginable. But the hat was the hardest part. It was getting cold out now and while the Four’s hood shrunk with him, it was nowhere near warm enough, especially not for such a small creature. It was lucky that when Four returned, it was from the side Warriors was facing. He waved to Four, trying to catch his attention before he could get to the tree trunk and return to his normal size. When Four got close enough, Warriors held out the items. “Here, I made these for you. So you wouldn’t be so cold.” Four said nothing for a moment, and Warriors felt the heat rise in his cheeks. Had he offended Four? But then the tiny hero reached out and took first the cloak, throwing it over his shoulders. Then he wrapped the scarf around his neck and pulled the hat down over his ears. His grin was visible even at that size.

[randombrainworm]

Russell is trans woman. I don't make the rules.

[vitalis-crucifix]

I did it again!

Just a small stoner greg NSFW ficlet,, <3