#and the next thing you know he’s panting in your ear and burning fingerprints into your hips

[thecowboykatsuki-anon]

You cannot wear underwear and a big tshirt around your apartment because Dabi takes it as a personal invitation to tug them to the side, bend you over the nearest piece of furniture, and fuck you raw 🖤

[heli0s-writes]

pagan poetry*

A/N: Hey-o! After nearly 3 months of being a complete disaster, I ... did a thing. Very much my usual brand of filth. Thanks for sticking around as I continue to navigate this impending sense of oblivion!! 1.6k words of bangin’ Bucky Barnes. Yeeeeeeahhh.

Title is from this song, by Bjork. 🖤

Warnings: Smutty smut and heathen shit, what else is new with Helios?

brooklyn after dark masterlist

Steve asked if you were religious once.

It was an off the cuff kind of question, prompted by something you can’t remember now—silly banter over drinks and a background party, perhaps. Both grown weary of entertaining a crowd of strangers, etiquette spent nearing the night’s end. You’d shrugged lazily and prefaced that it’s hard to shake an entire childhood of indoctrination but now, by resolute choice, you aren’t.

You lied. You’ve never been more devout.

It was easier than getting into all the semantics, anyway. Where would you start explaining that you now spend more time than ever at worship? Not in the middle of Tony’s so-called “small” get-together of “only” seventy-five people. Certainly not a place to admit to Steve that your knees supplicate more earnestly than the most pious of priests, your throat constantly pouring the sweetest profession of faith—the name of the most divine.

Even if the two of you were somewhere more private, and he was at least half as drunk as you were, it’s a bit blasphemous, Steve, that you fuck Bucky six ways to Sunday and call it religion.

It’s a hard desire to curb when he looks like that. Bucky’s built like a god— his arm the kind of weapon you’d happily split your tongue polishing. Strong, powerful legs. Broad shoulders like lovingly carved marble, worked between the hands of a Renaissance master, tapered sharply down to his wasp’s waist.

His hips. Lord, you could dedicate eternity naming every last inch of his hips.

Such a pretty boy. How he makes you hungry to sin.

“Bucky,” you whisper, enthralled again when he steps out from a quick shower. Smoldering and glorious, and you’re Joan of Arc constantly being descended upon by a burning archangel. Some random night, like any other night, and you’re overtaken again. Hazy with orange glow, the billowing mist makes a halo to crown him and for a second you feel blind.

Then, you feel… hm.

Wet.

He cautions the way you chew on your lip, eyes twinkling brightly because what else is new. You? Turned on? Bucky could be brushing his teeth and you’d start climbing him like your personal jungle gym.

“Sweetheart,” he begins warily, adjusting the towel on his hips—those beautiful, beautiful hips. “One more dinner with us swinging in late and they’re gonna stop inviting us.”

You nod along dumbly, deaf now and set on a singular mission. Crawling on your knees, you reach Bucky halfway as he tries to put an end to your pilgrimage. Tries because your palms are fast over the damp fabric, fingers threading through warm fibers before landing flat against his abs, feeling up to his chest, murmuring stupidly, always so shocked at his everything. You graze up his wrists, his forearms, making paths of taut muscle.

“How bout after dinner?” His thumbs gently brush the swell of your breasts before he holds you back, straightening your spine when you arch into him. “Promise I’ll give it to you good later.”

“Give it to me now?”

He laughs. “You really gotta work on your negotiation skills…”

“Huh… Lemme try again: give it to me… right now?”

Bucky groans in equal measures of exasperation and exhilaration when you fall back on your knees. A few more half-hearted baby, quit it, ‘m serious, and then he gives up completely.

“Steve’s gonna get himself in a mood.”

“Steve’s always in a mood.”

Wilted protests quickly disappear into the hollow of your cheeks, licked away by your clever tongue. He grips the back of your neck firmly, tilting your head the way he likes best, eyes flicking down to meet yours before they close. He keeps you there a little longer, his toes curling into the carpet with each bob of your head.

“Yeah, you’re—always in a mood, too—uhhm—“

And you hum in agreeance, but the sound only vibrates into his skin, making him groan louder.

Bucky’s voice is slurred, as if half drunk. “Can’t hear— mm— you, sweetheart…”

So you make something up to give him what he wants, that buzzing of your throat on his cock, and his thighs tighten in response, the hand on the back of your neck reflexively scrabbling to your shoulder with a hard grip.

It’s a bit counterproductive of you to be so sloppy, considering that Bucky’s freshly showered and cleaned up— the scent of his brisk body wash strong and harsh in your nose— but fucking him like it’s your job allows some insight to what he likes, and it’s easily this:

Dirty, filthy, drooling wet blowjobs. The messier the better and the faster it gets him there. Your radiant Right Hand of God, but goddamn is he a little devil himself.

Bucky’s growling by the time he hauls you toward the bed, depositing your thrilled skin on the mattress firmly. Red lips meet yours with force, plush and full, nipping at the corners of your wet mouth like he’s kissing back every trace of him. He presses on across your jaw, up and down your neck. His voice is husky sweet and breathy in your ear.

“You bad, bad girl.” And you start curling yourself into him, nodding for more. One of his hands is working himself, the sound of your spit slippery in his fist. “You got me all messy again.”

Your skin feels blistering and freezing at the same time, chills racing to your fingertips tightly hooked around his biceps. The outfit you put on for a nice, quaint dinner at Steve and Sharon’s too heavy now, too constricting, but he doesn’t let you take it off.

“Every morning and night not enough dick for you, is it?” Bucky brushes your hands away, taking hold of your chin and peeling your head back until you’re looking at him. His pupils are blown wide, the only thing left of his irises are two thin rings of barely there blue as he scans your face. Your brain is short-circuiting, hanging onto every syllable, every purse of his cherry lips.

He switches on and off like a light. Beautiful, soft, thoughtful one minute, all force and darkness the next. You faithfully take it all, every facet of him. Your angel boy. Your wicked soldier.

Joan of Arc was only hallucinating, but she wasn’t half as lucky as you to have conjured something half as astonishing as Bucky. Gorgeous strong jaw, bristles along his chin and cheek scrubbing noisily against your lips as he kisses you. His mouth— open and wet, sloppy against yours— hardly landing right and you’re toeing delirium by the time his fingers slide up your shirt.

Bucky pushes you down into the sheets, rucking up your skirt until it bunches around your waist. “We’re in a rush, remember?” He tucks two fingers into the elastic of your panties and yanks them to one side. Just enough. In a rush. Your thighs meet with a determined shimmy of his hips— those incredible hips— and then you’re full, so full of him.

The blood in your ears crashes against reality and bends it all sideways. Not religious like that, but since the first time you’d touched him, you’ve been cocksure if heaven were real, it’d be this. It’d be him.

“Everyone’s gonna know,” Bucky promises, “You stumbling in there.”

The image flashes through your addled brain, the tell-tale sign of him screwing you stupid— lips swollen, legs wobbly, outfit crumpled up, smelling like him and sex in front of all your friends.

“You want it, don’t you, want them to know you’re all mine?” He smears your wet around the sides of where he’s connected— spit, slick— up to your clit. And then he pushes you like a button, flicking the pad of his thumb upwards and grins at the way you jerk in time to it like a trained toy.

“Bucky,” you mewl, “Buck.” The syllable breaks, your panting comes out in choked babbling.

He takes the back of your neck again, lowering his body over yours, faster now. Deliberately reckless and the entire bed is rocking, springs squealing under his pace.

“Oh my god,” you smash your brow into the junction of his shoulder, hanging on by a thread as he drives into you, on a mission to break either the bed frame or your brain, both were fine. In a rush. Can’t quit now. A little bit more. Your entire body is folded against him, insides fluttering desperately, maddeningly.

“Come,” he commands, “Come for me right now and I’ll fuck you through it, how you like. Then I’ll make you come again and we can go.”

His grip is tourniquet tight, thumb moving to the middle of your throat, pressing ever so slightly until your breath feels trapped under the swirl of his fingerprint. The curtain of his hair hangs over your face, blocking out the room going blindingly white. Your eyes shut tightly, opening only for a second to catch him panting over you, burning hot, his features flickering from utter control to trembling pleasure to something akin to frenzy.

Your vision shuffles like a deck of cards. His hands are everywhere. Eyes devouring every inch of your skin. There’s a million of him taking a million of you to a million more pieces. You shatter then, clawing his back and arms, singing like a fucking choir the infinity of his name.

Bucky. Bucky. Bucky. He makes your days holy. The altar of his body. The sacrament of his sweat. He breaks you apart into something luminous.

Religion. Not religion. Your heathen soul—whatever tiny fracture you may have—all his, forever. Now, tomorrow, at the end of the world.

So, when the two of you stumble into a nearly finished dinner, as predicted, over an hour late and in terrible disarray, Steve crosses himself before promising, “I’m getting you two a goddamn chastity belt.”

On the couch, Sam clicks the remote to a new channel, snapping his fingers with an offhanded, “A-fucking-men.” 

All you can do is duck your head and grin.

[impossible-rat-babies]

morning after (junebug)

fallen hero | 3.6k words | chargestep (nb!step + m!ortega) | cw: brief suicidal ideation mentions + blood/gore mentions + mild suggestive mentions

most below the cut!

--

Pollux grumbles and grunts, hiking his pants up and over slim hips in a smooth motion, adjusting them around his waist once they’re buttoned and zipped up. His hip smarts a touch and he shift his weight from one foot to the other, rolling his ankle. It clicks like always does, his knee bowing and he straightens his foot to correct.

He smooths his hair back and off his neck into a meager bun, poking around at the mess of a bedroom they left the night before. Clothes tossed aside, socks rumpled on the floor next to one of Ortega’s expensive button downs in a rumpled heap. Pollux kicks it towards the overflowing laundry basket.

The sunrise from the open blinds washes the room in oranges and reds made more brilliant and saturated through the layers of industrial grime hanging over the city like a thick fog. It leaves a promise of a hot day to come, what with the heat haze already rippling out on the distant horizon; the sharp shine off the skyscrapers will wobble and wane by the time noon hits. It’s getting hotter with each summer, the AC straining and ceiling fans spinning.

Pollux reaches out and half closes the blinds and shut the curtains, turning the bedroom from orange and red to filtered blues and whites. He grabs his tank top from off the floor, mumbling to himself as he pulls it on. His sweater somehow ended up on the dresser and—

No wait, he remembers that one.

Dresser digging into his lower back, hands scrambling past the nice buttons on Ortega’s fancy shirt to feel his skin under his hands, heart pounding under his palm. Lips bruised from the dozens of kisses they had shared already from the front door to the hallway (oh the things that happened in that hallway). Ortega tasting like a thunderhead of ozone before a storm and sip of expensive whiskey.

He’d tried his best to not knock over any of the photographs--couldn’t say the same of Ortega of course--so he corrects one of them and straightens another. He tries not to look too hard at the seven year old faces staring back at him with wide toothy careless smiles. Ranger blue and sidestep teal as they started calling that particular brand of eye burning blue green.

A watch sits discarded next to his own rings; he slips those back on, flexing his crackling joints. A half empty bottle of cologne sits still knocked over. Pollux fixes that too and his fingers come away with the rich scent that will stay wash after wash—stuck in the splits of his nails and his fingerprints. Pollux rolls his shoulders, unconsciously rubbing the scar that’s there; the joint clicks and he grimaces.

There’s a creak as the bed shifts and Pollux yanks his sweater on over his head and glances back. He still remembers who this house belongs to, who is stirring in the bed.

Ortega’s legs move, fine white sheets sliding with him and his bare leg—ankle to calf to knee to the line of his thigh and oh is that a little hickey on the inside of his thigh?—slips out from under the sheet.

He wipes his wrinkling face, scratching his beard, his chest heaving with a deep breath and an even heavier sigh. Ortega’s hand drops, and his brown eyes blink open, blurry and bleary until the spot him. He turns his head, a sleepy smile turning his lips.

Pollux’s breath catches and stalls in his chest and oh Ortega knows what all those little motions do to him. How the sheets are dipping down his stomach, past his hips and—

It’s downright nasty what the sight is doing to Pollux’s stomach. It’s worse as he stretches, back arching and Pollux swallows hard.

Asshole.

“Morning...” Ortega’s voice is low, thick with gravely warmth.

“Hey lover boy.” Pollux replies smoothly, his voice surprisingly even as he adjusts his sweater.

“You’re leaving?” Ortega asks quietly, blinking more life into his expression.

“Can’t be languid in bed all day like you can.”

Pollux sits down on the bed beside him, sinking in close. Ortega reaches out like he’s an anchor, a weighty hand settling on his hip, thumb testing the hem of his shirt. Can never keep his hands to himself, huh?

“It’s only for a few more hours. It’s not even nine am yet, you know.”

Pollux rolls his eyes, leaning over top of him, trapping him in with a hand pressing into the bed beside his hip. His bare hip and Pollux rests his hand against him instead.

“And…?”

“That’s when reasonable people get up?”

Ortega is fishing, his hand creeping further up under Pollux’s shirt. Does he know the difference between skin, scar and tattoo just by the touch of his fingertips? His middle finger finds a gap between scars, trailing along sensitive skin. He’s kissed him there, that spot where hip meets thigh—left behind a welt and an aching reminder that not all kisses taste sweet.

It’s just like any other temptation. Pollux isn’t opposed to laying in bed for a few more hours (plans can be canceled easily when he’s his own boss), but there’s still the nagging little corner of his mind that tells him no. Don’t give into the temptation.

But, Ortega is so easy to want, especially with the grin he’s giving him, so familiar to the old parts of his brain. Pollux is relearning not to hate that face, to not thinks it’s a good place to punch him. He used to think about that a lot: punching him in that pleasing picture perfect toothy smile Ortega boasts.

Pollux is so used to his hands inflicting pain, knuckles tight (make sure to keep your thumb outside a clenched fist was what they first taught him) fingers taut. But Ortega keeps catching his viciously thrown fists, slipping his fingers into his white knuckle hold to spread his trembling hand apart. To lace their fingers together with hopelessly honest words like he won’t let him leave again—not without a fight.

He’s pulling his teeth, but Pollux handed him the tools to do that long ago. The ‘please tell me it’s okay to stop doing this, please tell me that you’ll stop me and that you’ll forgive me. You’ll be the only one who will forgive me and I can die happy if you’re the only goddamn one who will forgive him.’

He’s giving him a closed hand and Ortega’s taken more than that—tip toe up a scar to his elbow and around to touch his shoulder; he’s given so much more than just his hand and its infectious--terminal just under the skin.

Like the bruises be-speckling just above the barcode, or the naughtier line across the curve of his breast he spotted when he woke up. Or the ache in his thighs and more importantly the memories he’ll keep when the marks fade. Brown eyes in the dark, sharing the same air.

There’s marks on Ortega’s neck too, little dark purple oblong shapes Pollux left behind; he can’t count the number of times he’s kissed that one spot on the side of his neck. The dip next to his Adam’s apple, where he feels his pulse skip beneath his tongue and lips and the breathy exhale that always follows. A pleased hum and his voice asking him to keep going.

“You say that now...” Pollux tells him softly, curtains of red and peppered grey curls falling down the side of his neck, brushing against Ortega’s chest.

“Okay what if I promised that it was only going to be a few hours?” Ortega curls a little ringlet around his pinky finger.

Doubt fills Pollux’s face.

“Oh come on now, Lux...we can get up after a few hours and I’ll make us both some breakfast--whatever you want. And then, if you like, you can leave and I’ll only ask for one kiss.” He offers as a compromise, the look he’s giving far too earnest for it to be anywhere close to the truth.

“Only one kiss?” Pollux raises a brow. He traces Ortega’s cheek and he’s so warm it’s like the sun gathered beneath his skin.

“Well...if it’s just one long kiss, that counts right?”

“That’s called making out.”

“Not like you’ve had issues in the past making out in the front door where all my neighbors could see.”

Pollux groans.

“Last time I agree to something like that--”

“It’s not like that time you agreed to make out with me in the backseat of a taxi cab…”

“That was *one* time. And we were both drunk.”

He remembers how they both almost fell off the roof of the Ranger’s headquarters that night, juggling warm beers and half a bottle of fancy tequila they kept passing back and forth.

Ortega grins and oh no…

“We should try that again—get a cab to nowhere, or something fancier than that, and make out in the back. Or you know we could--”

Words silenced by a sudden kiss and a sharp inhale. Ortega exhales through his nose smooshed against his cheek, mumbling something else and Pollux pulls him in sharper to silence him. He tastes like sunlight, his teeth and tongue tingling. A broad palm against his spine, coaxing him in closer, lips pulling him in deeper.

Pollux’s hand cups his cheek, brushing hair away from his ear and along to the back of his neck. The first port of his magnificent spine against his palm and he grabs a handful of his hair. Ortega isn’t the only one who can pull and push and the little pleased sound he catches between his lips tastes delightful—potent. Honeyed lips and curses breathed against wet lips.

Pollux wants to keep holding him like this, have just a little taste of tender heat, the threat of a hand hovering over a lit stove, or letting a match burn down to the tips of his nicotine stained fingertips. Run his fingers over Ortega—touch, feel, taste, map—until he’s reminded that he can’t have this forever. He can’t keep dangling off the edge of a precipice, not when he craves how the wind feels rushing up to meet him during the blessed free fall.

“I guess I should talk like that more if you’ll kiss me like that again...” Ortega mumbles when Pollux pulls away and he snorts, shaking his head.

“Next time I’ll just tell you go shove it.” Pollux huffs against his lips, closing an eye as Ortega brushes a stray curl from out of his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah--I know.”

Arms easily wrap around him and pull him back down into the bed and Pollux grumbles, letting it happen and he buries his face into the side of Ortega’s neck. His own scratchy stubbly cheek presses against his rough skin. He smells like day old cologne. He’s warm—secure.

“You’ll still kiss me though?” Ortega mumbles against the side of his head and Pollux groans, tilting his head to look him in the eye. Brown eyes so deep he could drown.

“Your beard is scratchy...”

Ortega snorts.

“Your face is the one that’s scratchy--I take good care of my beard. When was the last time you shaved?” He rubs his chin against his forehead to tease and Pollux curses.

“God, fuck--shut up, quit rubbing your face on me and go back to sleep pretty boy.” He insists and Ortega laughs, pulling him back in.

--

They tumble out of bed a few hours later, Pollux righting his sweater and redoing his belt as he meanders down the short hallway and out into the living room. It’s brighter out and he squints, lazily tucking his hands up and underneath of his sweater to hide them.

He follows Ortega, eyes skimming over the leftover plates and a glass mug left on the coffee table. His battered cigarette box and matchbook sits beside a weeks old newspaper and an old Time magazine. He still gets them biweekly?

He pauses at one of the large glass windows, curtains only half closed. He brushes it open. The sun pounds against the glass and Pollux squints his eyes against the shimmering heat rolling off the high rise buildings towards the west. The shoot high into the sky, more following further until the cracked spine of the coast turns to failed developments and old chain link fence guarded ruins.

A few palm trees needing a good grooming, their fronds dipping low with the heat, the tops sun bleached beige. Just about the only plant that grows well here, save for the scrubby evergreen like trees and whatever people are willing to waste water on keeping alive. 

At least it’s a clear-ish day, the sky more blue than sickly yellow or congested grey today. It’ll only last a few more weeks before the winds die down and the city is left to cook alive in its industrial smog.

Further out towards the west, Pollux can almost see the shimmer of the ocean, a line of white hugging the horizon. Beneath that are all new beach homes—folks willing to capitalize on the new growing beaches or what remains of the old. The sand comes back softer each year, the ocean carving away her shoals, eddys and tide pools. She’s had four decades to heal--but people remember forever.

Down below (don’t look too hard now Pollux) cars slip on by, the nosy honking of buses, taxis and surely the occasional motorist weaving through the lunch rush traffic.

“You look like you’re thinking pretty hard.”

Pollux starts, taking a half step back from the window, eyes darting to Ortega. His brow scrunches, shyly holding the coffee cup out to him.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you--”

“No, it’s fine...” Pollux waves his hand. So what if he was thinking of how nice it would be to just lay on the hot asphalt road and wait for rush hour traffic to turn him into a wet smear? Which he wasn’t thinking about at all, no not at all.

Ortega looks like he’s biting the inside of his cheek, but gratefully he keeps his mouth shut.

“Coffee?” He offers and Pollux takes it with a quiet word of thanks. Ortega reaches up and pulls the curtains shut, removing the temptation.

“Are you okay?”

Pollux takes a sip and it burns his tongue, but he only shrugs. It’s as much of an answer as he’s willing to say; he isn’t up to the verbal chess match that staring longingly at a window would earn, the what he thinks he saw, or what he thinks he’s thinking about.

Ortega puts a hand on his shoulder before wrapping his arm around his shoulders instead. He places a kiss at the top of his head and mumbles something sweet and soft, guiding him away from the window and towards the kitchen.

“What do you want for breakfast, then?” He changes the subject so easily, giving Pollux the grace to pretend it doesn’t matter. “Or it is closer to lunch at this point. Whoops.” Ortega cringes, looking at the stove clock.

“You wanted to sleep in.” Pollux finds an unused countertop and he pulls himself up onto it. Ortega briefly gives him a look and Pollux responds in kind, Ortega giving up with a shake of the head, but the faintest of smiles. 

“What’s on the menu, lover boy? Lunch or breakfast?”

Ortega grabs a pan, twirling it around. “How about this: I’ll just make something and if you really hate it, we can get something ordered in.”

“A mystery brunch then?”

“More like lunch, but you’ve never complained.”

“At least food wise. You’ve given me plenty of reasons to complain otherwise.”

“Are you admitting you like my food?” Ortega looks over his shoulder at him from the fridge and Pollux rolls his eyes.

“Never said that I dislike your food, Ricky boy.” Pollux teases, hiding a smile behind his coffee. “Unless you count that one monstrosity you made.”

“Hey, that was partially your fault, Lux. I refuse to take the full blame for what happened to that poor casserole dish.”

“Wasn’t my recipe that you got wrong. And you let me play with your knives.”

“Mierda, I thought you were going to lose a finger.”

“Better than practically ruining your stove.”

“How was I supposed to know it was going to explode like that?”

Pollux snickers, tilting his head up to look at the ceiling, his head hitting the upper cabinent.

“Is that a speck of food still stuck up there...?”

He doesn’t quite catch the dish towel that hits up in the side of his head, Ortega swearing at him and Pollux snorts. He chuckles the longer Ortega keeps making that face until he dissolves into laughter.

And he keeps laughing. Lips wide and bright, rarely seen smile lines breathing back to life.

Ortega is looking at him, he knows, but he can’t fit the placid frown back onto his face just yet--letting the smile linger on his cheeks and the crinkles of his crows feet. It feels good and Ortega is smiling at him.

“Hey, Lux...” Ortega’s voice is so tender. “I love you. I love you a lot.” 

He says quietly once Pollux’s laughter has faded, leaving behind the tingle of it in the air. How it used to be so easy for Pollux to start laughing--how it’s only just now that he’s laughed again. He’s been so quiet, so still.

“You know that, right?”

The smile falters and Pollux takes a long drink of his coffee, the cup a disguise for what he hasn’t whispered back--not when he can hear. 

“I know…” He mumbles like it’s a substitution all his own and he swallows down the bitter bite of coffee.

He’s murmured it, barely spoken it in the dark when he’s sure Ortega is asleep. He isn’t ready for that admission, not in the light like this. The sunshine from the kitchen window warms the back of his neck.

Ortega looks like he wants to say more. To keep reminding him of how much he cares, how much it matters that he’s back in his life, how he wants to make up for seven years of not saying ‘i love you’--it’s all just synonyms. 

How many times has Pollux said it without saying it, too? He knows a hundred different ways to say it without anyone but him knowing it.

(Asshole, or I care about you too, or will you let me take care of you for once in your life, or please give me an excuse so I don’t have to keep remembering how much I hate walking down these perpendicular paths, inches away from intersection. Or the simple way his name tastes on his tongue, or a nickname held so dearly between his lips, inches before a kiss.)

“I missed your laugh…” He does say those words and Pollux looks. He doesn’t know that for sure, especially when he looks at him as tender as freshly bruised knuckles.

Did he almost forget the sound of it? Had Ortega almost forgotten the sound of his voice, just like he almost forgot what he sounded like? Would it have been so tragic if he never heard his voice again, stuck with only the preserved opalescent amber of memory of a better time and a better place?

Surrendered to memory where his voice would waver into stilled silence, a cheap copy of the voice in Ortega’s head. Or stuck in old photographs and newspaper clippings, or old news reels and private videos. He thought that stupid handheld clunky camcorder Ortega carried around was the worst thing ever. How many did he break? He can’t remember.

“I know.” Pollux replies just as gently, like trying not to press too hard against the bruises of memory, but he’s heavy handed--clunky and broken. What else can he say?

“Thank you…”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“Someone should. You put up with me.”

Ortega pauses, turning to look at Pollux. Trying his hardest to see him.

“Because I want to Pollux--because I want this to work. Us to work.”

It’s so easy to say he can’t always be here—it’s the truth after all, nothing complicated about it. It won’t end up working out. But all that starts is arguments and he’s tired of them. 

(He’s just so tired all the damn time. tired of everything and maybe he’ll steal a motorcycle and weave through traffic until the inevitable happens.)

Pollux doesn’t dispute the point, he just nods when he feels Ortega looking at him. He doesn’t shy away when Ortega puts a hand on his waist and kisses the side of his head, his eyelid, the bridge of his nose. Mumbles another ‘i love you’ and Pollux hums when he steps away.

He sets the half empty cup aside, absentmindedly reaching under his sweater, thumbing the edge of a tattoo along his waist.

Last night Ortega brushed his thumb along the thick slick tapering edge. Pollux excused the strange face he’d made at the weird texture of it, but he didn’t excuse the kiss he placed when his lips followed his hands. 

Maybe later he’ll hold him like that again; when he comes over again in a few days and crawls into bed beside him and lets him touch him in the darkness. He’s not brave enough for the light yet, not when he’s still angry--still so hurt--over lost time.

Seven years--he doesn’t have seven more in him.

Pollux watches his back instead as he gets to cooking, half smiling as Ortega starts to hum, bobbing from foot to foot as the smell of lunch crowds the kitchen.

He murmurs, mostly to himself and it tastes like a shout at the back of his throat.

“I want it to work too. I really do.”

—

[kyotarou]

𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚎𝚍

*artwork does not belong to me, i only added the text*

gn reader

characters: tenya iida

plot: tenya’s poems become reality

warnings: fluff

word count: 800+

part 1: the words i write for you

     A letter beneath his door was the last thing Tenya expected when he came home from school, a folded piece of paper tucked inside a creme-colored envelope with handwriting that was no other than yours, and a simple message that said: “I’m bad at poems, so I can’t say much, but meet me at the hill outside at 8?” Like his note, there was a signature at the bottom in smudged ink, and on the envelope your initials. There were several ways to read the question mark at the end. Were you asking for confirmation? Did you not want to meet, but felt an obligation to?

     Tenya hoped it wasn’t the second one. He straightened the tie of his school uniform in his full-length mirror and slicked the cowlicks in his hair. Seeing the fingerprints on his glasses, he frowned and quickly wiped them on his pants before delicately placing them back on the bridge of his nose. He was never preoccupied with his appearance, but a small twinge in the pit of his stomach sent a surge of warmth and content in his heart, and he felt it wouldn’t hurt to freshen up. 

     With your note folded in the pocket of his blazer, Tenya left his dorm fifteen minutes before the meeting time with a little pep in his step. He thought he would’ve been nervous, but something in his gut reassured him, and he continued his way down Heights Alliance until he was met with the cool night air, the navy sky littered with minuscule white specks, and the moon round and bright.

     He didn’t expect to see you waiting on the hill before him, shifting your weight back and forth with his poem in your hands. Tenya greeted you with a smile, one that made his eyes crinkle and rise behind his dark blue bangs, setting his glasses askew, a genuine smile that made his cheeks flush with how giddy he was to see you.

     “Tenya.”

     The sternness in your voice made his heart skip a beat, and his stomach dropped. The nerves crept up his spine, but his gut was still at peace. Within the tone of your voice, there was a certain softness, a hint of hesitation that matched the glossiness of your eyes, how he could see himself in the depths of your pupils. Like a crystal ball, his fortune unfolded in your gaze, but before Tenya could grasp onto it, you stared down at his poem and your expression became unreadable.

     “Tenya,” you repeated, softer this time. “Is it true?”

     He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I-”

     Your hands shook as you thrust the poem in his face, and he realized the sheen in your eyes was the onset of tears you tried to hold back. “Do you really love me? Or is it some sick joke? Did you even write this, Tenya?” The envelope crumpled in your grip.

     “(Y/N), I would never! I mean, yes, I did write it, but I’d never do it as a joke!” For you to assume such a thing was almost offensive, especially when this was how you reacted to his declaration of love, the first time he’d exposed his feelings to anyone. Frankly, he didn’t even know he loved you until the night he wrote the poem, and delivering it to you felt like second nature.

     Next thing he knew, his lips were on yours with a sudden force that sent the both of you falling on the damp grass, and his hand reached for the small of your back while yours snaked into the dark tresses of his hair. And you kissed him back until he was breathless, until his mind was fuzzy and he was seeing stars, kissing him until he craved nothing but you.

     It was only when you had to take a breath that you parted, panting in each other’s embrace. The realization he had made the first move (without asking, to make matters worse) made the tips of his ears burn with shame and embarrassment, but he couldn’t move, like a magnet attached to its other half, unable to let go. 

     With half-lidded eyes, you kissed the corner of his mouth and let your head fall into the crook of his neck, a perfect fit like the final piece in a puzzle. One hand still on your back and the other on the back of your head, Tenya pulled your body closer to his. You relaxed in his touch, and he knew he didn’t need to do any more convincing.

     “I love you.” The words slid off his tongue with ease. “You don’t have to say it back. Having you is more than enough.”

     Though it was faint, Tenya heard it above the gentle stir of leaves on the ground as a breeze whisked them away towards the sea. “I love you, too, Tenya.”

     He stared into the inky sky, a smile stretched across his face as the stars aligned into the constellations he knew far too well: Cassiopeia and Cepheus, a love story preserved in the night.

[babbushka]

One more last call thought for you. Given that Lawyer Kylo has a pretty big ego and is also on the dominant side, he might be really into some situations where he gets to show you off, strut around like the power couple you are.

Whether that’s a swanky party or hot ass mirror sex afterwards.

If you feel like even more smutty ideas for him lol!

This really makes me wish he’d been around for Kinktober lol! I can’t tell you how excited I am for this guy! And I personally love the more alpha men!! You always have such good ideas!

Anonymous said:  Could I request #12 (don’t be so rough, there can’t be any marks) and #13 (i really don’t care, you still look hot and I’m trying not to fuck you senseless right now) office sexwith lawyer!Kylo Ren???? Thanks enjoy your weekend of sin

1.6k; NSFW (possessive behavior, bathroom sex, unprotected PIV, hate fucking lol)

He’s fashionably late, as per usual. Something about making an entrance has always appealed to Kylo, call it an ego if you’d like. He knows conversation stops when he walks into a room, he knows he sucks up all the attention the moment he steps foot through the threshold – just as he does now, the ballroom stopping to turn and get a glimpse at him, before breaking out into excited chatter.

That’s him, there he is, that’s Kylo Ren.

Everyone, that is, except for you.

You’re in pleasant conversation with some junior litigator, some fresh-faced clean shaven boy probably straight out of law school who keeps eyeing you like a prize to win. Kylo doesn’t like it.

He doesn’t like it one fucking bit.

The ballroom for the charitable fundraiser practically parts like the red sea for Kylo as he plucks a glass of champagne off of a waiter’s serving tray and makes his way to you. Your back is to him, so you don’t see him coming, but the boy does, and his eyes widen when Kylo’s intimidating frame casts a shadow onto his face.

“(Y/N), there you are.” Kylo slips an arm around your waist and puts the glass of champagne in your hand, as if you were waiting for him all the while. The boy doesn’t get the hint yet, so Kylo looks him up and down and tucks you closer to him with a, “Move along, the grownups are talking.”

He excuses himself and leaves, cheeks beet red. Poor kid, Kylo thinks for half a second.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You arch a brow up at him, not making one move to step away from Kylo’s side.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean.” Kylo grins at you, putting on the charm that got him so far in his career. It doesn’t get him anywhere with you, not really, but it’s still worth a shot trying.

“Kylo – ” You begin to frown.

“You look beautiful tonight.” He cuts you off and presses his lips to your ear, the ghost of a kiss.

He wants to kiss you properly, wants to do it in front of all these people. They’re staring, every single one of them, staring at how handsome the two of you look together. You’re in a swanky cocktail dress that fits you perfectly, shows off all the things you like most about yourself. Your lipstick leaves a print on the rim of your champagne glass while you take a measured sip, and Kylo finds himself wanting to taste it off your tongue.

“I’m beautiful every night.” You remind him with a deadpan delivery that took Kylo three years to recognize as being playful, “That wasn’t very nice of you.”

“Who ever said I was nice?” Kylo regards you with a raised brow of his own, and you break into a big grin then, a small victory that Kylo holds close to his chest, riding that win with, “Dance with me.”

The fundraiser is for some charity, Kylo doesn’t even know anymore. His mother put it on, as she always tends to do, and he shows up like a good son. Why you show up, he’ll never know, but the arrogant part of his mind likes to think it’s because you want to see him. You look damn good together, everyone says so, and even if they don’t say it, they think it – Kylo can practically hear their thoughts. Those thoughts are loud now, as Kylo brings you to the dance floor, bright and brassy music filling the air as laughter and conversations and debates all sound around you. He likes having his arms around you like this, so much so that he sometimes forgets how much of a pain in his ass you can be.

“Are you going to stare at me all evening or is there something you wanted to say?” You toy with some of the hair at the nape of his neck, “Must’ve been awfully important to steal me away.”

Kylo’s mood darkens when he remembers the way that boy had been eyeing you, like he was undressing you with his eyes. Kylo was the only one who got to undress you, a possessive flare burning up in his chest.

“I don’t like other men thinking they can have a piece of you.” He settles on finally.

“Oh you’re my keeper now, are you? Funny, I don’t remember agreeing to that.” You muse.

Kylo spins and dips you, pulls you back up and tucks you close to his chest, your lips touching his, noses bumping together.

“Agree to it now.” Kylo murmurs against your lips, just barely hovering over a kiss, his own eyes starting to slip closed.

“No.” You smile, pulling away, a chase.

“Stubborn.” Kylo follows, hungry and willing to play this game. He’s been playing it with you for years, he’s not going to stop now.

“Yes.” You grin, and damn, Kylo thinks you’re beautiful.

“I’d like very much to try and convince you.” Resting his forehead against yours, Kylo pinches your chin and rubs his thumb across your bottom lip, watching as your lipstick stains his fingerprint.

                                                      --------------

Two minutes later he’s got your legs wrapped around his hips in the family-style bathroom, door locked, shut away from the fundraiser down the hall. You’re arching into his touch, your pretty dress hiked way up around your waist, Kylo’s strong hands supporting your hips as his cock pushes all the way into you with deliberate thrusts.

“Yes – that’s – yes, right there.” You encourage, mouth dropped open into a delicious O, lashes brushing your cheeks from the way your eyes have closed from the pleasure.

“Fuck that’s good, oh fuck!” Kylo grunts, teeth clamping down around your neck, sucking and kissing and panting against your throat.

“Shut up, you have to be quiet or else we’ll get caught.” You smack a hand to the back of his neck, threading your fingers up through his hair, scratching at his scalp as you moan and sigh.

Your pussy is wet and tight and hot and Kylo shoves his cock in as far as it can possibly go, until he’s bottomed out entirely inside you, forcing it in deeper deeper deeper with each shallow thrust he makes, not wanting an inch of your pussy to be left untouched. The sounds are lewd, squelching and moaning and the rhythmic thud thud thudding of him pounding into you, Kylo feels drunk.

“I really don’t care, you look so sexy and I’m trying not to fuck you senseless right now.” He bites and worries at your throat some more, the restraint something he really has to concentrate on.

It’s easy when he has you at his place, and he can fuck you hard enough that the headboard slams against the wall – but there’s hours of wine-and-dining still, he can’t put you both out of commission so early in the evening and he knows that. Still, it’s hard, hard to hold back when you want each other so badly.

“Ugh don’t be – oh! – don’t be so rough, there can’t be any marks.” You yank his head back by his hair, and Kylo figures he’ll buy you a scarf to hide the blotchy hickies he’s given you, as he grinds his cock into your cunt, searching for that spot that makes your toes curl.

“Maybe I want there to be marks, maybe I want every John Doe in this place to know who fucks you right.” He grunts and groans out as he speeds up his hips, chasing release. He can feel his stomach tensing, his balls tightening, heat making him sweat inside his six-hundred-dollar suit jacket.

“Kylo,” You let out a hiccupped warning, and he groans again.

“Okay okay, alright, say my name again?” Kylo kisses your cheek, sticks one of his hands between your legs and rubs hard at your clit, matches his thrusts until you’re shaking and gripping his biceps tightly, your head thudding against the mirror as your chest heaves.

What he wouldn’t give to bite at your breasts right now.

“Kylo – I’m so close, so close just a little more just – Kylo!” You come around him, and that sends Kylo nearly over the edge, but he’s not wearing a condom, and he pats your cheek a little to get your attention, your eyes glazed over from pleasure.

“Can I – ?” He asks, wanting to make sure he doesn’t cross a line.  

“Yeah it’s okay.” You nod, and with that permission he thrusts once, twice, three more times in quick succession, and blows his load inside you.

With both of you coming into and around one another, the bathroom feels humid and sweat-slick. Kylo carefully puts your legs down, pulling out of you and grabbing some paper towels from the nearby dispenser to help clean up. Still sitting on the counter, you pull out a compact from your purse that he hands you, and you touch up your makeup, fixing the messed up lipstick and groaning at the series of marks he left on your flesh.

“I still hate you.” You let him know, even though there’s no malice behind it.

“I’ll try harder next time.” Kylo grins, before hoisting you down from the counter and helping you fix your dress so it lays nicely on your pretty thighs once again.

He offers you an arm, kisses you on the cheek one last time, and as if you don’t have his come staining your panties, he casually opens the door for you, rejoining the party and this time, staying right by your side all night long.  

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: Two for Flinching

(A/N: Some wound description and technically self harm? {wound burning for infection control}, so warnings for that. Just some Eragon and co. during the run to the Varden. This one actually has a bit more setup for Eragon’s book 1/early book 2 characterization, but I’m not sure how I did. He’s hard for me to write. There’s also quite a few mentions of tech and magic mechanics that I’ve worked into MIC, but those will be mentioned more in the tags.)

~~~

Eragon winced as Saphira landed. Per their usual travel plans since Gil'ead and Arya’s awakening he had spent the night flying with Saphira while the others traveled at a continued breakneck pace on the ground with the horses. It was wearing them all down, even Saphira, and the few hours of sleep they managed to get during the daylight hours did little to alleviate the stress travel was putting on their bodies.

Camp was already in the midst of being set as Eragon untied his legs from the saddle and slid down Saphira’s side. He landed then grimaced as he fell to his knees, muscles feeling like jelly.

“Did you see anything worth mentioning?” Brom asked as the young Rider pushed himself up. When he shook his head, not trusting himself to speak aloud, the older man grunted and turned back to unsaddling Snowfire. “There’s supposed to be some old, ruined staging points of the Varden’s around here. Must be further up ahead. We’re going slower than I thought.”

“We’re going as fast as we can.” Murtagh snapped. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. Lately Eragon had noticed that the other youth was becoming increasingly agitated, quick to anger, and it wasn’t just the lack of sleep and lingering sunburn getting to him.“If you want to warn the Varden so bad, do some of your little magic tricks and tell them about the Urgals.”

Arya spoke quickly from where she crouched coaxing the fire to life, cutting off Brom’s scathing retort and ending the argument before it began. “It doesn’t exactly work like that. Besides, the Varden has specific wards around their strongholds, preventing scrying and other magical forms of communication.”

Eragon eased himself down next to the elf, trying to warm fingers stiff from flying so high in the chill clouds. “Then how do they stay in contact with you and anyone else outside their hiding spots? It seems dangerous to be so isolated.”

The woman gently rearranged a few sticks to give the young flames more air and slipped a dark object under the growing pile of embers. “Special radios were developed, using the fingerprint technology similar to lock on my backpack. Mine was destroyed when Durza tried to operate it himself.” She cracked a slight grin, still focused on her task. “Well, actually, it blew up in his face. Brain matter, just everywhere. Huh-hoo, he was pissed when he got back.”

“The Varden rigs them to explode if the person’s fingerprint doesn’t match?!” Eragon recoiled slightly, agast. “What if someone’s kid found it and thought it was a toy?”

Off to the side, Brom snorted, muttering, “I bet it wasn’t the Varden who–”

“No, I rigged it up myself, and only for those who bore ill-will to the Varden and free races in case it fell into the wrong hands.”

“Knew it.” Brom scoffed. Arya looked over her shoulder to the old Rider and rolled her eyes. “You just like seeing things explode.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think I’ve laughed so hard in years than when that thing went off. I think I even cracked a rib.”

Brom shook his head, but let the matter go.

It wasn’t long before the fire was high and the day’s meal heated. They sat around the burning logs, Saphira even laying her head down to occupy a third of the circle, and planned the next few legs of travel. When the food was eaten, the talk dwindled away as they all sat staring into the flames, tired but not willing to sleep just yet.

Then Saphira flicked out her tongue, as if tasting the air, and projected her thoughts to the group.

‘Whoever has the infected wound should care for it soon.’ Everyone looked up, mildly startled out of their inner musings. 'It will turn into a deep-rot in another day or so. Just thought they should know.’

“You can smell things like that?” Eragon asked, surprised. “Are you like one of those dogs that can smell cancer?”

The dragon cut her eyes at him and her lip lifted slightly. 'I am nothing like a dog.’

The boy smiled apologetically, realizing his mistake. “I know. Sorry. But it’s pretty cool being able to smell things like that.”

Murtagh raised an eyebrow. “Aye, it’s cool. But shouldn’t we be more focused on who the hell was hiding a possibly necrotic wound? Things like that need to be addressed. It would only slow us down more.”

Then a ringing SMACK! broke through the air as Brom suddenly slapped Arya upside the head. Hard.

“What the hell were you thinking, girl?” He growled, expression dark.

“Ow! Hey, why the fuck do you think it’s me?!” The elf retorted sharply, rubbing the back of her head and glaring back at him.

Everyone, even Saphira, gave the woman a deadpan look that clearly asked 'really?’

She put her hands up. “Alright, alright, so yeah, maybe a cut or two got infected, but I’m already fixing them, okay?” Arya snarled, pointing at the handle of a knife sticking out of the dying fire’s thick pile of coals.

Silence fell.

“Are you sure that is the best idea?” Brom asked slowly. He seemed to have calmed down a bit now that Arya had revealed having an actual plan and wasn’t just ignoring her injuries. His change in tone made Eragon wonder if the latter was a common occurrence. “There’s always magic. You don’t have to–”

“And who, exactly, would cast it, hm? Eragon? Can you instruct him in the intricacies of infection cleansing within the next few minutes? I’ve still got enough drug in me to complicate healing spells, so that’s out of the question. And I’ll not have you working spells on me, not when the Varden will need you at your best.” Arya shook her head. “No, it will have to be burned.”

Murtagh stood at the mention of burning. “Oh, bloody hell. Not right after we ate!” He retreated to where he had tossed his saddlebags and began unrolling his sleeping bag. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again– you’re bloody insane, Arya. I don’t want to see this. I’m going to sleep.”

“Sweet dreams, Murtagh.” The elf called after him in a singsong voice. “Don’t let the sizzling wake you up!” The young man let out a noise of disgust and threw himself on the blankets. “Wuss.”

'She can’t be serious about this!’ Eragon exclaimed to Saphira, worried about the elf who was unlacing her boots as calmly as a praying monk. 'She’s already hurt enough! We should offer to heal it. I know she shot Brom down, but–’

Saphira cut him off. 'Little one, do you honestly think that we know enough about healing to cleanse even a scratch of infection without making it worse? Brom has explained before that waíse heill has its limitations, one of the most dangerous being that if it closes an infected injury the infection will survive beneath the skin.’ Eragon grimaced, cursing himself for nearly forgetting one of the nuances of the spell. 'Once the infected flesh is burned away, thenwe can attempt to heal it for Arya.’

Her logic was sound. 'I still don’t like it. But you’re right.’

The dragon sniffed, a short puff of smoke dissipating into the air above her nostrils. 'Of course I am.’

Eragon grinned, then turned his attention back to where Brom and Arya still sat by the fire as the older Rider grunted, “That looks like it hurt. You’re lucky it didn’t break.” The boy approached them as Arya finished rolling her pant leg up to her knee.

“Perks of elvish bones, I guess.” Arya muttered, gently testing the skin around the injury. On the outside of her left calf was a nasty, scraping gash, most likely left by the sharp edge of a hobnailed boot if the bruising pattern was anything to go by. The skin around the ragged edges was pink and red, and cracks ran through the roughly palm sized scab covering the cut and revealing damp, yellowish flesh beneath. Pinkish, yellow tinged fluid leaked from the cracks. “Damn. At least it isn’t necrotic. You were right, Saphira. This one is about to turn.” The elf flashed a thankful smile to the dragon. “Hell, you might have just saved my leg.”

'You’re quite welcome.’

Eragon winced when he saw the wound. “After you, uh…burn it, I can close it for you. A burn isn’t too hard to heal, and it would keep it from getting infected again and slowing you down.”

For a for a split second the memory of healing the elf’s back jumped to the forefront of his mind. Not images of the horrifying wounds, but of warm skin, lean muscle and an unmistakably feminine body. Eragon felt the tips of his tapering ears turn bright red, and he quickly stuck his hands in his pockets, pinching himself hard through the fabric. It was definitely not the time for those kinds of thoughts.

He was thankful, then, that Arya looked over to Brom after giving him only a quick glance. “What do you think, old man? I can keep up well enough. Wouldn’t mind a little less risk of that changing though.”

Brom crossed his arms. “It’s up to the boy and Saphira. Do you two think you can handle it?”

Eragon nodded firmly. “I’m sure I can. Definitely if Saphira helps. I really don’t mind it, and it’s the least I can do after being unable to heal the rest of your wounds properly.”

“Hey, you and Saphira don’t owe me anything. You saved my life in probably three different ways so far, so I’m the one that owes you all.” Arya pulled a field medkit from her bag and tore off two short wads of gauze from a roll. “If you both want to heal it and it won’t put either of you in danger, I won’t complain. It won’t be the last time I say it, but thank you. Really.”

Eragon smiled, a strange warmth bubbling in his heart at the elf’s expression of gratitude. In the back of his mind he sensed Saphira examining his emotions, and was a little confused when the dragon mentally chuckled at them. “You’re welcome. I like to help where I can.”

“Mm. Let’s get this over with then.” Without further ado Arya pulled the knife from the coals.

It was an old blade of human make, and by the seal stamped on the handle Eragon recognized it as one of the combat knives he had grabbed from a soldier during their mad escape from Gil'ead. In the light of the midmorning sun it was difficult to judge if the metal was glowing fiercely, but the blade had acquired a unmistakeable, faint orange color at the sides and an inch down the tip. At the thicker sections it seemed to be lit on the inside by a deep, dark cherry red glow.

Arya took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and went to stick the wad of gauze in her mouth as she lowered the hot blade towards her leg. Brom’s hand suddenly settled on her shoulder, and she looked up at him, startled out of her grim task.

“Do you want me to do it?” The old Rider’s voice was surprisingly gentle, soft even. In the months he had traveled with him, Eragon had heard him speak in such a tone only a handful of times, mostly murmured under his breath to himself or to Jeod when talking about the Varden and times past. Despite their rough banter, Eragon realized the Brom and Arya were undoubtedly good friends, to the point that he wondered if the two had fought together on the battlefield.

Arya looked between Brom and the knife for a moment, then sighed, “You might have to if I flinch and can’t keep up the pressure. I want to try it myself first, but thanks for having my back.” Brom nodded and pulled his hand back as the elf bit down on the gauze.

Then, without any other warning, she tore her nails across the gash in her leg, ripping away the disintegrating scab, and shoved the flat of the glowing knife into the now open wound.

Eragon jerked back, flinching as his self preservation instinct screamed at the indecency of blatant self-destruction. It wasn’t the visual that disturbed him, but the sound of the metal burning away first the blood and fluids, and then the infected flesh beneath. It hissed and sizzled, and occasionally sounded like the powerful magnet toys he used to buy at the fair and toss in the air hear their buzzing song.

For a moment Arya’s muscles snapped rigid, then she seemed to recover and her face fell into a blank, emotionless mask. After letting the blade rest in its original spot for several long seconds she lifted it and exposed the two remaining sections of the gash to the heat, quickly wiping the knife on the other piece of gauze between each burning. Eragon’s stomach did a sickening maneuver similar to a double full flip he had witnessed Katrina do at one of her gymnastics presentations with Roran when he realized that she was wiping seared flesh off the blade.

Then it was over. The entire procedure couldn’t have taken more than a minute, but the scent of burned meat hung in the air. Where infection had once turned tissue yellow and white, there was now only bright red muscle shot through with soot and darkened epidermis.

“That…wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.” Arya hissed and spat the gauze out. Her teeth were clenched and voice tight, but her movements were controlled, smooth, and betrayed no other indications that she was in pain. “I’m not looking forward to it if I need to do it again, though.”

Brom rubbed his face, a little paler than usual. “There’s something just…so much more disturbing about seeing you do it to yourself.”

“Dear Gods above, I HEARD IT ALL THE WAY OVER HERE!” Came a distraught groan from Murtagh’s sleeping bag. Arya snatched a stick from the pile next to the fire, abandoning the still-hot knife, and whipped it at the tucked form huddled in the bag. It pegged the young man exactly where his head should have been, and muffled swearing drifted through the camp before it dwindled off as he rolled over and tried his best to sleep.

Eragon scooted closer, forcing himself to swallow back his queasiness. “Here, can we….” Arya leaned her head back and nodded, eyes shut tight as heat lingered in the wound.

Reaching out a thicker tendril of his consciousness to Saphira, the young Rider met the mind of his dragon halfway. Their thoughts, consciousnesses, and minds twisted around each other, binding together more strongly than they usually did. Saphira’s energy flowed into Eragon, and he in turn shared some of his until the stream equaled out and they were one.

Together they moved Eragon’s hand out, the Gedwëy Ignasia shining bright, and uttered the words needed to heal the now cleansed burn. The icy magic rushed through their joined minds, knitting the skin back together with the ease of water flowing from one side of a creak to the next.

As they completed their task, Saphira pulled back from the increased contact, again leaving their minds connected by the usual tendrils of thought. Once separated, Saphira mentioned to Eragon, 'Your magic tickles.’ and rubbed her snout on the side of her foreleg.

'Does it? It always feels cold to me.’ Eragon sat back on his heels, checking the wound to make sure he had not left any scarring this time. Like the other times he and Saphira had worked magic while bound together, he only felt a slight drain on their combined strength. 'I know when something is healed on me it itches like crazy though. Is that what you’re feeling?’

'Being a conduit is different from both casting and being casted on. Acting as the in-between must be giving me the sensation of both the cold and the itching. It makes my scales tickle.’ As if to demonstrate her point, the scales at Saphira’s neck lifted slightly with a sound similar to dry leaves being whisked away by a strong wind. The scales rose and lowered in a ripple along her entire body, giving the distinct impression that she had shivered. 'So, how did we do?’

“Very well for such a simply worded spell.” Eragon realized that Saphira had projected her last thought to Arya and Brom as well when the elf answered. She tested the new skin, not at all bothered that they had not healed the bruising, and seemed happy with the results of their casting. “You’re quite adept at magic for knowing so few words in the Ancient Language, Eragon. From what I’ve seen, you have an uncanny ability to influence your spells more with your intentions than the words you use.”

Brom grunted, nodding in Eragon’s direction. The older man’s chest seemed to swell with pride at the praise directed at his pupil. “Aye, he’s got a gift. And Saphira carries it as well. I’ve never heard of a dragon acting as such a strong conduit before. You both are learning well.”

Touched, Eragon dipped his head as both he and Saphira answered the compliments. Any praise coming from Brom was few and far between, and now he was practically bragging to Arya about their progress.

A comfortable silence fell once again. Brom laid out his sleeping bag, surrendering his usual first watch to Arya at her insistence that 'old men need their rest,’ and Saphira lifted her head from where it rested to tuck it under the tip of her tail, settling in to sleep. Arya tugged her boots back on and reloaded her pistol. Eragon stayed by the fire with her for a few more minutes, content to be close to the elf for a little longer before he too retired for sleep.

“Oh! Right.” Arya suddenly looked over at him, a gleam in her dark eyes. He met her gaze, puzzled, then let out a yelp as her fist shot out and punched him in the arm twice. He knew it was probably a love tap for someone of elvish strength, but it still stung.

“Hey!” Eragon leaned away from her, rubbing his sore arm. It would definitely be bruised by the time he woke that night. “What was that for?”

The elf grinned, rising to her feet to stretch and take her place for the first watch. She slung her sword and its harness over one shoulder, and Eragon felt a hot blush blossom on his cheeks when she casually roughed up his hair as she stepped by him. “Two for flinching.”

[kwrittink]

Check Your Messages

Pairing: Best Friend!Reader x Non Idol!Im JaeBeom

Genre: FTL, Smut (pwp with little plot tbh)

Warnings: language, mentions of cheating, explicit intercourse, fem!oral, unprotected intercourse

masterlist

Check Your Messages

You couldn't handle this anymore. Every aspect of it, of your relationship, you were hating it. But the worse part was, you didn't have any reason to, all of it was bordering perfect. The guy was sweet, treated you well, wasn't prone to cheating, loved you to bits. It just sucked to fall out of love, more to someone like that, so undeserving.

Well, you couldn't exactly say you fell out of love, since the feeling wasn't really present for your partner, unfortunately. You liked the dumbass that asked you out two years ago, but couldn't stand him anymore. And once you start hating the way someone breathes, that's a sign that you probably should leave them.

Before fantasies of making him stop breathing altogether became a reality.

Why were you dating him, again?

Oh, yeah. "Drunk again, huh?" The voice of your best friend JaeBeom dragged you out of your rage-filled mind, glare once trying to drill holes on the skull of your idiot lightweight of a boyfriend turning to the man that effectively held every piece of your sanity at that point. "What was it now? Him trying to match your pace?"

"He's barely conscious, mixed a ton of drinks because he was feeling petty and now I've got to make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit." You rolled your eyes, crossed arms over your chest not budging even when JaeBeom sat next to you, arm pulling the opposite shoulder towards him, in a consoling gesture.

He snickered. "What he had to be petty about now?"

"Well for starters..." You were going to start rambling what you've already told your other friend. Well, you sent her a long audio message, for when she woke up while on the way to JaeBeom's place, the only person you knew would definitely be awake at that hour. Besides, I know where all the knives are in my own house, so it was the most sensible choice, you thought to yourself, even if that was a lie. You just wanted to go to your best friend's house, abusing his hospitality and knowing that he'd receive you even with a passed out boyfriend at tow.

"Yes?" As he nudged your shoulder you realized you had halted mid-sentence. You'd consumed your fair share of alcohol as well, though anger had sobered you up pretty quickly. By his side, that was ebbing away slowly. That was one of the reasons you couldn't even start listing reasons for the scene your boyfriend made today. It was all about him.

Licking your lips, you looked away from the man that had been the reason for the failure of that relationship, and every other to come, you'd bet. Because you were since god knows when madly in love for someone that has always considered you part of his family, a little sister, as once was put. "He was jealous." That was all you were willing to offer.

"Of me, again?" He countered, and you tensed up, not understanding how could he be so spot on. You'd never mentioned any of your boyfriend's - fair - jealous episodes to him, nor your partner has let it show in front of your best friend, that you knew of. So how could he come up with something like that?

"That's- Yeah I mean, there were other reasons and-" You mumbled in your astonishment, turning to look at the growing smirk on your friend's face, trying to ignore how that simple expression affected your whole body, even more when he was still holding you close.

"Sure... A guy's pride can get really hurt when the girl he loves tells him he'd never been able to satisfy her in two years," he quipped, and by that point you were livid. That was something you send to your friend, word for word. Or at least, you thought so.

"How would y-"

"Y/N," the whisper shushed you immediately, your mouth gaped as you stared at his smug face while he pulled his phone from the back pocket of his jeans, fingerprint unlocking the screen showing, to your surprise, a five-minute audio message on the display. Turns out you haven't sent the utterly frustrated audio to your friend, that was already tired of listening how much you've been head over heels over a man that you could never be with. You were pretty sure that furious and inebriated you had mentioned something like that in the message, along with other confessions you should have never uttered. "You should start paying attention to who you send some stuff." JaeBeom snickered, making all the blood run off your face. What have you done?

Getting up from the couch, you put some distance between both to think clearly. You wouldn't believe a single thing if he weren't showing you the receipt, cursing inwardly as you tried to avoid panicking. "Uhm, you know that... You weren't supposed to hear that," head between your hands you looked down to the floor, feeling even soberer than before. Any speck of alcohol had been burned with how embarrassed you were. "You know, I was drunk- I-I am drunk actually."

"You sound perfectly sober to me, Y/N." JaeBeom's voice was still in the same calm tone and you had to swallow before looking back up at him. "And remember I've known you my whole life - maybe not as well as I thought but - enough to know when you're serious. This is you as serious as the heart attack you're almost having." The playful teasing went completely over your head as you tried to find a way to deny the whole thing you've said. You didn't want to ruin your friendship with him like that, not over such a silly mistake.

But apparently JaeBeom didn't want to give you space to think. "And I hope he agonizes in his unconscious state, wondering if JaeBeom is fucking me the way he'd never be able to. That was harsh, never thought you could be so mean, babe." He kept going, quoting what you've slurred at the back of the car, the taxi driver even snickering quietly at your little speech. You squeezed your eyes shut, noticing how JaeBeom got up as well, stepping once to tower over you only when his body heat hit you and you could smell him again, the familiar perfume you loved on him and bought a bottle every year for his birthday. "That was good Y/N, but you wanna know what's my favorite part?"

Swallowing thickly, you looked up at his face, noticing even in the dim lights of his living room that his eyes weren't exactly trained on yours, rather lower. You were scared to think about the attention of his gaze. "What?" You answered breathlessly. His smile widened again, barely moving as he pressed play on the audio again, your voice echoing in the room.

'If only I had the chance to hop on JaeBeom I would use my time properly, by bouncing on that cock.' You tensed hearing that the last of your morals caring for the man laid on the neighbor couch you were previously sitting on, not wanting him to hear that and prove himself right.

"I'm sorry I... Sorry-" JaeBeom used his free hand to lift your chin, as you mentioned glancing away from his face, a little frown between his brows.

"Why, don't be sorry. I've been wanting to hear that since god knows when. And it was even better than I could have imagined it." You bit your lower lip at his declaration, unsure of what exactly he meant. You loved JaeBeom and if he was just lusting for you that moment you'd probably give in, but the whole thing would still break the friendship.

The fact that he was so close and barely touching you was also aggravating, which made you anxious, yearning. "JaeBeom, I-"

"I know. But I love you, and I know this is complicated for you right now. I just need you to know the feeling is the same. I won't try anything tho-" It felt like ages before you could move again and when you did, the first impulse was to throw your arms around his neck and crash your mouth on his with desperation, almost making JaeBeom fall back.

True to your word, you barely gave time for JaeBeom to prepare before you literally hopped on him, wrapping your legs around his waist and dragging a surprised sound from your friend. Hearing him say that, so sure and clear made something inside of you snap, whatever chain still weighing you down breaking in a million pieces. Morals be damned, you wouldn't let this opportunity escape.

Securing his stance, JaeBeom let his eyes fall shut and, the hands that once started unsure gripping your waist slid down to take a hold of your ass, lips violently capturing yours.

"You don't waste time, huh?" He panted, as soon as the need for air got urgent. Your fingers grasped the back of his head, lightly scratching his scalp and making JaeBeom shudder as you smiled, eyes still closed.

"Can't wait anymore." Was what you could muster, hearing him groan and press an open-mouthed kiss to the base of your throat, making you moan softly. As he parted to look at you, eyes dark with the lust ignited by your sounds, you realized that, despite the time he was willing to offer you, to get your bearings and do this the proper way, JaeBeom couldn't wait as well. How long have both of you suppressed those feelings? How long you've fooled yourself that you'd be able to get over that man when your heart was in his hands?  

In a swift motion, JaeBeom twisted around still holding you securely, getting back to the couch and placing your back against the cushions, his body topping yours in a tight press. You bit your lip as he made quick work of your dress and resumed attacking your neck, trying to suppress the sounds breaching your throat, a quick glance to the side at the still knocked out cold body nearby. Guilt pinched at your chest.

"JaeBeom-"

"You said you wanted him to agonize in his unconsciousness, right? Wondering if I'm fucking you the way he'd never be able to?" The lips once occupied sucking a bruise on the skin beneath your ear interrupted you to mutter those words in a sultry tone that had you shivering. Your mouth gaped at the once more repeated sentence and you wondered how many times had he listened to it to quote that so perfectly. "Want me to fulfill that wish?"

You nearly moaned loudly at the proposal, inner walls of your already damp core clenching as arousal filled you up further. At that moment you knew that as JaeBeom was your sanity, it was also your perdition. You nodded, knowing he'd understand that and felt him smirking against your skin, hands once chastely on your waist sliding back down to grip your now bare bottom, teeth sinking on the sensitive flesh of your neck before starting a new pace, lips traveling down to your chest.

"You're going to be good for me then, huh?" You thought he'd just get to work and wouldn't keep making the mush inside your head that once was a brain work, but there was JaeBeom expecting an answer with hovering a perky nipple, hot breath fanning over it. "Y/N?"

"Pl- Yeah Beom, I'll be good," wherever that came from, the meal turned into speech you had just uttered would make you think later that you were that desperate to be railed by the man that was eating up every sound you were making and gradually losing the grip of his self-control.

"Great. Then let us hear you, babe."

With maybe more strength he intended to, JaeBeom took hold of one breast and grunted before wrapping his lips around the bud, making you yelp loudly at the mix of pain and pleasure it caused. Swirling his tongue once he let your nipple go with a pop, only to rush and take the other one in his mouth, fingertips teasing the slick appendage and sending shockwaves straight to your core, while you tried to catch your breath. If he was being this intense already with only foreplay, you couldn't wait to feel JaeBeom once he got to be inside of you.

And if your expectations of him were high, he wasn't disappointing you, rather exceeding what you had in mind. Lips occupied by teasing your breasts didn't stop JaeBeom's free hand to nonchalantly slip inside your panties, fingers going straight to your slick folds and clit, thumb pressing against the sensitive nub and dragging a wanton moan from your throat, at last having someone other than you touching the poor neglected nerve ending.

As if it wasn't enough, two of his fingers prodded at your entrance, using the overflowing juices to slid them inside with ease and effectively knocked the air out of your lungs as you relished the pain and pleasure of being opened up so suddenly. "So tight and wet," he muttered, letting go of your boob and trailing downwards, peppering your torso with kisses as you writhed underneath him, moaning unrestrained. The presence of your future ex-boyfriend beside you completely ignored.

Too slow he reached the hem of your panties, retreating his fingers only to pop them into his mouth, groaning like he was entranced by your taste. Your face felt hot, either by never having experienced that sight or pure arousal, legs trying to close, and get friction again. Tuting, JaeBeom gripped the back of your knees and shoved them up and apart, exposing you completely to his hungry gaze.

"I can't wait to pound you just how you deserve, babe. But first," he started with a deep and breathy voice, eyeing you up and down like you were a full course meal he intended to enjoy thoroughly, so different from the soft stare your boyfriend gave you before his five-minute performance. JaeBeom looked at you like he was about to devour you. "I have to get you ready to take me, 'kay?" It didn't feel like a question at all so you just heaved, moving to grasp your thighs and keep yourself in place.

The wonders of a good oral were unknown to you, something that you'd only hear about. It wasn't that this other dude wouldn't go down on you, he just couldn't take any hints. He'd never made you cum, though at least you got enough spit on your pussy so his dick wouldn't get in so painfully. Your boyfriend had a great dick, just couldn't use it properly. In JaeBeom's case, you barely needed him to eat you out, already so wet he'd just slip in eas-

"JaeB- fuck!" Your thought process was cut completely as JaeBeom's mouth landed on your engorged clit, not even making an attempt of going slow, suckling at it hard while his tongue flicked at the nub. Your nails dug in your skin, eyes rolling to the back of your head as he did that for a solid thirty seconds and was enough to almost get you to cum. Almost being the keyword, since after the shock he pulled back, smirking pleased at your loud response to his ministrations, looking completely like a beast with his hair in front of his eyes.

"In a bit, babe. I want you to cum on my tongue first." Those were words you thought you'd only hear in your wildest fantasies, but there he was uttering them clearly and with purpose. You whimpered, wanting to reach out and push him back to your boiling core, knowing it wouldn't take long at all to get you to your climax if he kept going with that mouth of his. This time he went slowly, flattening his tongue to slide it across your whole sex, shudders rippling on your body at the feeling of the wet, warm muscle against your folds. The tip of his tongue swirled around your clit with care, flicking the throbbing nerve as he panted against it, hot breath making you twitch. You whined, urging him a little but JaeBeom, with his eyes closed, was too lost on savoring you and all you had to offer him to bother.

A kiss was placed on your mound before he moved again, once more wrapping the plush pillows around swollen flesh and you moaned at the increasing suction and tongue work, but almost screamed at the feeling of his fingers, once forgotten, returned to fill you partially, a come hither motion teasing your whole self into imploding. You weren't exactly sure what would happen but you were sure you'd come soon, and not just once. JaeBeom hummed against you, enjoying the moans that had turned into heavy breaths coming from your wide-open mouth, head thrown back.

Might have been a couple of minutes or mere seconds, but the knot in the pit of your belly snapped, electricity running through your body in waves as you spasmed deliciously around JaeBeom's fingers as he stuck them as deep as he could, working the abused and swollen bundle of nerves to the last of your orgasm. His name echoed in your ears, but maybe that was just you screaming it in the throes of bliss.

"That's it, breathe now babe," he soothed you exactly at the second you stopped clenching, breath heavy with the force of your climax. Fingers retreating, you only heard as he sucked your sweet essence from the digits, the smacking of his lips bringing heat to your whole body. "Breath a bit, tell me when you're ready."

Weakly, you looked at him, watching as he stripped, pulling the loose tee he was using over his head and exposed torso there for admiration. You'd seen the man without a shirt once, but the one in front of you, gleaming under the light with the little sweat on his chest, hair disheveled and stuck to his forehead somehow was closer to a beast than a human. A shiver ran through your whole body as you swallowed dryly, forcing your tongue to aid in the formation of words.

"P-Please Beom, I need you inside of me..." You mumbled, mouth dry and sticky. You watched as he smiled, biting his lower lip, admiring you being already so wrecked while he was just getting started. Hands dropped to his jeans, fingers doing quick work of the button and zipper. Your eyes dropped to observe eagerly, while your lower lip was worried between the teeth.

"I'd like to see your pretty mouth stuffed with my cock but," JaeBeom started, getting up to push the denim and underwear past his knees, one hand taking hold of the length that bobbed after being released. "Now I want you to do like you said, hm?" In the future, the smug expression of his face would probably infuriate you, because he'd know you'd be ready to jump him anytime. But at that moment the smirk only set more fire to your yearning core.

"Like I said?" You asked, taking the offered hand to stand on wobbly legs and giving way for him to sit. JaeBeom nodded, looking amused.

"Come bounce on my cock like you said you would, Y/N." The husky tone literally made your knees shake and you almost choked at the call out. But you said you would, and the opportunity was really presented.

Not wasting another second you straddled his waist, one hand holding his cheek to press your lips on his again, the other reaching between your bodies to grasp his hot girth and tease it on your still slick folds. JaeBeom throbbed, hands now firmly placed on your waist giving a small squeeze to your sides, urging you to put him inside.

"Fuck yeah," was what he grunted against your lips when only the tip was inside your warmth, tongue poking out to lick at your mouth as you panted, lowering yourself on his cock. As you predicted, it felt even better than his fingers, reached deliciously deeper, and made you lightheaded enough to tilt your head and rest it at his shoulder.

"Beom, you're so big inside," you teased, lips against his ear as you gave your hips an experimental swirl. Humming pleased he slid his palms to your ass, pressing down in encouragement to grind with him inside. You abided to the silent request, feeling his head drop by his side at your walls squeezing around him.

You continued the movement till your legs felt stronger, and tried bouncing a little at first, gasping at how his tip was hitting this perfect spot deep inside of you.

"Damn, you're so tight around me babe," He whispered, a lilt to his voice at the end that you perked up a bit to look at his face. Pushing yourself up again you dropped, causing a strained moan to escape, the corners of your lips tugging up at the realization that obviously, JaeBeom could be louder with a little push. It was only fair, he'd made you scream minutes prior, you'd make him feel as good as he was making you feel.

Having an objective in mind made you forget how your muscles were starting to ache, holding to JaeBeom's shoulders as leverage while you began to truly ride him, moaning at how he throbbed inside of you and egging JaeBeom to get vocal as well.

"Fuck babe," you hiccuped, kissing up his jaw just to get closer to his ear again. "F-Feels so good ins-side of me, you're gonna make me c-cum again..." you mumbled while bouncing hard on his lap, a stronger knot forming inside of you. The teasing had some effect, a louder strained grunt echoing on the ambient, his jaw jutted, hips jerking up to meet yours and palms never leaving their spot at your butt, pushing it down as aid. "JaeBeom-"

"Babe, shit! That's it, hmm fuck yourself on my cock like you want to," he went off, humming and hissing at how good you were squeezing him, nearing your orgasm like you vocalized, spasms getting tighter "Come around me like you're meant- I'm right behind you love."

You almost didn't have the strength to get yourself to cum, wasn't by JaeBeom's desperation to get there as well that made him pound up, making the job to only slide back down much easier. At that point, the room was filled with heavy breaths and strings of curses, the scent of impending highs stuck in the air.

"I'm going to cum babe, so close with you m-milking me like th-"

"Please cum inside of me, please!" Your voice was as desperate as you felt, so loud you'd ask yourself how the man sleeping on the couch didn't wake up. "Claim me as yours JaeBeom."

Didn't take him two pumps to start spilling inside of you, arms snaking around your waist to hold you down and take everything he had to give you, the pressure of his tip directly on your cervix, rocketing you immediately to your orgasm. You barely registered, as JaeBeom pressed his head on the crook of your neck, humming and stuttering curses as you went through wave after wave.

You didn't even noticed how JaeBeom had to grasp you firmly to avoid you tipping back, so lost in the bliss.

The only thing that pulled you back were his lips, peppering kisses all over your face until you got back to the real world. He snickered when you looked at him, sighing heavily and weary.

"Hi love, are you okay?" He asked, kissing your cheek tenderly. You hummed and nodded, a smile growing on your lips as you let yourself stay like that a little before you really had to get up and clean yourself.

You looked to the side, snickering upon meeting the drooling face of your still boyfriend, wondering if he'd mind at all you calling one of his friends to pick him up with a little note written that you were over.

Maybe it would be better than him seeing your wrecked state, bruises caused by JaeBeom marking your whole body. You had to have a little mercy left.

[yongjaeten]

Phone Prank {Nakamoto Yuta}

Genre: One-Shot, Smut

Pairing: Dom!Yuta x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Unprotected sex, choking, rough sex, cursing

Word Count: 1,708

Disclaimer: Gif does not belong to me. Credit goes to the owner. I just found it on Google and it was what made the idea to this one shot happen.

A/N: This is NOT a request. I am only writing this one shot, because I have this annoying obsession for Yuta for some time now and he does not want to go away. I don’t mind taking requests as well. If you want me to write something for you, these are the bands I would write for: NCT, EXO, GOT7, Seventeen, Ateez, Monsta X, & Golden Child.

You continued to slowly walk down the entrance with your best friend next to you when your phone vibrated in your hand. You clicked the lock button and the message preview flashed the screen name of: 😍 Toto ❤. You smiled to yourself and immediately felt the butterflies floating around in your stomach. You unlocked your phone using your fingerprint and went into the message folder.

😍 Toto ❤: Hello my princess

Y/N: Hi Yuta.

😍 Toto ❤: Yuta? What happened to calling me Toto? 🙁

You paused before answering him. Yuta noticed that you were taking a few seconds to answer and he shifted in his chair getting a bit agitated. You smiled again and decided to pull a prank on him to see how far he would go with his emotions over you. So, you let your fingers and brain do their magic.

Y/N: I don’t know. I mean…Yuta is your name, right?

You grinned at your sarcastic side and Yuta put his phone down. He removed his jacket and hugged it under his right arm. Mark and Johnny who were on either side of him, glanced at him, then returned to their phones as well. He sighed, picked up his phone, and replied back.

😍 Toto ❤: You're late. Do you know what time is it?

Y/N: Yeah I do. According to my phone it is…11:04AM. 

Yuta clenched his jaw in annoyance, leaned back in his seat, and ruffled his hair. He got up from his seat, strolled to the other end of the room, and decided to sit by the table that only had one chair. "She thinks this is fucking funny," he mumbled under his breath as he went to type a message. You saw the three jumping dots appear on your screen and you smirked.

😍 Toto ❤: I need those photos baby. Stop acting like you don't know what time it is. We've talked about this before.

Y/N: No.

😍 Toto ❤: What?

Y/N: Yuta, I…

😍 Toto ❤: You, what?? 

At this point you was fighting back the urge to laugh out loud. You could picture him clearly in your head – either sexually frustrated or pissed off. But by the way he was replying, he was definitely pissed off. You waited a few seconds, just for the fun of it, and to make him feel more on edge.

Y/N: I don't think we should do this again.

He let out a single laugh: the angriest and most cynical one ever known to mankind. His brows creased downward and he was fighting the urge to fling his phone against the wall. Instead, he took out his frustration at the phone's keypad as he angrily typed a reply.

😍 Toto ❤: What do you mean by 'not do this again'?

Y/N: This. Us. What I do every morning for you. You and me. I would like it to stop, Yuta.

😍 Toto ❤: I don't think I follow along. You're not making any sense baby. 

There was a long gap in between your messages and you giggled as you and your friend came out of the elevator. Yuta hated the sudden silence and he combed his hair back with his fingers. His hand glided down his face and he rubbed it. He cupped his chin with his right hand and sighed.

"Come on baby," he pleaded to himself, shaking his leg up and down impatiently. "Don't stop please. I need to see you. I need you." He slightly jumped in his seat when he saw the dots appear on his screen.

What followed next made him completely lose it.

Y/N: I want to break up with you.

The words smacked him right in the face. He got up from his seat and stared blankly straight ahead of him. The rage building up inside of him. He rotated the upper half of his body and viciously threw his jacket against the mirror. Mark and Johnny quickly looked up and watched as he stormed towards the door. He yanked the door towards him angrily and left the room.

"What was that about?" Mark asked Johnny with wide eyes.

"No~ idea," Johnny replied.

Yuta banked the corner of the hall and it wasn’t until your best friend spotted him first. "Oh look. It's Yuta," she said to you. Yuta and you stopped in your tracks when you noticed each other.

"Shit," You muttered and subconsciously grasped tightly onto her left wrist.

"What?" she asked, unaware of what was going on between Yuta and you.

"I am so screwed," you told her as you saw him standing a few feet from the both of you, seething in anger.

He marched his way over to you and your friend and your heart pounded in your chest. "Hi Yuta," your friend casually said.

"Hello B/F/N," Yuta said to her with a forced smile and bow. "Would you excuse us for a while."  His smile left his face as quick as it came when he glanced in your direction and grabbed a hold of your arm. "We need to talk," he said to you through gritted teeth and dragged you into the empty room two doors down. He pulled you in first and slammed the door shut behind him. "Break up with me?!" he angrily asked you and roughly pushed you against the door. "I don't think so princess. That's never going to happen."

He yanked the one side of your leather jacket away from your neck and placed his lips harshly on your neck. He sucked on your skin and crawled his right hand up to your neck as he put a firm pressure on it. It was enough to partially cut your breathing circulation, causing your eyes to roll to the back of your head. He moved to another section on your neck and bruised it darkly just as he did to the first spot.

He nipped at the skin between his teeth, let it go, and sloppily littered your neck with wet kisses. He moved away from your neck and you bit your lower lip from the electric feeling running through your body. You moaned from the sensation and he planted a rough kiss on your lips. He removed his hold from around your neck and proceeded to take off your jacket.

"You are fucking mines forever," he hissed and began to unbuckle his belt. "I am never letting you get away from me that easily."

He undid the button on his jeans and pulled down his pants along with his brief. He reached for under your skirt and stripped his favorite black laced panty down your legs. You wrapped your legs around his waist and embraced his neck with your arms. He held you in place against the door with his left hand on your waist and positioned his cock into your entrance.

He slammed his dick into your pussy and you gasped out loud from the pleasure. "Oh my – mm!"

"That's right angel. Scream my name. Let everyone know who's making you feel good right now," he said and continued to thrust deeper in you.

He hit your sensitive spot over and over and you tangled your fingers in his hair, slightly pulling on it. He growled in your ear when you pulled his hair and held onto your waist with his other hand as well. Doing that only made his penis slide further up and he rammed himself into your vagina deadlier than before. With the consistency of him pushing against your g-spot and the feeling of his cock pulsating against your walls, you felt the familiar burning sensation in your core building up.

"D-don't stop Yuta," you begged and moaned his name as he kept assaulting your womanhood with his girth and length. "I'm so close baby."

"Oh no. You don't get to fucking cum on my cock princess unless I tell you to," he demanded.

"But Yuta~" you whined and he chuckled darkly at you. "I…I can't hold it in any longer."

His penis twitched and the thick vein on his long member throbbed against your uterus. "Fuck baby," he whispered. "I think I'm going to fucking cum now." His strokes became messier and you whimpered as it drove you over the edge. "Go ahead princess. Cum with me."

As soon as he gave you the go, you released your juices all over his shaft, and he squirted his warm, stringy white seed in you. You both hungrily tangled your tongues together, fighting for dominance, until you both came down from your high. Yuta and you separated your mouths and he trailed several kisses from the center of your chin to your neck and down to your collarbones. You removed your legs from his waist and he took out his penis. You unhooked your arms from around his neck and made to grab your stranded panty from off the floor, but he stopped you. He cupped your cheeks in his hands and pressed his forehead against yours.

"Please don't leave me Y/N," he said and you heard the vulnerability in his voice. "I-I don't know what I'd do without you."

You smiled at him and gave him a soft kiss on the lips. "I wasn't planning on it. You mean the world to me Yuta."

He let out a relieved laugh and said, "Aishiteru."

You grinned stupidly at him and replied in a baby voice with an, "I love you too, Toto," while grabbing onto his chin. "I was just messing with you about the whole break up thing, by the way," you told him as you picked up your panty from the floor. He pulled up his brief and pants and fixed his clothes. "I think you know what I'm wearing underneath," you said as you twirled the underwear around your index finger and winked at him. “Do you still want those photos?”

He smirked seeing the material being ridden up your bare thighs and felt himself getting aroused again. “I do baby,” he said. “So I can look at it when I’m alone.” You adjusted your skirt and he helped you into your jacket. “Let's go," he said grabbing hold of your left hand and intertwining your fingers together.

[emrysaf]

Atrophy & Rally Pt. 10

“Real love is always chaotic. You lose control; you lose perspective. You lose the ability to protect yourself. The greater the love, the greater the chaos. It’s a given and that’s the secret.”

                                                              ― Jonathan Carroll, White Apples

Quirk nullification between soulmates wasn’t extremely common, but it wasn’t unheard of either. It was, truthfully, a luck of the draw situation. Some people that had disastrous quirks held out hope of being able to hold their soulmate one day, touch-starved and desperate, only to find out their soulmate would still fall victim to their quirk. 

However, it was more and more commonplace that two soulmates with quirks would have the nullification go both ways, regardless of how dangerous the quirk was. Not having the nullification was becoming more of an issue between soulmates where one person had a quirk and the other did not. But with only twenty percent of the population not having a quirk, and that number going down each year, the issue wasn’t as dire or painful as the past.

But despite the statistics, Y/N had always believed in her fated soulmate. They had lived in pain, and she couldn’t help. Then any pain she ever got from their end had been eerily timed, and she just knew they would turn out to be a villain. After all that. . .bad in her soulmate’s life, she promised she would be the good and no quirk would stop that.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Back in the cramped, solitary, psychiatric prison cell the two soulmates’ eyes were still locked on one another.

The blue haired ex-villain muttered Y/N’s name back to her as a softness settled in his eyes. A calm after so much storm. Seeing the warm look in his eyes made Y/N feel like her heart was literally clenching in her chest; she could see how earnestly, surprisingly happy he felt because his quirk didn’t kill her or even hurt her in any way.

Slowly, Y/N reached up with both hands to grab his hand she had nuzzled previously. She held the long-fingered hand in front of her face, eyes flickering to his before focusing back on the hand as she gingerly placed light kisses on each fingertip. 

---------------------

Tenko had gasped at the first light touch of her lips to his skin, and then his heartbeat just kept accelerating with each fingertip. The light blush that had begun to dust his cheeks became a deeper red and traveled to the tips of his ears and down his neck as she grabbed his other hand and repeated the gentle act on those fingertips too. Nothing matched the way his heart felt like it was going to drop straight out of his ass at Y/N’s next action though.

------------------

Y/N firmly gripped his wrists in each hand as she paused to look him in the eyes like she was searching for something. Seeing the apprehensive look Tenko held, speaking volumes about how he was still concerned about her with his quirk, Y/N’s eyes seemed to steel themselves. 

She switched her fingers from around his wrists to interlocking with his own fingers and repeated, “Tenko. You’re quirk can’t hurt me.” Then she shifted her fingers from between the young man’s and pressed each fingertip to his solidly while her remaining digits wrapped around the space where he was missing fingers. “Each fingertip. That’s the quirk right? Each one touching activates the decay.”

------------------

It was like Tenko was in a trance though and seemed like he hadn’t heard a word she said as his eyes watered in awe once again.

A single tear fell from the corner of his eye as he finally repeated Y/N’s words back to her, “My quirk can’t- My quirk won’t hurt you.”

Y/N was nodding vigorously, “Yes. Yes, exactly. Now, we don’t have much time today, but I would love to come back tomorrow if that’s okay for you? I know everything has been. . . A lot. And things are changing. And you’ve had a lot dropped on you. And I may not be-”

The babbling hero was cut off when Tenko interlocked their fingers again and gave a sharp tug to stop the word vomit. He couldn’t get the words to come out, but he gave Y/N a heavy look; the weight of it more than any words. 

Of course he wanted- no,- needed her to come back.

“Okay,” Y/N sighed with a breathy giggle at how ridiculous she probably sounded. “Well, before I go there is something we have to take care of. . . So that I am actually allowed to come back.” Y/N’s heart seemed to expand exponentially when her shaggy-haired soulmate tilted his head to the side in obvious confusion to what she was actually talking about.

“All Might, Toshi-” she paused to gauge his reaction, but his response was little more than slightly pinched brows. “Toshinori got me in to see you, purely because of his reputation. There’s no way they would let me, or anyone else for that matter, have visiting time with you. But for sure not me after the incident with Endeavor.” Y/N released one hand from his to rub the back of her neck anxiously. “My actions, despite being for a good cause and not being punished, were not becoming of a hero. Especially one with my kind of reputation on the line versus the current number one.”

“Tch.” scoffed Tenko with a slight roll of the eyes.

His reaction eased the anxious tension Y/N held, and she quickly moved on. “Anyway, only ‘proven’ soulmates are allowed to visit according to this facility’s rules. . .”

‘Proven?’ Thinks Tenko as he brow furrowed again, but quickly realized what his soulmate was talking about even as she continued on.

“When soulmates find each other, one of the first things they typically do is touch each one’s respective soulmark. Like, some kind of instinct. Obviously, there isn’t much ‘typical’ or ‘usual’ about us, huh Tenko?”

------------------

He wanted to humor her small attempt at a joke, but now he was too worried. He didn’t even remember what his mark looked like exactly, but knew it was essentially gone now. Hidden and warped under the burn scarring on his chest, shoulder and neck.

-----------------------

But like before, Y/N could practically read him and his worry was almost palpable. Now it was her time to tilt her head in confusion.

“We. . . We don’t have to. . . Tenko.”

His head shot up from where it had begun to drop in despair. “No! Of course I want to- I just- It.” Frustrated with his thoughts for overlapping and cutting his own explanations off, he gently unhooked the hand still linked to hers, feeling the loss immediately, he placed his own hand over his shirt where the soulmark would be. “It’s gone.”

------------------

Y/N inhaled sharply, her parents had talked about her as a baby once, after the discussion about why her soulmate was frequently in pain. They had told her of a time shortly after she was born when her tiny form had woken from a peaceful slumber screaming like nothing they had ever heard before, skin feeling too hot. They had thought it was a sickness, but the heat had faded quickly and the pain shortly after.

--------------------------------

“Burned.” she muttered as the familiar feeling of bile creeping up her throat began; this had happened a lot when she thought of the pain her soulmate was in as a child. The feeling only increased ten-fold when her broken soulmate nodded, but she swallowed it down. “It doesn’t matter- Not- That is- Your pain and suffering matter.” Deep inhale. “But not being able to see the mark doesn’t matter. It’s there, on the inside. I know it is or we wouldn’t feel this way.”

His eyes still seemed distant, caught up in memories of burning flesh and harsh words about how his soulmate didn’t deserve a monster like him. Tenko-Shim-Tenk- He was falling, again.

‘SLAP.’

The ex-villain’s focus zeroed back into the present as anger rose in the fog of his brain, but when he locked eyes with Y/N again the anger faded to a playful simmer.

“What was that, Player Two?” Softly. “Y/N. . .”

The nickname gave her pause before a wide grin settled over her features.

Grabbing his hand without all five fingers, she squeezed, “Well, Player One. Can’t have you zoning out on me. I’m almost out of time, so we are doing this. Same time. Count of three.”

He grinned back at the use of her nickname for him.

“One.”

Each one moved their empty hand to nudge their tops to the side to give better access.

“Two.”

Deep breaths to settle nerves as they reached across one another to hover their palms. One over a faint, light grey outline of a handprint. One hovering over mottled, burnt flesh.

“Three.”

Hands to skin. One smooth. One roughly textured. Both soft with pounding hearts felt right beneath the surface. 

One beat.

Two beats.

Three-

“Oh, wow.” The mark on Y/N’s chest was steadily growing darker, Tenko’s every ridge and imprint of his fingerprints being etched into the mark. A feeling like something expanding inside. Like the space inside where her soul resided was widening to make room for his beside it. 

Then an abrupt stop. Like the wall she had thought she felt when trying to reach him over the years. Did his quirk do this like Toshi said?

-----------------------------

On Tenko’s end it felt like his skin was trying to rearrange or something, but nothing was happening. His heart and mind were racing, breaths coming in pants; then a squeeze from her hand again.

“Tenko, please.” His thoughts flew, ‘Please what??’ “Let me in.” ‘Okay.’

Like a switch flipped, everything exploded inside and out.

[hansoulo]

aint it a gentle sound (the rolling in the graves) - pt. 2

Pairing: Horacio Carrillo/f!Reader

Warnings: cursing, mentions of canon-typical violence and blood, grief, angst, pining, etc etc

Word Count: 1.4k

Request: “we’re not just friends and you fucking know it” - anonymous

Tag list: @chelsfic​​ @itzagoodthing​​

A/N: do y’all like a slow burn?? should i speed things up?? more Yearning?? thoughts and ideas pls

masterlist playlist

A few weeks had passed and you and Horacio had settled into a strange little routine.

He’d show at your door, knocking desperately with his hair ruffled and his pajama pants low on his hips, and you would walk with him into his apartment without a second thought, following the sound of fragile coughs and fussy cries. He always apologized for waking you, and you didn’t have the heart to tell him you were up most of the time anyway. Sleep was something that still eluded you.

You had stood in his kitchen once, pacing over hardwood as you held his daughter in your arms again. You had turned too fast, or maybe he was standing too close, but all you knew is that you were inches away from his face and it took everything you had and didn’t not to close the gap and press your mouth to his, longing for the taste of someone else to swallow you whole and help you forget. Forget what, you didn’t want to think about.

Instead you just stared, your breath growing heavy as his eyes fell onto your lips, magnetic and daring you to draw closer. A beat. A passing glance. A bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed words. You could have stayed like that forever, stock-still with the blood pounding in your ears, but the baby coughed against your shoulder and broke your daze, making him step away. Horacio took her from your arms and looked at you again, his expression hard to place.

“It’s getting late,” he whispered, still not looking up from your mouth.

You coughed and turned away from him, stepping towards the door. “Yeah, yeah it is,” you agreed. “I’ll see you around.” You didn’t look back as you walked towards the door.

——————————

The ring was cold against your palm but it burned as you slid it off your finger, fiddling with the metal band in the muddy darkness of your bedroom. You set it on your nightstand, next to the wedding picture that sat face down against the wood. When morning came, you didn’t put it back on again.

——————————–

A month later. It’s turned warmer now, the July heat causing tensions to rise and guns to be drawn. Carrillo hasn’t been around much. You’ve seen enough of the newspapers and radio reports to know why.

He asked you to take care of the baby once, on a Sunday morning as he tore through his apartment, pulling on heavy tactical boots and speaking in hurried Spanish through a walkie talkie. If it were anyone else they would’ve seemed frantic. Panicked, even, but he just looked… intense. It was the look that your husband used to have, with the same set jaw and military posture.

He needed to go, now. He couldn’t make it to his mother’s and he wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important and he couldn’t tell you why just, please. Just this once.

So you spend the day in his living room, stepping over teething toys and plastic dolls as the one-year-old toddled around the house. He told you her name was Isabella.

There are a few pictures tacked to the walls. Horacio receiving some sort of medal. Isabelle in what looks to be a hospital crib. A college degree. A wedding photo. The last one makes your throat choke up and you turn away, not needing another reminder that you weren’t the one next to him. You were a neighbor. A glorified babysitter, really. Both of you were too broken for more.

————————–

Horacio came back to you wiping down his kitchen counter with the baby lying on a blanket. He had to do a double-take when he only sees the back of your head, convinced momentarily that his wife had come back somehow. He was wrong, but you weren’t an unwelcome sight.

When you turn to him with a blinding smile, Horacio had to remind himself that he couldn’t step forward and kiss the crown of your hair like he’d done years past. As much as it felt like it sometimes, you weren’t his.

He toed his boots off in the foyer and pried off his tactical vest, leaving them in a pile by the front door and walking to sit by his daughter. “Thank you for staying with her,” he said, reaching down to set her in his arms.

“Of course, what are friends for?”

He laughed at this with a tiny, imperceptible shake of his head. It comes out cold. “We’re not just friends and you know it,” was whispered under his breath and you do a double-take because no, he couldn’t have said-

“What was that?” you asked. He shook his head and gave you a tight-lipped smile.

“Nothing. Just… We are friends. I’m glad you know it.” You nodded slowly, mind still reeling as you picked up your purse and moved towards the door. You leaned down to press a kiss to Isabelle’s forehead and she giggled, making you smile.

“Bye, sweet thing,” and you look up through your lashes to meet his eyes. “Goodbye, Horacio,” you said.

He didn’t say anything as you walked through the door. He just watched, his mouth parting to wet his lips as the lock clicked behind you with the sound of your footsteps.

——————

He’d stumbled into your apartment one night, after another impromptu babysitting gig. He looked like shit, all marbled bruises and Steri-stripped cuts and bloody knuckles. When you opened your door and let him inside he just about collapsed onto your couch. It didn’t take you a second longer to find the first-aid kit you kept underneath your bathroom sink, having grown used to keeping it nearby. Horacio was still sitting with both eyes open, thank god, when you crouched to kneel on the floor in front of him. Blood was seeping through the left sleeve of his uniform, warm and sticky.

“You ripped your stitches!” you whispered, trying not to wake Isabelle sleeping in the other room. He just nodded, glancing down to his arm with a detached sort of acknowledgment. It was as if he was looking at a mildly interesting news report. He was going to be the death of you.

You didn’t think about what you were doing. You barely registered how your fingers reached to undo his shirt until he caught them in his hands. His eyes were dark when you pulled away, your wrists colored with pink fingerprints. “Horacio,” you pleaded, “Let me help you.”

He let his hands fall back to his side and leaned back into the cushions. His eyes fell closed as you lifted the fabric off his chest, leaving him in an undershirt that, without all the sweat and blood and dust, would probably be white. Trying to be gentle, you avoided staring at his bare skin when you pushed the sleeves off his arms. They were toned. Strong-looking.

When you finally managed to get the bleeding to stop and a set of butterfly stitches taped to his skin (“They won’t last, but they should hold for now if you don’t move around too much,”) it was all you could do to not slap Horacio across the face. He made you so damn worried sometimes.

Falling forward against the edge of the couch cushions, you moved to hold your face in your hands, your arms knocking against his thigh. Horacio nudged you with his knee when you didn’t say anything, his fingers brushing against your shoulder.

“Hey,” he said softly, his tone firm, “Look at me.” You glanced up at him, your vision blurry and your elbows digging into the sofa. “I’m alright, muñeca. I’m okay, see?” and he motioned down to his bandaged arm.

Shaking your head, you tried to suppress the growing sob in your throat. You couldn’t keep doing this. Playing nurse and nanny, pretending like it didn’t kill you to see him go, pretending like whatever the two of you had was enough. It wasn’t. It never had been.

A tear slipped down your cheek, dropping onto his pants and blooming dark on the rough denim. His hands reached to the sides of your ribcage, pulling you up by underneath your arms, and you let yourself fall into his chest. As he stood with you his forehead fell against yours, your fingertips digging into the bare skin of his biceps. You stayed, just breathing in the scent of copper and spiced aftershave, for what seemed like hours. Neither of you were brave enough to do anything else.

[raichijin]

 ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ ukiyo; the floating world.  chapter 2. 

━━━━━ 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐁 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓.

preface; took me exactly a week to write. possibly the most uneventful, but important in setting up the rest of the story. enjoy ! (also, my first writing post on this account ! awesome.)

word count; 1.6k .

pretty. a pretty boy; with eyes the color of almonds and hair the same shade of rich oaky brown as a morning cup of coffee.

his smile is sweet like creamer, & the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he closes them is cute, too.

a new relationship, perhaps?

you’re so in awe that when you notice his face fall and he’s pulling his hand away, you realize it’s been 15 seconds and you’ve been standing for approximately 30, just staring.

wow, that’s awkward.

“... are you okay?” he asks you again, slower this time.

“i — yeah! totally. i just— i guess i’m just lost?” you look around for anything that could trigger a memory, or even something that looks remotely familiar.

 there’s nothing. “yeah, that must be it...ʲᵘˢᵗ ˡᵒˢᵗ.” he tilts his head at you, then smiles a little thinner, with only his lips and no teeth before gesturing towards the classroom door, other hand digging into his pants pocket.

“then i can show you around!” he hastily offers, giving you his arm before you even know his name, and the scary possibility that the ‘you’ in this world might’ve had a more notable presence starts sounding like a reality when your name falls effortlessly from his bubblegum pink lips, a cutesy ‘chan’ accompanying it.

“ah, you know me?” 

& while his nose crinkles in a way that’s not cute nor pretty, his smile remains steadfast until he turns away. “well, who doesn’t? our school doesn’t get exchange students too often. especially not ones as handsome as yourself~.” there’s that lilt again. as if he’s trying to make you fall in love with his voice alone, and you might’ve (you are).

“oh! uh, thank you, but-” you both step into the hallway, and the image of a highschool is imprinting itself in your brain. the uniform, the students, teachers, each class room and their individual signs, the kanji that somehow makes sense, and the sudden realization that everything around you is being spoken in spitfire japanese.

you’re speaking it, too.

“i don’t think i know you. what’s your name?”

the cute guy blanches, and suddenly everything seems more interesting to him.

his fingernails, a sudden itch on his nose, and random (read: fawning) passerby.

“um — i’m oikawa! the captain of the volleyball team?” oikawa phrases it like a question, as if you know him; and if he was expecting that flexing that kind of achievement would give him some kind of leeway, he couldn’t be more mistaken.

but for politeness sake, you can pretend to be interested, especially if it means he’d divulge more information about the school.

‘seijoh’ was the name, right? you could probably search it up later. you pat your pockets for the outline of a cell phone, and then realize it might still be in your bag — 

fuck, you still haven’t responded. you need to get better with your reaction time.

“oh! that’s cool.” said in a way that does a decent enough job of feigning interest, because his lips quirk back up. “class ended, right? are you gonna go to practice right now?”

“well...” he pretends to ponder the question. “that’s the plan! we should get going, before iwa-chan gets mad at me.”

iwa-chan? 

we?

“i — i mean, i would, but i don’t wanna be a bother —” but he’s already taking your hand and pulling you down the hall and out a door, quickly explaining some things you see that catch your eye along the way. before you know it, he’s guiding you towards a different building entirely, where the entrance is crowded by … students? some boys, some girls, some not even wearing the school’s uniform.

and they’re definitely not in any volleyball uniforms, or in anything in relation to sports. so what could they possibly be here for?

a high pitched squeal very quickly answers your question.

“look! he’s here!” the gaggle of students nearly trample you with how fast they surround oikawa, too busy ogling the captain to pay you much mind. you would’ve gotten swept away in the commotion if not for oikawa’s tightened grip around your wrist.

he tries (and fails) to calm down the small crowd huddled around him, but it makes enough noise that it starts to attract the attention from the players inside the gym. some look jealous, unsurprised, and one, standing out amongst the rest. with his lips pulled back into a sneer, sweat dripping down the side of his face, and —

“SHITTYKAWA!” the noise outside quiets down to a few whispers and just as quickly the crowd came in, they clear out, as the nameless begins to approach.

he carries himself high and fast and even if he comes up to a little under oikawa height wise, whoever he is, he clearly has mr. volleyball captain at least bashful.

… didn’t he mention someone who’d get pissy if he was late to practice?

“is that —” 

“iwa-chaaaaaan!” oikawa waves his hands absently as a means to placate his friend's temper, and he lets go of you in the process, providing you an ample opportunity to slip back into school, but your feet feel stuck to the floor and you can’t bring yourself to look away from the scene unfolding. this iwa-chan talks to oikawa like he’s his mother. stern with sharp features and a look that could actually kill.

oikawa really fucked up, huh? well, he might’ve not even gotten told if you didn’t pop out of the damn closet though. but it’s too late to apologize, because oikawa’s pointing at you, says something about you being the reason he got held up, and iwa-chan is directing that hard stare at you.

you could melt. if oikawa was pretty, then iwa-chan was handsome. a new love interest perhaps? he seemed hot enough to be one. where oikawa’s smile felt accommodating, iwa-chan’s sneer morphing into an expression of indifference and then slight charm feels more real, and is, in turn, more endearing.

“and you’re the new student? you’re the reason why he’s late?” you nod sharply, and explain how you fell out of the closet… and how oikawa helped you up. he flicks oikawa’s forehead just then, and you laugh, worsened by the kicked puppy expression scribbled all over the captain’s face.

“you’re laughing at this? iwa-chan! cut it out — you’re already rubbing off on them!”

“trashykawa! what the hell were you trying to do with the transfer?” he tugs on his ear like a disappointed parent, but shoots you an apologetic smile.

“i’m sorry you had to deal with him.” oh, you beautiful human, you do not have to be sorry for anything — “i can take him from here — just tell me if this dumbass bothers you again.”

“i wasn’t bothering them i —” iwa-chan glares daggers into him and he concedes, letting himself get dragged into the gym building, his teammates laughing at him, and leaving you behind. they all trail inside before the gym doors close, and suddenly, this area feels pointless.

was this the end of the day? 

you go back into the school, backpack slung anxiously over your shoulder. how were you supposed to find the bedroom to save your game if you didn’t even know where your house was? did you miss a cutscene? did you do something wrong?

a distinct buzzing from your backpack halts your train of thought.

you dig through your pack to find your phone, a rectangular brick with a few stickers on it, opening to your fingerprint and showing you text message notifications from one ushiwaka-san.

the third named character you’ve met in a day. 

ushiwaka-san: have you reached home yet?

huh. is he your parent? guardian? you don’t know any kid who’d put their fathers name so informally.

you: uh, not quite, no 

you: how do i get back? i kind of like

you: forgot

you: my bad dad

ushiwaka-san is … typing !

ushiwaka-san: dad?

ushiwaka-san: what do you mean?

ushiwaka-san is … typing !

ushiwaka-san: whatever.

ushiwaka-san: give me a moment.

you cringe at how badly you misread that, but he eventually sends you the address and instructions on how to get to, where you hope is, home, and with a few pointers from some straggler students, you’re off.

the sun is kissing the hills by the time you’ve reached your destination. your legs are burning from the walk, and you feel like you could collapse on the doorstep if you didn’t know your bed was behind it, decidedly more comfortable than the concrete. 

you find some keys in the side pocket of your bag and unlock the door to the house. it looks pretty enough on the inside, but you’re too tired to appreciate the graphics. you just want to save the game and be done with this.

forty dollars for a walking simulator? no wonder your friend didn’t like it. you have to duck into a few rooms before one reminds you of the one they showed you when the game booted up originally. you flop on the bed before you get the sudden urge to look at your phone again.

a notes app has popped up.

you can write your discoveries after a scenario here. useful for remembering important things, like dates, likes and dislikes, etc.

you can access this when not in a scene, occasionally in-between or during class, or when you’re in your room for the night.

it feels like someones projecting their thoughts into your brain, and it kind of hurts, but you keep it in mind for the next time. you can’t even bother to get out of your uniform before it’s like your eyes are shutting themselves, no matter how much you try to force them back open.

the day is ending, and it’s time to save your progress.

you black out.

the void cradles you. a feeling akin to falling asleep yet wide awake, you settle here until the confirmation of a saved game rings vaguely through your head.

then, just as suddenly,

you’re up.

passing the baton to you kat! @letshaikyuu.

𝔱 𝔞 𝔤 𝔩 𝔦 𝔰 𝔱 ;  @kingkageyamathegreat, @sayakaaaaaa, @tobubekida-yo @chigigami, @sugacookiies, @macaronnv, @cadekagi

[mewmedic]

A Very Kingfield Christmas

Read it on AO3 here.

Summary: Dwight and David are both working at the mall during the horrendous holiday season. They sometimes keep each other company to make the job more tolerable. Dwight wants to move forward in their relationship but can he get into the Christmas spirit to pull it all together?

Warnings: Mentions of sex but no actual sex occurs.

Notes: My first DbD fic was supposed to be either Megdette or Dwake because those are my favorite ships. However, I came up with a clever Kingfield Christmas idea and Christmas week also happens to be Kingfield week. Fate had taken the wheel from me on this one. I hope it's alright because I haven't written any fics in years. Enjoy!

       It was finally time. After four hours of pain and suffering, the moment Dwight had been waiting for had assuredly arrived, his legally mandated 30-minute lunch break. It was two o’ clock in the afternoon, late for lunch but a perfect time for a break as it was exactly in the middle of his shift. His Job? He played the role of “Mr. Elf” in the fantastical production of daily life many would call “being an assistant for a mall Santa.” He served this noble part-time cause all for the glorious reward of eight dollars an hour.

      Dwight quickly rushed past the employee-only doors and headed to the punch out machine. Once upon a time, this wouldn’t be such a nerve-wracking experience but now lunch brought the opportunity to talk to a certain someone. He had recently started a relationship of sorts with a fellow employee, a British fellow by the name of David King. That is, if you considered getting fucked in a car within one of the mall’s many parking lots a relationship. He was currently trying to upgrade to getting fucked in a bedroom at the bare minimum. A man can dream, can’t he?

       Sometimes the two would be able to chat as they eat, but other times David’s schedule just didn’t line up perfectly with his. Dwight always took his break at the same time every day, so it was really up to David to reciprocate. He had finished giving his precious time data and fingerprint to the punch out machine, rounded the corner, and there he was. David sat in a cheap foldable chair at plastic table, eyes on his phone for a moment but then he looked up and nodded to Dwight.

       David’s dark red uniform consisting of a billed cap, button-up top, and cargo pants could use an ironing, but Dwight really had no room to talk. His own uniform had him trapped in itchy elf ears, an even itchier sweater, and a pair of pantaloons over leggings he had to thrift because he ripped the original pair. The worst part was the bells attached to the pantaloons, which jingled with every step he took towards the fridge. He grabbed his lunch box out of the fridge and plopped down on the chair across from David. Within Dwight lunchbox was a ham and cheese sandwich, a chocolate chip cookie, a bag of cheesy chips, and a water bottle. David on the other hand, had nothing but a beige-colored protein shake.

       “You arrest any shoplifters today, mister mall cop?”

       “You know I’m not a damn mall cop-“

       “You’re a supervisor contracted out by a security company that works with the mall.” Dwight placed his chin in his palm and his elbow on the table, attempting to lean his body towards his companion. David crossed his arms, sharing a performative pout as he reclined back in his chair.

       “And no, I didn’t arrest anyone. Even if I wanted to, I can only observe and report. They don’t even give me handcuffs!”

      David did not have handcuffs at the ready, he tossed that fantasy out of mind. Dwight and David enjoyed the faux verbal jousting and it always quickly led to complaining about their jobs. Sometimes it was nice to have a routine, especially during the chaos of the holiday season. After all, nothing united coworkers quite like shit-talking a job with the risk that their boss may potentially be within earshot.

       “Today, a girl who had to be at least eighteen threw herself onto Bill’s lap and started yelling about wanting a new gaming rig. I had to pry her off of him while her friends laughed at us. I thought the old man was gonna break his hip.”

        “Customers act like Christmas is open season to being an asshole to us. I hoped maybe Americans would be different but they’re just as wild as back home this time of year.”

       There was a pause between the two as David gulped down a long sip of his protein shake. Dwight seized the moment to rip a bite out of his sandwich, it had grown soggy after sitting for hours in the poorly maintained refrigerator. It was then that he realized that he knew nothing about English life and learning more could be a way to get closer to David.

       “What is Christmas like in England?”

       “Well, when you’re a kid. You don’t send your letters to Santa off to the post. You burn it in the fire.”

      “That’s insane. How is it supposed to get to the North Pole?”

      “I don’t know! The same way Santa’s fat-ass slides down the chimney. It’s all stupid magic that parents makeup. We also got this thing called a Christmas cracker.”

      “Oooh, sounds yummy.”

      “It’s not a snack. It’s a present you pull on both ends and it cracks open. Usually has a paper crown and other trinkets inside.” While David spoke, he pantomimed the act of tugging on the ends of this so-called cracker and then wiggled his fingers to represent the explosive crack. A smarmy grin creeped across his lips, “Of course, Christmas really gets interesting once you can get piss drunk.”

       “C’mon, we do that here in the States too.”

       “No, I mean really drunk. Parents will even leave out brandy and a mince pie for Santa too.”

       “Wow, I couldn’t imagine being like ‘Okay Junior, we have to make sure Santa can get wasted tonight.’ Sounds wild.”

      The two briefly chuckled for a moment. David consumed another gulp of his shake; Dwight shoved a handful of cheesy chips in his mouth. The two sat in silence for another moment, the only sound the crunching of said chips.

      “Do Americans eat chipolatas on Christmas?”

      “I have no idea what that is.”

      “It’s a sausage, for Christmas we wrap it in bacon.”

      “That sounds fucking incredible.”

      “One thing I see here that I wish more folks did back home is all these fairy light. Americans love to have a show of things.”

        “Oh, I have my apartment decorated like that.” This was silly little lie. Dwight was too busy working one and a half jobs to adorn his dwelling in accordance with any festivities. The poor fool could barely clean his bedroom once a month. He would be willing to make time to decorate if the glow of Christmas evening were enough to attract David.

      “Well, I’d be delighted to see your flat. What’s it like?”

      “It’s… Cozy.” This was not a lie so much, since ‘cozy’ was basically the millennial code word for ‘tiny studio apartment.’ Dwight gulped and could feel a line of sweat drip down from his hairline. This was the pivotal moment he had been anticipating every time he punched out for lunch. He just needed to work up the courage to make the move. “I’m free this weekend if you want to come by. I’ll have eggnog and we can watch a movie… If you want, that is.”

      “I’m free Saturday after eight. That good for you?”

      “Sure!” Dwight accidentally spoke with a little too much enthusiasm and the realization made his cheeks redden a little. He averted his gaze from David and looked down to his mediocre sandwich. The two continued to enjoy their meals, and each other’s company, for a brief moment until they were interrupted by an alarm on David’s phone. The Brit returned his protein shake to the refrigerator and gave a parting salute.

     “See you when I see you.”

     “Have fun supervising.”

      He couldn’t help but let a small smile spread across his face as David exited the break room. He really pulled it off. Now he had to sacrifice what precious free time he possessed to pull off an exterior and interior decoration job. He could pull the whole operation off in the next three days, right? Did Dwight have what it takes to make this Christmas merry? Not really, but he can damn well try.

[twiistedgalaxies]

Genesis: Chapter 5: Evening Stroll

How two brothers can take two opposite paths. How a man can be made into a monster and how the other must pay the ultimate price to save everything he knows and loves. 

Or, alternatively: 

The origins of All for One and One for All.

Previous Chapter

First Chapter

        Hisashi Shigaraki did not consider himself to be the type of individual to regularly lower himself to the level of petty thieves and thugs. He preferred to operate in the shadows, to provide plans and information while reaping their rewards. From a young age he’d dealt in favors, his compassion and intervention never free. His lips twitched. Yes, he’d always been good at bringing people together in the cold dark.

        But there was always an exception to his rules. All it took was one push for everything he’d created to come crumbling down, his livelihood built on sand and dust. His first error was tying his work to others, to the perceived invincibility of the adults around him.

        He’d never make that mistake again.

        The night was cold, cast into the pale yellow glow of the waxing moon. A single eye fixed upon a dark canvas. Hisashi threw his jacket onto the top of the chain link fence and climbed the rickety, rusty thing, careful not to attract too much attention to himself. The cameras were easy to evade. Concerned pedestrians were not.

        Brown oxford shoes landed on dark asphalt with a click, jacket seized and put back on with practiced ease. Hisashi glanced around the dark alleyway one last time. Empty. Good. 

        He rolled up his sleeves. Unfortunately, with the…. unprecedented nature of his parents' deaths there were some loose ends he needed to tie up. Loose ends that couldn't be addressed while slumbering under the watchful gaze of the police precinct. Hisashi strode down the alleyway, possessing a confidence unbecoming of most teenagers. He was not most teenagers. Always he'd done whatever he could to survive and support those under his wing. This would be no different.

        The alleyways were winding and twisting; a maze to those unaccustomed to LA’s numerous backstreets and barren waterways. He walked for ages, breathing in the crisp air like incense. It was here in the quiet darkness and hostile concrete jungle that Hisashi finally felt comfortable, the closest he has ever been to feeling, dare he say, peaceful.

        This would not last. He finally stepped out of the alleyways (between an      apartment complex and a run down 7-11) into a parking lot. There were few occupied parking spaces, the cars’ metallic sheen reflected the convenience store’s warm glow. Hisashi leaned against the telephone pole and reached into his pocket, fiddling with his closed switchblade. There was no such thing as too careful. He waited for a time, observing the land occupied solely by long distance travelers and painfully obvious drug deals. A huff. It seemed there was no one interesting here to spy upon tonight. For shame.

        “Hisashi,” a voice spoke up behind him. Young, only a few years his senior. “I heard about what happened, I’m surprised to find you out here so soon. I thought you were out of the game!”

        He gave a joyless smile and spun on his heel to face the newcomer, “Well, nothing short of death will keep me away from my work for long.”

        The newcomer hummed, “Same as usual I see, I suppose you’re here for information?”

        It took every ounce of willpower to keep from rolling his eyes, “Obviously.” The young man that stood before him, Matt Shield, was talented in the art of keeping his ear to the ground and occupying all the right places at all the right times. Hisashi had saved him a few years ago from getting mugged and beaten bloody by a band of roaming thugs, something that had grown all too common since the economic crash. The fact that Hisashi was the one in charge of said thugs? Well, what Matt didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

        “I’m sure you’re aware I don’t work for free,” Matt continued, eyes gleaming and expectant. He took a sip from his cherry slushie.

        “Name your price,” Hisashi replied, tilting his palms to the sky in a gesture of reception.

        “Now that my friend,” he said, gesturing dramatically with his plastic cup, “depends fully on the information you want.”

        Hisashi felt a burning hot coal of irritation in his chest, he despised this song and dance, but it was a necessary evil, “What do you know of the people who broke into our apartment?”

        Matt tilted his head to the side, “Maybe a limited edition Nintendo Switch will jog my memory.”

        Hisashi pinched the bridge of his nose, unsurprised, “Fine. Any specifics?”

        “I want the Mario one,” Matt grinned, it was all sharp teeth, stained by his beverage, “There should be a used one in the GameStop six blocks west of here, across from the Ross.”

        “I’ll get it to you tonight, behind the car shop,” he responded. There were much better things he’d rather be doing with his time, but information was information.

        Matt reached out his hand, “A pleasure doing business with you.” Hisashi shook it, and instantly felt the urge to wipe his hand on his pants as if they had been contaminated with miasma. He refrained.

        They parted ways, Hisashi beginning his trek westward and Matt slinking back into whatever shadows he had spawned from. Of course he knew what GameStop Matt was referring to, he used to hang out at the bakery next door with his brother while studying for tests. Security there was a lot more lax than usual, the high concentration of stores meant there was a lot of foot traffic, something that shop owners thought was a deterrent.

        Not that they could afford to ramp up security anyways. There were two cameras, one facing the door and one facing the cash register, if he recalled correctly. Hisashi zipped up his jacket and covered his curly white hair with its hood. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a simple black cloth mask, a remnant from the pandemic. Access to precious cold air was cut off as he fastened the smothering fabric to his face. There was no need to hastily give away his identity after all, even if he'd just blend in with the ever-rising crime rates anyways. He was halfway to the store. Hands cold and reddened, he shoved them in his pockets for warmth. Truly, he was irritated that Matt had decided to give him another one of his tests, hadn’t he proven himself capable after all these years? Maybe it was to see if Hisashi had gone soft. If that was the case, he was sorely mistaken.

        The rest of the walk was quiet. He passed a few people on the sidewalk and the road was barren apart from the occasional car. In the distance, he spotted the car parts store. Idly, he wondered if Matt had already made his way there. The young man had always been able to navigate LA’s labyrinth better than most. Hisashi reached an intersection and jammed on the crosswalk button with his elbow.

        After a few beats of silence, a familiar robotic voice rang out, “Walk.” It was glitchy, like a record that had been scratched one too many times. He paced across the street, keeping his head down and eyes fixed on the asphalt. The streetlight cameras were not something he wanted to deal with tonight. His feet hit the other sidewalk and he breathed out a sigh. Only a few more blocks to go. Hisashi thought of his little brother, whose face was nuzzled into his pillow when he had left his side tonight. His brother may be oblivious, innocent to the nastiness of this world, but Hisashi was not. He saw the looks the younger kids in the orphanage shot Tomura when they thought he wasn’t looking. Hisashi could only hope that they would behave and leave him alone while he was out taking care of things. He’d hate to get his hands dirty to protect him again. Speaking of brats, the way Zach was snubbing Tomura was beyond infuriating. He dared to treat his brother so flagrantly? If Tomura wasn’t so fond of the child, he’d be actively hunting him down.

        But alas, he had much more trivial things to do. Hisashi stood behind the GameStop, being sure to obscure himself with the thorny bougainvillea bushes that lined the sidewalk. Unfortunately for him, almost every window and door of this establishment was covered in thick iron bars. The sole exception was the bathroom window, a tiny thing that was slightly opened to let out stuffy air. Taking the screen off the window would be no issue. Squeezing his six foot tall self through the small opening, however? This was going to prove to be a long night.

        Hisashi pulled out his switchblade and flicked it open. He poked around the edges of the screen for a bit until he found a side that gave more than the others. Carefully, he wedged the knife into the crevice and rocked it back and forth before the screen jerked inwards with a satisfying pop. He used his arms to push the screen inwards and winced as it fell to the tiled floor with a loud clatter. Quietly, he crawled through and let out a silent curse when he felt his shoulders get caught in the frame. He thanked his lucky stars that it was the dead of night, if someone walked up to see his ass hanging out of the window he’d never live it down.

        With a little rocking back and forth and quiet swearing he was able to finally squeeze through the narrow opening and slide into the bathroom. Said bathroom was small, roughly the size of a janitorial closet, and looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in ages. Hisashi felt his nose scrunch up with disgust, fingerprints wouldn’t be the only reason he’d try not to touch anything. He used his coat sleeve to turn the doorknob and poked his head out to examine his surroundings. There seemed to be a small break room to his right, to his left was the rest of the store. It was empty, as he expected. He crept forward, careful to make his footfalls silent and to avoid the cameras. His eyes scanned the shelves, luckily he was already close to the Nintendo section in the back of the store. Ah, there it is. So much effort for such a simple thing. The limited edition Nintendo Switch sat on the top shelf, dust accumulated on the packaging due to neglect from the high price tag. There wasn’t much to distinguish it from the other consoles apart from it’s red controllers. He picked it up, examining the smooth packaging for chips that could set off alarms. Nothing. Perhaps the shop owners were just as desperate to be rid of it as Matt was to have it.

        Hisashi tucked the overpriced console under his right arm and returned from where he came. The Switch was delicately shoved through the window first, he went second, having to repeat the irritating process from moments earlier. He hastily headed towards the intersection, feeling his palms start to sweat. In his opinion, this part was the best. Adrenaline provided clarity that caffeine could never replace. His elbow slammed into the crosswalk button so hard that he winced. The seconds it took for the familiar monotone to ring out felt like hours. He hurried across the street, doing his best to look confident and self-assured. A niggle of anxiety churned in his gut. This was easy. Far too easy. He made it to the front of the car parts store. It was a hideous white and purple building wedged firmly into the street corner. He crept into the back alley behind the parking lot and leaned against the white brick wall, attempting to steady his heart rate.

        A few moments later, Matt’s head popped up over the wall opposite Hisashi, “You got the goods?” He absolutely did not jump and let out a yelp of surprise, and if any witnesses came forward to testify otherwise he’d be sure to dispatch them quickly. In the name of truth and integrity of course.

        “No, I thought I’d just hang out behind the ugliest building in LA for no reason,” He snarked, “Yes, I have the Switch.”

        Matt’s face lit up and he climbed into the alleyway, “Great! Just hand it over and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

        He passed over the console with a huff, glad to be rid of the clunky hindrance.

        “So,” Matt began, glancing around the alleyway conspiratorially, “word on the street is that the mob was doing some digging about your mom. A client of mine saw them breaking into the justice building to look through their records. Her name came up.”

        Hisashi raised an eyebrow at this. The mafia had grown in prominence since the start of the economic crisis. They often coordinated with local gangs and extorted businesses in exchange for protection from the chaos they were responsible for. Even Hisashi’s own group had to pay a small cut to operate in their territory. Overall, he thought it was an efficient system, it was much better than the turf wars that had riddled the city in the years before. Still, what the hell could they want with a random Japanese immigrant? Why would her records be in the courthouse?

        As if sensing his thoughts, Matt shrugged, “Don’t ask me, I know better than to get involved in their business. I like not being twelve leagues under the sea thank you a-very much.” He finished with a dramatic bow. Hisashi felt a tension headache forming. Unfortunately, Matt had always been like this. How the man hasn’t ended up in a shallow desert grave for being a pain in the ass was beyond him.

        “Okay,” he replied, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose again, “what do you know about my mother?”

        “That, buddy, is the question of the hour!” Hisashi must have been making some sort of face, because Matt laughed, “If you figure this out do tell me, I love a good story.”

        Silently, Hisashi vowed to himself to not be placed into a position where someone could withhold information and waste his time like this again. His lack of control over the situation was infuriating, and his hands itched for the feeling of cold steel. Hiding his right hand behind his back, he clenched his fist, careful not to draw blood. A smile curled on his face. Ringing in his ears that only seemed to grow louder with each aching, passing sec-

        Matt began shuffling down the alleyway, “Anyways, it’s rather late and I have other clients to attend to,” he glanced at Hisashi over his shoulder, batting his hand in the air like a kitten with yarn, “ya’ know how it is.”

        He was about to reply with a scathing remark when he felt his clunky burner phone buzz in his pocket. A frown. How on Earth did someone get this number? Sure, this used to be the main way he’d make deals, but he hasn’t made any in at least a year. He pulled out the metal brick of a device and flipped it open, eyes widening.

                                               Unknown Number

                                                       3:25am

[I need a favor.]

A/N: Hoo boy Hisashi is so long winded compared to his brother. I had something else in mind for this chapter but when I started writing his POV that went straight out the window. Obviously he's more immature than his canon-era counterpart, but that's because he's just a teenager and still needs to grow as a character. I was honestly dreading writing him, because his character is really hard to portray correctly, but I think I did okay. I have 4+ unrelated one-shots I'm working on on the side, I have no idea when those will be out but keep your eyes peeled. As usual, feel free to leave comments! It was actually a series of comments left by oneptxneo on AO3 that motivated me to get this chapter done (and finished early).

AO3

Next Chapter

[weirdponytail]

Modern Inheritance: Two for Flinching

(A/N: Some wound description and technically self harm? {wound burning for infection control}, so warnings for that. Just some Eragon and co. during the run to the Varden. This one actually has a bit more setup for Eragon’s book 1/early book 2 characterization, but I’m not sure how I did. He’s hard for me to write. There’s also quite a few mentions of tech and magic mechanics that I’ve worked into MIC, but those will be mentioned more in the tags.)

~~~

Eragon winced as Saphira landed. Per their usual travel plans since Gil'ead and Arya's awakening he had spent the night flying with Saphira while the others traveled at a continued breakneck pace on the ground with the horses. It was wearing them all down, even Saphira, and the few hours of sleep they managed to get during the daylight hours did little to alleviate the stress travel was putting on their bodies.

Camp was already in the midst of being set as Eragon untied his legs from the saddle and slid down Saphira's side. He landed then grimaced as he fell to his knees, muscles feeling like jelly.

"Did you see anything worth mentioning?" Brom asked as the young Rider pushed himself up. When he shook his head, not trusting himself to speak aloud, the older man grunted and turned back to unsaddling Snowfire. "There's supposed to be some old, ruined staging points of the Varden's around here. Must be further up ahead. We're going slower than I thought."

"We're going as fast as we can." Murtagh snapped. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. Lately Eragon had noticed that the other youth was becoming increasingly agitated, quick to anger, and it wasn't just the lack of sleep and lingering sunburn getting to him."If you want to warn the Varden so bad, do some of your little magic tricks and tell them about the Urgals."

Arya spoke quickly from where she crouched coaxing the fire to life, cutting off Brom's scathing retort and ending the argument before it began. "It doesn't exactly work like that. Besides, the Varden has specific wards around their strongholds, preventing scrying and other magical forms of communication."

Eragon eased himself down next to the elf, trying to warm fingers stiff from flying so high in the chill clouds. "Then how do they stay in contact with you and anyone else outside their hiding spots? It seems dangerous to be so isolated."

The woman gently rearranged a few sticks to give the young flames more air and slipped a dark object under the growing pile of embers. "Special radios were developed, using the fingerprint technology similar to lock on my backpack. Mine was destroyed when Durza tried to operate it himself." She cracked a slight grin, still focused on her task. "Well, actually, it blew up in his face. Brain matter, just everywhere. Huh-hoo, he was pissed when he got back."

"The Varden rigs them to explode if the person's fingerprint doesn't match?!" Eragon recoiled slightly, agast. "What if someone's kid found it and thought it was a toy?"

Off to the side, Brom snorted, muttering, "I bet it wasn't the Varden who–"

"No, I rigged it up myself, and only for those who bore ill-will to the Varden and free races in case it fell into the wrong hands."

"Knew it." Brom scoffed. Arya looked over her shoulder to the old Rider and rolled her eyes. "You just like seeing things explode."

"Yeah, well, I don't think I've laughed so hard in years than when that thing went off. I think I even cracked a rib."

Brom shook his head, but let the matter go.

It wasn't long before the fire was high and the day's meal heated. They sat around the burning logs, Saphira even laying her head down to occupy a third of the circle, and planned the next few legs of travel. When the food was eaten, the talk dwindled away as they all sat staring into the flames, tired but not willing to sleep just yet.

Then Saphira flicked out her tongue, as if tasting the air, and projected her thoughts to the group.

'Whoever has the infected wound should care for it soon.' Everyone looked up, mildly startled out of their inner musings. 'It will turn into a deep-rot in another day or so. Just thought they should know.'

"You can smell things like that?" Eragon asked, surprised. "Are you like one of those dogs that can smell cancer?"

The dragon cut her eyes at him and her lip lifted slightly. 'I am nothing like a dog.'

The boy smiled apologetically, realizing his mistake. "I know. Sorry. But it's pretty cool being able to smell things like that."

Murtagh raised an eyebrow. "Aye, it's cool. But shouldn't we be more focused on who the hell was hiding a possibly necrotic wound? Things like that need to be addressed. It would only slow us down more."

Then a ringing SMACK! broke through the air as Brom suddenly slapped Arya upside the head. Hard.

"What the hell were you thinking, girl?" He growled, expression dark.

"Ow! Hey, why the fuck do you think it's me?!" The elf retorted sharply, rubbing the back of her head and glaring back at him.

Everyone, even Saphira, gave the woman a deadpan look that clearly asked 'really?'

She put her hands up. "Alright, alright, so yeah, maybe a cut or two got infected, but I'm already fixing them, okay?" Arya snarled, pointing at the handle of a knife sticking out of the dying fire's thick pile of coals.

Silence fell.

"Are you sure that is the best idea?" Brom asked slowly. He seemed to have calmed down a bit now that Arya had revealed having an actual plan and wasn't just ignoring her injuries. His change in tone made Eragon wonder if the latter was a common occurrence. "There's always magic. You don't have to–"

"And who, exactly, would cast it, hm? Eragon? Can you instruct him in the intricacies of infection cleansing within the next few minutes? I've still got enough drug in me to complicate healing spells, so that's out of the question. And I'll not have you working spells on me, not when the Varden will need you at your best." Arya shook her head. "No, it will have to be burned."

Murtagh stood at the mention of burning. "Oh, bloody hell. Not right after we ate!" He retreated to where he had tossed his saddlebags and began unrolling his sleeping bag. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again– you're bloody insane, Arya. I don't want to see this. I'm going to sleep."

"Sweet dreams, Murtagh." The elf called after him in a singsong voice. "Don't let the sizzling wake you up!" The young man let out a noise of disgust and threw himself on the blankets. "Wuss."

'She can't be serious about this!' Eragon exclaimed to Saphira, worried about the elf who was unlacing her boots as calmly as a praying monk. 'She's already hurt enough! We should offer to heal it. I know she shot Brom down, but–'

Saphira cut him off. 'Little one, do you honestly think that we know enough about healing to cleanse even a scratch of infection without making it worse? Brom has explained before that waíse heill has its limitations, one of the most dangerous being that if it closes an infected injury the infection will survive beneath the skin.' Eragon grimaced, cursing himself for nearly forgetting one of the nuances of the spell. 'Once the infected flesh is burned away, thenwe can attempt to heal it for Arya.'

Her logic was sound. 'I still don't like it. But you're right.'

The dragon sniffed, a short puff of smoke dissipating into the air above her nostrils. 'Of course I am.'

Eragon grinned, then turned his attention back to where Brom and Arya still sat by the fire as the older Rider grunted, "That looks like it hurt. You're lucky it didn't break." The boy approached them as Arya finished rolling her pant leg up to her knee.

"Perks of elvish bones, I guess." Arya muttered, gently testing the skin around the injury. On the outside of her left calf was a nasty, scraping gash, most likely left by the sharp edge of a hobnailed boot if the bruising pattern was anything to go by. The skin around the ragged edges was pink and red, and cracks ran through the roughly palm sized scab covering the cut and revealing damp, yellowish flesh beneath. Pinkish, yellow tinged fluid leaked from the cracks. "Damn. At least it isn't necrotic. You were right, Saphira. This one is about to turn." The elf flashed a thankful smile to the dragon. "Hell, you might have just saved my leg."

'You're quite welcome.'

Eragon winced when he saw the wound. "After you, uh…burn it, I can close it for you. A burn isn't too hard to heal, and it would keep it from getting infected again and slowing you down."

For a for a split second the memory of healing the elf's back jumped to the forefront of his mind. Not images of the horrifying wounds, but of warm skin, lean muscle and an unmistakably feminine body. Eragon felt the tips of his tapering ears turn bright red, and he quickly stuck his hands in his pockets, pinching himself hard through the fabric. It was definitely not the time for those kinds of thoughts.

He was thankful, then, that Arya looked over to Brom after giving him only a quick glance. "What do you think, old man? I can keep up well enough. Wouldn't mind a little less risk of that changing though."

Brom crossed his arms. "It's up to the boy and Saphira. Do you two think you can handle it?"

Eragon nodded firmly. "I'm sure I can. Definitely if Saphira helps. I really don't mind it, and it's the least I can do after being unable to heal the rest of your wounds properly."

"Hey, you and Saphira don't owe me anything. You saved my life in probably three different ways so far, so I'm the one that owes you all." Arya pulled a field medkit from her bag and tore off two short wads of gauze from a roll. "If you both want to heal it and it won't put either of you in danger, I won't complain. It won't be the last time I say it, but thank you. Really."

Eragon smiled, a strange warmth bubbling in his heart at the elf's expression of gratitude. In the back of his mind he sensed Saphira examining his emotions, and was a little confused when the dragon mentally chuckled at them. "You're welcome. I like to help where I can."

"Mm. Let's get this over with then." Without further ado Arya pulled the knife from the coals.

It was an old blade of human make, and by the seal stamped on the handle Eragon recognized it as one of the combat knives he had grabbed from a soldier during their mad escape from Gil'ead. In the light of the midmorning sun it was difficult to judge if the metal was glowing fiercely, but the blade had acquired a unmistakeable, faint orange color at the sides and an inch down the tip. At the thicker sections it seemed to be lit on the inside by a deep, dark cherry red glow.

Arya took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and went to stick the wad of gauze in her mouth as she lowered the hot blade towards her leg. Brom's hand suddenly settled on her shoulder, and she looked up at him, startled out of her grim task.

"Do you want me to do it?" The old Rider's voice was surprisingly gentle, soft even. In the months he had traveled with him, Eragon had heard him speak in such a tone only a handful of times, mostly murmured under his breath to himself or to Jeod when talking about the Varden and times past. Despite their rough banter, Eragon realized the Brom and Arya were undoubtedly good friends, to the point that he wondered if the two had fought together on the battlefield.

Arya looked between Brom and the knife for a moment, then sighed, "You might have to if I flinch and can't keep up the pressure. I want to try it myself first, but thanks for having my back." Brom nodded and pulled his hand back as the elf bit down on the gauze.

Then, without any other warning, she tore her nails across the gash in her leg, ripping away the disintegrating scab, and shoved the flat of the glowing knife into the now open wound.

Eragon jerked back, flinching as his self preservation instinct screamed at the indecency of blatant self-destruction. It wasn't the visual that disturbed him, but the sound of the metal burning away first the blood and fluids, and then the infected flesh beneath. It hissed and sizzled, and occasionally sounded like the powerful magnet toys he used to buy at the fair and toss in the air hear their buzzing song.

For a moment Arya's muscles snapped rigid, then she seemed to recover and her face fell into a blank, emotionless mask. After letting the blade rest in its original spot for several long seconds she lifted it and exposed the two remaining sections of the gash to the heat, quickly wiping the knife on the other piece of gauze between each burning. Eragon's stomach did a sickening maneuver similar to a double full flip he had witnessed Katrina do at one of her gymnastics presentations with Roran when he realized that she was wiping seared flesh off the blade.

Then it was over. The entire procedure couldn't have taken more than a minute, but the scent of burned meat hung in the air. Where infection had once turned tissue yellow and white, there was now only bright red muscle shot through with soot and darkened epidermis.

"That...wasn't as bad as I thought it would be." Arya hissed and spat the gauze out. Her teeth were clenched and voice tight, but her movements were controlled, smooth, and betrayed no other indications that she was in pain. "I'm not looking forward to it if I need to do it again, though."

Brom rubbed his face, a little paler than usual. "There's something just…so much more disturbing about seeing you do it to yourself."

"Dear Gods above, I HEARD IT ALL THE WAY OVER HERE!" Came a distraught groan from Murtagh's sleeping bag. Arya snatched a stick from the pile next to the fire, abandoning the still-hot knife, and whipped it at the tucked form huddled in the bag. It pegged the young man exactly where his head should have been, and muffled swearing drifted through the camp before it dwindled off as he rolled over and tried his best to sleep.

Eragon scooted closer, forcing himself to swallow back his queasiness. "Here, can we…." Arya leaned her head back and nodded, eyes shut tight as heat lingered in the wound.

Reaching out a thicker tendril of his consciousness to Saphira, the young Rider met the mind of his dragon halfway. Their thoughts, consciousnesses, and minds twisted around each other, binding together more strongly than they usually did. Saphira's energy flowed into Eragon, and he in turn shared some of his until the stream equaled out and they were one.

Together they moved Eragon's hand out, the Gedwëy Ignasia shining bright, and uttered the words needed to heal the now cleansed burn. The icy magic rushed through their joined minds, knitting the skin back together with the ease of water flowing from one side of a creak to the next.

As they completed their task, Saphira pulled back from the increased contact, again leaving their minds connected by the usual tendrils of thought. Once separated, Saphira mentioned to Eragon, 'Your magic tickles.' and rubbed her snout on the side of her foreleg.

'Does it? It always feels cold to me.' Eragon sat back on his heels, checking the wound to make sure he had not left any scarring this time. Like the other times he and Saphira had worked magic while bound together, he only felt a slight drain on their combined strength. 'I know when something is healed on me it itches like crazy though. Is that what you're feeling?'

'Being a conduit is different from both casting and being casted on. Acting as the in-between must be giving me the sensation of both the cold and the itching. It makes my scales tickle.' As if to demonstrate her point, the scales at Saphira's neck lifted slightly with a sound similar to dry leaves being whisked away by a strong wind. The scales rose and lowered in a ripple along her entire body, giving the distinct impression that she had shivered. 'So, how did we do?'

"Very well for such a simply worded spell." Eragon realized that Saphira had projected her last thought to Arya and Brom as well when the elf answered. She tested the new skin, not at all bothered that they had not healed the bruising, and seemed happy with the results of their casting. "You're quite adept at magic for knowing so few words in the Ancient Language, Eragon. From what I've seen, you have an uncanny ability to influence your spells more with your intentions than the words you use."

Brom grunted, nodding in Eragon's direction. The older man's chest seemed to swell with pride at the praise directed at his pupil. "Aye, he's got a gift. And Saphira carries it as well. I've never heard of a dragon acting as such a strong conduit before. You both are learning well."

Touched, Eragon dipped his head as both he and Saphira answered the compliments. Any praise coming from Brom was few and far between, and now he was practically bragging to Arya about their progress.

A comfortable silence fell once again. Brom laid out his sleeping bag, surrendering his usual first watch to Arya at her insistence that 'old men need their rest,' and Saphira lifted her head from where it rested to tuck it under the tip of her tail, settling in to sleep. Arya tugged her boots back on and reloaded her pistol. Eragon stayed by the fire with her for a few more minutes, content to be close to the elf for a little longer before he too retired for sleep.

"Oh! Right." Arya suddenly looked over at him, a gleam in her dark eyes. He met her gaze, puzzled, then let out a yelp as her fist shot out and punched him in the arm twice. He knew it was probably a love tap for someone of elvish strength, but it still stung.

"Hey!" Eragon leaned away from her, rubbing his sore arm. It would definitely be bruised by the time he woke that night. "What was that for?"

The elf grinned, rising to her feet to stretch and take her place for the first watch. She slung her sword and its harness over one shoulder, and Eragon felt a hot blush blossom on his cheeks when she casually roughed up his hair as she stepped by him. "Two for flinching."

[leeloooonfire]

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Kim Namjoon | RM/Min Yoongi | Suga

Characters: Kim Namjoon | RM, Min Yoongi | Suga

Additional Tags: Smut, Blow Jobs, kink bingo, Dom/sub Undertones, Hook-Up

Series: Part 1 of Namjoon Kink Bingo 2020

Summary: One night, Namjoon and Yoongi are hooking-up.

Read the story after the break or on AO3. Kudos and comments are very much appreciated 💜

4) Aggressive submissive/Dominant Bottom

The moment Namjoon opened his mouth under the guy's lips and let his tongue curl around his tongue, he knew.

He knew he would be bossy.

Min Yoongi, the guy had said when they started to talk with each other at the bar, nursing their drinks almost entirely quietly after Hoseok introduced them to another and then left them at the bar to dance with Seokjin in the mass of sweaty club visitors.

Sometime after Namjoon's third drink and silently watching his friends shimming their bodies to some halfway decent club music, he and Yoongi started to talk about their mutual friends, the bad taste of the beer in this place and then, rather oddly, how much they would like to hook up.

It went kinda like this:

"They look stupid," Yoongi had said, rolling his eyes when Seokjin waved at them, circling his hips suggestively.

"True, and the beer tastes like shit." Namjoon had agreed, trying to avert his eyes from Hoseok's body rolls, which lead his eyes automatically to his too tightly clothed crotch.

"Is that why you're drinking Whiskey?" Yoongi had asked, voice drawling a little bit and Namjoon had to lean to him for better understanding.

"Yeah, it's the only decent drink to enjoy here." Namjoon had nodded, taking another sip from the brown liquid and tried to not make a face.

"Why did you come to the club if ya don't like it?"

"Wanted to get laid." Namjoon had shrugged his shoulders and grinned at the other man beside him.

Well, and after that, it spiraled downhill. Or up, depending on how Namjoon would view it the next morning.

Yoongi had sent him a glance, licked his lips and then suggested with a husky voice for them to crash at his place if Namjoon wanted.

And Namjoon wanted because Yoongi had nice eyes. Sharp and full of something, Namjoon couldn't name, couldn't pinpoint. He also had very nice lips. Plush, pink, soft doll-like looking lips Namjoon wanted to taste, to nip at and feel against his body.

So, they'd paid for their drink, told their friends good night and then left.

They made it barely into Yoongi's flat, door slamming shut behind them and the other man biting into Namjoon's lips, coaxing out one groan after another.

Strong fingers curled into Namjoon's neck, roughly tugging at the hair until their lips disconnected and he laid his neck bare, sighing quietly.

"You wanna fuck me?" Yoongi almost growled against Namjoon's ear, licking the exposed skin, making him shudder in the process. He could feel his heart beating almost violently and imagined Yoongi could feel his pulse under his tongue as well.

"Yeah," He whispered back, gripping Yoongi's hips tightly, pulling him as close as possible, "Yeah, I wanna fuck you so good."

"What if I wanna do you? What if I'm not into bottoming?" Yoongi retorted and Namjoon could hear the smirk in his voice, raspy and so fucking hot. He opened his eyes to look at the man.

"I don't care," He said after a moment, realising it had been a little bit presumptuous to assume the other man would take him like a good boy - just because of what exactly? Their high differences? Because Yoongi looked softer than he actually was, with his high cheekbones and beautiful lips? Because Namjoon normally liked to fuck into a wet heat more than let someone fuck into him?

"Whatever you want," He added, leaning down a little bit again, rubbing his legs between Yoongi's and feeling the hard dick pressed against his clothed leg. Too much fabric, he thought while searching Yoongi's lips again, wanting to taste the sweet, but rough taste again. Alcohol, cherries, human - he tasted so good, addicting, Namjoon could barely suppress the passionate moan.

Yoongi bit down on his bottom lips again, pushing him against the wall, finger still in his hair, "What if I want you to fuck into me, but not give you control? Would that be ok?"

And although he still sounded sure of himself, his voice clear, Namjoon could hear the slight uncertainty in his words. Did he make some bad experiences? Did his previous partners think they could dominate him just because Yoongi was willing to let them fuck him?

God, this was so fucking outdated, it almost made Namjoon angry. Just like those stupid 'Are ya a bottom or a top?' questions he sometimes got from strangers in bars or on tinder. Damn, what do they even expect him to answer? 'Wanna try how good I'm going to pound ya ass?' Not exactly what he should say, but this stupid heteronormativ thinking made him just so frustrated. Switching was possible, also for het pairings, and clear roles such as top and bottom, alpha-omega was straight out bullshit. Porn, fanfiction, you know?

Also, loving some good old-fashioned dicking didn't automatically mean the person was a sub, same vice versa.

Images of Yoongi fucking himself on his dick, taking control, being the one on charge, maybe even take Namjoon's wrists and pin them above his head made his cock jump excitedly, precum smearing in his underpants.

"You wanna stay in control?" He whispered against Yoongi's lips, finger digging into the soft globes of his ass, hard and probably leaving some purple fingerprints.

"Yeah," The other's voice hitched and when Namjoon brushed his nose along his collar bone, he made a sound oddly similar to purring. God, Namjoon liked that very much.

"Where's your bedroom?" He asked, nipping at the pale skin. Instead of getting an answer, Yoongi pushed him against the wall again and then started to tear at his clothes.

"Take it off," He complained, hands flying over the fabric in a desperate attempt to get rid of Namjoon's leather jacket and shirt, buttons springing open. Carefully, the other man dropped to the floor, looking up to him, nuzzling his crotch, grinning slightly, "First, I'm gonna blow you right here and then you can fuck me."

"Fuck," Namjoon moaned, feeling Yoongi's breath already on his stomach, shirt tucked under his arms and long fingers were working on his belt.

"That's the spirit, baby," The other murmured, licking over his hipbone and down, down, down. It didn't take him long to get Namjoon out of his trousers, cold air hitting his hard, leaking penis, but then a soft, hot mouth was there. Lips closing around the head and a rough tongue licked, almost shyly over the slit, gathering up every last drop of precum.

"God, yes," He moaned louder, head falling back with a loud noise and his hand found its way into Yoongi's ash-blond hair almost automatically. Yoongi was more than just skilled with his tongue. The man was a genius, making Namjoon babble words stringed together to incoherent sentences like he'd never learned how to use language properly in the first place, " God, you feel so good. Shit, yes right there. FUCK ."

He'd never felt that good, never felt a tongue at his dick and thought he might pass out any minute because it was just too fucking good.

"I want you to deep-throat me and come," Yoongi's cheeks were pink and pout on his lips even more prominent than before, dark red and shiny with spit and precum, "Can you do that?"

"Fuck, yes," Namjoon growled and pushed his dick between Yoongi's lips again, deeper until he felt the other's throat constricting around him, but instead of holding Namjoon back, Yoongi gripped his hips and pushed him even deeper, harder.

After he was finally completely settled, Yoongi's nose brushing his groin and he was breathing hard. God, it felt so good and Namjoon reached for Yoongi's chin to lift him a bit, "Look at me."

And Yoongi did, cheeks bright pink by now and a few tears at the corner of his cat-like eyes, but they were heated. There was a fire, hotly burning and that was a first for Namjoon. He'd never met a person so sensual, so full of passion and so utterly in control.

Whenever he gave any heads, he felt powerful as well, but he never felt in control, never did he feel like he was the one leading while someone was fucking his mouth, but Yoongi?

Yoongi left no doubt that he was in charge, that he was the dominant one between them and fuck, if this wasn't one of the hottest things Namjoon'd ever experienced.

Yoongi swallowed around Namjoon's twitching cock, tongue pressed onto the underside of it and the other must feel how aroused he'd become.

"So good, you feel so good," He whined, gasping when Yoongi started to bob his head a bit, taking him deeper while one hand wandered up to pinch his nipples.

Soon enough, Namjoon wasn't able to even say anything anymore, whimpering with every movement, every swallowing, while his heart was running a mile a second in his chest, almost jumping out of his throat.

He'd never been this vocal before, never let noises spill out between his lips as loud as he was doing it now. His free hand came up to his lips, trying to cover the harsh panting with the back of his hand, but Yoongi reached up and pulled his wrist down again while letting go of his penis.

"Don't you dare," The blond rasped out, voice utterly wrecked and the thought alone that he'd done that made Namjoon's knees buckle, "I wanna hear how good I make you feel."

"Yoongi," He whined, squeezing his eyes shut, "Please."

"Please what?"

"Please, I wanna come."

"Then stop restricting your noises and look at me. Look me in the eyes."

Before Namjoon could reply anything, Yoongi's lips were back and the other man was pushing his dick back into the wet heat. Their eyes were locked and even if Namjoon would have wanted to close them, he couldn't. He wasn't able to look away from Yoongi anymore, taking his face, his expression in and how his sharp eyes narrowed when he gulped down a soft sigh instead of realising it. One hand dropped down on Namjoon's leg, running up his skin carefully and then Yoongi cupped his balls gently.

"Oh god," Namjoon mewled, he actually mewled and fumbled with his hands for something, anything to hold onto. Gently, Yoongi lead Namjoon's hands to his neck and head, making him grip into the blond hair again and when Namjoon finally started to hold on to him properly while also thrusting into his open throat, Yoongi purred.

The vibration almost sent him over the edge, but the hand on his balls tightened and Yoongi raised a cooky eyebrow.

Not yet , he seemed to tell him and for a moment Namjoon didn't know what the other was intending to do and if he was able to hold it in for much longer to even enjoy it properly, but then Yoongi's hand released his balls and slowly went further. Rough fingertips brushed over his perineum, making him groan out loud and Yoongi purr in return.

The pressure behind his balls got stronger, Yoongi massaging his prostate from the outside and sending blinding pleasure through Namjoon's veins.

"Can I? Please?" He stuttered and finally, Yoongi nodded.

It took Namjoon only three more swirls of that skilled tongue until his orgasm rushed through him, hot, white and all-consuming. He knew his grip on Yoongi must be a bit too harsh, cum spurting down his throat, but through his pleasure he could feel Yoongi purring, swallowing every last drop.

"Oh my god," He whispered when he finally came down from his high and Yoongi let go of him, "Holy fuck, you're like a god."

The other man chuckled, voice absolutely broken, a needy roughness that made his rapidly softening penis twitch again, "Thanks for the compliment."

Namjoon extended his hand to help Yoongi up again, knees creaking a little bit and he felt bad for not taking him into his bedroom, but Yoongi was licking his lips sheepishly, grinning brightly.

"That was nice," He said, stepping a bit away from Namjoon and opened the zipper of his jacket he was still wearing.

"It was."

"Wanna go to bed and fuck?"

Namjoon couldn't help but laugh at that, nodding earnestly, "Definitely."

[riotwritesthings]

Kinktober 2019 Day 20

Dirty talk

WinterIron, E, A/B/O dynamics, 1.4k | AO3

“tony in his heat; bucky tries to see if he can get tony to come from words alone??” - bonus prompt from @tcnystcnks! Thank you so much I had no idea what to do for with one without you!

-

"Okay, I have eaten," Tony says, mouth still full of food, shoving the plate away from him and across the table. "Are you happy now, bossy?"

"Thrilled," Bucky says and he's probably trying to sound sarcastic, but his voice just comes out fond and slightly muffled, his lips pressed to Tony's bare shoulder, his arms warm and secure around Tony's middle.

"Well I live to thrill you," Tony says with a roll of his eyes, even though, well, it is pretty much true. Tony hates eating the first couple days of his heat, when every sensation is cranked up to eleven and his stomach is in pretty constant knots of arousal. He much prefers to wait until later in the week, when the breaks between waves last a little longer than ten minutes, but if Tony doesn't eat then Bucky makes this horrible sad face, like he thinks he's just the worst Alpha in the world. So here they are.

"I still don't understand why I couldn't put sweatpants on, too," Tony grumbles, shifting slightly where he's perched on sideways across Bucky's thighs.

"Yeah, this is just fun for me," Bucky admits easily, propping his chin on Tony's shoulder and grinning at him, bouncing Tony a little in his lap.

"Abuse of power," Tony tells him seriously, and Bucky laughs, warm and full bodied and Tony just has to turn a little more, press a kiss to his smiling mouth.

Bucky kisses him back slow and sweet and unhurried, his big warm hand petting Tony's side like they have all the time in the world to just make out at the kitchen table. They don't, though, Tony can already feel his heat creeping up on him again like a thick, warm fog and it has him pressing closer to Bucky’s bare chest, shifting restlessly against the soft fabric of Bucky’s sweatpants. When Tony takes the kiss deep and messy Bucky just goes with it, biting at Tony’s lip as his hands settle firmly on Tony’s hips to keep him from wiggling himself right to the floor.

Tony whines when Bucky pulls away from the kiss, then lets out a started squawk as Bucky suddenly spins Tony in place, so his back is pressed up against Bucky’s firm chest. “Hey I was kissing that,” Tony complains mildly, voice a little slurred as his brain officially starts to fuzz out again. All he can really focus on is Bucky’s skin against his, Bucky’s hands on his hips keeping him from spinning back around to continue the kissing. “Bucky,” Tony huffs when all of his wiggling gets him no where, and all he can think about is Bucky’s thick thighs beneath his own, Bucky’s huge hands spread so wide around his hips that his fingers are tauntingly close to Tony’s rapidly swelling cock.

“Wanna try somethin’,” Bucky says, in that low voice that means the best kind of trouble, his fingers inching down to Tony’s trembling thighs. He hooks his chin over Tony shoulder and Tony can feels the weight of his gaze as his eyes drag down Tony’s torso, taking in every ring of teeth marks and fingerprint bruise littered across Tony’s flushed skin, the way Tony’s cock jumps against his stomach.  “What do you say, baby?”

“As long as it involves you fucking me, you can try whatever the hell you want,” Tony pants out, squirming as the heat finishes crashing over him, consuming him, turning every thought in his head into mush except for the fact that he can feel Bucky’s cock swelling against his ass and god he wants that inside him, filling him up.

“Kinda the opposite,” Bucky says, and then laughs low and rumbling when Tony squawks again, high and wobbling. “Think about it, babydoll, you get so worked up for me. Kinda wanna see how close I can get you, jus’ like this.” Bucky’s hands slide down Tony’s thighs, spreading them wide to hook on either side of Bucky’s sprawled legs.

And then Bucky stops moving, just holds Tony still and presses burning, toothy kisses up the line of his throat to breathe hot in his ear. “I can smell how wet you are, already,” he says, voice low and wicked. “Feel like you’re burnin’ up for it, sweet thing?”

Tony moans helplessly, wrapped up and surrounded by Bucky, Bucky’s scent, the arousal of his Alpha hanging thick and smokey in the air and Tony is only dimly aware of his own scent spiking underneath it. “Alpha please,” he whines, dropping his head back against Bucky’s flesh and bone shoulder and he can feel Bucky’s cock fully hard against him, fitting snug between Tony’s asscheeks with just the thin fabric of sweatpants between them, already wet with Tony’s slick.

Bucky growls and his fingers dig into Tony’s thighs a little harder as a hard shudder runs up Tony’s spine. “Yes, just like that, already making such a mess,” Bucky drags his teeth over Tony’s earlobe, chuckles when Tony groans and shakes, “smell so damn good, wanna just keep you wrapped around me all the time, covered in my marks.”

“Alpha,” Tony gasps, rolling his hips down against Bucky’s cock through his sweatpants, the thick shaft against his aching, swollen hole and it’s not enough, it’s not enough. “Alpha, please,” Tony moans out again and it’s the only words he knows anymore, every inch of him on fire and aching to have Bucky inside him, knotting him just right and filling him up.

“Fuck,” Bucky growls and his hips hitch up like he just can’t help himself, grinding up against Tony’s ass. “Fuck, you are so sweet, sound so good, bet you’re just dyin’ to get fucked, ain’t ya? Want me to spread you open, use you just right? Stretch you so wide on my knot that you feel me for a fuckin’ week? Make you come on it so many times you forget your own damn name?”

Tony wails, reaches one hand up and back, grabbing a blind handful of Bucky's hair and tugging weakly. “Yes, yes, Alpha please,” he begs, panting desperately, chest heaving as he rolls his hips back even the smallest bit that he can, trying to get anything, anything.

“Shit, I can fuckin’ hear you,” Bucky groans, pulling Tony back against him harder, dragging him across the spreading dark patch on Bucky’s sweats with an obscene wet sound. “Leakin’ like a fuckin’ fountain for me, sweet, perfect Omega- fuck-“ his hands slide higher up Tony’s thighs, until his fingers press painfully close to the base of Tony’s dick, flushed an angry red and leaking precome just as liberally. “Bet you’re so loose right now, sweet thing, bet I could just slam right into you, like you’re fuckin’ starving for it.”

Bucky’s voice has dropped to a low, nearly feral growl and Tony can feel every word vibrating through him, twisting up in stomach in a burning ache that has Tony shaking. His moans reach a fevered pitch as Bucky’s fingers slip along the inside of his thigh, one warm fingertip pressing against Tony’s fluttering hole.

“Alpha!” Tony screams, thrashes in Bucky’s hold so hard that Bucky’s metal arm has to snap up and wrap around his chest and keep him in place. “God, please, please, anything, Bucky-“

“Fuck- could pop a knot just fuckin’ listening to you, so sweet. You close? Sound like you’re so close, like it hurts so good, like I could jus’-“ Bucky trails off and slides in just the tip of his finger, barely even up to the first knuckle, but apparently that's all Tony fucking needs because he clenches down on Bucky’s fingertip and comes, wailing and shaking and the whole time Bucky whispers the sweetest filth into his ear.

“Alpha, Alpha, please-“ Tony whines as soon as he has the breath, tugging weakly at Bucky’s hair because it’s not enough, it’s still not enough, he needs Bucky inside him, needs that knot he can already feel swelling against him.

“Damn, that’s a pretty sound,” Bucky breathes out, hot and ragged, and between one second and the next he spins in the chair and tips Tony forward to sprawl bonelessly across the table. “Gonna give you want you want, treat you just right,” he promises, and then he’s shoving his sweats down and slamming into Tony in one smooth, wet slide that has Tony screaming all over again.